'Let him go, Mr Bale,' she said, quietly. 'That's not the man.'
Before they left the house, Christopher Redmayne wrote to Jonathan Bale, explaining that he was going to Cambridge for the funeral and suggesting that the constable make certain inquiries during his absence. The letter was given to Jacob so that he could arrange delivery. Christopher then went off down Fetter Lane with Susan Cheever at his side. It was several weeks since they had been out riding together and, although they were simply going to Westminster, they both took great pleasure from the journey, moving at a trot in order to stretch out the time spent alone in each other's company.
When they reached the Strand, the traffic thickened noticeably and they had to wend their way past coaches, carts, countless other riders and dozens of ambling pedestrians. The wide thoroughfare seemed to be alive with people, streaming to and from the city.
'It will be a long ride to Cambridge,' she noted.
'Mr Everett lived in a village just this side of the town.'
'Even so, you'll be in the saddle for hours.'
'Any discomfort that I suffer is irrelevant,' said Christopher. 'I feel impelled to go, whatever the distance. I take my example from the King.'
'The King?'
'Yes, His Majesty can ride all morning and afternoon without showing any strain. It must be forty miles or more to Newmarket, yet he'll go there and back in a day just to see the races.'
'I'd rather you didn't mention Newmarket,' said Susan.
'Why not?'
'That was where Father met Mrs Kitson.'
'You may live to be grateful for that, Susan.'
'Grateful?'
'Any woman who can make Sir Julius mellow a little must have quite exceptional qualities. I'd cultivate this friendship between them. It might be in everyone's interest.'
'I wish that I could be so sanguine about it.'
'Will this lady never overcome your objections?'
'It's unfair of me to resent her when we've never actually met,' she conceded. 'To be honest, it's not Mrs Kitson who concerns me. It's my father. I think it's rather unseemly of him to behave this way at his age - especially after the vow he gave.'
'What vow?'
'It was when Mother died. He swore that he'd never marry again because he knew she was irreplaceable.' Susan lifted her chin with indignation. 'Yet now he's allowed himself to become entranced with someone he met at a racecourse.'
'Would it have made a difference if they'd met in a church?' Her eyes flashed and he wished that he had not made the comment. It was clearly a sensitive topic for her and best avoided. 'That was a crass remark,' he said, immediately, 'and I take it back.'
Continuing on their way, they turned, by mutual consent, to the more neutral subject of the weather. The English obsession with the vagaries of the climate led them to endless speculation and they arrived at the Cheever house still wondering if it would be wet or fine for the funeral. The coach stood ready outside the front door but it was the horse and cart that caught Christopher's eye. In the back of the cart was an object that was covered in a dark tarpaulin. It was the coffin that contained the body of Bernard Everett and it gave both of them a start.
Sir Julius Cheever came waddling out of the house to greet them.
'Wherever have you been, Susan?' he asked, switching his gaze to Christopher before she could reply. 'And why have you come back again, young man? I need no more lectures from you.'
'It was Mr Everett who brought me here,' said Christopher, indicating the cart. 'I wish to attend the funeral and, since you are travelling to Cambridge today, I thought that I'd accompany you.'
'My coach is full enough.'
'Then I'll ride beside it, Sir Julius.'
'There's no need for you to come.'
'Christopher feels that he must,' said Susan, taking over from him. 'After all, he designed the house for Mr Polegate. That's what brought his brother-in-law to London in the first place. Christopher is implicated, Father.'
'That's true. He was there at the time.'
'I promise to keep out of your way,' said the architect.
'Well,' decided Sir Julius, stroking his jaw, 'I suppose that I can hardly stop you. And an extra person will help to deter any villains who might be tempted to rob us.' He took note of the sword and dagger that hung from the other man's belt. 'And you are armed, I see.'
Christopher patted his saddlebag. 'I carry a pistol as well.'
