The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  'But she could be sent for in an emergency.'

  'I believe that this qualifies as an emergency.'

  'Why?'

  'I am sure that the young lady will tell you in due course.'

  Bastiat raked him with a shrewd gaze then moved to the door.

  'Excuse me one moment, monsieur.'

  Christopher noted that he went out to speak to the servant instead of summoning him and giving him instructions in front of the visitor. Evidently, a private warning was being sent to Marie Louise Oilier and Christopher wished that he could hear what it was. He took advantage of his host's brief absence to look at some of the books which filled the shelves. Bastiat was clearly a studious man. Before the other returned, Christopher was just in time to observe that the volume which lay on the table was an edition of the Bible.

  'Mademoiselle Oilier will be here soon,' said Bastiat.

  'Thank you, monsieur.'

  'I take it that you will have no objection if I am present during your conversation with her?'

  Christopher was adamant. 'I object most strongly,' he said, 'and I suspect that the young lady will do likewise when she realises the nature of what I have to reveal to her.'

  'But I am her uncle, Monsieur Redmayne.'

  'Were you her father, I would still bar you from the room.'

  'Then your message must be of a very delicate nature.'

  'It is.'

  'Can you give me no hint of its content?'

  'None, monsieur.'

  Bastiat continued to fish for information but Christopher would not be drawn. Having braved a taxing journey, he was not going to spill his news into the wrong pair of ears. Besides, he was there to listen as well as to inform and he sensed that he would learn far more from Marie Louise Oilier if they were alone than if her uncle were in attendance. Bastiat was a quiet, softly-spoken man but he exuded an authority which was bound to have an influence on his niece. The size of the house suggested that its owner was a man of some means but it was not clear what profession he followed. He did not look to Christopher like a person who lived on inherited wealth. There was an air of diligence about him. He was also very circumspect. Probing for detail about his visitor, Bastiat gave away almost nothing about himself.

  It was twenty minutes before the servant returned and tapped on the door. Bastiat excused himself again and Christopher could hear him conversing in a low voice with someone in the hall. When he reappeared, he brought in Mademoiselle Oilier and performed the introductions, lingering until his niece was seated and assuring her that she only had to call if she wished to summon him.

  Left alone with the newcomer, Christopher needed time to adjust his thoughts because Marie Louise Oilier bore no resemblance whatsoever to the person of his expectations.

  Penelope Northcott had made a judgement about her based on a rough portrait which she had seen but Christopher realised that no artist could possibly have conveyed her essence in a sketch. Marie Louise Oilier had the kind of striking beauty which was all the more potent for being unaware of itself. She was a tall, slender, almost frail young lady with a fair complexion and fair hair which was trained in a mass of short curls all over her head. The blue and white stripes on her dress accentuated her height and poise. Its bodice was long and tight-fitting and the low decolletage was encircled with lace frills. The full skirt was closely gathered in pleats at the waist then hung to the ground. On her head was a lawn cap with a standing frill in front and long lappets falling behind the shoulders.

  The two things which struck Christopher most were the softness of her skin and her aura of innocence. Marie Louise Oilier was not the coquette whom he thought he saw on a first reading of her letters. She was much nearer to the victim who seemed to emerge from a closer perusal of them. Yet she was not timid or submissive. Framed in the window, she sat there with great self-possession as she appraised him through large pale green eyes. Christopher took note of the small crucifix which hung on a gold chain around her neck. Marie Louise Oilier was a porcelain saint. The idea that she could be entangled with a man like Sir Ambrose Northcott seemed ludicrous.

  'You must excuse my uncle,' she said softly. 'He is very protective. Since my parents died, he believes that it is his duty to look after me.'

  'I see.'

  'He was afraid to leave me alone with you.'

  'Are you afraid, mademoiselle?'

  'Yes,' she admitted.

  'Of me.'

  'Of what you have come to tell me.'

  'It is not good news, I fear.'

