The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  'It never entered my thoughts,' he lied.

  'I do not believe you.'

  'Then let me put it another way, Miss Northcott. It does not concern me. I consider it a matter between you and your fiancée.'

  'Your tact is appreciated.'

  Jacob opened the front door to let her out and Christopher helped her into the coach. When she settled into her seat, she spoke to him through the window.

  'Please let me know if your investigations start to bear fruit,' she said.

  'They already have,' he said with a smile which he instantly changed to an earnest frown. 'I will, Miss Northcott. But how will I reach you? I do not have your address in Westminster.'

  'You will find it in my note.'

  'What note?'

  'The one I left for you in my bedchamber,' she said, 'thanking you for your hospitality. As you may imagine, I had great qualms about this visit but I feel reassured now. I just hope that some of the information I brought you may prove useful.'

  'It is invaluable.'

  'What will you do next?'

  'Go straight to Mr Creech's office in Lombard Street to confront him with your findings. He must have known about this Marie Louise Oilier all along. And there is much else which that lawyer has been concealing from me. Not any more, Miss Northcott,' he vowed. 'You have given me the ammunition I need. I will make him divulge everything. I'll not leave his office until I have got the full and unequivocal truth out of Solomon Creech.'

  The body was floating in mid-stream. It had lain beneath the water for some time before bobbing back to the surface in so bloated a condition that it was hideous to behold. The passengers in the boat turned away in disgust but the watermen were used to such sights. One of them shipped his oars and uncoiled the rope which lay at his feet. When he and the others resumed their journey across the Thames, the boat was towing the dead man by his ankle.

  An hour later, the corpse was lifted on to a slab at the morgue to be examined by a surgeon. It was a gruesome task. Even though the chamber was sweetened by herbs, the stink was nauseating. The man's face was swollen to twice its original size and so distorted that his closest friends would never recognise him. Birds had started to peck at his face, rendering it even more repulsive. The trunk and limbs were also grotesquely inflated, splitting open his apparel in several places. Spewed up by the River Thames, he was one huge ball of putrefaction.

  The surgeon turned to his assistant with a sigh.

  'Cut off his clothes and we will make a start.'

  'Do not prevaricate!' warned Christopher. 'Tell me where he is.'

  'I do not know, sir. That is the truth.'

  'You must know. You are Mr Creech's clerk.'

  'He simply told me that he was going away for a few days.'

  'To hide from me.'

  'Your name was not mentioned, Mr Redmayne.'

  'What of the name of Sir Ambrose Northcott?'

  'That was at the forefront of his mind,' admitted the other. 'The last thing he said was that he would have to go aboard Sir Ambrose's ship to transact some business with the captain.'

  'What was the nature of that business?'

  'I can but guess.'

  Christopher saw that no purpose would be served by haranguing the clerk. Geoffrey Anger was a harmless individual, loyal to his employer but quite unable to lie convincingly on his behalf. He cowered before the interrogation which his visitor inflicted on him and Christopher felt a twinge of guilt. He adopted a softer tone.

  'I am sorry to make demands which you cannot meet, Mr Anger,' he said quietly, 'but you must understand my position. Mr Creech is in possession of certain facts which will help me track down the man who killed Sir Ambrose.

  That is why I must speak to him. Urgently.'

  'I would value some urgent conference with him myself,' bleated the other. 'I need his approval on a dozen matters.'

  'How long have you been his clerk?'

  'Seven and a half years, sir.'

  'Do you like the work?'

  Geoffrey Anger was cautious. 'I find it very rewarding, sir.'

  'Mr Creech has a high reputation.'

  'He has more than earned it.'

  'You must have made some contribution towards it.'

  'I, sir?'

  'Come, Mr Anger. I have dealt with many lawyers. They are only as good as the clerks who toil at their elbow. If you have been here so long, you must have a good insight into Mr Creech's business.'

  'I like to think so.'

