'Study Sir Ambrose's political enemies more closely.'
'I am talking of my safety. What must I do?'
'Go armed, brother.'
'I will, I will.'
'And do not venture near the river on your own.'
'I will immure myself in my house.'
'There is no need for that,' said Christopher. 'Sensible precautions will suffice. And you must go to Court. How else can you keep a wary eye on those politicians?'
When he left the Navy Office, he was confident for the first time that Henry had been completely honest with him.
Christopher collected his horse and rode to Addle Hill to acquaint Jonathan Bale with what he had just learned and to suggest that he kept a certain house in Lincoln's Inn Fields under surveillance. The constable accepted the assignment with some reluctance then surprised Christopher by warning him to look after himself while in France.
'I will, Mr Bale. We reach Calais on Sunday.'
'Desperate men do not respect the Sabbath.' 'Nor do desperate women,' said Christopher with a grin. 'I suspect that activity will continue unabated in Lincoln's Inn Fields. If your feet take you in that direction, you may learn something of interest.'
'I am no Peeping Tom, sir.'
'We must both look through keyholes if we are to get to the bottom of this, Mr Bale. I must find Mademoiselle Oilier and you must renew your friendship with Mrs Mandrake.'
'The lady is no friend of mine.'
'In time she might become one,' advised Christopher mischievously.
'A century would not suffice,' said Jonathan proudly. 'I am a married man and more than happy with my lot.'
'You have every right to be. Mrs Bale is a delightful woman.'
'Then no more jests, sir.'
'I am sorry if I appear to treat the matter lightly,' said the other seriously, 'for I am in earnest. The bedchamber seems to have been the natural milieu of Sir Ambrose Northcott. Neither of us must shrink from peeping into it.'
'Necessity will dictate.'
Jonathan showed him to the door and waited while he mounted.
'Good luck, sir!'
'Thank you, Mr Bale.'
'When will I hear from you again?'
'As soon as may be. Farewell!'
Christopher rode off through the darkening streets, pondering the mystery of Jonathan Bale. The investigation which had drawn the two of them together allowed him to see the constable's merits and compassion yet some kind of impassable barrier remained between them. Sarah Bale was open and friendly towards him but her husband was somehow unable to follow her example. Christopher wondered why.
Speculation took him all the way back to Fetter Lane where he stabled his horse and came round to the front of the house. He was just about to go inside when he saw a coach lurching up the street out of the gloom. His spirits soared as he recognised it as belonging to Penelope Northcott. He waited until the coachman brought the vehicle to a halt then reached out to open the door for her, smiling broadly in welcome.
But it was George Strype who glared out at him. He was the sole passenger and he took note of Christopher's evident disappointment.
'Were you expecting someone else, Mr Redmayne?' he asked.
'No, Mr Strype.'
'I see that you remember my name.'
'I can hardly forget it.'
'You seem to have forgotten that it is linked with the name of Penelope Northcott,' said the other pointedly. 'She and I are engaged to be married. I take a dim view of any man who lures my betrothed into spending a night beneath his roof.'
Christopher tried to douse the man's smouldering anger.
'Perhaps you would care to step inside my house,' he said with great courtesy. 'We can discuss this like gentlemen and I promise you that I will be able to put your mind at rest.'
'I did not come here to discuss anything with you, Mr Redmayne.'
'Then what is the purpose of this visit?'
'To retrieve those letters.'
'Miss Northcott entrusted them to me.'
'She now wants them back.'
'I beg leave to doubt that.'
'Give me the letters, man!'
'They are valuable evidence. I need them.'
'Miss Northcott wishes to have them back!'
'Do you have a written request to that effect?'
'Of course not.'
'Then I will not return them.'
'She empowered me to speak on her behalf.'
'I find that unlikely, Mr Strype,' said Christopher evenly. 'When the letters first came to light, Miss Northcott chose to keep their existence from you. I can see why.'