  'I know.'

  'How?'

  'Because I sense it, monsieur. He has not written to me since he left for England. That is a bad sign. Something has happened. Something to stop him sending a letter. Is he unwell?' Christopher shook his head. 'Worse than that?'

  'Much worse,' he whispered.

  She gave a little whimper then tightened her fists as she fought to control herself. Her eyes were filled with tears and her face puckered with apprehension but she insisted on hearing the truth. Christopher broke the news to her as gently as he could. Her body convulsed and he moved across to her, fearing that she was about to faint, but she waved him away and brought a lace handkerchief up to her face. She sobbed quietly for some minutes and all that he could do was to stand and wait. When she finally mastered her grief, she found the strength to look up at him.

  'Why did you come to me?' she asked.

  'I felt that you had a right to be told.'

  'Thank you.'

  'I know how much Sir Ambrose meant to you.'

  'Everything,' she murmured. 'He was everything.'

  The bundle of letters suddenly became like a lead weight in his pocket. He took them guiltily out, feeling that he was intruding into a private relationship simply by holding them. He offered them to her.

  'You might want these back.'

  She took them sadly. 'Did you read them?' He nodded. 'They were not meant for anyone else's eyes. They were for him. Only for him.'

  'I realise that, mademoiselle. But I needed to find you. It was one of the letters which brought me to Paris.'

  'I am glad you came.'

  'It was not a welcome undertaking.'

  'You are very considerate, monsieur.' She used the handkerchief to wipe away a tear and looked at him with more interest. 'So you are the architect,' she said with a wan smile. 'Ambrose talked so much about our house. He was delighted with what you had done, Monsieur Redmayne. I was so looking forward to living in London. I dreamed of nothing else. What will happen to the house now?'

  'It will probably never be built.'

  'That is such a shame.'

  She stroked the bundle of letters with her fingers and he noticed for the first time the handsome diamond ring on her left hand. Marie Louise Oilier went off into a reverie and he did not dare to break into it. He waited patiently until she blinked as if suddenly coming awake.

  'Do please excuse me, sir.'

  'There is nothing to excuse.'

  'How did you find the letters?' she asked.

  'I did not, mademoiselle. They were given to me.'

  'By whom?'

  'Sir Ambrose's daughter.'

  'Daughter?' She recoiled as if from a blow. 'He had a daughter?'

  'Did you not know that?'

  'No, monsieur. Ambrose told me that his wife died years ago. There was no mention of any children. I was led to believe that he lived alone.'

  'You were deceived, I fear,' said Christopher, distressed that he had to inflict further pain. 'Sir Ambrose owned a house in Kent which he shared with his wife and daughter. Lady Northcott did not die. I have met her and she is in good health.'

  'But he was going to marry me,' she protested.

  'That would not have been possible under English law.'

  'Nor in the eyes of God!'

  Her hand went to the crucifix and Christopher began to wonder if he had misread her letters. A close physical relationship was implied in them yet he was now getting the
impression that Marie Louise Oilier was far from being an experienced lover. If that were the case, a startling paradox was revealed. After years of consorting with ladies of easy virtue, Sir Ambrose Northcott had become obsessed with a virgin. He could only attain her with a promise of marriage.

  'Mademoiselle,' he said, sitting beside her. 'You told me earlier that you sensed something was amiss because Sir Ambrose had not written to you since he went to England.'

  'That is so.'

  'Was he recently in France, then?'

  'Yes, he spent ten days here.'

  'Together with you?'

  'Some of the time,' she recalled. 'He stayed here at my uncle's house. Before that, he had business to transact in Calais and Boulogne. And, of course, he had to travel to the vineyard.'

  'Vineyard?'

  'In Bordeaux. It is owned by my family.'

  'Is that where Sir Ambrose bought his wine?'

  'Most of it.'

  'And is that how you met?'

