The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  Jem scratched his head vigorously. His face was blanker than ever. Eager to help, he was quite unable to do so and his impotence annoyed him. Christopher was about to abandon the interrogation when the other man hunched his shoulders in apology.

  'I am sorry, Mr Redmayne.'

  'You are not to blame.'

  'I saw nothing after they went down into the cellars.'

  'They?' Christopher stepped closer to him. 'Are you telling me that Sir Ambrose was here with someone else?'

  'Yes, sir. Another man.'

  'Who was he?'

  'I do not know, sir. I barely gave him a glance. I know my place.' He ran a tongue over his lips. 'Sir Ambrose was hardly likely to introduce a friend of his to a mere night- watchman. I was nothing to them.'

  'Was the man old or young? Tall or short?'

  Jem cudgelled his brain but it was a futile exercise. He was there to guard the site, not to keep his employer under surveillance. Nothing could be dredged up from his memory. He licked his lips again.

  'He was a man, Mr Redmayne. That is all I can tell you.'

  'I see.'

  'Have I been any help?'

  'Oh, yes,' said Christopher. 'What you have told me is invaluable. At least, I now know where Sir Ambrose was yesterday evening.' He glanced around. 'Do you have a iantern here?'

  'Down by the bench, sir.'

  'May I borrow it, please?'

  'Why?'

  'Just fetch it.'

  Jem loped off and Christopher went across to the house, stepping over the lowest point of the exterior wall then walking to the steps which led down to the cellars. He was still staring down into the dark tunnel when the nightwatchman handed him the lantern.

  'The candle is burned right down, sir,' he apologised.

  'There is enough light still.'

  'Do you want me to come with you?'

  'No, Jem. Stay here. I will not be long.'

  Holding the lantern, Christopher descended the steps with sure feet. Having designed and supervised the construction of the cellars, he knew every inch of them but there was no time to admire the vaulting or the intricate brickwork now. He was there for an express purpose. His visit was dictated purely by instinct. As he moved from bay to bay, the brittle sound of his footsteps reverberated throughout the whole vault. He still did not know why Sir Ambrose Northcott had insisted on such large cellars and surmised that his employer wished to keep a vast stock of wines down there. The place was empty now though soft, scurrying noises indicated that rats were making their own tour of inspection.

  The dank smell began to take on a slightly noisome odour. It puzzled him. Christopher feared at first that someone had dared to use his cellars as a privy and violated their pristine cleanliness. He was outraged at the thought that one of Littlejohn's men might have slipped in there unseen to relieve himself. The further he went, the more distinct became the smell. Yet when he reached the last chamber and raised his lantern, he could see nothing which might produce it. The glow from the candle was too faint to illumine every corner. It was only when he heard a sudden darting movement that he crouched down and swung the lantern across the floor area.

  Christopher did not see the rat which had just fled the scene. His attention was monopolised by the figure which lay in the corner of the chamber. The man was on his back, his body twisted in pain and his clothing soaked with blood from gashes in his chest. No respect had been shown to the dead by the rats. They had started to eat the man's face away, removing both eyes and reducing an already small nose to a jagged piece of bone. The crimson jowls were gnawed into shreds. Christopher still recognised him immediately.

  Sir Ambrose Northcott would no longer require a new house.

  Overcome with nausea, he began to sway and retch. Christopher had to put out a hand against the cold wall to steady himself. For a few minutes, he was completely stunned. He had not expected to find anyone in the cellars, least of all in such a hideous condition. His mind was numb. It was the nightwatchman's voice which jerked him out of his daze as it boomed through the cellars.

  'Is everything all right down there, Mr Redmayne?' he called.

  'No,' croaked the other.

  'What is the matter?'

  'Fetch a constable.'

  'Why, sir?'

  'Just do as I say, Jem. There has been an accident.'

  'Have you been hurt?' said the voice anxiously. Heavy feet came down the stone steps. 'Do you need help?'

  'I am not injured,' replied Christopher, recovering quickly. 'Do not come any closer. I will stay here while you run for a constable.'