'Then you are welcome to travel with us.' His eyes twinkled. 'Now I know why my daughter rode off with such eagerness this morning. Susan went to warn you what was happening.'
'Christopher had a right to know,' said Susan.
'I accept that.'
'I'm also looking forward to seeing a little of Cambridge,' said Christopher. 'I hear that it's a place that every architect should study. But my principle reason for going, of course, is to attend the funeral. I liked Mr Everett. He was entertaining company. Even on such a brief acquaintance, I could see that he was a very able man.'
'A truly estimable fellow.' Looking towards the cart, Sir Julius heaved a sigh. He became businesslike. 'We are by no means ready to leave yet. Come inside and meet everyone else.'
Christopher dismounted then helped Susan down from the saddle. He was rewarded with a warm smile of gratitude. A servant took care of the horses and they went into the house, stepping from bright sunshine into a funereal atmosphere. Hester Polegate was seated in the parlour with her twin sons either side of her. All three were dressed in black. Though she was the sister rather than the widow of the deceased, Hester wore a peaked black headdress that helped to obscure her face. She looked up at the newcomers.
There was a muted flurry of greetings and expressions of sympathy from Christopher and Susan. Hester Polegate was touched to hear that the architect was making the journey with them. Her two sons, only fourteen years of age, were still too shocked by the violent death of their uncle to speak. Also in the room were Brilliana and Lancelot Serle. They were pleased to see Christopher again but, because of the pervading mood of sorrow, they were unable to engage in a proper conversation with him. Christopher was relieved. Warned by Susan, he was glad to escape the threatened ambush from her sister.
Twenty minutes later, the travellers left the house and climbed into Sir Julius's coach. Mounting his horse, Christopher noted that both a coachman and a footman were making the journey, and that two men were accompanying the coffin in the cart. All would be armed, making the little cortege an uninviting target for any footpads or highwaymen they might meet on their way. Brilliana and her husband came out to wave them off but Christopher's gaze was directed at Susan. After exchanging a private smile with her, he set off behind the coach and the cart. The vehicles rumbled along, their iron-rimmed wheels resounding on the hard road. When they hit open country, Christopher knew, ridges, depressions and potholes would make Bernard Everett's last journey a very undignified one.
Heading north up King Street, they were all lost in thought. Inside the coach, Hester Polegate and her children were consumed with grief while Sir Julius Cheever searched for words to console them. In the light of what he had been told, Christopher wondered what sort of woman had managed to attract a choleric old knight who had seemed so entrenched in his bachelor existence. He hoped that he would have the opportunity of meeting the lady in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, using his artistic skills, Christopher drew a series of conjectural portraits of her in his mind. None sat easily beside the image of Sir Julius Cheever.
So diverted was he by the exercise of bringing Dorothy Kitson to life that he did not realize that they were being followed. The, lone rider stayed well back, knowing the route that they would have to take and biding his time. It was simply a question of choosing his moment.
Chapter Six
After driving Bridget McCoy and her son back to their tavern, Jonathan Bale returned the horse and cart to the blacksmith from whom he had borrowed it. He then strode to his house on Addle Hill.
'When did it arrive?'
'Half an hour ago, at least. I expected you earlier.'
'I had to go to Leadenhall Market.'
'Whatever for?'
'I'll tell you later,' said Bale, looking around. 'Where's the letter?'
'On the kitchen table.'
He went into the kitchen and snatched up the missive, breaking open the seal to read it. Sarah saw the consternation in his face and hoped that it was not bad news. As she had discovered years ago, the problem with being a parish constable was that good tidings were few and far between. Reports of murder, theft and assault were far more likely to be brought to the door. Bale was also frequently called upon to intervene in disputes between neighbours or - as if he did not have enough crime to occupy him - to rescue pet animals from the precarious situations into which they had got themselves. Whatever else the letter contained, Sarah mused, it was not another plea to haul an injured dog from a stinking quagmire.
'Well?' she asked as he put the letter aside.
