The King's Evil

The King's Evil Page 19

by Edward Marston

  'Listen to me,' he said softly. 'When you accepted my proposal of marriage, we agreed that there would be no deception between us. We would be completely open with each other. Do you remember that?'

  'Yes, George.'

  'Then why have you gone back on that promise?'

  'I was forced to,' she said.

  'Why?'

  'Because I was afraid of you.'

  'Afraid? Of the man who loves you?' He stroked her hand. 'What afflicts you, Penelope? You need never be afraid of me.'

  'You would have stopped me coming to London.'

  'Yes,' he argued, 'but for your own good. Do you not see that? When you found those letters, it must have been a dreadful shock for you. I can understand that. But your father is dead now. His ugly secret belongs in the grave with him. The last thing you should have done was to expose it to the public gaze.'

  'I merely showed the letters to Mr Redmayne.'

  'It amounts to the same thing.'

  'No, George. I can trust him to be discreet.'

  'He is not family. I am - or soon will be. And my instinct is to close ranks in a case like this. In betraying Lady Northcott, your father made an appalling mistake. I admit that. But,' he insisted, squeezing her hand, 'that mistake should be buried in the past where it belongs. Think of the shame it might otherwise cause.'

  'I was prepared to withstand that shame.'

  'Well, I am not.'

  'Mother and I discussed it.' 'Without me.'

  'We put our faith in Mr Redmayne.'

  'But I do not!' he roared, leaping to his feet. 'Christopher Redmayne has no cause to poke his nose into this. What is he? An architect, that is all. A man whose task is to design houses. Why does he presume to set himself up as an officer of the law? We want no bungling amateur.'

  'He is trying to discover my father's murderer and needs all the help he can get.'

  'Not from me!'

  'How else can the culprit be arrested?'

  'This investigation should be left to the proper authorities.'

  'Mr Redmayne is working with a constable.'

  'Dear God!' wailed Strype. 'Another pair of eyes peering into our private affairs! How many more people will see those letters, Penelope? You might as well have taken them to a printer and had copies made to be sold at every street corner!'

  'Why are you so concerned, George?'

  'Someone has to protect your father's reputation.'

  'What reputation?'

  'The one that the world sees.' He took her by the shoulders. 'What your father did was unforgivable, Penelope. In our eyes, his reputation has been badly tarnished. But we do not need to spread his peccadilloes abroad. We keep them hidden from public gaze. Everyone then benefits. Let me be candid,' he told her seriously. 'I want to marry into an unblemished family, not one which is pointed at and sniggered over. Do you understand me?'

  'Only too well, George.'

  'We have to exercise common sense.'

  'Is it common sense to suppress evidence in a murder inquiry?'

  'The family name must always come first.'

  'You mean that George Strype must always come first,' she said angrily, brushing his hands away as she got up. 'It is disgraceful! You are less worried about catching a man who killed my father than you are about your own position here.'

  'Our own position, Penelope. Do you want to begin a marriage with this kind of scandal sticking to us? No, of course not. You have too much pride. Too much self- respect.' He paced the room in thought. 'I must find a way to retrieve the situation in which you and your mother have so foolishly landed us.' He snapped his fingers. 'The first thing is to get those letters back.'

  'But I gave them to Mr Redmayne.'

  'Mistakenly.'

  'He said that they were vital clues.'

  'I am not interested in what Mr Redmayne said. It is high time that someone put him in his place. His duty was done when he brought the news of Sir Ambrose's death. We do not need him any more.'

  'I do,' she said quietly.

  He turned to stare at her. 'What did you say?'

  'I trust Mr Redmayne.'

  'I heard more than trust in your voice, Penelope.'

  'Did you?'

  'Is that the way the wind blows?' he asked with suspicion. 'Can you have developed an interest in the fellow on so slight an acquaintance?'

  'I look upon him as a friend.'

  'How did you know where to find this friend?'