  The feet halted. 'If you say so, sir.'

  'I do, Jem. It is an emergency.'

  'What shall I tell him?'

  'Just that. There is a dire emergency.'

  'I will go at once,' promised the other, moving off.

  'Wait!' shouted Christopher as a thought struck him. The feet halted again. 'Do you live in this ward?'

  'Yes, sir. I was born and brought up here.'

  'Do you know a man named Jonathan Bale?'

  'Very well. Mr Bale lives in Addle Hill.'

  'Fetch him. He is the constable I want.'

  'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Now, hurry!'

  Jem needed no more instruction. The urgency in Christopher's command was enough to send the night- watchman scrambling up the steps in the half-dark. He was soon trotting clumsily through the streets on his errand.

  Christopher was glad that he had gone. Wanting to spare the man the shock of seeing the dead body, he was also keen to have some time alone to take a closer look at the scene of the crime and he could not do that with a horrified nightwatchman on his hands. Jem's presence would be a definite hindrance. He was best kept in ignorance of what had been found until the constable was summoned.

  As the first wave of disgust faded, Christopher plucked up the courage to study the corpse with more care. Kneeling beside it, he held the lantern close and saw that Sir Ambrose Northcott had been stabbed in the chest. A number of wounds had been opened up but the most telling thrust was to the heart. The dagger was still buried deep inside it. He had not been a passive victim. Signs of a struggle were evident from the marks in the dust which covered the floor and there was a piece of material clutched in the dead man's hand, as if torn from his assailant's clothing. Something else caught Christopher's eye. Sir Ambrose's other hand lay open, its palm covered with tiny white flakes. Christopher spotted some more of them on the floor, speckling the dust, but had no idea what they were. He picked a flake up on his fingertip and sniffed it. There was no smell. He blew the flake away again.

  Taking care not to touch the body, he ran the lantern from head to toe by way of a cursory autopsy. It yielded little further information. Sir Ambrose was still wearing the apparel in which he had dined though the vivid blood had redefined its colours. Rings still adorned some fingers on both hands. One shoe had come off, its silver buckle glinting in the meagre light. Christopher shook his head sadly, offered up a prayer for the soul of the dead man then rose to his feet.

  The implications slowly dawned on him. If Sir Ambrose was dead, what would now happen to the house and to the sizeable fee which the architect was due to be paid for designing it? His personal ambitions suddenly crumbled. Yet he was not only concerned with the prospect of the huge personal loss. How would Samuel Littlejohn react when he learned that his employer had been murdered? Bricklayers, carpenters, stonemasons, tilers, glaziers and all the other tradesmen engaged to work on the property would have to be laid off instantly. The death would have widespread effects. Christopher did not relish the task of passing on the bad tidings to his brother, still less to Solomon Creech.

  Both men had been very alarmed by Sir Ambrose's disappearance. Christopher wondered why. How much did they know? Did they sense that a tragedy like this might occur? Had a shadow been hanging over Sir Ambrose Northcott? Who or what cast it?

  Caught up in his reflections, Christopher did not at first hea
r the approaching footsteps. It was only when a fresh lantern threw more light into the cellar that he realised someone was coming.

  'I am here!' he called. 'At the far end.'

  'We are coming, sir,' answered a voice.

  'Tell Jem to stay back. There is no need for him to see this.'

  'Very well, sir. You heard that, Jem.'

  'Yes,' said the nightwatchman.

  One pair of feet halted but the other came on in purposeful strides. Lantern held before him, Jonathan Bale walked forward until he reached the last chamber and found Christopher blocking his way.

  'Why did you send for me, sir?' asked the constable.

  'Something terrible has happened, I fear.'

  'What is it?'

  Christopher stepped aside to reveal the scene of horror.

  'See for yourself,' he murmured.

  Chapter Seven

  Jonathan Bale did not flinch. He had looked on death too many times for it to hold any shock or surprise for him. His lantern threw a much more searching light over the corpse, enabling Christopher to see details which had been concealed from him earlier. When he tried to look closer, the constable waved him back with an arm.