'Damn you, man! Hand them over.'
'Not unless she comes here in person.'
'Must I take those letters from you?'
George Strype hauled himself up and stood menacingly in the doorway of the coach, back crouched and head thrust forward. One hand closed on his sword and he drew it halfway from its sheath. Christopher did not move an inch. When their eyes locked, his were glistening with quiet determination.
'You are most welcome to try to take them, Mr Strype,' he said.
His pugnacious visitor ducked out of the coach then paused on the step when he saw that Christopher did not budge. He was almost inviting attack. Strype noticed his hand, resting on the handle of his own sword with the nonchalance of a man who knew how to use the weapon. The prospect of a duel in the street suddenly lost all appeal. There was a long pause while the visitor reviewed the situation. With a snort of anger, George Strype then stepped back into the coach and slammed the door behind him. Christopher gave him a cheery wave.
'I will return!' warned Strype.
Then he ordered the coachman to drive off.
Arresting prostitutes was not a duty Jonathan Bale ever enjoyed. He did not mind the violent altercations which often ensued; but the propositions troubled him. Many women whom he apprehended tried to buy their freedom with all manner of favours and it pained him to put any woman in that position, however immoral her life might be. Though he always refused such favours, he was insulted that they should even be offered and was ashamed to be taken as the kind of man who might succumb to them. Besides, he had lived in London long enough to know that brothels could never be entirely eradicated. To him, they were a symbol of the capital's decay and he believed that their numbers had proliferated since the restoration of a Stuart king. He habitually referred to Whitehall Palace as the largest house of resort in the city.
On the long walk to Lincoln's Inn Fields, he had to remind himself of the importance of the work he was undertaking. Something of real value to a murder investigation might be learned. Molly Mandrake's establishment would cater for a much higher standard of clients than those who rutted in the stews of Clerkenwell or caroused in the brothels of Southwark but position and place did not absolve them in his eyes. Whether artisans or aristocrats, men who frequented such places were uniformly corrupt. They deserved arrest just as much as the women who served their carnal appetites.
As he strolled down Fleet Street, he felt a twinge of guilt about lying to his wife. Instead of admitting that he was going to keep vigil outside the abode of the infamous Molly Mandrake, he had told Sarah that he was visiting the riverside taverns again. It puzzled him that he had found such deceit necessary. Fie wondered what he should say to her when he got back home. As he turned right into Chancery Lane, he was grateful that he would only have the role of an observer. The area lay outside city jurisdiction and he would not need to enforce laws which could not be ignored within his own ward.
It was dark when he reached Lincoln's Inn Fields but a half-moon threw enough light to guide his footsteps and to dapple the buildings around him. He did not take long to find the house. It was the largest and most palatial on view, rising to three storeys with extensive gardens at the rear. Jonathan paused when he saw a coach stopping outside the house ahead of him. Two men alighted and went swiftly inside. Torches burned beneath the marble portico and a sunburst of
candlelight spilled out when the front door was opened. It was no place to lurk unseen.
Keeping to the shadows, he went instead around the side of the building and chose a vantage point from which he could keep the road under surveillance.
Traffic was fairly steady. Most clients arrived in coaches or on horseback. Only a few approached on foot. They came in pairs or in small groups, all caught up in a mood of anticipatory delight, laughing, joking and, in some cases, very inebriated. Jonathan recognised only one of them by sight - a Justice of the Peace from Queenhithe Ward - but he heard many names being trumpeted in Molly Mandrake's distinctive voice as she welcomed each new visitor to her abode. Skulking in the darkness, the anomaly of his position troubled the constable but he memorised all the names with care. He chose to forget the boastful and obscene comments he overheard from some of those who tumbled out happily into the night when they had sated themselves.