  'Then answer me this,' said Christopher. 'Does the name of Marie Louise Oilier strike a chord in your mind?'

  'I am not at liberty to discuss our clients, sir.'

  'Then the lady is a client?'

  'I did not say that, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Then what are you saying?' pressed Christopher, reverting to a more combative approach. 'Are you telling me that you do not wish the man who murdered Sir Ambrose to be caught? Are you deliberately holding back crucial facts from me? I can see from your expression that you recognised the name. You knew that Mademoiselle Oilier was linked to the new house which was being built. Well? Did you not?'

  'Yes, sir,' came the faint reply.

  'And you also knew that Sir Ambrose's ship bears her name.'

  'That is true.'

  'Then it follows that you were privy to the relationship between this lady and your client. I have seen the letters which she wrote to him and they leave no room for doubt. The lady was his mistress.'

  The clerk was shocked. 'No, sir!'

  'Those missives were not penned by a nun, Mr Anger.'

  'I have not seen them,' said the other. 'Nor do I wish to, sir. The fact that a lady's name is conjoined to a particular property does not of itself mean that there is some liaison between her and Sir Ambrose. He owned another house occupied by a lady yet I have heard no suggestion of impropriety between them.'

  'Another house?' Christopher was intrigued. 'Do you refer to the residence in Westminster?'

  'No, sir. In Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

  'Sir Ambrose owned a property there? Why did he need to build a third house when he already owned two? Surely, he could have installed Mademoiselle Oilier in Lincoln's Inn Fields?'

  'It was leased out to someone else.'

  'Who is it?'

  'Mrs Mandrake.'

  'Molly Mandrake?'

  'That is the lady, sir.'

  Christopher needed a moment to take in the information and to remind himself that he was dealing with a man of remarkable naivety. The name of Molly Mandrake had passed across the desk of Geoffrey Anger on many occasions but he had no idea who she was or what sort of a house she kept. His blinkered life protected him from the darker pleasures of the city. The fact that someone was a client of Mr Creech was enough for him. Their character was never suspect.

  Christopher marvelled at his innocence and treated him gently.

  'How many other properties did Sir Ambrose own?' he said.

  'Just these two, sir.'

  'One in Westminster, one in Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

  'And a third that was never built.'

  'As I know to my cost, Mr Anger!' said Christopher ruefully. 'Did Mademoiselle Oilier ever visit this office?' 'No, sir.'

  'Was Sir Ambrose a frequent caller?'

  'Mr Creech always met him away from here.'

  'Why was that?'

  'You will have to ask him yourself, sir.'

  'I intend to. What do you know of the Marie Louise!’

  'Little beyond the fact that it was owned by a client of ours.'

  'All of his commercial transactions must have gone through his lawyer. Were you not handling contracts for him all the time?'

  'Mr Creech took care of those himself,' explained the other. 'I had no direct contact with Sir Ambrose's business affairs.'

  'Was Mr Creech in the habit of keeping things from you?'

  'No, sir.'

  'So why was he so secretive about Sir Ambrose Northcott?'

 
'It is not my place to say.'

  'You must have had some idea.'

  'I assure you, sir, I did not.'

  'Where does Mr Creech keep his papers?'

  'Locked up in his office, sir.'

  'Do you have a key to it?'

  'No,' said the clerk. 'And even if I did, I would permit nobody to go in there without Mr Creech's express permission.'

  'But there are important documents in there which I need to see,' said Christopher with irritation. 'What is to stop me breaking in now and looking for them?'

  'Oh, sir! You would never do that.'

  'Why not?'

  Geoffrey Anger's quiet reply had a devastating power.

  'You are a gentleman, sir.'

  When he cut open the stomach with his scalpel, the surgeon turned away as the noisome contents poured out.

  The dead man had eaten a hearty meal before he drowned and its remains were now scattered all over the stone slab on which he now lay. When the surgeon and his assistant looked back at the glutinous mess, they saw something which glinted in the light of the candles. The surgeon reached down to pick it up. After dipping it into the basin of water, he held it up to examine it.