  'He gave me his address when he came to Priestfield Place.'

  'Did he, indeed?'

  'Mr Redmayne asked me to get in touch if anything came to light which might help him to trace Father's murderer.'

  'If you believed those letters were so important, why did you not send them to him? It was not necessary to bring them yourself.'

  'I felt that it was.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I was too ashamed to put them in anyone else's hands.' 'You gave them to Redmayne.'

  'That was different.'

  His tone hardened. 'When did you arrive in London?'

  'Yesterday evening.'

  'Yes, but at what time?' he pressed. 'It was afternoon when I called at your house and learned about your flight. I followed you at once but had to stay overnight at an inn.' He moved in towards her. 'Your mother told me you left before dawn. It must have been close to nightfall by the time you reached London.'

  'It was.'

  'Did you go straight to Redmayne's house?'

  'Yes.'

  'Where did you spend the night?'

  'Does it matter?'

  'Very much.'

  Thrown on the defensive, Penelope shifted her feet and glanced around. Not wishing to deceive him, she feared the consequences of telling the truth. George Strype was impatient.

  'Well?'

  'Do not glower at me so, George.'

  'I asked you a question.'

  'You have no cause to interrogate me like this.'

  'Give me a simple answer,' he demanded. 'Or must I get it from your coachman? He will tell me if you stayed in this house or at an inn.'

  'Neither,' she said bravely.

  Strype was simmering. 'You spent the night under his roof?'

  'Mr Redmayne was kind enough to invite me.'

  'I am sure that he was!'

  'He treated me with the utmost respect,' she said calmly, 'which is more than you are doing at the moment. Jacob prepared a room for me and I spent a comfortable night there.'

  'Jacob?'

  'Mr Redmayne's servant.' 'And did this Jacob remain on the premises?'

  'Of course.'

  'How do I know that?'

  'Because it is what I tell you, George. Why should I lie?'

  Grinding his teeth, he watched her shrewdly for a few moments.

  'Where does he live?'

  'That is immaterial.'

  'Where does Redmayne live?' he demanded. 'I wish to know.'

  His manner was so intimidating that Penelope felt obliged to fight back. George Strype was not behaving like the considerate man who had courted her so diligently and indulged her so readily. Stress and anger were revealing another side to his character.

  'Why did you not tell me about Father's ship?' she asked.

  'What?'

  'You must have known that he changed its name.'

  'Indeed, I did,' he said, caught unawares by her vehemence. 'But I thought it of no great consequence.'

  'Did you know why it was called the Marie Louise?'

  'No, Penelope.'

  'Is that the truth?'

  'Your father was a capricious man. He often changed things.'

  'Renaming a ship is much more than caprice,' she asserted. 'He would need a very strong reason to do something like that. Did you never ask him what that reason was?'

  'I may have done.'

  'Your goods are carried on that vessel. Were you not curious that it suddenly ceased to be The Maid of Kent?'

  'Naturally,' he said, recovering h
is poise. 'But when I questioned your father, he explained it away as a fancy which seized him. He was prone to such things. As for telling you about it, there was no point whatsoever in doing so. Sir Ambrose and I were at one in keeping our business and private lives separate. It was not a case of hiding something from you, my darling. I simply did not think that it would have any relevance to you.'

  'When I found those letters, it had the utmost relevance.'

  'How was I to know that?'

  He saw another question trembling on her lips and preempted it.

  'No, Penelope,' he said firmly. 'I had no idea that your father had formed a liaison with this woman. Had I done so, I would have done everything in my power to bring it to an end and to remind Sir Ambrose of his marital vows. I am saddened that you could even think such a thing of me.'

  'I needed to hear your denial, that is all.'

  'Then you have it.'

  George Strype looked so hurt by her doubts about his integrity that she softened towards him immediately. Her eyes moistened and she moved forward into his arms, apologising for her suspicion and telling him how glad she was that they were together again. He held her tight and kissed her gently on the forehead but his resolve was not weakened.

