The King's Evil

'No, Mr Redmayne.'

'Let him go,' grunted Strype.

'But the least we can do is to offer our guest refreshment.'

'He can find that at the nearest inn, Penelope.'

'George!'

'He is not a guest, Penelope. Merely a messenger.'

'That is very unkind,' she chided.

'We need to be alone.'

'I could not agree with Mr Strype more,' said Christopher, moving to the door. 'I have discharged my duty as a mere messenger and I must away. It is a long and tedious ride back to London. Please give my regards to Lady Northcott and tell her that I hope to meet her in less painful circumstances next time.'

'There is no need for you to meet her at all,' said Strype.

'You are probably right.'

'Goodbye, sir!'

'Goodbye.'

'Wait!' called Penelope as he turned to go.

Christopher hesitated but whatever she had meant to say went unspoken. George Strype exuded such a sense of displeasure that she was visibly cowed and took refuge in his shoulder once more. Her fiancée enjoyed his minor triumph, stroking her hair and placing a kiss on the top of her head. He was lavish in his affection. When he looked up to give himself the satisfaction of dismissing the visitor, he saw that he was too late. Christopher had already slipped out of the house.

As he strolled towards the stables, Christopher asked himself why such a lovely young lady should allow herself to become engaged to such a disagreeable man. Strype looked ten years older than his fiancée and clearly set in his attitudes. He had the arrogant manner of someone whose authority was never challenged. Christopher felt even more pity for Penelope Northcott. At a time when she most needed sympathy, she was in the hands of George Strype. The man's arrival did have one advantage. It robbed Christopher himself of all vain interest in Penelope. She was spoken for and that was that. His mind was liberated to concentrate on the important task of tracking down the man who killed her father.

The stables were at the side of the house but curiosity got the better of him. Instead of retrieving his horse, he went on to take a look at the garden which now stretched out before him. It was breathtaking in its sense of order. Neat rectangular lawns were fringed with colourful borders and dotted with circular flowerbeds. Trees and shrubs grew in serried ranks. Paths criss-crossed with geometrical precision and water met the eye in every direction. Gauging the amount of work which must have gone into its creation and maintenence, he could only marvel.

Its most startling feature was sitting on a bench. She blended so perfectly with her surroundings that at first Christopher did not see her. Lady Frances Northcott was resting in the shade of an arbour as she looked across to the willows edging the lake. Where she might have been tense and doleful, she seemed at that distance to be surprisingly at ease. Christopher could not resist getting a little closer to make sure that it really was the widow of Sir Ambrose Northcott. She had borne the news of his murder with extraordinary composure and Christopher fully expected her to return to him once she had escorted her daughter to her bedchamber. In the event, it was Penelope who came back, giving the impression that it was her mother who was so consumed by grief that she could not face the visitor again.

Lady Northcott was not consumed with grief now. Christopher crept across a lawn until he was only ten yards or so away. Concealing himself behind some rhododendrons, he watched her with fascination for a few minutes. When her head turned briefly in his direction, giving him a clear view of her face, he was shocked. Instead of mourning the death of her husband, Lady Frances Northcott had a smile of contentment on her lips.

Chapter Nine

Jonathan Bale ignored the light drizzle as he moved slowly around with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. It was a long painstaking search but it yielded nothing of real value. He withdrew to the road and studied the site pensively. It was deserted. Work on the house had been terminated and Samuel Littlejohn's men sent home while he looked for alternative employment for them. Most of the building materials had been removed for storage elsewhere. The once busy site had a forlorn air, its ambition snuffed out, its bold design unrealised, its vestigial walls giving it more of a kinship with the ruined households all around it than with the new dwellings which were gradually taking their place. Notwithstanding his reservations about the owner and architect, the constable felt a pang of genuine regret.

It was not shared by the man who strutted up beside him.

'The message could not be clearer,' he asserted.

'What message?' said Jonathan.

'God has spoken. No house should ever be built on this site. It is patently doomed to fall. First, came the Great Fire. Then, the spate of thefts. And now, a foul murder. These are all signs.'

'Of what, Mr Thorpe?'

'God's displeasure.'

'You believe that we have witnessed divine dispensation?'

'What else?'

'Gross misfortune,' argued Jonathan. 'God may be displeased but He would not initiate a murder.'

'It was a punishment inflicted upon the owner of the property.'

'What was his crime?'

'He embodied sin, Mr Bale.'

'Did he?'

'What greater crime is there than that?'

Sensing that Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was in homiletic vein, the constable held back a response. His task was to catch a murderer, not to look for theological significance in what had happened and the last thing he wanted at that moment was an extended sermon from the argumentative Quaker. He ran a ruminative hand across his chin as he scanned the site again. His diminutive neighbour turned to practicalities.

'Have any arrests been made, Mr Bale?'

'Not as yet.'

'Hast thou any indications as to who was responsible?'

'According to you, it was the Almighty.'

'Acting through a human agent.'

'Oh, I see.'

'What clues have been found?'

'I continue to search for them, Mr Thorpe,' admitted the other. 'That is why I came here again this afternoon. I have been over every inch of the site three times now but without much success.'

'I am sorry that I am unable to help thee on this occasion.'

'You prevented one crime, sir.'

'It was my duty to do so.'

'Others would have been too frightened to report what they heard.'

'I am not afraid of common thieves.'

'You deserve great credit. Thanks to your actions, four villains are under lock and key. Those three thieves and their accomplice.' He gave a congratulatory nod. 'I must confess that I thought at first they might in some way be connected to this murder.'

'How?'

'Arrest will cost them dear,' said Jonathan. 'I conceived it possible that a confederate of theirs was sent to exact a dark revenge by killing Sir Ambrose Northcott. On reflection, I dismissed the idea.'

'Why?'

'Because the owner of the house would be an unlikely target. It was I who actually made the arrests with the help of Mr Littlejohn and Mr Redmayne. One of us would have been a more likely recipient of that fatal dagger. Had I been the one,' he said with a philosophical smile, 'it would not have been the first time that I was attacked. Mine is an unpopular job but a necessary one.'

'And necessarily corrupt.'

'How so?'

'Because thou servest a corrupt master, Mr Bale.'

'I serve the citizens of this ward, sir. They include you.'

'Indirectly, thou art a lackey of the King and his vile Parliament.'