The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  'Keep them, Mr Redmayne,' she said. 'Read them all.'

  'Later,' he decided, putting them on the table.

  'I do not wish to touch them again.'

  'That is understandable.'

  'It was an effort to refrain from burning them,' she admitted. 'For that is what I did with the portrait of her.'

  'Portrait?'

  'It was no more than a sketch, attached to one of the letters, but it must have been a good likeness or my father would not have kept it.' Her voice began to falter. 'That is what hurt me most of all, Mr Redmayne.'

  'What was?'

  'Marie Louise Oilier is ... a young woman. If the sketch is to be believed, she is not much above my own age.'

  The full horror hit her once again and she closed her eyes to absorb the blow, biting her lip as she swayed to and fro. Christopher moved across to put a comforting arm around her and her head fell gratefully on to his shoulder. Joy and sadness were intermingled as he enjoyed the brief intimacy and shared her sorrow, inhaling her perfume and consoling her with soft words. When another young woman had been in his arms, fear had consumed him but the embrace felt wholly natural this time. Penelope Northcott was everything that Margaret Littlejohn could never be. She was wanted.

  As soon as he felt her rally, he released her and stood back. She thanked him with a nod then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Christopher resumed his seat, touched that she felt able to express her emotions in front of him. She regarded him seriously.

  'Will you be honest with me, sir?' she asked.

  'Of course.'

  'Were you entirely surprised by what I have disclosed?'

  He shook his head. 'No, Miss Northcott.'

  'Why not?'

  'My brother, Henry, was a friend of your father's. That fact alone,' he said, searching for a kind euphemism, 'hinted at a degree of moral laxity. Henry has always sought pleasure in abundance. I assumed that he and Sir Ambrose were birds of a feather. My brother has admitted as much.'

  'Yet you made no mention of it to me.'

  'I hoped to keep such details from you.'

  'That was very kind of you,' she said, 'but I have no illusions left to shatter. When I heard that he had been killed, I thought I had lost a dear and loving father. It was like a knife through the heart to realise what sort of man he really was.'

  'Was your mother equally wounded?' he said.

  'Why do you ask that?'

  'She may have noticed things which you did not.'

  'Go on.'

  'When I was leaving Priestfield Place, I chanced to see Lady Northcott in the garden. Your mother was not exactly overwhelmed with grief.'

  Penelope nodded. 'I think that Mother had guessed what was going on and learned to live with it. Father's absences grew longer and longer. A wife is bound to draw conclusions. The garden has always been a great consolation to her.'

  'Did you show her the letters?'

  'Of course.'

  'What was her reaction?'

  'She refused to read them.'

  'Does Lady Northcott know that you brought them to me?'

  'It was my mother who urged me to find you.'

  'And what of your fiancée?' he asked tentatively. 'Does Mr Strype know that you are here?'

  'No,' she said bluntly. 'He would have stopped me coming.'

  'Why?'

  'That is a personal matter, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Then I will not pry.'

  Christopher turned the conversation to more neutral topics, asking about her coach journey and whether or not she found London an exciting city to visit. Penelope gradually relaxed. Having unburdened an unpalatable family secret, she could actually start to enjoy her host's company. She had no doubts about the wisdom of what she had done and knew that she could trust Christopher with her family secrets.

  He was drawn to her more strongly than ever. What she had done would have been courageous in a mature woman. In a young lady, fragile and vulnerable after a bereavement, it was an act of sheer bravado, enhanced by the fact that she was concealing her movements from the man she was engaged to marry.

  Time flowed past so freely and pleasantly that neither of them noticed the shadows lengthening. It was only when Jacob brought in additional candles that they realised how late it must be. As the servant quit the room, Penelope rose to her feet in a flurry of apologies.

  'I have stayed far too long, Mr Redmayne. Do forgive me.'

  'There is nothing to forgive.'

  'Dirk must have been waiting for hours.'

  'Do not worry about your coachman. Jacob will have looked after him, I am sure. Where do you plan to spend the night?'

