The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  Hanging his coat on a hook, he took down another and started to put it on. There was a knock on the door. Sarah made to rise but he gestured for her to sit down again. He adjusted his coat and went to the front door. When he opened it, his face fell.

  His refuge was being invaded by Christopher Redmayne.

  'Mr Datchett told me you might be here,' said the visitor.

  'I am busy, sir, and have no time for idle chat.'

  'There is nothing idle about what I have to say, Mr Bale.'

  'Then please say it quickly and depart.'

  'In brief,' said Christopher, 'we are of necessity together in this.'

  'I do not follow.'

  'Whether you like it or not, I am involved in this murder and have resolved to seek out the killer.'

  'Leave that to others more skilled in the work.'

  'No,' replied Christopher. 'It is a question of honour. Since neither my brother nor Mr Creech is prepared to do so, I will first ride off to Sir Ambrose's estate in Kent to break the news to his family. They must not be kept in ignorance.'

  'That is considerate of you, sir,' remarked Jonathan.

  'The visit will have a secondary purpose, Mr Bale. I will gather more information about Sir Ambrose, perhaps even uncover the names of some enemies of his. The more we know about the murder victim, the more likely we are to track down the man who stabbed him. Do you hear what I am telling you?'

  'I think so. You will learn things which could be of value to me.'

  'But we must strike a bargain.'

  'Go on.'

  'We need to clear the air,' said Christopher seriously. 'Solving this crime is all-important. You must set aside your inexplicable dislike and distrust of me. In return, I will overlook your surly manner towards me. Then, perhaps, we can pool our resources in the interests of justice.' He looked the constable in the eye. 'Is that fair?'

  'Very fair, sir.'

  'And you agree?'

  'Up to a point.'

  'We can help each other. It is the only way forward, Mr Bale.'

  Jonathan weighed up the offer. His face was impassive.

  'Ride off to Kent,' he said at length.

  'Then we are partners in this enterprise?

  'Let us see what you find out first.'

  Chapter Eight

  Lady Frances Northcott sat on a rustic bench and surveyed the garden with a glow of pride. Its colour and variety never ceased to delight her and its multiple fragrances were particularly enchanting at that time of the year. Reclining in the shadow of an elm, she looked down an avenue of well-trimmed yew trees and admired the symmetry of the scene. The extensive formal garden at Priestfield Place was largely her creation. It occupied most of her leisure time and kept the small army of gardeners at full stretch. They worked very happily under her serene command. Lady Northcott was a far more amenable employer than her husband.

  A tall, gracious woman of middle years, she had the finely-sculpted features which seem to improve with age and which were somehow enhanced by the gentle greying of her hair. An air of quiet distinction marked her and even in what she called her gardening dress, she remained unmistakably the mistress of the estate. Whenever any of the gardeners passed, they gave her a deferential nod which was always repaid with a friendly smile. She was herself one of the salient features of the garden. Warm weather invariably brought her out into it.

  'I knew that I would find you here,' said a teasing voice.

  'Hello, Penelope.'

  'You're the patron saint of this garden, Mother.'

  'There is nothing I would prefer to be.'

  'Is it true that they are going to make another pond?'

  'Yes,' said Frances. 'It will absorb some of the overflow from the lake. I've asked them to build sluice-gates to control it.'

  'But we already have three ponds.'

  'You can never have too much water, Penelope. It brings interest and tranquillity to any prospect. If it were left to me, I would surround the whole of Priestfield Place with water.'

  'Like a moat. To keep people out?'

  'To keep me in.'

  She made room on the bench for her daughter to sit beside her. Penelope Northcott inherited little from her father apart from her name and the fair hue of her hair. For the rest, she was a younger version of her mother with the same high cheekbones, the same elegant nose, the same heart-shaped face and a pair of sparkling turquoise eyes which were interchangeable with those of the other woman. Her admirers often described Lady Northcott as Penelope's older sister. It was a compliment which, politely accepted by the person to whom it was paid, always made Penelope herself giggle.