'Mr Redmayne's gone to Cambridge for the funeral,' he explained. 'He wants me to talk to someone while he's away.'
'Who is it?'
'A man called Lewis Bircrofit. He's a Member of Parliament.'
She was impressed. 'A politician? Does that mean you'll have to go to the Parliament House?'
'In the first instance. I'll also need to find out where this man lives when he's staying in London.'
'Why must you speak to him, Jonathan?' 'He's a friend of Sir Julius Cheever,' said her husband, concealing from her the information that Bircroft had been savagely beaten in an alleyway in Covent Garden. 'He may be able to tell us something that throws a light on this present case.'
'I see.' She recalled his earlier remark. 'But what's this about going to Leadenhall Market?'
'Oh, that was Mrs McCoy's doing.'
'Bridget McCoy from the Saracen's Head?'
Bale nodded. Lowering himself on to one of the wooden chairs that he had made himself, he told her about their search for the man who had been seen at the market earlier. While she listened, Sarah started to prepare dinner, reaching for some bread to cut into thick slices. Like her husband, she was sorry that the trail had gone cold. She was interested to hear that Patrick McCoy had been involved.
'That lad is so unlike his father,' she noted.
'I disagree, Sarah. He's the image of him.'
'He may look like him but that's as far as he goes. Patrick, his father, was such a quick-witted man and so amiable. The son can barely hold a conversation. Whenever I see him,' she went on, 'I thank God that our boys are not like that. They go to school. They learn things. All that Patrick McCoy has learned is how to clear the tankards off the tables at the Saracen's Head.'
'It's not his fault.'
'I know, Jonathan. I feel sorry for the poor lad.'
'Anyway, he does more than simply clear away the tankards. His mother keeps most of her customers under control but, if one of them does start to cause mischief, it's Patrick who throws him out, young as he is. The lad's as strong as an ox.'
'Yes,' she confirmed. 'I saw him lift a beer barrel off a cart the other day. Most men would have rolled it along the ground but he carried it as if it was as light as a feather.' She shook her head worriedly. 'What's Bridget McCoy going to do with him?'
'Keep him at the tavern where she can watch over him,' said Bale. 'Mind you, that's not what the lad wants himself.'
'No?'
'He has an ambition, Sarah.' 'To do what?'
'My job - he wants to be a parish constable.'
She spluttered. 'Patrick McCoy?'
'Everyone's entitled to dream.'
'He could never do what you do, Jonathan.'
'The lad's eager and that's a good start. I've met too many officers who've been pushed into it against their will. If you resent what you have to do, how can you do it properly?'
'There are not many parish constables like you,' she said with an admiring smile. 'You love the work and do it well. And you're fit enough for the post. Constables in some parishes are almost decrepit.'
'I know at least three who are disabled, Sarah, yet they're kept hard at it because nobody else will come forward to take their place.' Clicking his tongue, he repeated a familiar complaint. 'No wonder there's so much crime in London when there are so few able-bodied men employed to prevent it. What's the point of laws if we lack the means to enforce them? We need more constables on the streets.'
'Could that lad possibly be one of them?'
'It's unlikely, I agree.'
'He's not clever enough.'
'Tom Warburton is hardly known for his brains.'
'Maybe not but Tom has other qualities.'
'So does Patrick - he's strong, honest and God-fearing.'
Sarah looked him in the eye. 'Would you like to work with him?'
'If it was a case of talking to people, or looking for clues, or reading documents of some sort, then the lad would be hopelessly out of his depth. But if I had to patrol the riverbank on a dark night,' said Bale, meeting her gaze, 'then I'd be more than happy to have him walking beside me.'
They had gone the best part of ten miles before they stopped at a wayside inn. While the horses were rested and watered, the travellers went inside for refreshment. Hester Polegate and her sons were too locked in their private anguish to be capable of any conversation so they dined alone in a corner. Christopher Redmayne shared a table with Sir Julius Cheever. It gave him an opportunity for time alone with the other man. Mindful of their last encounter, he kept off the subject that had so enraged his companion earlier.
