The King's Evil

'Why did you bring the news, Mr Redmayne?'

'I felt that you had a right to be informed as soon as possible.'

'But it was not your place to act as the messenger.'

'I believe that it was.'

'Why?'

'Because I was the person who actually found the body,' he said, 'and because the hideous crime took place in a property which I designed for your father.' 'That still does not make it your duty,' she replied. 'Especially as you did not really know my father very well. His lawyer should have brought the news or sent someone in his stead. We are very used to receiving messages from Mr Creech. Father often made contact with us through him.'

'Solomon Creech would not take on the responsibility.'

'But it fell to him.'

'He was shaken by news of the murder. When I told him, he became very agitated. He more or less refused to send word to you so I took on the office. Nobody else seemed willing to do so, including my brother, Henry. To be honest, Miss Northcott...' The scent of perfume drifted into his nostrils again and he paused momentarily to enjoy it. 'To be honest,' he added, leaning a little closer, 'I was grateful for the opportunity. I hoped that it would enable me to learn much more about Sir Ambrose.'

'Why should you want to do that, Mr Redmayne?'

'Because I intend to find the man who killed him.'

'Oh!' she said, blinking in astonishment. 'But surely it is not your task to do so. You are an architect.'

'I was an architect. Until yesterday.'

'Must you now turn into an avenging angel?'

'There will be nothing angelic about my vengeance.'

'But think of the danger. The murderer is a ruthless man.'

'I am all too aware of that,' said Christopher. 'I witnessed his handiwork. He must be called to account and I will do everything in my power to catch him. You have my word.'

The turquoise eyes roamed freely over his face, ignited by a mixture of admiration and apprehension. He basked in her frank curiosity. It was oddly exhilarating.

'Take care, sir,' she said at length.

'I will, Miss Northcott.'

'Do you have any clues as to the identity of the killer?'

'None as yet.'

'Were you expecting to find some at Priestfield Place?'

'As a matter of fact, I was.'

'How?'

'I thought that your mother might at least be able to give me some guidance,' he admitted. 'Lady Northcott would know the names of her husband's enemies and details of any bitter arguments in which Sir Ambrose was engaged. Possibly your father's life has even been threatened in the recent past.'

'If it had been,' she said softly, 'he would not have confided in Mother. Still less in me. The truth is that Father was very rarely here long enough to tell us anything.' She gave a shrug. 'We have not seen him for months.'

'But he was away from London for almost three weeks.'

'Did he tell you that he was coming home?'

'No,' said Christopher, 'but that is what I assumed.'

'We have all made too many assumptions about my father.'

She lowered her head and became lost in her thoughts. Penelope was torn between sorrow at her father's death and regret that she knew so little about the man who had been cruelly murdered at a new house of whose existence she was quite unaware. It was embarrassing to make such a confession to a complete stranger. When she looked up, she tried to mumble an apology but Christopher waved it away.

'Say nothing now,' he advised. 'It was wrong of me to expect any help when you and your mother were still reeling from this dreadful shock. I will trespass on your feelings no longer,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Let me just add this, Miss Northcott. If - in due course - either of you does recall something about Sir Ambrose which might be helpful to me, please send word. A message can reach me in London.'

'Where?'

'Fetter Lane. Number seven.'

'Fetter Lane.'

'Will you remember that address?'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne, but I hold out no promises.'

'Any detail, however minor, could be useful. I need to know about any disputes Sir Ambrose may have had. Problems with tenants, things of that nature. But not now. Forget me until... until you are ready.'

'I will not forget you,' she said, rising to her feet. 'You have been so considerate to us, sir. And now you tell me that you are trying to solve this murder on our behalf even if it means putting your own life at risk. I am profoundly touched and Mother will feel the same when I tell her. You are very brave, Mr Redmayne.'

'I am very determined, that is all.'

'Find him, please.'

'I will.'

'Find the man who killed my father.'

'He will not escape, Miss Northcott.'

She reached out to squeeze both of his hands in a gesture of gratitude and Christopher felt another thrill of excitement. Even in her distress, Penelope Northcott was an entrancing young lady and he had to remind himself that his interest was wholly misplaced. He was there for one purpose alone. It was time to go yet somehow he could not move away from her and the wonder of it was that she seemed to share his reluctance at their parting. He stood there, gazing at her, searching for words of farewell which simply would not come. Christopher felt that such a tender moment justified all the effort of riding down to Kent. The tenderness did not last long.

The door suddenly opened and a young man came striding in.

'Penelope!' he said, descending on her. 'I have just heard the news from Lady Northcott.'

'George!'

'You poor thing!' He enfolded her in his arms. 'What an appalling crime! Someone will be made to pay for this, mark my words!'

The arrival of her fiancée unnerved Penelope and she lost her control for a short while, sobbing into his shoulder. George Strype made soothing sounds and patted her gently on the back. He was a tall man with long dark hair which fell in curls to the shoulders of his coat. Though he was moderately handsome, his costly attire failed to hide the fact that he was running to fat. Christopher noticed the podgy hands and the nascent double chin. He also experienced a surge of envy at a man who was entitled to embrace Penelope Northcott so freely.

George Strype flung an inhospitable glance at Christopher.

'Who are you, sir?' he said coldly.

'My name is Christopher Redmayne.'

'The messenger, I presume?'

'Oh, Mr Redmayne is much more than that,' said Penelope.

'Indeed?' said Strype.

'Yes, George.'

She introduced the two men properly then spoke so warmly about the visitor that Strype interrupted her. Keeping a proprietary arm around her shoulder, he sized the other man up then gave a contemptuous snort.

'So you intend to solve a murder, do you?'

Christopher held his gaze. 'Yes, Mr Strype.'

'How do you propose to do that?'

'This is neither the time nor place to discuss it.'

'In other words, you have no earthly notion where to start.'

'In other words,' said Christopher, 'this is an occasion of intense sadness for Miss Northcott and I would not dare to distress her further by talking at length about her father's murder. It would be unseemly.'

'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said.

'He does not deserve your thanks, Penelope.'

'Yes, he does, George.'

'Why?'

'For showing such tact.'

'What use is tact?'

'And for displaying such courage.'

'There is nothing courageous in a foolish boast.' 'Mr Redmayne did not boast.'

'He is raising false hopes, Penelope, and that is a cruelty.'

'Nothing on earth would induce me to be cruel to your fiancée, sir,' said Christopher courteously. 'I am sorry that my plans meet with such disapproval from you, especially as you might be in a position to render me some assistance. Evidently, I would be misguided if I looked for help from your direction. When the killer is caught - as he will be - you may yet have the grace to admit that you were too hasty in your assessment of my character. You may, Mr Strype, though I suspect that you will not.' He turned to Penelope. 'Please excuse me, Miss Northcott. I have stayed far too long as it is.'