  'I had thought to go to the house in Westminster.'

  'Had thought?' he repeated, hearing the doubt in her voice. 'Has something happened to change your mind?'

  'Yes, sir. That bundle of letters.'

  'Do you fear that you may find more in Westminster?'

  'It is possible,' she said with a shiver. 'When you read the rest of those missives, you will see that Father was building the house near Baynard's Castle for this French lady of his.' Bitterness intruded. 'It was not enough to have her name painted on the side of his ship and to correspond with her. He was planning to live with her in London. To keep one abode here for his family and another for his mistress.'

  'I had already made that deduction, Miss Northcott.'

  'Then you will understand my reluctance to visit the house in Westminster. Its atmosphere would not be conducive to rest. No,' she said, reaching a decision. 'I will stay at a reputable inn. If there is one which you can recommend, I would be most grateful.'

  'As it happens,' he began, responding to a sudden idea, 'there is such a hostelry. But I hesitate to name it because it falls so far short of the kind of accommodation to which you are accustomed at Priestfield Place. It is clean, decent, totally safe and there is nowhere in London where you will be looked after with more care. But,' he added with a shrug, 'it is small and limited in the comforts it can offer you.' 'All that I need is a warm bed, sir. I will dispense with comforts.'

  'Then I recommend an establishment in Fetter Lane.'

  'Where will we find it?'

  'You are standing in it, Miss Northcott.'

  Penelope was startled. 'You invite me to stay here?'

  'As my honoured guest.'

  'Oh, no, Mr Redmayne. It would be an imposition.'

  'Jacob will have a room ready for you instantly.'

  'An inn might be a more suitable place.'

  'I leave the choice to you.'

  Christopher's engaging smile helped to weaken her reservations. Exhorting the coachmen to make all due speed, she had suffered the consequences in the rear of the vehicle. Her bones were aching and fatigue was lapping at her. She did not want to endure a further drive to Westminster and the prospect of staying among strangers in an inn was not appealing. There was another reason why the house in Fetter Lane took on a lustre for her but she was not yet ready to acknowledge it.

  'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said at length. 'I accept your offer with gratitude. Will you tell my coachman to bring in my things?'

  'Jacob has already done so.'

  She smiled for the first time.

  When he got back to the house in Addle Hill, his wife was waiting for him in the kitchen. Sarah Bale looked up from the table without reproach.

  'You are late,' she observed.

  'I had much to do, my love.'

  'You have been saying that every night for a week, Jonathan. The children miss their bedtime kiss from you. How much longer will this investigation go on?'

  'Until an arrest is made,' he said. 'As you well know, my own duties occupy most of the day. It is only in the evening that I can take up my search for the man who murdered Sir Ambrose Northcott.' 'Where did that search lead you this time?'

  Jonathan Bale lowered himself on to the chair opposite her. 'It began with a meeting,' he explained. 'I sent word to Mr Redmayne to find me at the wharf
near which the Marie Louise was anchored. He has been as busy as I have so we had much news to exchange. When he left, I scoured the taverns to see if I could pick up any more details about Sir Ambrose's ship.'

  'I can smell the beer on your breath,' she said tolerantly.

  'At least I now know where she is sailing.'

  'Good. How was Mr Redmayne?'

  'Civil.'

  'He could never be less than that,' she chided. 'He is a perfect gentleman. It pains me that you cannot bring yourself to like him.'

  'We were cast in two different moulds, Sarah.'

  'So were he and I, yet I find him very affable.'

  'Then you speak for yourself,' he said. 'I do not have time to find the man affable or not. We are investigating a murder together. It is a solemn undertaking. The most it leaves room for is companionship.'

  'You are softening towards him,' she teased. 'I can see.'

  'Then you see more than I feel.'

  'So be it. Let us forget Mr Redmayne for the moment,' she said briskly. 'Someone else demands your attention. I hoped that you'd be home earlier because she sat in this kitchen with me for hours.'

