The King's Evil

'Everything,' she murmured. 'He was everything.'

The bundle of letters suddenly became like a lead weight in his pocket. He took them guiltily out, feeling that he was intruding into a private relationship simply by holding them. He offered them to her.

'You might want these back.'

She took them sadly. 'Did you read them?' He nodded. 'They were not meant for anyone else's eyes. They were for him. Only for him.'

'I realise that, mademoiselle. But I needed to find you. It was one of the letters which brought me to Paris.'

'I am glad you came.'

'It was not a welcome undertaking.'

'You are very considerate, monsieur.' She used the handkerchief to wipe away a tear and looked at him with more interest. 'So you are the architect,' she said with a wan smile. 'Ambrose talked so much about our house. He was delighted with what you had done, Monsieur Redmayne. I was so looking forward to living in London. I dreamed of nothing else. What will happen to the house now?'

'It will probably never be built.'

'That is such a shame.'

She stroked the bundle of letters with her fingers and he noticed for the first time the handsome diamond ring on her left hand. Marie Louise Oilier went off into a reverie and he did not dare to break into it. He waited patiently until she blinked as if suddenly coming awake.

'Do please excuse me, sir.'

'There is nothing to excuse.'

'How did you find the letters?' she asked.

'I did not, mademoiselle. They were given to me.'

'By whom?'

'Sir Ambrose's daughter.'

'Daughter?' She recoiled as if from a blow. 'He had a daughter?'

'Did you not know that?'

'No, monsieur. Ambrose told me that his wife died years ago. There was no mention of any children. I was led to believe that he lived alone.'

'You were deceived, I fear,' said Christopher, distressed that he had to inflict further pain. 'Sir Ambrose owned a house in Kent which he shared with his wife and daughter. Lady Northcott did not die. I have met her and she is in good health.'

'But he was going to marry me,' she protested.

'That would not have been possible under English law.'

'Nor in the eyes of God!'

Her hand went to the crucifix and Christopher began to wonder if he had misread her letters. A close physical relationship was implied in them yet he was now getting the impression that Marie Louise Oilier was far from being an experienced lover. If that were the case, a startling paradox was revealed. After years of consorting with ladies of easy virtue, Sir Ambrose Northcott had become obsessed with a virgin. He could only attain her with a promise of marriage.

'Mademoiselle,' he said, sitting beside her. 'You told me earlier that you sensed something was amiss because Sir Ambrose had not written to you since he went to England.'

'That is so.'

'Was he recently in France, then?'

'Yes, he spent ten days here.'

'Together with you?'

'Some of the time,' she recalled. 'He stayed here at my uncle's house. Before that, he had business to transact in Calais and Boulogne. And, of course, he had to travel to the vineyard.'

'Vineyard?'

'In Bordeaux. It is owned by my family.'

'Is that where Sir Ambrose bought his wine?'

'Most of it.'

'And is that how you met?'

'No,' she said wistfully. 'We met in Calais. He was so kind to me.' She turned to Christopher. 'I know what you must think, monsieur. A young girl, being spoiled by a rich man who takes advantage of her innocence. But it was not like that. He was attentive. He treated me with respect. He just liked to be with me. And the truth of it is, I have always felt more at ease with older men. They are not foolish or impetuous.' She gave a little shrug. 'I loved him. I still love him even though he lied to me. He must have planned to leave his wife,' she continued, as if desperate to repair the damage which had been done to a cherished memory. 'That was it. He was working to free himself from this other woman. Proceedings must already have been under way. They had to be. Ambrose was mine. That house in London was not being built for anyone else. It belonged to us. He encouraged me to make suggestions about it.'

'I remember commenting on the French influence.'

'That came from me, monsieur.'

'So I see.'

She gazed down at the ring and fondled it with her other hand.

'Ambrose gave this to me,' she said.

'It is beautiful.'

'I will never part with it.' She looked at the bundle of letters which lay in her lap. 'Why did you bring these to me, monsieur?'

'I felt that you would want them back.'

'I do but there was no need for you to bring them. A courier could have been sent. That is how Ambrose kept in touch with me. By courier.' She stared up at him. 'Why come in person?'

'Because I hoped to break the news as gently as I could.'

'Was that the only reason?'

'No, I wanted to meet you.'

'Why?'

'I need your help, mademoiselle.'

'What can I do?'

'Tell me about Sir Ambrose,' he explained. 'I owe him a great debt and it can only be repaid by tracking down the man who killed him. I have dedicated myself to that task.'

'That is very noble of you, monsieur.'

'His death must be avenged.'

'Oh, yes!' she exclaimed. 'The murderer cannot go unpunished. He must be caught quickly. Do you know who he is?'

'No, mademoiselle.'

'But you have some idea?'

'I feel that I am getting closer all the time,' he said with a measure of confidence. 'The trail led to Paris.'

'Why here?'

'That is what I am hoping you can tell me.'

'But this was where Ambrose came to escape. To be with me.'

'When did you last see him?'

'Let me see ...'

Christopher plied her with questions for a long time and she gave ready answers but none of them contained any clues as to why Sir Ambrose was murdered and by whom. Marie Louise Oilier had been kept largely ignorant of his business affairs and he had told her nothing whatsoever about the true nature of his domestic situation. Time spent together had been limited, taken up for the most part with discussions about the new house and its furnishings. She made flattering comments about his design and Christopher realised that some of his earlier drawings of the house must have been shown to her. The man she described was very different from the confirmed rake who sought pleasure in the company of men such as Henry Redmayne.

As he listened to her fond reminiscences, Christopher was left in no doubt about the fact that she truly loved him and he could understand very clearly why Sir Ambrose had been besotted with her. Now that he was so close to her, he could see that she was perhaps a few years older than Penelope Northcott but she had a childlike charm which made her seem much younger.

Having described her own history, she asked him about his memories of Sir Ambrose. Christopher searched for positive things to say about the man, concealing anything which might strike a discordant note. It was only when she gave a slight shiver that he realised something was amiss.

Marie Louise Oilier was sitting in the chair closest to the open shutters and an evening breeze was disturbing her headdress. When there were more comfortable chairs in the room, it seemed odd that her uncle should conduct her to that one. The library looked out on the garden at the rear of the house and it suddenly occurred to Christopher that anyone standing outside could eavesdrop on them with ease. He was about to stand up and investigate when she reached out to grab his arm.

'Will you send word to me, monsieur?' she begged.

'Word?'

'When you catch the man who killed him, please let me know.'

'I will,'

'Send word to this address.'