The King's Evil

by Edward Marston

  'No, Miss Northcott. I do not have the highest opinion of Mr Strype but I can absolve him of any involvement here. Sir Ambrose kept him ignorant of too many things. Besides, he would hardly collude in the death of his partner and future father-in-law.' He noticed the glint in her eye. 'Have I said something out of turn?'

  'Our engagement has been terminated,' she said quietly.

  He smiled inwardly. 'This is a surprising development.'

  'I prefer not to talk about it, Mr Redmayne. There are more important topics to discuss. Tell me more about her.'

  'Marie Louise Oilier?'

  'Was she very beautiful?'

  'Some might think so,' he said tactfully.

  'How old was she?'

  'Not as young as you thought.'

  'Describe her to me.'

  Choosing his words with care, Christopher drew his own sketch of the striking young woman whom he had met in Paris, astonished at how much it varied from his first impression of her. He no longer saw Marie Louise Oilier as the complete innocent who had sat before him in Arnaud Bastiat's house. His visit to Lincoln's Inn Fields had helped to revise that assessment. Sweet Ellen had shown him how easy it was to feign childlike purity.

  It distressed him to talk about someone whose existence gave Penelope such obvious pain. Though she pressed him relentlessly for details, she winced when she heard them and her cheeks coloured at the mention of the claim made by Mademoiselle Oilier.

  'She intended to many my father?'

  'That is what she told me.'

  'But how? He already had a wife.'

  'Sir Ambrose led her to believe that your mother had died.'

  'He would never do that!' she protested.

  'I am only reporting what I heard.'

  'Did you believe her?'

  'At the time.'

  'And now?'

  'I am not so sure,' said Christopher. 'I suspect that I was too ready to accept her word. My opinion of her changed radically when I realised that she was keeping me talking so that her uncle could eavesdrop on us and discover exactly how much I knew. I begin to wonder how sincere her love for Sir Ambrose really was.'

  'You read her letters. They were vastly sincere.'

  'Save for one thing, Miss Northcott.' 'What is that?'

  'I am not even sure that she wrote them.'

  'But they bore her signature.'

  'Her hand may have penned the words,' he said, 'but I think that someone else may have dictated them.'

  'What do you conclude, Mr Redmayne?'

  'Your father was duped. Sir Ambrose loved her deeply, of that I am certain. He would not have changed the name of his ship to the Marie Louise unless he were wholly committed to her. But love throws people off guard. It makes them vulnerable.'

  'To what? Blackmail?'

  'I fancy that this goes deeper than that,' said Christopher, rubbing his chin. 'Mademoiselle Oilier insisted that he told her he was a widower and therefore free to marry. But she would never consider marriage to a man like Sir Ambrose.'

  'Why not?'

  'She is a devout Roman Catholic.'

  Penelope stiffened as she remembered the purpose of her visit. Opening the bag which lay in her lap, she took out two objects and handed them to him. Christopher looked in astonishment at the rosary beads and the Catholic missal.

  'I found them at the house in Westminster,' she said.

  'Was your father planning to convert?'

  'In view of what you have said, it seems a possibility.'

  'More than that, Miss Northcott. In all likelihood he had been taking instruction. It shows how far he was prepared to go to meet the demands of Mademoiselle Oilier. It is strange,' he murmured. 'I never took Sir Ambrose for a religious man.'

  'Then you mistake him,' she said with unexpected loyalty. 'In the light of his infidelity, this may seem an odd thing to say but my father took the spiritual side of life very seriously.'

  'Did he?'

  'That is why he was so proud of our house in Kent.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Look what it is called, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Of course,' he said. 'Priestfield Place.'

  *****************************

  Jonathan Bale was thrilled to see the return of the Marie Louise. After sailing up the Thames, it anchored in midstream to unload its cargo. As its crew brought casks and boxes ashore, he tried to engage them in conversation but they would tell him little beyond the fact that they had sailed from Calais and would be returning there within a few days. Certain that the vessel held important secrets, Jonathan did everything he could to contrive a visit to it but all his requests were met with blank refusal. The Marie Louise would allow no strangers aboard. Even a London constable would need a warrant before he was permitted to inspect the craft. A law-abiding man was forced to contemplate the disconcerting notion of trespass.

