'What did you do with them?'
'I left them at the house.'
'Oh, I see.'
'I wish I had brought them with me now.'
'Why?'
'George was trying to make peace.'
'Was he?'
'It was his way of saying that he was in the wrong, Mother. And they were beautiful flowers. You would have appreciated them. I should at least have sent him a note to thank him.'
'Why didn't you?'
Penelope shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'Do you miss him?'
'Of course.'
'And do you still love him?'
'I think so.'
'What made him leave the house in Westminster in such an ill temper?'
Penelope winced at the memory. 'Something I said to him. I was so angry when he told me where he had been. I pointed out just how much Mr Redmayne was doing to catch the man responsible for Father's death. He has gone all the way to Paris on our behalf. I asked George why he could not act more like Mr Redmayne and actually search for the killer.'
Frances made no comment. She could see the doubt and anguish in her daughter's face and did not wish to add to it. She asked another question which she had been saving up for some time.
'When you were at the house in London, did you find anything?'
A slight pause. 'No, Mother.'
'Did you search?'
'In truth, no.'
'Were you afraid that you might find something?'
'Probably,' said Penelope, anxious to quash the topic. 'I am beginning to wish that I had not found those letters here. They have turned everything sour.'
'No,' murmured the other. 'Sourness was already there.'
Rising to her feet, she pulled Penelope gently after her.
'Let us go for a walk,' she suggested.
'Very well. Some fresh air would benefit me.'
'Let me attend to something first.'
When they came around the angle of the hawthorn hedge, she strolled across to the fire. Picking up the last few books from the pile, she tossed them into the heart of the blaze. Penelope was shocked. She recognised the beautiful calf-bound volumes at once. They were treasured items from the library.
'You're burning all of Father's books!' she protested.
'No, dear,' said her mother. 'Only the ones written in French.'
Though he would never admit it to anyone else, Jonathan Bale was missing him badly. It was over a week since Christopher Redmayne had set sail for France and the constable wished now that he had gone with him, both to act as his bodyguard and to join in the search for clues that would help to solve two murders. At the same time, however, he saw the value in remaining behind to explore other avenues on his own. He had amassed a lot of information about the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields and it irked him that he was not able to pass it on to Christopher. There was another reason why he wanted the other to return soon. It would put a stop to Sarah's solicitous enquiries about the young architect.
Heavy rain swept the streets that morning. As Jonathan ate his breakfast with his wife and children, he did not look forward to going out in the storm. When there was a knock at the door, Sarah went to open it.
'Why, Mr Redmayne!' she exclaimed. 'Look at the state of you!'
'Good morning, Mrs Bale. Is your husband here?'
'Yes, he is. Come in out of the wet.'
'Thank you.'
Jonathan was as surprised as his wife to see his visitor. Drenched by the rain, Christopher also bore some reminders of the fight at the inn. One side of his face had been badly grazed by the rough floorboards, discouraging him from even attempting to shave. Bruises still showed on his temple and his right eye was rimmed with yellow. His coat was sodden and Jonathan also noticed that it was spattered with bloodstains. Choppy waves had made the Channel crossing an especial ordeal for him, leaving Christopher pale and drawn. Sarah clucked maternally over their visitor and insisted on making him some broth to warm him up. Conducting him into the little parlour, her husband shut the door behind them. He waved his guest to a chair and Christopher dropped gratefully into it, removing his hat to reveal tousled hair.
'I did not expect you today,' said Jonathan. 'They told me that no ship would arrive from Calais until Thursday at least.'
'I sailed from Boulogne.'
'Why?'
'It is a long story, Mr Bale.'
Having raked over the details many times in his mind, Christopher was able to give a full and lucid account of all that happened to him in France. Jonathan listened without interruption. The narrative reached the point where Christopher was fighting for his life at the inn when Sarah came in with a bowl of broth. Though the visitor did not feel that he would ever eat anything again, he thanked her graciously and assured her that he was in a much better condition than he looked. A warning glance from her husband sent Sarah back to the kitchen where the two boys were disputing ownership of an apple. Their noisy bickering was soon silenced by their mother.
'Go on, sir,' said Jonathan, keen to hear the rest of the story. 'You were forced to kill the man in self-defence. What then?'
'I lit a candle to look at his face.'
'Did you recognise him?'
'Yes, Mr Bale. He was the servant who answered the door at the home of Monsieur Bastiat. I think his name was Marcel.'
'Why should he follow you?'
'I did not stop to consider,' said Christopher. 'The fact was that I had killed him. If I was found standing over a dead body, nobody would believe my version of events. So I left immediately.'
'Where did you spend the night?'
'On the road, for the most part. I snatched a couple of hours' sleep under the trees then pressed on to Beauvais at dawn. When I returned my horse, I took the first coach which was heading for the coast. I had a good start,' he said, watching the steam rise from the broth, 'but I was taking no chances. Monsieur Bastiat knew that I was travelling to Calais. He took the trouble to ask me where I would lodge for the night. Just in case he sent someone else after me, I made for Boulogne to throw them off the scent.'
'That was a wise decision.'