  'I wanted to ask you when Father is coming home,' she said.

  'I wish I knew.'

  'He has been away for so long this time.'

  'Yes,' agreed her mother. 'His business affairs occupy him more and more. His last letter said that he may not return here until the end of the month.'

  'That is weeks away!' complained Penelope. 'We need him here to discuss the plans for the wedding. How can we make final arrangements if Father is never at home?'

  'You will have to be patient.'

  'You always say that.'

  'Patience is something I have had to learn myself.'

  'George is riding over tomorrow,' said her daughter. 'I hoped to be able to give him a firm date for Father's return. He is getting very restless. George is as eager as I am to decide on the arrangements.'

  'The most important arrangement has already been decided.'

  'Has it?'

  'Yes, dear,' said Frances with a sweet smile. 'Penelope Northcott is to marry handsome George Strype. What better arrangement could there be than that?'

  'None.' She kissed her mother on the cheek. 'I am so glad that you have started to like George at last.'

  A guarded response. 'I have always liked him.'

  'Have you?'

  'In some ways.'

  'Be honest, Mother. At first, you did not approve of George at all.'

  'He was your father's choice rather than mine, I admit that.'

  'He is my choice.'

  'Then that is all that matters, Penelope.'

  'I want you to love him as I do, Mother.'

  'I will try.'

  'You must, you must,' urged the other.

  'In time, dear. I am sure that I will grow into it in time.'

  Penelope squeezed her hand. A breeze sprang up, causing the branches of the elm to genuflect gracefully. Birdsong filled the walks. The two of them simply sat there and luxuriated in the beauty of nature.

  A mischievous glint came into Penelope's eye and she giggled.

  'I suppose that we could always surprise him.'

  'Who? George?'

  'No, Mother,' said Penelope. 'Father. If he will not come down to Kent to see us, we could go up to London instead to see him. It would be a real surprise.'

  'I am not sure that it is one your father would appreciate.'

  'Why not?'

  'He likes to keep his home life and business affairs apart.'

  'We would not get in his way,' argued Penelope. 'We can

  stay in Westminster then go into the city to do our shopping. George tells me that there is so much rebuilding going on there now. It is very exciting. I would love to see it. May we go to London, Mother?'

  'No, Penelope.'

  'But I want to. I crave a diversion.'

  'George Strype will provide all the diversion you need once you are married to him,' said her mother easily. 'Concentrate your mind on that. Let your husband take you to London in the fullness of time. I'll not leave my garden for anybody.'

  'Not even to see the look of surprise on Father's face?'

  'Not even for that.'

  'But you used to love London at one time.'

  'Those days are gone, Penelope,' she said wistfully. 'I have found other pleasures in life. They have proved more reliable. Come,' she said, rising to her feet and pulling her daughter after her. 'Let us take
a stroll. I will show you where I am having the new pond situated. They are to start digging next week. We will have made substantial progress by the time your father returns.' She held back a sigh. 'Whenever that may be.'

  Christopher Redmayne threw caution to the winds and set out alone. He was in too much of a hurry to wait for the security of an escort to Kent, trusting instead in a fast horse, a strong sword-arm and an instinct for danger. Only one incident disrupted his long ride south. As the afternoon began to shade into evening, he saw a figure on the brow of the hill ahead of him. Crouched beneath a tree, the man used a crutch to haul himself upright and hobbled to the middle of the road. His hand stretched out in search of alms. Dressed in rags and wearing a battered old hat, he looked like a lonely beggar but there was something about him which alerted Christopher, who took note of the thick bushes nearby. It was an ideal place for an ambush. From that vantage point, anyone approaching in either direction could be seen a long way off. Christopher could not understand why a lame man should drag himself up such a steep hill.