Molly Mandrake's popularity knew no bounds. Well after midnight, fresh clients were arriving to replace those who had already left. Jonathan decided that it was time to vacate his post and return to the sanctity of the marriage bed. Before he could do so, however, he heard footsteps on the cobblestones and withdrew into his hiding-place. Arriving alone, the newcomer ignored the front door and came to the side of the house where Jonathan was waiting in the shadows. The man looked around furtively to make sure that he was unobserved then produced a key to let himself in through the side door.
At first Jonathan only saw him in silhouette. Tall and slim, he carried a walking stick. His movements were lithe and he was clearly on familiar ground. When the door opened, enough light poured out to give Jonathan a brief glimpse of his face. It was an eerie moment. What he saw beneath the broad-brimmed hat was a long, white, tapered, impassive countenance with a flat nose, a narrow mouth, slit eyes, a slight bulge in place of eyebrows and a smooth complexion which had the most unnatural glow to it. At first, he wondered if he was looking at a ghost. It took him a full minute to realise that the visitor's entire face was covered by a mask.
Chapter Thirteen
Christopher Redmayne was an indifferent sailor and it was only the necessity of reaching Paris which made him cross the Channel with any enthusiasm. He marvelled at the fearless way in which the crew handled the ship, especially when it came out from the shelter of the estuary to be met by stronger winds and more purposeful waves. His queasy stomach eventually settled down and drowsiness soon took over. The salt spray which so many found bracing had the opposite effect on Christopher and he spent most of the time below deck, huddled in a corner, drifting in and out of sleep, rocked like a baby in a giant cradle. Food and drink were never even considered. How long he slumbered he did not know, but he came awake to the sound of yelling voices above his head, the cry of gulls and the distant chiming of church bells.
When he ventured up on deck again, he saw that they were about to enter the harbour at Calais. The prospect of dry land and his intense curiosity spared him any further discomfort and he was able to remain at the bulwark throughout. He scanned the harbour but was disappointed to find no sign of the Marie Louise among the assorted vessels moored there even though Calais had been its designated port of call. When he disembarked, he made enquiries at the quayside and learned that he had arrived too late. Having taken a cargo of wine on board, the Marie Louise had sailed back to England and must therefore have passed Christopher's own craft in the night. It was galling.
He was glad that England was finally at peace with France, albeit an uneasy one. It turned him from a nominal foe into a welcome friend and his command of the language drew approving smiles from everyone he met and set him apart from most of the other English passengers who stepped off the ship on to French soil.
Paris still lay a long way off and he elected to travel most of the way by coach, withstanding the noisy conversation and the bad breath of his companions in return for a journey of relative comfort and assured safety. Fond thoughts of Penelope Northcott filled his mind throughout the first day on the road and he wondered how she would react when she learned of George Strype's bold but failed attempt to retrieve the letters from him during what Christopher was certain was a visit unauthorised by her. At the inn where he spent the night, he fell asleep with the contentment of a man who had helped to sow discord between the engaged couple.
Awake at cockcrow, he tried to picture the moment of discovery when Penelope prised open her father's desk. To a sensitive young lady, the disillusion must have been searing as all her certainties about her father were ripped asunder. Christopher was bound to speculate on the motives which drove her to institute the search in the first place and to take it upon herself to break into a locked drawer. Another thing puzzled him. Given the nature of the letters, why had Sir Ambrose Northcott kept them at Priestfield Place and not in his possession? It was almost as if he wanted them to be found.
As the coach rumbled off again, Christopher realised that he was following a trail which Sir Ambrose himself must have taken many times. It meandered gently through the enchanting landscape of Picardy and provided scenery to divert the most jaded travellers. Trees were in full bloom, grass was green and lush, sheep and cattle grazed in the sunshine, hedgerows were fringed with pert wild- flowers and a playful breeze turned the sails of the occasional windmill. Yet Christopher took no pleasure from the journey. Eager for action, he was instead surrounded by rural tranquillity. Anxious to reach Paris, he was forced to sit in a stuffy coach with gaping passengers as it kept up a steady speed.