  'Where are you going?' asked Sarah.

  'Back to the wharf.'

  'At this time of night? It is almost dark, Jonathan.'

  'It needs to be, my love.'

  'Why?'

  'I am going out on the river.'

  'Is that why you are leaving your hat and greatcoat behind?'

  'It is part of the reason.'

  Jonathan would say no more than that. Kissing his wife goodbye, he let himself out and began the long walk, grateful that the darkness was slowly throwing its blanket over the city. Dressed in the clothes he once wore as a shipwright, he felt a sense of release. Anonymity liberated him and gave him the confidence to do something which he would never even attempt in the guise of a constable. When he reached the river, he could see the myriad lights of Southwark on the opposite bank. He went down the steps and on to the landing stage.

  The boat had been borrowed from a friend and he had no qualms about rowing it until he was caught up in the current. He had forgotten how treacherous the river could be. It took him some time to master its swirling rhythms and his bare forearms were soaked in the process but he persevered until old skills returned. Craft of all kinds dotted the river and he had to pick his way through them in order to reach the Marie Louise. She towered above him. The ship was largely in darkness but lanterns burned on deck and he could see light in some of the cabin windows. Most of the crew were still ashore but some surely remained on watch. Stealth was vital.

  He shipped his oars and moored his boat to the sheet anchor. When he was certain that nobody on deck had seen him, he went hand over hand up the cable, grateful that it was not too slimy to allow a firm grip. It was slow work which made demands on his muscles but he eventually reached the bulwark. Climbing over it, he rolled behind the windlass then peeped out to take his bearings. Several lanterns burned at strategic intervals. Two men were on watch, chatting together outside the fo'c's'le, taking it in turns to swig from a flagon of beer to offset the tedium of their duty. Their casual attitude suggested that they did not expect visitors.

  Though Jonathan had never been aboard the Marie Louise before, he had an intimate knowledge of its design. He had helped to build three almost identical vessels and could feel his way around them in the dark. Keeping low and hugging the bulwark, he crept past the two men and made his way towards the cabins at the stern. He was tempted to search the hold while he was there but saw the folly of that without a lantern. His real target was the captain's cabin where the ship's log book and manifest were kept. It well might yield up other secrets about the ship. Jonathan felt certain that the captain would be ashore. No red-blooded sailor would spurn the delights of London for a lonely night aboard a merchant ship.

  Voices came up from below to warn him that one of the cabins was occupied. He moved with extra care, descending the wooden steps very slowly, glad that his movements were disguised by the gentle creaking of the timbers.

  Inching his way towards what he took to be the captain's cabin, he tried the door and found it predictably locked. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and used its point to explore the lock. There was a lou
d click and the door gave before him. He sheathed his dagger and stepped inside, grateful for the lantern which swung from the beam. It cast an uncertain light but he was able to see that it was not the captain's cabin at all. Jonathan was disappointed yet his visit brought him one reward. Lying on a bunk and staring up at him with sightless eyes was an object he felt he might have seen before.

  It was a large white mask.

  Before he could take a closer look at it, something hard and cold was thrust against the side of his head. He heard the pistol being cocked.

  'What are you doing here?' growled a voice.

  'Is this the Peppercorn!' asked Jonathan, thinking fast.

  'No!'

  'Then I have come aboard the wrong ship, friend.'

  'That is certainly true. Turn round so that I can see you.'

  It was his only chance of escape and he took it bravely. As the man stepped back to allow him to turn, Jonathan swung round quickly to knock the barrel of the pistol upwards so that it discharged its bullet harmlessly at the ceiling. His other fist sank into the man's stomach and took all the wind out of him. Thrusting him roughly aside, Jonathan went scrambling up the steps and raced across the deck. The sound of the pistol alerted the two men on night watch and they came running towards the stern with muskets in their hands but they were far too slow. All that they saw was a bulky figure, diving headfirst into the river. When they hung over the bulwark with a lantern, they could see no sign of him. He had disappeared beneath the water.