'At least it means that I returned in one piece.' He managed a grin. 'More or less, anyway. I am sorry to turn up on your doorstep in this fashion.'
'I was thankful to see you again, sir.'
'It was touch and go at that inn, Mr Bale.'
'You acquitted yourself well.'
'I could not rely on French justice to take that view.'
'In your place, I would have done exactly the same.'
'Then we agree on something at last.'
Jonathan smiled. 'What does it all signify, Mr Redmayne?' he asked. 'Have you manage to puzzle that out yet?'
'I have spent days trying to, my friend, and I have been able to draw some conclusions. Before I tell you what they are, let me hear your news. Did you do what I asked?'
'Yes, sir. I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields a number of times.'
'What did you learn?'
It was Jonathan's turn to take over. His report had a plodding slowness to it but nothing was left out. The constable had been vigilant. Christopher listened attentively and even found the appetite to sip at the broth. He sat up at the mention of a French visitor to the house though Jonathan's garbled pronunciation of the name led to some confusion. It was the man with the mask who really held his attention.
'You say that he let himself into the premises?'
'Yes,' confirmed Jonathan. 'By the side door.'
'Mrs Mandrake's clients would not have a key. What makes this man so special? And why did he need to conceal his identity by wearing a mask?' He ran a hand through his hair. 'A tall man with a hat and a walking stick. That description fits the person whom Margaret Littlejohn saw going into the cellars with Sir Ambrose.'
'It also fits thousands of other men in London, sir.'
'True.'
'And there was no mention of a mask by Miss Littlejohn.'
'She was
too far away to see it and the man kept his head down. Besides,' mused Christopher, 'he may not have been wearing the mask on that particular evening. We must not rule him out. It is a pity that he was the one visitor to Lincoln's Inn Fields for whom you do not have a name. The rest, you say, are all noted?'
'I have the list here, Mr Redmayne.'
Jonathan thrust a hand into his pocket and extracted a piece of paper which he handed over. Five separate nights had found him lurking outside the house and his findings were tabulated day by day. The list was a revelation. Christopher recognised many of the names on it but one in particular sprang off the page.
'George Strype?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Are you quite certain?'
'I heard Molly Mandrake talk to him.'
'What did he look like?'
Jonathan gave a brief description. Christopher was left in no doubt that Penelope Northcott's fiancée had gone in search of pleasure at the house. It made him smart with anger on her behalf. At the same time, it opened up a new line of thought. If George Strype was a patron of the establishment owned by his late father-in-law, he must have known more about Sir Ambrose's life in London than he admitted. Penelope's faith in the man was sadly misplaced. Christopher was confronted by a moral dilemma. Did he inflict more pain by telling her the truth or did he hold his peace and allow her to marry a man who had already betrayed her?
He studied the list again. His finger stopped at another name.
'Who is this?'
'Where, sir?' Jonathan peered. 'Ah, the Frenchman.'
'Sharonta?'
'That is what it sounded like.'
Christopher was bewildered for a moment then light dawned.
'Could it possibly have been Charentin?'
'Yes, sir. That was exactly it. Sharonta.'
'Cha - ren - tin,' enunciated the other. 'No first name?'
'Molly simply called him Mussyer Sharonta.'
'Or something akin to that,' said Christopher with a kind smile. 'Well, Mr Bale, you have done wonders. I know you found it demeaning to spy on the establishment but it has yielded results. Mrs Mandrake is even more popular than I thought. Some of the most illustrious names in the government are recorded here. There is even a senior churchman or two. Red faces would light up London if this list were ever made public.'
'How does it help us?' 'I am not certain yet. What we have to establish is the link.'
'Between what?'
'One house in Paris and another in Lincoln's Inn Fields.'
'Sir Ambrose Northcott was one such link.'
'There has to be another.'
'Mr Strype?'
'He must certainly be looked at and so must Monsieur Charentin. The search evidently begins in Mrs Mandrake's house. One of us must pose as a client to get inside it.'
'Not I, sir!' cried Jonathan, baulking at the notion.
Christopher laughed. 'Do not worry, Mr Bale,' he said. 'This is not an office which I would thrust upon you. I know it would compromise your principles simply to step across the threshold of that sinful place. And I must confess that I do not look forward to the experience myself but it is an absolute necessity.'
'I begin to think that you may be right.'
'Be frank with me. Should I go there with a face like this?'
'You do not look at your best, Mr Redmayne.'
'Then I will wait a day or so until these bruises fade. When I look presentable again, I will prevail upon my brother to introduce me to Mrs Mandrake. Henry owes me a favour.'
'Do you wish me to go with you, sir?'
'You?'
'To guard your back,' said Jonathan seriously. 'There has already been one attempt on your life. You survived that but only because you killed your assassin. Next time, you might not be so fortunate.'
'I am relatively safe now that I am back in England.'
'Sir Ambrose was murdered here.'
'Only because he was taken unawares.'
'Every man can use an extra pair of eyes.'
'It is a kind offer, Mr Bale, but I will not take advantage of it. I was attacked in France because I was on the right trail. Monsieur Bastiat wanted me killed before I found out anything else.'
'He may have confederates in England.'
