The Parliament House

    'Is that all you have to say to me?'

    'No, I've come in search of a favour.'

    'Then search elsewhere!'

    Arms folded, the elder brother turned petulantly away. Only a few years separated them but Henry looked much older. Dissipation had added untold years to his age, hollowing his cheeks and leaving dark pouches beneath his eyes. His face had a deathly pallor and, since he had cast his periwig aside, his balding pate completed the destruction of what had once been handsome features. Ostentatious by nature, Henry could still cut a dash when dressed in his finery and puffed up with an aristocratic arrogance. Now, however, he looked like a rag doll cast aside by an indifferent child. Christopher sat beside him and gave him a compassionate pat on the knee. All that he got in return was a glare of hostility.

    'Come now, Henry,' he encouraged. 'Whatever your tribulations, you must rise above them. Display the true Redmayne spirit.'

    'I've forgotten what that is, Christopher.'

    'Perseverance is our watchword.'

    'Bah!'

    'Imagine what our father would do in the same circumstances.'

    Henry let out a wild laugh. 'Our father?' he exclaimed. 'I don't think that the old gentleman could ever have been in such a position as I find myself. The Church of England would be rocked to its foundations if it learned that one of its holiest prelates had been pursuing a married woman with the ardour that I've shown this past month. The kind of impassioned language that I've been using to her would not be found in the Book of Common Prayer, I assure you. Father is a saint. He would never dare to stray from the strait and narrow. I - thank heaven - have never been in the slightest danger of finding it.'

    'Perhaps the time has come for you to mend your ways.'

    'Unthinkable!'

    Henry was defiant. Blessed with a sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed a handsome allowance from their father. The pious dean of Gloucester cathedral, a man of private wealth and high moral principle, did not realise that he was supporting an existence that was freely dedicated to every vice in the city. Christopher Redmayne was a conscientious architect, striving to make his mark. Henry, by contrast, was a confirmed rake. Yet he could sometimes be useful to his younger brother. Moving in court circles, and befriended by those sharing his decadent tastes, Henry knew almost everyone of consequence in London.

    'What's this about help, Christopher?' he asked. 'If you've come in search of money, I've none to lend you. As a matter of fact, I'd like to borrow some from you - just enough to keep penury at bay.'

    'You've not repaid the last loan I gave you.'

    'Brothers are brothers. Let's have no talk of "loans". We share and share alike. My purse is ever open to you.'

    'Only so that I can fill it yet again,' said Christopher, wryly. 'But enough of that - I'm here on more serious business. A foul murder occurred earlier on. I was there at the time.'

    As he listened to the description of events in Knightrider Street, Henry was torn between interest and derision. When the name of Sir Julius Cheever was mentioned, he curled his lip.

'Sir Julius!' he said with a sneer. 'The fellow is nothing but an ignorant farmer who got his knighthood from that vile monster, Oliver Cromwell. If it were left to me, such freaks would be stripped of their titles forthwith. They were illegally bestowed.'

    Christopher did not rise to the argument. There was no point in antagonising Henry by challenging his opinions. To get any assistance from him, his brother had to be wooed, and that meant showing tolerance in the face of his many prejudices. Christopher was patient.

    'How is Sir Julius viewed in the Parliament House?' he asked.

    'With appropriate disgust.'

    'I'm told that he is a forceful speaker.'

    'Empty vessels make the most noise.'

    'What of Bernard Everett?'

    'The name is new to me,' said Henry, disdainfully, 'but, if he is another renegade from Cambridgeshire, I'll not shed a tear for him. We've had trouble enough from that part of England.'

    'Others in the Parliament House might think the same.'

    'They'd not have welcomed a friend of Sir Julius Cheever.'

    'Why not?'

    'Because he'd have shared the same damnable republican views. Parliament is a jungle,' said Henry, warming to his theme. 'It's full of conniving groups, factions, clubs and temporary alliances. There's a party that supports the King, another that favours his brother, the Duke of York, and a third from the country that opposes both with equal vehemence.'

    'Sir Julius will belong to the country party, then.'

    'It is not as simple as that, Christopher. Within each party are many smaller groups whose loyalties are constantly shifting. Look what happened to our once-revered Chancellor,' he went on. 'The Earl of Clarendon wielded enormous power until the Members of Parliament joined together in a ravenous wolf pack and tore him to shreds. By God - he's the Duke of York's father- in-law but even that did not save him.'

    'I know,' said Christopher. 'Clarendon was not only impeached, he was exiled from the kingdom. His fall from grace was absolute.'

    'Sir Julius Cheever was one of the wolves who brought it about.'

    'He could never admire such a staunch Royalist.'

    'There are still plenty of those to be found,' affirmed Henry, moved by patriotic impulse, 'and I am one of them. So, I trust, are you.'

    'Of course,' said Christopher, readily. 'At the Restoration, I threw my hat as high in the air as anyone. I owe full obedience to the Crown.'

    'Then why do you consort with those who would overthrow it?'

    'Oh, I think that Sir Julius is reconciled to the idea of monarchy.'

    'That's not what I hear.'

    'Indeed?'

    'He and his confederates are plotting rebellion.'

    'Surely not.'

    'Sir Julius has gathered other firebrands around him.'

    'Bernard Everett was no firebrand - I met him, Henry. I took him to be a most amenable gentleman.'

    'What you met was his public face, the one he wore to beguile and deceive. In private, I venture to suggest,' said Henry, raising a finger, 'he was a fellow of a very different stripe. Everett was another skulking Roundhead and it cost him his life. Look no further for an explanation of his murder, Christopher. I can tell you exactly why he was killed.'

    'Can you?'

    'He had been recruited by Sir Julius Cheever to depose the King.'

       Jonathan Bale was familiar with all the taverns and ordinaries in his ward. Much of the petty crime with which he had to deal came from such places. Peaceful citizens turned into roaring demons when too much drink was taken. Law-abiding men could be seized with the desire to wreak havoc. Bale had lost count of the number of tavern brawls he had broken up over the years, or the number of violent drunkards, male and female, he had arrested. The Saracen's Head in Knightrider Street caused less trouble than most. It permitted none of the games of chance that bedevilled other establishments, and prostitutes were not allowed to ply their trade there.

    Bridget McCoy kept a very watchful eye on her premises.

    'When did he arrive here, Mrs McCoy?'

    'This morning.'

    'What did he say?' asked Bale.

    'He wanted a room for one night that overlooked the street.'

    'Knightrider Street, you mean?'

    'Yes, Mr Bale, even though our best room is on Bennet's Hill.'

    'Did you tell him that?'

    'Of course.'