  The visit of Penelope Northcott left him in a state of mild exhilaration for the rest of the day. In bringing the rosary beads and the missal, she had given him some crucial guidance but it was the news of her broken engagement which really stirred him. It was not simply that it freed her from what he felt was an unfortunate match; it also removed any scruples Christopher had about confronting a beloved fiancée. He could now avenge himself on George Strype with a clear conscience though that pleasure had to take its turn behind other priorities. Having spent the morning and much of the afternoon with Penelope, he had called on his brother early that evening to press him into service again.

  Back in Fetter Lane once more, he was able to review the new facts which had come to light and to reflect on the enchanting character of Penelope Northcott. Other daughters in her position would have been so paralysed by grief at the death of their father that they would have felt unable to move, let alone begin a systematic search of his private papers. Anyone else learning such an unpleasant secret about a parent they respected would have kept it hidden from view out of a sense of shame but she overcame her mortification to bring the letters to Christopher. Her trust in him was inspiring. It made him redouble his efforts to catch the man who killed both Sir Ambrose Northcott and, in all probability, his hapless lawyer.

  Seated in the parlour, Christopher went through the sequence of events once again, fitting each piece of evidence neatly together. A fierce knocking at his door interrupted his cogitations and sounded an alarm bell. Waving Jacob away, Christopher reached for his sword and went to answer the door himself. If it was an enraged George Strype, he would be more than ready for him. Determined to support his master, Jacob came up behind him with a candelabrum in one hand and a stick in the other. When Christopher opened the door, however, he found himself staring at the most unlikely caller.

  Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe delivered his message bluntly.

  'Ye are to come at once, Mr Redmayne!'

  'Where to?'

  'Addle Hill. Mr Bale is in need of you.'

  'Why?' asked Christopher anxiously, knowing that nothing short of an emergency would make the constable summon him. 'Is he injured?'

  'He does not have breath enough to tell us,' said Thorpe. 'When he got back home, he was like a drowned rat. It was Mrs Bale who sent me.'

  'I will come immediately,' said Christopher, then he looked more closely at the messenger. 'Wait, sir. Have I not seen you before? Yes,' he recalled, taking the candelabrum from Jacob to hold it closer to his visitor's face. 'You were locked in the pillory. Mr Thorpe, is it not?'

  'It is, sir. Neighbour to Mr Bale. He was kind to me when I was unjustly pilloried. I am glad to be able to help him in return. But hurry, Mr Redmayne. Ye keep the poor man waiting.'

  Having delivered his message, Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe vanished into the darkness. Jacob brought a lantern and helped his master to saddle the horse. Within minutes, Christopher was cantering in the direction of Baynard's Castle Ward, wondering what had happened to the constable and feeling guilty in case he had endangered the man's life with the orders he had given him. When he reached the house, he leaped from the saddle and was still tethering the animal when Sarah Bale came bustling out to greet him.

  'Thank goodness you have come, Mr Redmayne!' she said.

  'What is amiss?'

  'Jonathan has been in the river. He would not tell me why. You are the only person who can get the truth out of him.' She ushered him into the house. 'Excuse his rudeness. He did not want me to send for you.'

  Christopher soon saw why. When he went into the parlour, the constable was lying in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. His hair was still wet, his face pale and his fatigue apparent. Jonathan Bale was far too proud a man to let anyone but his wife see him in such a condition and he glared inhospitably at his visitor before shooting Sarah a look of reproach. She gave him a smile and backed out of the room.

  'What are you doing here, sir?' asked Jonathan grumpily.

  'Your neighbour, the quarrelsome Quaker, urged me to come.'

  'Mr Thorpe?'

  'The same. A case of Jesus-Came-To-Call-Me. Here I am.'