'I am certain that he does,' said Christopher, 'but I do not intend to hide from them. I want to draw them out into the light. When I went to France, I was inclining to the view that Sir Ambrose's death had some political implications and I still believe that is the case. But I am now convinced that something else provided the real motive behind it.'
'What is it, Mr Redmayne?'
'What I saw in Monsieur Bastiat's face, on the shelves of his library and hanging around the neck of Marie Louise Oilier.'
'Around her neck?'
'Religion.'
The weight of responsibility which at first threatened to crush Geoffrey Anger instead brought out unseen strengths in the clerk. Once he had grown accustomed to the death of his employer, he realised how much freedom it suddenly gave him. After years of tyranny by Solomon Creech, he was now temporarily in charge of the office, winding up its business before closing the premises and searching for another lawyer. Papers which had hitherto been hidden from him now lay at his disposal. Clients whom Creech had jealously kept to himself were available for his inspection. Going through the contents of the safe was an education to Geoffrey Anger. The sense of power helped him to grow in confidence. He was still very shocked that Solomon Creech had been murdered but, he now saw, it was not an undiluted tragedy.
When Christopher called at the office next day, his appearance had markedly improved. Jacob had bathed his face and shaved him with such care that he felt no pain. The bruising had largely disappeared. Even the colouring around his eye had paled to a faint tint. He was both surprised and pleased to find the timid clerk in a co-operative mood. After giving him a brisk welcome, Anger escorted him through to the inner office and offered him a chair. The clerk then settled into the seat which had been sculpted over the years by the buttocks of Solomon Creech.
'I have been expecting you to call, Mr Redmayne.'
'Good.'
'This is what you have come for, I think.'
'What is it?'
'The verdict of the coroner's jury on the death of Mr Creech.'
'It is certainly something which I would like to see, Mr Anger.'
'Feel free to peruse it, sir.'
The clerk handed over the document which had been lying on the desk. It did not take Christopher long to read it. The report bore a close resemblance to the one issued after the post mortem was carried out on the body of Sir Ambrose Northcott. It recorded an unsolved crime.
'The verdict of this jury is that a certain person or persons unknown did feloniously, wilfully and with malice aforethought, batter Mr Solomon Creech and throw him into the River Thames to drown. In the opinion of the jury, Mr Creech would not have survived the brutal injuries which were inflicted upon him by the aforesaid person or persons but the actual cause of death was drowning.'
After glancing through the rest of the judgement, Christopher put the document back down on the desk and looked into the solemn face before him. He wondered just how helpful the man was prepared to be. Geoffrey Anger's occupation of his employer's office had already yielded reforms. Christopher noticed that it was substantially tidier than before and that fresh air had been allowed to disperse the worst of its smell.
'You have been busy in here, Mr Anger,' he commented.
'It has been hard but rewarding work, sir.'
'I hope to profit from it myself. Flave you learned anything about the business affairs of Sir Ambrose Northcott?'
'A great deal, Mr Redmayne,' said the clerk, patting the safe to his left. 'Most of the documents locked away in here related to those affairs.'
'I would value a sighting of them.'
'That is asking too much, sir, but I did anticipate your interest and am desirous of being helpful. To that end,
I have made a record of certain transactions in which Sir Ambrose engaged.'
'Do they relate to France?'
'Almost exclusively.'
'Do they involve contraband?'
'You cannot expect me to impugn Mr Creech's reputation.'
'Would you rather that his murder went unsolved?'
The clerk hesitated. 'Some of the transactions stray outside the strict limits of the law but that is all I am prepared to say.' He opened a drawer to take out a document. 'Here it is, Mr Redmayne. I hope that it will assist you in some small way in bringing the killer to justice.'
Christopher took the paper from him and ran his eye over it. The neat calligraphy of Geoffrey Anger uncovered a whole history of trading between Sir Ambrose Northcott and certain French merchants. Among them was the name of one Jean-Paul Charentin of Paris. Christopher felt a buzz of excitement. Links were slowly being forged.
'This is most obliging of you, Mr Anger,' he said.
'I have had it waiting for days.'
'My search took me across the Channel and I have only just returned.' He tapped the piece of paper. 'May I have some elucidation?'
'If you wish.'
Christopher took him line by line through the document, asking for clarification even where he did not need it. The clerk's confidence got the better of him. Thinking that he was being discreet, he instead revealed far more than he intended, enjoying a rare moment to show off his knowledge of commercial transactions. By the time they had finished, Christopher could see why Sir Ambrose and his lawyer had been so secretive. Much of their legitimate trading was no more than a mask for some profitable smuggling. The architect remembered the extensive cellars which he had designed for the new house; the ideal place in which to store contraband goods unloaded from the Marie Louise and brought to the private landing stage.
'I have one last thing to ask you, Mr Anger.'
'There is nothing more that I can tell you,' said the other, rising to indicate that the interview was over. 'You will understand how much work I have to do. Let me show you out.'
Christopher remained seated. 'In a moment,' he said. 'Answer me this first. When you opened that safe, did you find a copy of Sir Ambrose Northcott's will?'
'I did.'
'Is it still on the premises?'
The King's Evil Page 23
