The King's Evil

'That is true.'

'Then it follows that you were privy to the relationship between this lady and your client. I have seen the letters which she wrote to him and they leave no room for doubt. The lady was his mistress.'

The clerk was shocked. 'No, sir!'

'Those missives were not penned by a nun, Mr Anger.'

'I have not seen them,' said the other. 'Nor do I wish to, sir. The fact that a lady's name is conjoined to a particular property does not of itself mean that there is some liaison between her and Sir Ambrose. He owned another house occupied by a lady yet I have heard no suggestion of impropriety between them.'

'Another house?' Christopher was intrigued. 'Do you refer to the residence in Westminster?'

'No, sir. In Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

'Sir Ambrose owned a property there? Why did he need to build a third house when he already owned two? Surely, he could have installed Mademoiselle Oilier in Lincoln's Inn Fields?'

'It was leased out to someone else.'

'Who is it?'

'Mrs Mandrake.'

'Molly Mandrake?'

'That is the lady, sir.'

Christopher needed a moment to take in the information and to remind himself that he was dealing with a man of remarkable naivety. The name of Molly Mandrake had passed across the desk of Geoffrey Anger on many occasions but he had no idea who she was or what sort of a house she kept. His blinkered life protected him from the darker pleasures of the city. The fact that someone was a client of Mr Creech was enough for him. Their character was never suspect.

Christopher marvelled at his innocence and treated him gently.

'How many other properties did Sir Ambrose own?' he said.

'Just these two, sir.'

'One in Westminster, one in Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

'And a third that was never built.'

'As I know to my cost, Mr Anger!' said Christopher ruefully. 'Did Mademoiselle Oilier ever visit this office?' 'No, sir.'

'Was Sir Ambrose a frequent caller?'

'Mr Creech always met him away from here.'

'Why was that?'

'You will have to ask him yourself, sir.'

'I intend to. What do you know of the Marie Louise!’

'Little beyond the fact that it was owned by a client of ours.'

'All of his commercial transactions must have gone through his lawyer. Were you not handling contracts for him all the time?'

'Mr Creech took care of those himself,' explained the other. 'I had no direct contact with Sir Ambrose's business affairs.'

'Was Mr Creech in the habit of keeping things from you?'

'No, sir.'

'So why was he so secretive about Sir Ambrose Northcott?'

'It is not my place to say.'

'You must have had some idea.'

'I assure you, sir, I did not.'

'Where does Mr Creech keep his papers?'

'Locked up in his office, sir.'

'Do you have a key to it?'

'No,' said the clerk. 'And even if I did, I would permit nobody to go in there without Mr Creech's express permission.'

'But there are important documents in there which I need to see,' said Christopher with irritation. 'What is to stop me breaking in now and looking for them?'

'Oh, sir! You would never do that.'

'Why not?'

Geoffrey Anger's quiet reply had a devastating power.

'You are a gentleman, sir.'

When he cut open the stomach with his scalpel, the surgeon turned away as the noisome contents poured out.

The dead man had eaten a hearty meal before he drowned and its remains were now scattered all over the stone slab on which he now lay. When the surgeon and his assistant looked back at the glutinous mess, they saw something which glinted in the light of the candles. The surgeon reached down to pick it up. After dipping it into the basin of water, he held it up to examine it.

'What was a gold ring doing in there?' he wondered.

Chapter Twelve

'Woe into the bloody city of London! It is full of sinful and ungodly men!'

Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was preaching to a small, hostile congregation from an unlikely pulpit. Head and hands trapped in the pillory, he was a target both for the cheerful abuse of the onlookers and the various missiles which they threw at him for sport. A rotten tomato struck him on the forehead and bled profusely down his face but it did not interrupt the torrent of words which flowed from his mouth. Being locked in the pillory was a hazardous punishment. It exposed the victim to vile taunts and, in some cases, vicious behaviour by spectators. More than one person had been stoned to death while immobilised by the rough, chafing wood. Thorpe was more fortunate. The worst blow that he had to suffer came when a dead cat was hurled at him and split open to dribble with gore.

'Turn to God in truth and humility or ye are all doomed!'

His denunciation continued unchecked until someone pulled away the box on which he was standing and almost broke his neck. Thorpe's head was suddenly jerked backwards and he had to stretch hard in order to touch the ground with his toes. The pain was agonising. Without a box to stand on, he was virtually dangling from the pillory. All the breath was knocked out of him and the crowd bayed in triumph. Too proud to beg mercy from them, the little Quaker closed his eyes in prayer.

It was soon answered. He heard a grating noise as the box was put back in position beneath his feet and his pain eased at once. The jeers of the crowd also subsided and most people began to drift away. When he opened his eyes, Thorpe saw the solid figure of Jonathan Bale standing between him and further humiliation. Only when the audience had largely dispersed did the constable step out from in front of the pillory and turn to his neighbour. He used a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the mess from the Quaker's face.

'Thank ye, Mr Bale,' said Thorpe. 'It is a strange world indeed. One constable puts me in the pillory and another comes to my aid.'

'You have only yourself to blame for being here.'

'I suffer my punishment willingly.'

'You need not have suffered it at all,' said Jonathan. 'Your offence was to be caught working on a Sunday. Had you expressed remorse, you might have got away with a fine. But you were too truculent. According to Tom Warburton, you more or less challenged the Justice of the Peace to pillory you. From what I hear, you were lucky that he did not order your ears to be nailed to the wood.'

'I do not respect corrupt justice.'

'Then try to avoid it, Mr Thorpe.'

He retrieved his neighbour's hat from the ground and set it on the man's head to shade his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Jonathan had sympathy for any man imprisoned in the pillory but it was difficult to feel sorry for someone who actively gloried in suffering. The constable's real sympathy was reserved for Hail-Mary Thorpe and her children. He was just about to remind the Quaker of his family responsibilities when the approaching clatter of hooves made him swing round.

Christopher Redmayne was in a hurry. As he pulled his horse to a halt, he dropped from the saddle and beckoned Jonathan across to him. They stepped into the privacy of an alley to converse.

'I thought we arranged to meet this evening, sir,' said Jonathan.

'My news would not wait that long.'

'Then tell it me straight.'

'Solomon Creech is dead,' said Christopher. 'Murdered.'

'How?'

'First bludgeoned then flung into the Thames to drown. They found the body this morning. It had been in the water for days.'

'Then it must have been in a sorry state,' said Jonathan. 'The river changes a man beyond all recognition. How did they identify Mr Creech?'

'From his clothing. The name of his tailor was in his coat and the fellow remembered for whom he made the garment. Corroboration came from a gold ring they found in the dead man's stomach.'