  'There was no need. As soon as I had dried myself off, I intended to come straight to you. I am recovered now.'

  'Mrs Bale obviously thought otherwise,' said Christopher, 'and I prefer to rely on her opinion. Now, tell me what happened. You have been swimming on the river, I hear.'

  'Not from choice. I got aboard the Marie Louise.'

  'How?'

  'Under cover of darkness.'

  Jonathan told his tale and mellowed as Christopher interjected compliments and congratulations. The discovery of the mask was seen as a critical piece of evidence. Jonathan felt certain that it was the one worn by the nocturnal visitor to the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields.

  'Then he may well be the killer,' decided Christopher. 'He has been placed at Mrs Mandrake's house, on the Marie Louise and, I suspect, in the cellar where Sir Ambrose met his death. He links all three locations.'

  'Since he has access to the ship, he must have been aboard when Solomon Creech visited the vessel. I guess that is where Mr Creech was killed.'

  'But the body was nowhere near where the Marie Louise had been anchored. It was found some way downriver.'

  'Currents, sir,' said Jonathan ruefully. 'They carried him along. I have known bodies coming to the surface a mile from where they were dumped in the water.' He gave a shiver. 'I was almost one of them.'

  'Did you swim to the bank?' 'No, Mr Redmayne. I went under the hull of the fishing smack nearby and hid behind that for a long time. When I was sure they had stopped looking for me, I swam back to retrieve my boat.' He pulled the blanket around him. 'It is not easy to row when you are soaking wet.'

  'Your sacrifice was worthwhile, Mr Bale. You may have found the most valuable clue of all. When is she due to sail?'

  'Within a few days.'

  'Then we must act quickly.'

  'To do what, sir?'

  'Bait the trap.'

  'I do not understand.'

  'You will, my friend,' said Christopher. 'But first let me tell you what I learned today. I had another visit from Sir Ambrose's daughter. She found something which helps to confirm what my visit to Paris suggested.'

  'And what is that?'

  'The real worm in the bud here is religion.'

  Jonathan listened with fascination as the architect constructed his argument with the same punctiliousness he would give to t
he design of a house. It took on definition and solidity before his admiring eyes. Though still incomplete, the structure began to look impressively sound. The constable gave a grudging smile.

  'You have put much thought into this, sir,' he observed.

  'It is important to me, Mr Bale.'

  'And to me,' the other reminded him. 'A wonder that it is not more important to Mr Strype. You might think that he would have a stronger reason than any to want the murderer caught. When Sir Ambrose was killed, Mr Strype lost a friend, a business partner and a future father- in-law.'

  'I am sure that he desires the arrest and conviction of this man as much as anyone,' said Christopher blandly. 'What upsets Mr Strype is the idea that I might be the person to catch the villain.'

  'Is that why he had you attacked the other night?'

  Christopher thought of Penelope and a smile ignited his face.

  'No, Mr Bale. That was over something else.'

  By the time that Christopher left the house, Jonathan Bale had rallied, overcome his resentment at the visit and even risen to an expression of gratitude. Sarah added her own thanks as she saw their guest to the door, then she went back in to cosset her husband.

  Christopher left the city by Ludgate and rode slowly as he reflected on events. He was desperate to speak to his brother but he did not relish having to search for Henry through a series of gaming houses at that time of night. Resolving to call at Bedford Street early next morning, he let his horse take him back towards Fetter Lane.

  In one day, he felt, they had made substantial progress in their investigation but he did not let his sense of satisfaction distract him. He realised that George Strype had even more cause to assault him now, blaming him - at least in part - for the broken engagement. One hand on his sword, Christopher was vigilant as he trotted up Fetter Lane. There was no sign of any ambush but two horses were tethered outside his house. He wondered who would call at such a late hour. While his master was dismounting, Jacob came scurrying out of the front door with a lantern and a look of apology.

  'I had to let them in, sir,' he explained.

  'Who?'

  'Miss Littlejohn has come back.'