The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  'How do you know?' teased his wife.

  He grinned. 'That is a secret.'

  'What happened to that man with the mask?'

  'I only saw him on that first visit.'

  'Has he not been back to the house?'

  'Not while I have been there, Sarah.'

  'Why would a man wear a mask like that?' she said.

  'To conceal his identity. I guess him to be a person of high rank who does not wish anyone to know that he frequents the place. Who knows? It might even have been the King himself.'

  She was shocked. 'He would never sink so low!'

  'Do not put it past him, my love. The rumour is that he tires of his mistresses on occasion and seeks entertainment elsewhere.'

  'Well, it is a scurvy rumour and I will not believe it.'

  He was worried. 'I hope you are not turning into a royalist, Sarah.'

  'Of course not,' she said stoutly. 'I deplored the Restoration as much as you did. Life was better under the Lord Protector. But while we have a King on the throne, I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt. Now, off with you and prove me wrong.'

  'I may well do so.'

  She gave him a kiss then walked with him to the front door.

  'When is Mr Redmayne coming back?' she wondered.

  'I do not know.'

  'He has been gone for days now. Why did you not offer to go with him, Jonathan? It is dangerous for someone to travel all that way on his own. You could have been his bodyguard.'

  'Mr Redmayne can look after himself, Sarah. He would never have considered taking me and I would certainly not have enjoyed spending so much time alone with him.'

  'It would have given you chance to get to know him better.'

  'That was my fear.'

  He let himself out of the house, gave her a wave and strode off. The route was familiar now and he seemed to arrive in Lincoln's Inn Fields sooner than ever. Clouds drifted across the moon to keep the whole area largely in darkness. It enabled him to slip into his accustomed hiding-place with no danger of being seen. Revellers soon began to arrive. Some were regular visitors whose names had already been recorded but others were memorised for the first time. When another coach arrived, its lone passenger was given an especially warm welcome by Molly Mandrake as she opened the door to greet him. It was a French name and Jonathan doubted if he would be able to spell it correctly when he added it to his list.

  The most interesting snatch of dialogue which he overheard came towards the end of his stay in the shadows. A man arrived on horseback, tethered his mount then pulled the doorbell. Caught between the two torches under the portico, he gave Jonathan a clear view of his profile and the constable was forced to ask once again why yet another elegant young gentleman had to pay for pleasures which he could more properly enjoy within a lawful marriage. When the door swung open, light blazed out and brought Molly Mandrake's rich voice with it.

  'Why, Mr Strype!' she said happily. 'This is a pleasant surprise.'

  'Have you missed me, Molly?'

  'We all have, sir. Desperately.'

  'I have not been able to visit London for some time.'

  'More's the pity!' A deep sigh followed. 'We were so shocked to hear about what happened to Sir Ambrose.'

  'A dreadful business, Molly. Quite devastating!'

  'I hope that it has not dragged you down too much, sir.'

  'I must confess that it has.'

  'Are you sad and lonely?'

  'Sad, lonely and in need of jollity.'

  'Then step inside, Mr Strype,' she said with a ripe chuckle, taking him by the arm. 'We have the cure for your malady right here. Nobody is allowed to be sad or lonely in my house. Jollity reigns supreme.'

  'Lead me to it, Molly.'

  One door shut in Jonathan's face but another one had

  just opened. It gave him something to think about on the walk back home.

  **********************************

  Christopher was a mile away from his destination when he realised that he was being followed. He slowed his horse and listened for the sound of hoofbeats behind him. Only one rider could be discerned. When he came to a stand of poplars, he reined in his mount and waited among the trees. The hoofbeats had stopped. After waiting a few minutes, he decided that the other horseman must have turned off the road and taken another route. Christopher continued on his way but instinct told him that he was still being trailed. He doubted if it was a highwayman. Such men usually operated in bands and lurked in ambush. There was no attempt to catch him up. Whoever rode behind him was content to keep an appreciable distance between them.

  Knowing how treacherous the roads could be, Christopher was well armed, carrying a loaded pistol as well as a rapier and dagger. He hoped that he would not be called upon to use any of the weapons.

  When the lights of the inn finally came into sight, he kicked a last burst of speed out of his horse. Clattering into the courtyard, he dropped from the saddle, handed the reins to the ostler who came running and noted to which stable his horse was taken. Then he shook off the night and went into a hostelry which blazed with dozens of candles.

  Business was scarce so the landlord gave him a cheerful welcome. He was a scrawny old man with a ragged beard and a gap-toothed grin.

  'Do you need a bed for the night, monsieur?'

  'Yes, please.'

  'We can offer you our best room.'

  'I want somewhere which overlooks the stables.'

  'As you wish.'

  'And I will need something to eat before I retire.'

  'My wife will see to your needs, sir.'

  There were no more than half a dozen other guests in the taproom and most took no notice of him, engaged either in desultory conversation or in the important ritual of sampling the hostelry's stock of wine. Christopher found himself a table in a corner from which he could watch the door. The landlord's wife brought him bread and cheese. A full-bodied red wine helped to wash it down and revive him after his travels. Nobody came or left. After an hour, Christopher paid his bill in advance and followed the landlord up a rickety staircase and along a narrow passageway to his room. His host opened the door and set down the lighted candle on the table beside the bed.