  Slowing his horse to a trot, he held the reins in his left hand while keeping the right free. It was a wise precaution. When the rider was only a few yards away, the beggar suddenly sprang to life, shed his apparent lameness and ran forward, lifting the crutch to swing it viciously at his quarry. Christopher's sword was out in a flash, parrying the blow then jabbing hard to inflict a wound in the man's shoulder. Two accomplices leaped out from behind the bushes but they, too, met their match. The first was kicked full in the face and the second had the cudgel struck from his hand by the flashing sword. Before any of the trio could recover, Christopher was galloping hell-for-leather down the other side of the hill.

  The remainder of the journey passed without interruption. Unable to reach his destination before nightfall, Christopher elected to stay at an inn and rest his horse. It was only when he climbed into bed that he realised how tired he was. Before he could even begin to review his day, he was fast asleep. Restored and refreshed, he was up shortly after dawn to eat a simple breakfast. The landlord, a big barrel of a man with flabby lips and a bulbous nose, came across to offer guidance.

  'Do you travel far, sir?' he asked.

  'I am not sure,' said Christopher. 'I am heading for a place near Sevenoaks.'

  'What's the name?'

  'Shipbourne.'

  'Where, sir?'

  'Shipbourne.'

  The landlord chuckled. 'There are no ships born around here, sir. We're miles from the sea. I think you must want Shibborn. That's what we call it, sir. Not Ship-bourne. Stubborn.'

  'How far away is it?'

  'Eight or nine miles.'

  'Good. Would you happen to have heard of Priestfield Place?'

  'Everyone's heard of it,' said the other, his face hardening. 'The estate belongs to Sir Ambrose Northcott. All five hundred acres of it. Sir Ambrose is well known in this county.'

  'Well known and well liked?'

  'Ask that of his tenants, sir.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'They do not speak too kindly of him,' muttered the landlord. 'That is all I am prepared to say. I never met Sir Ambrose myself so I am no judge if he is really as harsh as they claim.'

  'How would I find Priestfield Place?'

  'Strike off to the left before you reach Shibborn, sir. You will see a signpost to Plaxtol. The estate lies between the two of them.'

  'Thank you, landlord.'

  'Are you a friend of Sir Ambrose?' probed the other.

  Christopher gave a noncommittal nod. He was carrying sad tidings which the Northcott family deserved to hear first. He did not want the news to be spread by means of rumour through the mouth of a portly innkeeper.

  Having paid his bill, he set off. It was a fine morning and his ride took him through undulating countryside which offered all kinds of attractive vistas. Christopher saw little of them. He was too distracted by the questions which had haunted him since the moment of discovery in the cellars of the house near Baynard's Castle.

  Why did Sir Ambrose Northcott visit the site so late of an evening? Who was his companion? What was the motive behind the murder? Why had Solomon Creech reacted with such fear when he heard of the crime? There were subsidiary questions about the house in Westminster, the whereabouts of Sir Ambrose during his long absence from London and the nature of his political activities. Christopher was reminded time and again just how little he really knew of the man for whom he had designed a house. Why had Henry kept so much from his brother? Sir Ambrose Northcott was hidden behind a veil of secrecy. For what purpose? One final question tugged repeatedly at Christopher's mind.

  Why did Jonathan Bale seem to resent him so much?

  His cogitations carried him all the way to the crude signpost with the first mention of Plaxtol. Christopher turned his horse down a narrow track which had been baked hard by the sun and which ran between bramble bushes. Riding at a steady canter, he soon found himself entering the outer reaches of Priestfield Place. Most of it was tenanted and those who farmed it were out working in the fields but Sir Ambrose had reserved a vast swathe of land at the very heart of the estate. After passing a herd of cows, grazing contentedly in a meadow, Christopher followed a twisting path through woodland before coming out into open country again. The house positively leaped into view. It still lay over half a mile away but its effect was dramatic.