  'Now,' he murmured, 'tell me where Redmayne lives.'

  Henry Redmayne was in the last place where his brother expected to find him. When Christopher ran him to earth, he was working late at the Navy Office in Seething Lane, a building which had escaped the Great Fire by dint of being upwind of it. Bent over his desk, Henry was inspecting the designs for a new ship and he did not welcome the interruption.

  'What do you want, Christopher?' he said peevishly.

  'To search that murky vault known as your memory.'

  'Your sarcasm is in bad taste.'

  'And so are your lies, Henry,' said his brother, confronting him. 'Why did you not tell me that the house I was designing for Sir Ambrose was destined for him and his mistress?'

  'Was it?' asked the other, feigning surprise.

  'You know quite well that it was. You also knew that he changed the name of his ship to the Marie Louise in honour of her. Yet somehow you failed to mention either of these things to me.'

  'I did not think them pertinent.'

  'Well, they are extremely pertinent now.'

  'Are they?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher tartly. 'But let us begin with news which has evidently not reached you. Solomon Creech has been murdered.'

  Henry jumped to his feet. 'Creech? When? How?'

  'His body was dragged out of the river this morning.'

  'Poor devil!'

  'It explains why Mr Creech was so terrified when Sir Ambrose was killed. He clearly feared for his own life - and with good cause.'

  'Do they have any idea who killed him?'

  'Not yet. I believe that he is the second victim of the same man. First Sir Ambrose, and now his lawyer. How many more victims must there be before you start to help me?'

  'I have helped you,' stuttered the other.

  'Only fitfully.'

  'Tell me more about Creech. How was he found?'

  Christopher recapitulated the facts and watched his brother's reaction carefully. To his credit, Henry was genuinely remorseful and he managed to say a few kind words about Solomon Creech by way of a valedictory tribute even though he had never liked the man.

  'How did you learn of this, Christopher?'

  'I was at Mr Creech's office when the ring was brought.'

  'It must have made his clerk turn white with fear.'

  'He almost fainted at the sight of it, Henry, but he was able to confirm whose it was and how it came to be in such an unlikely place.'

  'Did he have any idea why his employer was murdered?'

  'None whatsoever.'

  'Do you?' 'Oh, yes,' said Christopher. 'I think he was killed because of his close association with Sir Ambrose Northcott. Nobody knew as much about his business affairs and his private life as Solomon Creech. Some of that information was too dangerous to leave in his possession. That is why he had to be silenced.'

  'Is this fact or supposition?'

  'A blend of both.'

  'So you could be wildly wrong?'

  'I could be, Henry. But my instinct tells me otherwise. However, let me come back to you,' he said, fixing his brother with a stare. 'You lied to me about receiving a percentage of my fee and you lied to me about the real purpose behind the building of that house. Why?'

  'I did not lie, Christopher. I merely withheld the truth.'

  'It amounts to the same thing.'

  'Oh, no. There is a subtle distinction.'

  'I shall be grateful if you can explain it to me.'

  'A lie is a deliberate act of deception,' said Henry, 'and I would never knowingly foist one on my brother. If, on the other hand, I felt there was something which he had no real need to know, I would conceal it.'

  'Such as your theft from me.'

  'It was not a theft, Christopher. It was fair payment.'

  'For what?'

  'I do not want to have that argument all over again,' said the other, waving an irritable hand. 'Put it behind us and concentrate on what brought you here. Why did I not tell you about Marie Louise Oilier? Simple. Because it was none of your business.'

  'It was, Henry.'

  'In what way? Does it matter if Sir Ambrose intended to share that house with his lawful wife or with a harem of naked women? He could have leased it out to a tribe of piccaninnies with rings through their noses and flowers in their hair. He hired you as an architect, not as a parish priest.'

  'I still feel that you might have mentioned it to me.' 'Sir Ambrose chose you precisely because I did not need to mention such matters to you. It was a first condition of hiring you. He insisted on absolute discretion.'