'Having your daughter arrive from Richmond must have been a very pleasant surprise for you,' he began.
'I do not like surprises.'
'But this one must have gladdened your heart, Sir Julius.'
'Must it?'
'Mrs Serle is a member of your family.'
'Yes,' agreed Sir Julius, 'Brilliana does indeed have that claim on my affections. The trouble is that, where Mrs Serle goes, Mr Serle is always compelled to follow.'
'Do you not enjoy your son-in-law's company?'
'What is there to enjoy? Lancelot has neither wit nor affability.'
'I've always found him extremely affable.'
'That's because you've never had to endure his presence for any length of time. There's hardly any subject that I dare raise with him. If we discuss the way he manages his estates, I end up quarreling with him about his farming methods. And if he unloads his political opinions on me, I want to strangle the fellow with my bare hands.' He gave a mime by way of illustration. 'Last time I visited Richmond, he had the gall to tell me that the King was a credit to the Stuart dynasty.'
'I admire his bravery in doing so, Sir Julius.'
The old man glared at him. 'You share his sentiments?'
'Not entirely,' said Christopher. 'But if I did, I'd not have the courage to voice them so boldly in front of you. That must surely make you respect your son-in-law.'
'I'd respect him far more if he kept Brilliana from snapping at my heels whenever we meet. Children,' he continued. 'That's what she needs more than anything else - children. And where are they? There's no sign of them. After years of marriage, I've still not been presented with my first grandchild. It's unnatural, Christopher.'
'Perhaps your daughter does not wish for a family.' 'It's every woman's wish,' asserted Sir Julius, flatly. 'The fault lies not with Brilliana but with that milksop of a husband. He's clearly unequal to the office of fatherhood.'
'That's unkind,' said Christopher, defensively. 'Mr Serle does not deserve your scorn. Apart from anything else, he's made himself into a fine swordsman. I've had a few bouts with him and he's improved beyond all recognition.'
Sir Julius was grudging. 'I suppose that's in his favour.'
'He has many other good qualities and
you must surely be grateful to any man who makes your elder daughter so happy.'
'Brilliana's happiness depends on having her every whim satisfied. There's no more capricious human being in the whole kingdom. I think that she should be challenged rather than indulged but Lancelot has chosen the easier path through life.'
'And seems content to do so.'
'Yes, I'll admit that.'
Talking about his family had helped to relax Sir Julius. He had not forgotten his recent confrontation with Christopher but he was ready to set it aside. It was as if a truce had been declared between them. As time passed, his manner softened even more and Christopher was tempted to explore the limits of their truce.
'Parliament sits in a few days, I believe,' he said.
'Yes,' said Sir Julius, sadly, 'and I'd hoped to introduce Bernard Everett to the chamber. It was not to be, I fear. But I'm sure that he'll forgive me if I rush back to London as soon as the funeral is over.'
'Mr Everett may have gone but you have other loyal friends there.'
'I thank the Lord for it.'
'One of them, I gather, is Lewis Bircroft.'
'Bircroft?' The old man's eye kindled. 'What do you know of him?'
'Only that he was a staunch supporter of you, Sir Julius.'
'You've been listening to that lunatic brother of yours again.'
'Henry is no lunatic.'
'He's a blabbering gossip.'
'He did tell me about the accident that befell Mr Bircroft,' admitted Christopher, 'that much is true. I wonder that you did not perceive a connection between that and what happened to Mr Everett.'
'Be warned, young man.'
'That's the very advice that you should take, Sir Julius.'
'Silence!'
'It's not only Mr Bircoft's fate that needs to be remembered. Arthur Manville must also be borne in-'
'Enough - damn you!' Sir Julius cut him short, growling in an undertone so that he did not disturb the three members of the Polegate family at the other table. 'Are you determined to test my temper?'
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