  'Stay clear, Mr Redmayne,' he said. 'I will take charge now.'

  'That slight bruising around his throat. I did not notice that earlier. Nor that trickle of blood on his scalp.'

  'Did you touch the body at all, sir?'

  'No.'

  'So it has not been moved?'

  'It is exactly as I found it, Mr Bale.'

  'Good.'

  The constable was methodical. Before he examined the body itself, he memorised its position and noted the telltale marks all round it on the dust-covered ground. His eye measured the dimensions of the chamber then scoured every inch of it. When he knelt to study the corpse, he ignored the half-eaten face, more interested in the wickedness of man than in the hunger of rats. He carefully opened the flaps of Sir Ambrose Northcott's coat so that he could view each stab wound in turn. The dagger had left ugly red holes in the man's waistcoat and Holland shirt before plunging finally into the heart. Jonathan searched every pocket. It was a long time before he rose reflectively to his feet.

  Christopher watched him with gathering impatience.

  'Well?' he said.

  'This is a bad business, sir.'

  'There are obvious signs of a struggle.'

  'So I see.'

  'He was a strong man. He would have put up a fight.'

  'You know the deceased?'

  'Of course. It is Sir Ambrose Northcott.'

  'Indeed?' Jonathan took a last look at the corpse before turning to appraise Christopher. 'When did you discover the body, sir?'

  'Soon after I arrived.'

  'And when was that?'

  'Dawn was still breaking.'

  'An early hour for such a visit, sir.'

  'I was anxious to see Sir Ambrose.'

  'Did you arrange to meet him here?'

  'No, no,' said Christopher. 'But I was confident that he would come to the site at some stage. When he is in London, he calls here every day without fail. I wanted to reassure myself.'

  'Reassure?'

  'That no harm had befallen him. Sir Ambrose disappeared last night. My brother came to my house in great alarm. Sir Ambrose had promised to meet him that evening but he did not turn up or send an apology for his absence. That is most unusual, according to Henry.'

  'Is he your brother, sir?'

  'Yes. Henry Redmayne. He is - or, at least, was - a good friend of Sir Ambrose Northcott. Henry searched for him all over the city last night. When there was no sign of him, he became profoundly worried.'

  'With cause, it seems,' said the other.

  'Alas, yes.'

  'What made you come into the cellars, sir?'

  'Curiosity.'

  'It seems an odd thing to do,' observed the constable with a hint of suspicion. 'If you were hoping to meet someone on the site, the last place you would expect to find him is in a dark cellar. Why come here?'

  'Because of what the nightwatchman said.'

  'Jem?'

  'Yes. He told me that Sir Ambrose called here yesterday evening. I have no reason to doubt his word.'

  'Nor me, sir. I can vouch for Jem Raybone.'

  'Unfortunately, he was not able to tell me very much but he did remember that Sir Ambrose went down into the cellars.'

  'Why?'

  'Presumably, to show them off to his companion.'

  Interest sharpened. 'There was someone with him?'

  'Another man.'

  'Did Jem recognise the fellow?'

  'No, but then he was not encouraged to take a proper look at him. Sir Ambrose made it quite clear that he did not want the nightwatchman peering over their shoulders. Jem made himself scarce.'

  'So he might have known this other man?'

  'If he'd been allowed more than a brief glance.'

  Jonathan gazed steadily at him, his tone deliberately neutral.

  'Were you the man in question, sir?'

  'Of course not!' said Christopher hotly, taken aback. 'I came nowhere near the site yesterday evening.'

  'Can you tell me where you did go, Mr Redmayne?'

  'This is absurd, man! You surely do not suspect me?'

  'I have to consider all possibilities.'

  'Well, you can eliminate my name at once,' said Christopher with righteous indignation. 'Sir Ambrose Northcott was my employer. Why on earth should I want to murder him?'

  'It may be that you had a disagreement, sir,' suggested Jonathan, fixing him with a stare. 'Over money, perhaps. Or the terms of your contract with him. You tell me, sir. All I know is that it does seem strange for a man to come to the house in the half-dark and go straight to the place where the body lay.' 'I had no idea what I was going to find down here.'