  'She?'

  'Hail-Mary Thorpe.'

  'What did she want?'

  'To speak to you, Jonathan.'

  'Why?'

  'Her husband has been arrested.'

  'On what charge?'

  'She is not certain. He was taken from the house while she was visiting a neighbour. Mrs Thorpe thinks that it might be for refusing to attend church and to pay tithes.'

  'Let us hope that she is right.' 'Why?'

  'Because those offences carry a mild punishment, Sarah. If he is lucky, he may get away with a fine. My fear is that he could be arraigned for a far more serious offence.'

  'What is that?'

  'Printing and distributing a seditious pamphlet,' said Jonathan. 'I am fairly certain that he is the culprit and tried to warn him of the dangers he faced. But you know Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe. He enjoys danger. The man welcomes arrest.'

  'His wife does not welcome it. She has only just recovered from a serious illness. Mrs Thorpe needs her husband beside her.'

  'I made that point to him.'

  'Would that he had heeded your advice!'

  'It is not in his nature.'

  'What will happen to him?'

  'That depends on the charge brought against him,' said her husband, stroking his chin. 'If that pamphlet were found on his premises, it will go hard with him. Mr Thorpe could face a long prison sentence or even worse.'

  'Worse?'

  'Transportation.'

  'God forbid!'

  'What state was his wife in?'

  Sarah heaved a sigh. 'She was very agitated, poor dear! It took me an age to calm her down. Mrs Thorpe was hoping that you might be able to help her in some way.'

  'There is little enough that I can do, I fear.'

  'Could you not find out with what he is charged?'

  'Yes, Sarah. That is easily done.'

  'Mrs Thorpe would be most grateful.'

  'Who made the arrest?'

  'Tom Warburton.'

  'I could wish it was any other constable,' said Jonathan with a grimace. 'Tom Warburton does not like Quakers. If it were left to him, every member of the Society of Friends would be hurled into prison.' He hauled himself up. 'I'll walk to his house now. There is a good chance that Tom will still be up. He can tell me what charges Jesus-Died- To-Save-Me Thorpe faces.'

  'What of Mrs Thorpe?'

  'If I see a light in her house on my way back, I will call on her and tell her what I have learned. Otherwise, I will have to leave it until first thing in the morning.'

  'Either way, she will not get much sleep tonight.'

  'It is not the first time her husband has been taken.'

  'That makes no difference,' she said, rising to her feet and reaching out to touch his arm. 'She is suffering badly. I know that you must perform your duties without fear or favour but they have been good neighbours to us. Try to help them, Jonathan. There must be something you can do for Mr Thorpe.'

  'There is, Sarah.'

  'What is it?'

  'Pray.'

  At intervals throughout the night, Christopher came awake with a smile as he realised that Penelope Northcott was sleeping only yards away from him. While he basked in his good fortune, he was also troubled by anxieties about her, fearing the consequences she might have to face. George Strype would be angry enough when he learned that she went to London without even telling him. If her fiancée discovered that she had spent the night in a house in Fetter Lane, he would be outraged. Christopher could imagine the kind of recriminations which would ensue. That she should take such risks argued daring on her behalf and, he hoped, hinted at slight affection towards him. In the privacy of his bedchamber, he was ready to acknowledge far more than slight affection on his side.

  He rose at dawn and, by the light of a candle, read the letters which she had given him. They disclosed a relationship which had being going on for the best part of a year. Sir Ambrose Northcott had not stinted his mistress. Each time she wrote, she thanked him for some lavish gift and she was flattered when he changed the name of his ship to Marie Louise. The constant theme of the letters was the desire to spend more time with her lover and she looked forward to the moment when they could move into the new London residence together.

  Christopher had designed the house. He was jolted by the thought that his career as an architect had begun in the lustful embraces of Sir Ambrose and his mistress. He was also angry that his brother had not warned him of the existence of Marie Louise Oilier. It was one more sin of omission with which to tax Henry Redmayne.