  'No,' she said wistfully. 'We met in Calais. He was so kind to me.' She turned to Christopher. 'I know what you must think, monsieur. A young girl, being spoiled by a rich man who takes advantage of her innocence. But it was not like that. He was attentive. He treated me with respect. He just liked to be with me. And the truth of it is, I have always felt more at ease with older men. They are not foolish or impetuous.' She gave a little shrug. 'I loved him. I still love him even though he lied to me. He must have planned to leave his wife,' she continued, as if desperate to repair the damage which had been done to a cherished memory. 'That was it. He was working to free himself from this other woman. Proceedings must already have been under way. They had to be. Ambrose was mine. That house in London was not being built for anyone else. It belonged to us. He encouraged me to make suggestions about it.'

  'I remember commenting on the French influence.'

  'That came from me, monsieur.'

  'So I see.'

  She gazed down at the ring and fondled it with her other hand.

  'Ambrose gave this to me,' she said.

  'It is beautiful.'

  'I will never part with it.' She looked at the bundle of letters which lay in her lap. 'Why did you bring these to me, monsieur?'

  'I felt that you would want them back.'

  'I do but there was no need for you to bring them. A courier could have been sent. That is how Ambrose kept in touch with me. By courier.' She stared up at him. 'Why come in person?'

  'Because I hoped to break the news as gently as I could.'

  'Was that the only reason?'

  'No, I wanted to meet you.'

  'Why?'

  'I need your help, mademoiselle.'

  'What can I do?'

  'Tell me about Sir Ambrose,' he explained. 'I owe him a great debt and it can only be repaid by tracking down the man who killed him. I have dedicated myself to that task.'

  'That is very noble of you, monsieur.'

  'His death must be avenged.'

  'Oh, yes!' she exclaimed. 'The murderer cannot go unpunished. He must be caught quickly. Do you know who he is?'

  'No, mademoiselle.'

  'But you have some idea?'

  'I feel that I am getting closer all the time,' he said with a measure of confidence. 'The trail led to Paris.'

  'Why here?'

  'That is what I am hoping you can tell me.'

  'But this was where Ambrose came to escape. To be with me.'

  'When did you last see him?'

  'Let me see ...'

  Christopher plied her with questions for a long time and she gave ready answers but none of them contained any clues as to why Sir Ambrose was murdered and by whom. Marie Louise Oilier had been kept largely ignorant of his business affairs and he had told her nothing whatsoever about the true nature of his domestic situation. Time spent together had been limited, taken up for the most part with discussions about the new house and its furnishings. She made flattering comments about his design and Christopher realised that some of his earlier drawings of the house must have been shown to her. The man she described was very different from the confirmed rake who sought pleasure in the company of men such as Henry Redmayne.

  As he listened to her fond reminiscences, Christopher was left in no doubt about the fact that she truly loved him and he could understand very clearly why Sir Ambrose had been besotted with her. Now that he was so close to her, he could see that she was perhaps a few years older than Penelope Northcott but she had a childlike charm which made her seem much younger.

  Having described her own history, she asked him about his memories of Sir Ambrose. Christopher searched for positive things to say about the man, concealing anything which might strike a discordant note. It was only when she gave a slight shiver that he realised something was amiss.

  Marie Louise Oilier was sitting in the chair closest to the open shutters and an evening breeze was disturbing her headdress. When there were more comfortable chairs in the room, it seemed odd that her uncle should conduct her to that one. The library looked out on the garden at the rear of the house and it suddenly occurred to Christopher that anyone standing outside could eavesdrop on them with ease. He was about to stand up and investigate when she reached out to grab his arm.

  'Will you send word to me, monsieur?' she begged.

  'Word?'

  'When you catch the man who killed him, please let me know.'

  'I will,'

  'Send word to this address.'

  'Even though you do not live here?'

  'It will reach me.'

  'Would it not be easier if I had your own address?'

  'No, monsieur.'

  'Is your own house nearby?'