They passed through Amiens early on the third day and the sight of its magnificent cathedral did tear him away from his preoccupations and make him admire it afresh. Christopher believed that it was an even finer piece of ecclesiastical architecture than Notre Dame and its ornate detail bewitched him long after the coach had driven out of the town. When they reached Beauvais, he decided to abandon the coach and complete the last leg of the journey alone. Shortly after dawn on the next day, he was cantering on a hired horse along the road to Paris.
What lay before him he did not know, but he was spurred on by memories of what he had left behind. Two murders and a series of unpleasant revelations had trapped him in a kind of labyrinth. He was hoping that Marie Louise Oilier might somehow teach him the way out.
He knew Paris well and it always struck him as a strange mixture of beauty and ugliness, of effortless splendour rooted in filthy streets. When he eventually reached the French capital, what first greeted him was the high wall which encircled the city and which was in turn ringed by an earth dyke. He entered through the Porte de St-Ouen and plunged into its narrow, congested streets, dwarfed by the endless churches, colleges and religious houses built with a grey stone which was stained by time. The city's characteristic stink rose up to attack his nostrils and he put a hand to his face as he picked his way through the milling crowd.
The sense of being lost in a labyrinth became stronger than ever.
Arnaud Bastiat owned a fine house in the Faubourg St Germain. Alone in the room which served as a library and study, he sat at his table, lost in contemplation. The book which lay open before him was unnoticed and the booming of the nearby church clock went unheard.
Bastiat was a rotund man of middle years with a pale face which was pierced by two intelligent blue eyes and a high forehead which was covered in a network of veins. Lank grey hair hung to his shoulders, complemented by a small grey beard. Dressed largely in black, he had white cuffs and a white lace collar which spread its intricate pattern across his barrel chest. When his servant knocked and entered, it took Arnaud Bastiat a while to become fully aware of his presence. The servant, a compact young man with a dark moustache, stood there in silence until his master spoke.
'Yes, Marcel?'
'You have a visitor, monsieur,' said the man.
'I am expecting no callers this evening. Who is it?'
'A young man from England.'
'From England?' said the other guardedly. 'Did he give a
name?'
'Christopher Redmayne.'
'I do not know him. What business can he have with me?'
'He did not come in search of you, monsieur.'
'Oh?'
'The person he seeks is Mademoiselle Oilier.'
Bastiat sat back in surprise and stroked his beard. He signalled that the visitor was to be brought in then rose from his chair, closing the book gently before walking around the table. When Christopher entered, his host was standing in the middle of the room, composed but alert, his eyes and ears now attuned to what was in front of him. Introductions were made and each man tried to weigh up the other as they spoke in French.
'You have come all the way from England?' began Bastiat.
'Yes, monsieur. A long journey but an unavoidable one.'
'Why is that?'
'I must see Mademoiselle Oilier at the earliest opportunity.'
'And your reason?'
'That is a matter between myself and the young lady.' 'What brought you to this address?'
'It was the one given in a letter which Mademoiselle Oilier sent to a mutual friend of ours.'
'Have you seen this letter?'
'I carry it with me,' said Christopher, tapping his pocket.
'May I look at it?'
'No, Monsieur Bastiat. It is of a very private nature. I will only show it to Mademoiselle Oilier to establish my credentials.'
A lengthy pause. 'This mutual friend,' said Bastiat at length. 'Are you able to tell me his name?'
'I am afraid not.'
'Then it is a gentleman of whom we speak?'
'My tidings are for Mademoiselle Oilier.'
'May I at least know your relation to this mutual friend?'
'I was employed by him as his architect.'
'An architect? An exalted position for a messenger.'
Christopher tired of his probing. 'The message I bring is of the most urgent nature, monsieur,' he said. 'I implore you to tell me where I can find the young lady.'
'Mademoiselle Oilier does not live here.'
'So I deduce.'
The King's Evil Page 20