  'You will be comfortable enough here, monsieur.'

  'Thank you,' said Christopher, giving the room a cursory glance. 'This will be most adequate, landlord. Good night.'

  'If you need anything else, just call.'

  'I will.'

  When the man went out, Christopher closed the door behind him and saw that there was no bolt on it. He crossed to the window to gaze down into the courtyard. It was deserted. Only the occasional whinny from the stables disturbed the silence. There was no sign at all of the mysterious rider who had shadowed him. Closing the shutters, he took a closer look at his room. Small, musty and simply furnished, it had a low ceiling and undulating oak floorboards but it was reasonably clean and its bed looked inviting. Christopher was annoyed that he would not get to sleep in it because a sixth sense rearranged his accommodation.

  After making up the bed to look as if it were occupied, he took the solitary chair into the corner behind the door and settled down on it. None of his apparel was removed. His sword rested within reach against the wall and the pistol was on the floor at his feet. The dagger remained in its sheath at his belt. He closed his eyes for a few moments then opened them again as if disturbed and crossed to the bed in four short strides. Confident that he could do so again in the dark, he blew out the candle and returned to his position in the corner. The chair was hard but he endured the discomfort willingly.

  With so much to ponder, he found it difficult to keep his mind alert for sounds of danger and fatigue began to steal over him. Eventually he dropped off to sleep.

  The creaking of the floorboards in the passageway brought him out of his slumber. His hand went swiftly to his belt, to the wall and to the floor. Dagger, sword and pistol were all there. A faint glimmer of light came under his door, then
it inched slowly open. Candlelight illumined the bed for a second before the flame was snuffed out. Christopher heard the sound of the candle-holder being set down on the floor; a murky figure entered the room and surged towards the bed.

  The man's dagger flashed but its point found nothing more than a couple of blankets which had been rolled up. There was an angry grunt from the intruder then a gasp of surprise as Christopher jumped on him from behind and knocked him forward on to the bed. He tried to jab behind his back with the dagger but Christopher already had a firm grasp on his wrist and he twisted it until the man let his weapon go with a cry of pain. Before he could struggle, the intruder felt the point of Christopher's own dagger pricking the nape of his neck and he froze.

  'Who are you?' demanded Christopher.

  'Let me go,' begged the man. 'Do not kill me, monsieur.'

  'Tell me who sent you.'

  'Nobody sent me. I saw you on the road.'

  'What were you after?'

  'Your purse, monsieur. That is all.'

  'Don't lie!'

  Christopher stood up and dragged the man after him by the hair, spinning him around and buffeting him across the face with his arm. The man rocked back but quickly recovered, aiming a kick at Christopher's legs and scything him to the floor before flinging himself on top of him. A firm hand closed on the wrist which held the dagger and the weapon was twisted inexorably around until its point threatened Christopher's eye. Though he could barely see it in the gloom, he felt its proximity and the sweat of fear began to flow. The man exerted additional power then suddenly put all his strength into a downward thrust. Christopher's head rolled out of the way just in time as the dagger sank into the floorboards.

  Releasing the weapon, he grappled with the man and rolled him over on his back, getting in a relay of punches which took some of the energy out of his assailant. When Christopher felt a thumb trying to gouge his eye, his temper flared and he smashed a fist into the man's nose, splitting it open and sending blood all over his face. Rage served to revive the intruder and he found enough strength to hurl Christopher off before groping around in the dark for the dagger. Christopher was too quick for him. As he fell against the chair in the corner, he knew exactly where his rapier was standing and his hand closed gratefully on it. He hauled himself quickly to his feet.

  The intruder saw only the outline of his body in the darkness. When he found the dagger on the floor, he leaped up and ran straight at Christopher, intending to stab him viciously in the chest. Instead, he let out a long agonised wheeze as he found himself impaled on a sharp and merciless sword. He dropped the dagger, flailed uselessly at Christopher with both hands then slumped to the floor on his side. As the sword was withdrawn, he remained motionless. Christopher waited for a couple of minutes to see if the noise of the brawl would bring anyone running but he was relieved that nobody came. He did not relish having to explain the situation in which he had unwittingly been caught.

  Stepping over the fallen body, he groped his way to his candle and lit the wick. He then held the flame over his visitor and saw that the man was comprehensively dead, islanded by a sea of blood. Turning him over on his back, he let the candle illumine the man's face. The shock of recognition made him reel for a second. He had met the man before.

  The dark moustache was unforgettable. It was the servant Marcel, who had admitted him to the house of Arnaud Bastiat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lady Frances Northcott snipped the stem of a rose then placed the flower carefully alongside the others in her basket. It was late morning and bright sunshine was buttering the whole garden. Birds sang from their perches and insects buzzed happily over petals and ponds. Lady Northcott looked across at the wisp of smoke that was curling up into the sky from behind a hawthorn hedge. Putting her basket on a stone bench, she went around the hedge and walked across to the fire that was burning quietly in the shadow of a wall. She bent down to toss some more fuel on to its dying flames then used a hoe to rake the embers. When the fire came once more to life, she returned to the rose bush again.