  Set in an elevated position, Priestfield Place was an Elizabethan manor house of the finest quality. It was built of rose-coloured brick which blossomed in the sunshine and which conveyed an impression both of solidity and delicacy. The house was shaped like the letter H, its central portion gabled, its four corners guarded by octagonal turrets which were topped by gilt weather vanes. Climbing to three storeys and roofed with red tiles, it was an imposing edifice which yielded ever more fresh and arresting detail the closer he got to it. Christopher was staggered by the generosity of its proportions and its sheer presence. The new London residence which Sir Ambrose Northcott had commissioned from him was imposing enough. Compared to Priestfield Place, however, it was a mere gatehouse.

  When he reached the paved courtyard, he brought his mount to a halt so that he could admire the fountain in which water from sixteen separate invisible pipes played into the huge scallop shell held by the statue of Venus before cascading down again. Then he let his gaze travel to the elaborate porch over which the royal coat of arms had been carved in stone to commemorate a visit by Queen Elizabeth in the previous century. Before he could feast his eyes on the facade, Christopher saw a manservant emerging from the porch. When he introduced himself and announced his business, the visitor was invited into the house while his horse was stabled by an ostler.

  Conducted into the Great Hall, he noted the striking pattern in the marble floor, the carved heads on some of the oak panelling and the array of family portraits. Over the mantelpiece hung a large painting of the late master of the house. Sir Ambrose was wearing a breastplate, holding a helmet and striking a military pose. The bold glare was that of a man who considered himself invincible. Christopher sighed inwardly.

  Having asked to speak alone to Lady Northcott, he was surprised to see two ladies being shown into the hall. Penelope was keen to hear any news relating to her father and, though neither women yet sensed how devastating that news would be, both seemed to have braced themselves for disappointment. Introductions were made then the two women sat beside each other. Christopher lowered himself on to a chair opposite them. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  'I fear that I am the bearer of bad tidings,' he said quietly.

  Penelope immediately tensed but her mother retained her poise.

  'Go on, Mr Redmayne,' encouraged the latter.

  'Has something happened to Father?' asked Penelope. 'Is he ill? Has some accident befallen him? Will he be detained in London even longer?'

  'Let Mr Redmayne tell us, dear.'

  'I will, Lady Northcott,' he said, 'but I do it with the utmost regret. Wh
at I have to tell you is that your husband will not be returning to Priestfield Place at any time. He has passed away.'

  Penelope turned white and tears welled in her eyes. Reaching out a hand to steady her daughter, Lady Northcott somehow preserved her own equanimity. She searched Christopher's eyes.

  'I think you have softened the news for our benefit,' she decided. 'I have never known my husband to have a day's illness. He was a picture of health.' She gestured to the portrait. 'As you can see for yourself. This was no natural death, was it?'

  'No, Lady Northcott.'

  'Was he killed in an accident?'

  Christopher shook his head. 'It was no accident.'

  Penelope's self-control went and she burst into tears, turning to her mother who stood to draw her daughter into her arms. Christopher felt cruel at having to deliver such a shattering blow to them and he averted his gaze from their grief. Lady Northcott seemed calm but there was a deep anguish in her eyes. Penelope was moving towards hysteria and her mother had to hug and reassure her before the sobbing began to ease. When her daughter had regained some of her composure, Lady Northcott looked over at their visitor again.

  'What are the details, Mr Redmayne?' she said softly.

  'I would prefer to spare you some of those, Lady Northcott.'

  'Sir Ambrose was my husband. I have a right to know.' She saw the sympathetic glance which he threw towards Penelope. 'We both have a right to know. Hide nothing from us.'

  'No,' said Penelope bravely. 'I am sorry to break down in front of you like that, sir. It will not happen again. Please do as my mother bids.'

  'Very well.' He rose to his feet and cleared his throat again. 'Sir Ambrose was murdered by a person or persons unknown. His body was found in the cellar of the new house.'

  'New house?' repeated Lady Northcott.

  'The one I designed for you near Baynard's Castle.'