The King's Evil

'That is not how I see it, Mr Thorpe.'

'Then thou art purblind. One day, perhaps, thou wilt realise the error of thy ways and allow thine eyes to be fully opened to the wonder of God.' He began to move off. 'Farewell to thee.'

Jonathan held up a hand. 'One moment, sir.'

'Yes?' Thorpe halted.

'I am glad that we have met,' said the other, turning up his collar as the drizzle thickened, 'even if it is in such wet weather. It gives me the chance to pass on a word of warning.'

His companion bristled. 'Do I look as if I am in need of it?'

'This is for your own good, Mr Thorpe.'

'I prefer to be the judge of that.'

'Then hear me out,' said Jonathan seriously. 'There are rumours that a seditious pamphlet has been distributed among the Friends. It is said that it pours scorn on the established religion and goes so far as to incite violence. I am sure that you realise the penalty for printing such a document.' 'Only too well.'

'Distributing such material carries an additional penalty.'

'I am familiar with the savagery of the law.'

'Even reading this pamphlet is a crime.'

'If it exists.'

'I believe that it does, Mr Thorpe.'

'Rumours are usually false.'

'This is more than a rumour. I merely wished to say that I hope you are not involved with this publication in any way.'

'Am I accused?'

'Not by name, sir, but we are bound to look to you.'

'Innocence should be its own protection.'

'If - that is - you are entirely innocent.'

'I am, Mr Bale. In my own mind.'

'That is a contentious issue.'

'Then let us debate it here and now.'

'No, sir,' said Jonathan tolerantly. 'We both know where the other stands. While I cannot agree with your position, I respect you for taking it. All that I wish to do here is to give you fair warning that you are under scrutiny. It would be foolish of you to flout the law again.'

'The real folly lies in the law itself.'

'I have said my piece, sir.'

'It did not need saying, Mr Bale,' came the vehement reply. 'Look at thyself, man. Thou art trying to solve the heinous crime of murder. Does the printing of a pamphlet rank alongside that? Canst thou not turn thy attention to real villains and leave us be?'

Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was about to launch himself into a diatribe but his neighbour cut his fulminations short with a kind inquiry.

'How is your wife, sir? I was sorry to hear of her illness.'

The Quaker was checked. 'She is much better.'

'I am glad to hear that.'

'Hail-Mary will soon be able to venture out again.'

'Please give her my regards.' 'Thy own wife hast been very kind,' said Thorpe quietly. 'Mrs Bale brought food and comfort to our house. That chicken broth of hers has done Hail-Mary the power of good.'

'It is Sarah's favourite medicine.'

'A wholesome remedy. I tasted it myself.'

'It can cure many ills.'

'But not, alas, the ones that afflict this city.'

Jonathan took an involuntary step back, fearing another broadside about the moral turpitude of the King and his counsellors, but his little companion instead gave a rare smile.

'I will spare thee my opinions this time,' he said. 'Thy warning was well-intentioned, though no less irritating for that. It deserves a like favour from me. Besides, someone else waits to speak with thee.'

Jonathan looked around. 'Who?'

'Do not keep the ladies waiting, Mr Bale.'

Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe touched the brim of his hat in a faint salute then strode off quickly. The constable, meanwhile, looked across at the two women who were hovering a short distance away with their hoods drawn up against the drizzle. The older and plainer of the two was, judging by her attire and her subservient manner, a maid of some kind. Though he could only see half of her face, Jonathan did not need to be told who the much younger woman was. The resemblance to Samuel Littlejohn was clear. It had to be his daughter. Hands clasped together and lips pursed, she gazed wistfully at the site. Jonathan strolled across to her.

'Did you wish to speak to me?' he asked politely.

Margaret Littlejohn came out of her reverie to look at him.

'Yes, constable,' she said.

'Well?'

'Are you acquainted with Mr Christopher Redmayne?'

'I am indeed.'

'Do you happen to know where he is?' 'I believe so.'

She reached out impulsively to grasp him by the wrist.

'Please tell me how I can find him.'

Amid the musty books and sheaves of paper in his office, Solomon Creech was bent over his desk, perusing a document with intense concentration. The tentative knock on the door went unheard. When it was repeated, it had marginally more authority. Clicking his tongue, he looked up with a mixture of annoyance and dread.

'Come in,' he snapped.

His clerk stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, keeping his back to it. He gave an apologetic smile.

'Well, Geoffrey?' said the other.

'You have a visitor, Mr Creech.'

'I told you that I would see nobody today.'

'The gentleman would not be turned away.'

'Who is he?'

'Mr Redmayne.'

'Henry Redmayne?'

'His brother.'

Creech gave a mild shudder. 'That is even worse. Tell him that I am far too busy and send him swiftly on his way.' The clerk hesitated. 'About it straight, man! What is keeping you?'

Geoffrey Anger gave a nervous laugh and swallowed hard. Fate had committed a libel when he was named for nobody was less capable of showing anger than the timid clerk. A shy, studious man in his thirties, he peered through spectacles which served as much as a protective screen as an aid to his poor vision. Thinning hair and a pinched face made him look considerably older than his years. He was a conscientious clerk who toiled for long hours without complaint but who was racked with guilt whenever he did anything as violent as swatting a fly off his desk. To expel an unwanted visitor was a Herculean labour to him.

'Go on, Geoffrey!' ordered Creech. 'Do as I tell you.'

'What if the gentleman will not leave?'

'Make him leave!'

The clerk let out a cry of alarm and brought a hand to his throat. He did not relish his task in the least. Mustering all of his resolve, he went back into the outer office to pass on the message to the visitor. It was not well-received. Brushing him aside, Christopher opened the door of Creech's office and went in to confront the lawyer. Geoffrey Anger was left bleating ineffectually in his wake.

Solomon Creech had ire enough for twenty men.

'What is the meaning of this?' he said, leaping to his feet.

'I wish to speak to you, Mr Creech.'

'This is my private domain, sir. You cannot come bursting in here like that. It is tantamount to trespass.'

'I was left with no alternative.' Christopher closed the door on the gaping figure of the clerk. 'I came here for some answers and I will not depart until I have them.'

'I am not available to clients today.'

'I did not come here as a client.'

'I am not ready to see anyone!’

'Then I will wait until you are.'

The visitor lowered himself on to a chair and folded his arms in a show of determination. Creech lost his temper completely, yelling wildly, waving his hands in the air and threatening to have him evicted. None of his imprecations had the slightest effect on Christopher who simply waited until the storm blew itself out. The lawyer eventually sat down in his chair and frothed with impotent rage.

'I went to Priestfield Place yesterday,' said Christopher at length.

'Indeed, sir?' growled the other.

'Lady Northcott was most unimpressed with your behaviour. She felt that it was your duty to pass on the sad news. You failed her miserably.'