  'Do you never tire of this garden, Mother?' said a voice.

  'No, Penelope. This is my idea of heaven.'

  'What does that make me?'

  'One of the angels.'

  Penelope gave a tiny smile. The garden which her mother found so idyllic somehow only made her feel restless and dissatisfied. It was the older woman's universe, filled with everything she could want and changing with the seasons to provide movement and variety. Yet it seemed curiously empty to Penelope. As a girl, she loved to play on its lawns, to climb its trees, to explore its countless hiding places, to plunder its orchard, to watch the fish in its ponds and the wildfowl on its lake. Looking around now, she realised that it was not the garden which was deficient. Under her mother's guidance, it had been greatly enriched and enlarged. The emptiness lay inside Penelope herself.

  'Sit down a moment,' said her mother, indicating the bench. 'We need to have a little talk.'

  'I am not in a talkative mood, Mother.'

  'You have been fending me off for days. Now, come here.'

  'Well, just for a moment.'

  Penelope sat beside her mother, who took her by the hand.

  'What is the matter?' she asked.

  'Nothing, Mother.'

  'I am not blind, Penelope. Since you got back from London, you have been deeply troubled about something. You hardly ventured outside your room on the first day home.'

  'I was tired.'

  'Well, you are not tired now. And you have had ample time to get over whatever it was that upset you in London. Are you ready to tell me about it now?' Penelope bit her lip and lowered her head. 'Why not?'

  'Because I still do not understand it myself.'

  'Understand what?'

  'Why I feel this way, Mother. So hurt. So melancholy. So lonely.'

  'Lonely? In your own home?'

  'I cannot explain it.'

  'Grief takes strange forms sometimes,' said the other softly. 'I know that from personal experience. In the sudden excitement of rushing off to London, you were not able to mourn your father's death properly. You put it out of your mind. Now that you are back in Priestfield Place, all your memories of him come flooding back.'

  'Unhappy memories.'

  'Some of them, perhaps, but not all. You may have reservations about him - we both have - but he was still your father, Penelope.'

  'I know that.'

  'Then you are bound to grieve.'

  Her daughter raised her head and gazed straight in front of her.

  'I am still very unsettled by what happened to Father,' she said quietly, 'and by the things which we discovered after his death. It is like an open wound which will not heal. But there is another side to my grief. I have been trying to make sense of it.'

  'Does it concern George?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you have an argument?'

  'Several.'

  'Did you patch up your differences before you came home?'

  'Not really, Mother.'

  'Was he unkind to you, Penelope?'

  'No,' sighed the other. 'Not exactly unkind.'

  'Then what? Aggressive? Domineering?'

  'He was George.'

  'Why did you come back to Kent alone?'

  'He had business in London.'

  'When he left here,' recalled her mother, 'he was furious. He told me that he was going to bring you straight back. Yet you stayed on in London for a few days. Why?'

  'I did not like the way he ordered me about.'

  'You have always tolerated it before, Penelope.'

  'It was different then. He used persuasion and charm. I was content to agree with what he suggested.' She pursed her lips in irritation. 'I blame myself for being so naive. George is a domineering man, and I have allowed him to govern all my decisions.'

  'He was not the only one.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Many of his decisions were influenced by your father
.'

  'I know. George admired him so much.'

  'Does he still admire him?'

  'Yes, but not in quite the same way.' She turned to her mother. 'He swore to me that he knew nothing about Father's secret life with... that other person. I believe him. George has always been honest with me.'

  'Has he?'

  'You know he has.'

  'I have always had my doubts about George Strype.'

  'He is a wonderful man,' said Penelope defensively. 'Strong and loving and everything I could wish for in a husband. He has many fine qualities when you get to know him. He is dependable. I keep reminding myself of that. But...'

  Her mother waited. 'Go on,' she coaxed at length.

  'I had not realised that he could be so jealous.'

  'He loves you, Penelope. He is very possessive.'

  'It was more than that.'

  'Was it?'

  'He became almost demented when I told him that I had given those letters to Mr Redmayne. He insisted on getting them back. I tried to stop him but it was no use. George ignored me. The next thing I knew, he had taken my coach and gone to demand the letters from Mr Redmayne.'

  'Did he get them?'

  'No, and that made his temper fouler than ever.'

  'You must have been very angry yourself.'

  'I was, Mother,' said Penelope. 'It cost me a lot to show those letters to Mr Redmayne and he was most discreet and understanding. George was quite the opposite and I told him so. I was incensed at the way that he commandeered our coach as if it were his own.'

  'What did he say?'

  'That everything in a marriage should be shared.'

  'But you are not yet married to him.'

  'According to George, I am. He kept telling me that I must do as I was told. That was when the argument really flared up.'

  'How was it resolved?'

  'It was not. He stormed out of the house.'

  'Did he not come back the next day to apologise?'

  'No, he was still sulking somewhere.' 'So you did not actually see him before you left?'

  'Not in person,' said Penelope. 'But he sent a servant with a basket of flowers from his gardens to sweeten the carriage for my journey. They arrived on the morning that I was leaving.'