  'That was beforehand,' Christopher reminded him. 'Once he was dead, there was no need to hide the truth from me. It would have saved me valuable time if I heard about Marie Louise Oilier from you and not from another source.'

  'What other source?'

  'It does not matter.'

  'I want to know.'

  'Well, I am not in a position to tell you.'

  'Ah, I see,' said Henry with a lift of his eyebrow. 'You accuse me of concealing information yet you are happy to do so yourself. There is one rule for me and another for Christopher Redmayne. What is your purpose'

  'I am trying to protect my brother's life.'

  Sudden panic. 'My life?'

  'Do you not realise that it may be at risk?'

  'No. Why should it be? I have done nothing wrong.'

  'You were an intimate of Sir Ambrose Northcott's. That may be enough. We are dealing with a ruthless killer, Henry. If his motive is revenge, he may not stop at Sir Ambrose's lawyer. Close friends could be his next targets.'

  'Why?' gulped Henry.

  'Perhaps you know too much. Like Solomon Creech.'

  'I know nothing!'

  'Be honest, Henry.'

  'Sir Ambrose was a chance acquaintance, that is all.'

  'Yet he entrusted you with secrets denied to others,' reasoned Christopher. 'To his wife and daughter, for instance. You shared his passion for gambling and for women. You dined with him, discussed the affairs of the day with him, even went to Court with him. That is more than a chance acquaintanceship, Henry.'

  'You really think that I am in danger?'

  'Until this villain is caught.'

  'What must I do, Christopher?'

  'Be more truthful with me. The longer you hold back secrets, the more you imperil yourself. I need to know everything about your relationship with Sir Ambrose, especially where the new house is concerned. It is no accident that he was murdered on the premises. That property had a vital significance. Help me to find out what it was.'

  'How?'

  'Go back to the start, Henry. Tell me how and when Sir Ambrose first decided to commission another house. Why did he choose that site? And how did you persuade h
im that your brother was the ideal architect for him to employ on the project?'

  Henry sat back down again to gather his thoughts. Having failed to get the answers he wanted, Christopher had decided to frighten them out of him. He did not really believe that his brother was at risk but it was the only way to ensure his full co-operation.

  His ruse worked. Important new information gushed out of Henry in a continuous stream and further aspects of the character of Sir Ambrose Northcott were laid bare. Henry knew far more about the man's political activities than he had hitherto disclosed and, it transpired, had once sailed with him in the Marie Louise. When the confession came to an end, Christopher told him the one thing about his friend which he obviously did not know. Henry paled.

  'Sir Ambrose owned that house in Lincoln's Inn Fields?'

  'I had it on good authority.'

  'Why did he never tell me?' said Henry, wounded that such a fact had been kept from him. 'We went there several times together yet he never even hinted that he was the owner. I always assumed that the house belonged to Molly Mandrake.'

  'What sort of an establishment is it?'

  'A wondrous edifice in every way.' A beatific smile spread over Henry's face. 'We were fortunate enough to see Molly Mandrake in her prime. What a truly extraordinary woman! The most remarkable piece of architecture in London. Such symmetry, such proportions!'

  'I will take your word for it, Henry.'

  'She would inspire any artist.'

  'That is a matter of opinion,' said Christopher with a tolerant smile. 'I just hope that the name of Mrs Mandrake does not come to Father's ears. I doubt that he would appreciate her architectural pre-eminence. But enough of the lady,' he continued. 'I will have to ask Mr Bale to take a look at her establishment in my absence.'

  'Mr Bale? Is that the constable you have mentioned?'

  'Yes, Henry. A staunch fellow. Jonathan Bale is a dour Roundhead but as solid as a rock for all that. He and I have been working together. I sail from Deptford tomorrow on the morning tide. While I am in France, he can follow up other lines of enquiry here.'

  'And what of me?'

 

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