  The correspondence raised a brutal question. It was easy to see what a middle-aged man like Sir Ambrose Northcott found so tempting about a beautiful young Frenchwoman but what did she see in him? His charms were hardly overpowering. Love was expressed in every one of the letters but Christopher had no means of judging how sincere it was. After a second reading of the billets-doux, he could still not decide whether he was looking at the tender outpourings of a woman in love or the guileful prose of someone in pursuit of Sir Ambrose's wealth. No false note was sounded by Marie Louise Oilier, however, and he slowly came to see her as the innocent victim of an older man's lechery. Whatever the true nature of their relationship, one thing was clear. She deserved to know that it had been brought to a premature end.

  After a fruitful hour of reflection, Christopher dressed and went downstairs. He was surprised to see that Penelope Northcott was already up, seated at the dining room table over the breakfast which Jacob had prepared for her. He sensed an element of discomfort.

  'Good morning, Miss Northcott.'

  'Good morning.'

  'Did you sleep well?'

  'Extremely well, Mr Redmayne. The bed was very soft.'

  'You were welcome to stay in it much longer,' he said. 'Did you have to rise so early?' 'My coachman will be here for me soon.'

  'I am disappointed that you cannot tarry.'

  'So am I,' she said, meeting his gaze. 'But I have imposed on you enough. Besides, I have business elsewhere.'

  'Do you plan to return to Kent today?'

  'No, Mr Redmayne. I will be staying in London for a few days.'

  'My home is entirely at your disposal.'

  'A kind offer, sir, but one which I must decline. Before I fell asleep last night, I reached a decision. It is vital that I visit our house in Westminster because it may contain clues which will be of great help to you. That being the case, I am forcing myself to go there.'

  'I would be happy to accompany you.'

  'That will not be necessary,' she said almost primly. 'I would prefer to be alone. Dirk will take me there in the coach.'

  Christopher took a seat opposite her as Jacob brought him his breakfast. They ate in silence until the servant left the room. Penelope was a trifle nervous. He noticed that she avoided his eyes.

  'I hop
e that you have no regrets, Miss Northcott,' he said.

  'Regrets?'

  'About staying under my roof.'

  'None at all, Mr Redmayne,' she said, looking up at him. 'And it was convenient to have an inn around the corner in Holborn where my coach and coachman could be lodged for the night.'

  'You give me the impression that you would have preferred to spend the night there yourself.'

  'That is not the case at all, I promise you, and I am sorry if my manner suggests otherwise. You have been generosity itself but my mind is in turmoil over recent events. Please excuse me if I appear at all rude,' she said with a penitent smile. 'I am merely preoccupied.'

  'Of course.'

  'Is there anything you wish to ask before I leave?'

  He grinned. 'I have questions enough to detain you for a week.'

  'You will have to save them until a more fit time.'

  'I will,' he said. 'Just remember that I am always here. If you need help of any kind while you are in London or, more to the point, if you do uncover what you conceive to be useful evidence at your house in Westminster, you know where to find me.'

  'At the sign of the Kind Landlord.'

  'Is that what I am?'

  'You keep a comfortable inn, sir.'

  'It has been blessed by your presence, Miss Northcott.'

  His frank admiration unsettled her slightly and she was grateful when the rumble of wheels was heard outside. A glance through the window confirmed that her coachman had arrived. Showering him with more thanks, she rose from the table and crossed to the door. He followed her until a thought made her stop.

  'There is something which deserves my particular thanks, sir.'

  'Is there?'

  'Your discretion,' she said. 'When we talked last night, you refrained from asking what anybody else would have asked at the outset.'

  'And what was that?'

  'How much of what I told you my fiancée must have known.'

  'Nothing at all, surely.'

  'I hope that is the case, naturally, and my heart assures me that it is. But you are more aware than I of how closely Mr Strype's business affairs were intertwined with my father's. They met frequently here in London. It must have crossed your mind that Mr Strype may have stumbled on some unpleasant facts about his future father-in-law.'