  'Send word here.'

  Christopher detached her hand and got up to cross to the window. When he glanced out into the garden, he could see nobody but he still had the uncomfortable feeling that they had been overheard.

  'Evening is drawing in,' he announced. 'I must away.'

  'Will you not stay the night in Paris?'

  'No, mademoiselle. It is a long ride. I would like to put a few miles between myself and the city tonight.'

  'I understand. Wait here while I call my uncle.'

  She moved to the door and let herself out, leaving the room still inhabited with her presence and charged with her fragrance. Christopher had a moment to compose himself. Though he had not been given the valuable clues he sought, he had discovered much that would be useful once he had sifted carefully through it. Yet he was still left with many imponderables. Before Christopher could rehearse them, Bastiat came into the room on his own. There was concern in his voice.

  'My niece tells me that you are leaving, monsieur.'

  'I fear that I must.'

  'You are most welcome to spend the night here as my guest.'

  'That is very tempting, Monsieur Bastiat, but I must begin the homeward journey tonight.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'I have no choice.'

  'Where will you stay?' 'There is an inn which I passed on the way here,' said Christopher. 'It must be ten or twelve miles along the road to Beauvais. I will lodge there and make an early start in the morning.'

  'Very well. I can see that there is no point in trying to persuade you against your will.'

  'None at all.'

  'You are a determined young man, Monsieur Redmayne.'

  'Of necessity.'

  'Why?'

  'You niece will explain.'

  'Then I bid you adieu.'

  He conducted his visitor out into the hall and opened the front door for him. Christopher looked around in disappointment.

  'I would like to take my leave of Mademoiselle Oilier.'

  'That will not be possible, monsieur.'

  'Why not?'

  'She is deeply upset by the terrible news which you brought. In your presence, she held up bravely but it has taken its toll. She wishes to be alone with her grief now.' He hunched his shoulders. 'There is darkness in her heart. It
would be a cruelty to intrude.'

  'Say no more, monsieur. I understand.'

  'It was good of you to come all this way.'

  'I felt that it was an obligation.'

  'An obligation?'

  'Nobody else would have come here.'

  'You deserve our thanks,' said the other. 'My niece did not need to tell me why you travelled to Paris. I saw it in her face. Poor creature! She is suffering badly.' He touched his guest's shoulder. 'I hope your journey will not be too onerous. Do you sail from Calais?'

  'Yes, Monsieur Bastiat.'

  'You will have much to reflect upon, I suspect.'

  'Oh, yes,' said Christopher warmly. 'I did not simply come on an errand of mercy. I was in search of guidance.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Thanks to Mademoiselle Oilier, I found it.'

  Jonathan Bale had always believed that honesty was the best policy, especially where matrimonial exchanges were concerned. He was proved right once again. Unskilled in hiding anything from his wife, he told her exactly where he went when he returned from his first night's vigil in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Sarah was at once critical and curious, disapproving strongly of places such as Molly Mandrake's establishment yet wanting to know exactly what happened inside their walls and who patronised them. Her husband was reticent about activities within the house but he gave her several names from the memorised list of visitors. That list had been committed to paper and added to substantially as a result of two subsequent visits.

  As Jonathan prepared to set out for Lincoln's Inn Fields for a fourth time, he sat in the kitchen of his home and consulted his list of names once again. It contained one earl and more than a scattering of baronets. In his view nothing more clearly mirrored a degenerate aristocracy. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and rose to leave. His wife got up from the table with him.

  'At least you had time to put the boys to bed this evening,' she said gratefully. 'When shall I expect you back?'

  'I have no idea, Sarah.'

  'As long as you do not get lured inside that place.'

  'It holds no attraction for me.'

  'Even though it must be filled with gorgeous young ladies?'

  'They are poor women, led astray,' said Jonathan sadly. 'Besides, I could never afford to keep company with them. They charge more for one night than most men earn in a month.'