  'What was a gold ring doing in there?' he wondered.

  Chapter Twelve

  'Woe into the bloody city of London! It is full of sinful and ungodly men!'

  Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was preaching to a small, hostile congregation from an unlikely pulpit. Head and hands trapped in the pillory, he was a target both for the cheerful abuse of the onlookers and the various missiles which they threw at him for sport. A rotten tomato struck him on the forehead and bled profusely down his face but it did not interrupt the torrent of words which flowed from his mouth. Being locked in the pillory was a hazardous punishment. It exposed the victim to vile taunts and, in some cases, vicious behaviour by spectators. More than one person had been stoned to death while immobilised by the rough, chafing wood. Thorpe was more fortunate. The worst blow that he had to suffer came when a dead cat was hurled at him and split open to dribble with gore.

  'Turn to God in truth and humility or ye are all doomed!'

  His denunciation continued unchecked until someone pulled away the box on which he was standing and almost broke his neck. Thorpe's head was suddenly jerked backwards and he had to stretch hard in order to touch the ground with his toes. The pain was agonising. Without a box to stand on, he was virtually dangling from the pillory. All the breath was knocked out of him and the crowd bayed in triumph. Too proud to beg mercy from them, the little Quaker closed his eyes in prayer.

  It was soon answered. He heard a grating noise as the box was put back in position beneath his feet and his pain eased at once. The jeers of the crowd also subsided and most people began to drift away. When he opened his eyes, Thorpe saw the solid figure of Jonathan Bale standing between him and further humiliation. Only when the audience had largely dispersed did the constable step out from in front of the pillory and turn to his neighbour. He used a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the mess from the Quaker's face.

  'Thank ye, Mr Bale,' said Thorpe. 'It is a strange world indeed. One constable puts me in the pillory and another comes to my aid.'

  'You have only yourself to blame for being here.'

  'I suffer my punishment willingly.'

  'You need not have suffered it at all,' said Jonathan. 'Your offence was to be caught working on a Sunday. Had you expressed remorse, you might have got away with a fine. But you were too truculent. According to Tom Warburton, you more or less challenged the Justice of the Peace to pillory you. From what I hear, you were lucky that he did not order your ears to be nailed to the wood.'

  'I do not respect corrupt justice.'

  'Then try to avoid it, Mr Thorpe.'

  He retrieved his neighbour's hat from the ground and set it on the man's head to shade his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Jonathan had sympathy for any man imprisoned in the pillory but it was difficult to feel sorry for someone who actively gloried in suffering. The constable's real sympathy was reserved for Hail-Mary Thorpe and her children. He was just about to remind the Quaker of his family responsibilities when the approaching clatter of hooves made him swing round.

  Christopher Redmayne was in a hurry. As he pulled his horse to a halt, he dropped from the saddle and beckoned Jonathan across to him. They stepped into the privacy of an alley to converse.

  'I thought we arranged to meet this evening, sir,' said Jonathan.

  'My news would not wait that long.'

  'Then tell it me straight.'

  'Solomon Creech is dead,' said Christopher. 'Murdered.'

  'How?'

  'First bludgeoned then flung into the Thames to drown. They found the body this morning. It had been in the water for days.'

  'Then it must have been in a sorry state,' said Jonathan. 'The river changes a man beyond all recognition. How did they identify Mr Creech?'

  'From his clothing. The name of his tailor was in his coat and the fellow remembered for whom he made the garment. Corroboration came from a gold ring they found in the dead man's stomach.'

  'His stomach?'

  'That is why his clerk was so certain it must be him.'

  The constable blinked. 'Mr Creech swallowed a gold ring?'