  'Really, sir?'

  'I was shaken to the core by the discovery. Ask Jem.'

  'He says that you would not let him anywhere near you.'

  'That is right but he must have heard the upset in my voice.'

  'He heard only what you wanted him to hear, sir.'

  'Stop this!' exploded Christopher. 'I'll bear no more of it. You have no right to accuse me. Look there, Mr Bale,' he ordered, pointing at the corpse. 'What you see is the body of a murdered man. Do you know what I see lying there? The probable death of my whole career as an architect. Sir Ambrose Northcott gave me an opportunity which few men would offer to a novice like myself. This house would have been a personal monument, a way to advertise my talents to all who saw it. But the likelihood is that it will never be built now. Think on that. Would I be foolish enough to kill the one man who had real faith in me?'

  'It seems unlikely, I grant you.'

  'Thank you!' said Christopher with sarcasm. 'And if I had been the killer, do you imagine I would be stupid enough to return to the scene of the crime like this then send for a constable?'

  'That would have been guile rather than stupidity, sir.'

  'Guile?'

  'Yes, Mr Redmayne. You would be surprised how many times the person who reports a murder turns out to have committed it. There is no simpler way to throw suspicion off yourself.'

  More sarcasm. 'It did not work in my case, did it?'

  'No, sir. But, then, I am already acquainted with you.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I do not trust you,' said Jonathan levelly.

  Christopher blenched. 'Why ever not?'

  'You are inclined to passion, sir.'

  'Passion!' 'You are showing it now.'

  'Only because you are provoking me!'

  'Are you so easily provoked, Mr Redmayne?'

  Christopher turned abruptly away and fought hard to master his temper. There was a lengthy pause. Jonathan took another look at the corpse. When he spoke again, his tone was more conciliatory.

  'I do not believe that you committed this crime, sir.'

  'Oh, you've worked that out, have you?' said Christ
opher, swinging back to face him. 'First you insult me then you exonerate me. What new piece of evidence have you stumbled on?'

  'The evidence of my own eyes. You would not take such a risk.'

  'Risk?'

  'Of being recognised by the nightwatchman. Jem Raybone is a sharp-eyed man. Even at a glance, I think he would pick you out. No,' decided the constable, 'you were not the man who was seen going into the cellars with Sir Ambrose Northcott.' Christopher nodded gratefully and breathed heavily through his nose. 'Do you know if Jem saw one or both men leaving?'

  'Neither. He was looking the other way.'

  'So the murder could have taken place there and then?'

  'Yes, Mr Bale.'

  'The condition of the body suggests that it did. I would like it confirmed by a surgeon,' said Jonathan softly, 'but my guess is that Sir Ambrose was killed at least twelve hours ago. In which case, the prime suspect must be this unidentified companion.'

  'Not I,' insisted the other.

  'Who is not - I now accept - you, sir.'

  A long sigh. 'I am glad that we agree on that.'

  'The vital question is this: why did Sir Ambrose Northcott come down here with that man in the first place? Did he sense no danger?'

  'Not until it was too late.'

  They gazed down soulfully at the corpse. The nightwatchman's voice broke in. He was standing on the cellar steps, guessing what must have been discovered and afraid to venture any closer.

  'Mr Littlejohn has just arrived,' he called.

  'Keep him out of here,' replied Jonathan.

  'What shall I tell him?'

  'I will speak to him myself, Jem.' He was about to move off when Christopher's hand detained him. 'You have inadvertently taken hold of my arm, sir,' he said politely. 'I must ask you to release it.'

  'Gladly,' said Christopher, retaining his grip, 'when you tell me why you dislike me so much.'

  'My opinion of you does not come into it, Mr Redmayne.'

  'It informs your whole attitude towards me.'

  'That is not true, sir.'

  'Something about me seems to irritate you.'

  'I am not irritated,' said Jonathan calmly. 'But I will admit that I would rather be in this cellar with someone else.'