  'Deliberately, it seems,' explained Christopher. 'The ring was a wedding gift from his late wife and he treasured it above all else. He told his clerk that he would sooner part with his life than with that ring and that, if ever he were set upon by robbers, he would swallow the token of his wife's love.' He shook his head sadly. 'I wronged Mr Creech. I never took him for a married man, still less for one with such a romantic streak. His clerk recognised the ring at once. It was inscribed with his employer's initials. That put the identity of the body beyond all question.'

  'And is that what happened?' asked Jonathan. 'He swallowed the ring because he was set on by robbers?'

  'No, Mr Bale. His purse was untouched and his watch still on its chain. This is no murder for gain unless it be to gain his silence.'

  'Where was he last seen?'

  'Leaving his office some days ago. He told his clerk that he had business aboard the Marie Louise. No word was heard from him after that. This was no random killing.' It is linked in some way to the death of Sir Ambrose. The river binds both men together. Solomon Creech was pulled out of it and the man who killed Sir Ambrose was last seen at that landing stage. I am forced to wonder if the murderer was waiting to be rowed out to the Marie Louise.'

  'I found out a few more things about that vessel.'

  'So did I, Mr Bale.'

  'It was bound for France.'

  'Everything seems to lead there.'

  Christopher told him about Penelope Northcott's unheralded visit to his house, omitting the fact that she spent the night there in order to avoid any misunderstanding. Jonathan clicked his tongue in disapproval when he heard about the love letters from Marie Louise Oilier but held back from adverse comment. At the end of the tale, he reached the same conclusion as Christopher himself.

  'Your brother should have warned you about this.'

  'I mean to tax him on that very topic.'

  'He must have known that the new house was being built for this Marie Louise. It would have been a kindness to tell you.'

  'I think I can see why Henry kept the truth from me.'

  'Supposing he had not, Mr Redmayne?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Supposing that you knew your house would be lived in by a rich man and his mistress. Would you still have agreed to design it?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher without hesitation.

  'In your place,' said the other steadfastly, 'I would have refused.'

  'Then you will never make an architect, my friend. My commission was simply to design a house, not to examine the morals of the people who might inhabit it.'

  'But that is exactly what you are forced to do now, sir.'

  'That irony has not been lost on me, Mr B
ale.'

  A jeer went up nearby. Now that the constable had moved aside from the pillory, a small knot of people had gathered around it again. Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe found his voice once more and upbraided them sternly. Christopher moved to the corner to look across at him.

  'I thought that Quakers were men of peace.' 'Not this one, sir. He is too belligerent for his own good.'

  'What was his offence?'

  'Working on the Sabbath.'

  'I may be guilty of the same crime myself this Sunday.'

  'You, sir?'

  'Yes, Mr Bale,' said Christopher. 'Before I call on my brother, I will find the quickest way to sail to France. I am convinced that the answers we seek lie with Marie Louise Oilier or with the ship that carries her name. Sunday will find me working hard to track down a killer. Is that a sinful labour on the Sabbath?'

  'No, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Would you arrest me for it?'

  'Only if you fail.'

  'Why on earth did you not tell me about this, Penelope!' he yelled.

  'Because you would have obstructed me.'

  'And quite rightly so. You had no business to come here.'

  'I believed that I did. Mother agreed with me.'

  'Lady Northcott was distraught over your father's death. When she urged you to come to London, she did not know what she was doing.'

  'Yes, she did, George.'

  'It was madness, to go driving off like that.'

  'We both felt that it was imperative.'

  'You should have discussed it with me first.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I am your fiancée! I have certain rights.'

  'You do not have the right to stop me coming here.'

  'I would have persuaded you of the folly of your action.'

  'It was not folly. Those letters were vital evidence. I had to put them into Mr Redmayne's hands as soon as possible.'

  'That was the last thing you should have done, Penelope.'

  George Strype was puce with rage. Having ridden to London in pursuit of her, he had found Penelope at the Westminster house. It irked him that she was showing no regrets about her intemperate action. Making an effort to control his temper, he guided her across to a settle and sat beside her on it. He took her hand to give it a conciliatory kiss.