They were still in Hertfordshire when they made their second stop of the day. The inn gave them a chance to seek light refreshment and to answer any calls of nature. Horses that had become lathered in the hot sun could have a welcome rest in the shade. The coachman and the footman were glad of the chance to slip off their coats. The two men on the cart also relished the cover of the trees. Christopher Redmayne was the last to reach the inn, dismounting and tethering his horse close to the others. Determined not to upset Sir Julius again, he stayed outside and strolled off through a stand of oaks and elms.
It had been an uneventful journey. Moving at such a moderate speed had given him an opportunity to study the landscape with a degree of leisure. Hertfordshire was one of the smallest counties in England. Rivers and streams abounded, crisscrossing the terrain in almost every direction and forcing them to make use of various bridges and fords. It was a granary for London, providing corn for its bread and hay fodder for its horses. Many fields were given over to beef cattle, some of the herds having been driven down from the north to be fattened on the lush grass before sale in the capital.
Christopher had also noticed how many watercress beds they passed in the villages. An antidote to the scurvy that afflicted so many Londoners, watercress was always in great demand. Of more interest to the architect was the large number of country houses he had seen, rural retreats from the stench and squalor of the city, places of escape from the regular outbreaks of plague. Helping to rebuild London after the ravages of the Great Fire, his concerns were exclusively urban. He was fascinated to see how houses could be designed to blend into the landscape, and how fine architecture could, in turn, be enhanced by its surroundings. The journey was also a learning process for Christopher.
Emerging from the trees, he saw yet another stream, meandering lazily through the grass before disappearing in a spinney. Ahead of him, in the distance, was a building that arrested his gaze at once, a magnificent prodigy house, constructed in the previous century by someone with high ambition and unlimited capital. Burnished by the sun, it stood on a rise that commanded a panoramic view. Its array of gables, turrets and pinnacles gave it the appearance of a fairytale palace. A banner fluttered from the flagpole on top of the tower.
'That's what you should be designing,' said a voice behind him.
Christopher looked over his shoulder and saw, to his surprise, that Sir Julius was coming through the trees. The long ride in a stuffy coach seemed to have drained much of the hostility out of him.
'A place like that,' continued the old man, surveying the house with approval, 'could make you rich and famous.'
'But it would take so long to build that I would soon tire of it. I prefer to design houses in a city,' said Christopher, 'places that are likely to be completed in a year rather than in twenty or thirty. London is the greatest city in the world and I feel honoured to be able to make a small contribution towards reshaping it.'
'Would you not like to have created that house?'
'No, Sir Julius.'
'Why not? It looks superb.'
'But it was designed long ago when such a style was in fashion. Had I been its architect,' said Christopher, 'I would now be well over a hundred years old.' Sir Julius chortled. 'I'll settle for smaller projects with more immediate results.'
'Like the house you designed for me in Westminster?'
'My memory is that you designed it, Sir Julius. I merely executed your wishes. Not that I disagreed with any of your specifications,' he added, hastily, 'but I'll not take full credit for a property that sprang largely from your fertile brain.'
'I knew what I wanted.'
'That makes you almost unique among my clients.'
Christopher was relieved to be back on speaking terms with him but Sir Julius had not come for conversation. He was there to stretch his legs and to enjoy a pipe of tobacco while he could. Leaving the architect, he sauntered down to the stream then followed its serpentine course for thirty yards or so. He paused to light his pipe and inhaled deeply. There was an air of contentment about him. Peering down into the water, he seemed to Christopher to be far more at ease in a rural setting. London was anathema to him. Sir Julius was, in essence, a country gentleman, a rogue politician who could set a corrupt parliament by the ears but who was happiest when at home on his estates.
Studying the father, Christopher became acutely aware of the daughter. Susan Cheever also loved the country. That was where she could be a free spirit. She came to London under duress and only found it tolerable because of Christopher's friendship. What he did not know was whether that friendship was strong enough to entice her to stay. His future lay in the city, her hopes resided in the country. Christopher feared that those competing calls might gradually ease them apart.
He was still meditating on the unresolved problem when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head in the direction of the spinney, Christopher observed a brief flash as the sun glinted off an object half-hidden in the undergrowth. He sensed danger at once and responded. Drawing his sword, he charged towards Sir Julius and yelled at the top of his voice.
'Get down!' he shouted. 'Get down on the ground!'
The warning was a fraction too late. As Sir Julius spun round to look at him, a musket was fired from the spinney and the old man was hit. Before Christopher could reach him, he let out a cry of pain and stumbled backwards, losing his balance and falling into the stream with a loud splash. Spat from his mouth, the clay pipe was carried along by the rippling water, a thin wisp of smoke still rising from it until the bowl tipped over and the tobacco was swallowed up in one liquid gulp.
Chapter Seven
Christopher Redmayne was momentarily stopped in his tracks, not knowing whether to go to the aid of the victim or to pursue the man who had shot him. He soon made his decision. Sir Julius was flailing about in the water, clearly in difficulty but very much alive. Sheathing his sword, Christopher ran down to the stream and plunged straight in, wading swiftly across to him.
'I'm coming, Sir Julius,' he called.
'Get me out of here!' spluttered the other.
'Are you hurt?'
'I can't swim.'
When Christopher reached him, he took him hold of his shoulders but Sir Julius let out a grunt of pain and put a protective hand to his left arm. Seeing where the wound was, Christopher instead grasped him around the waist and pulled him towards the bank. Others came running to help. Having heard the shot, the coachman and the footman darted through the trees and made for the stream. Christopher was glad of their assistance. Between them, they hauled Sir Julius on to the bank and laid him gently on the grass.
The musket ball had grazed his upper arm, tearing his sleeve and the shirt beneath it, and producing a spurt of blood. Stung by the shot, Sir Julius was more alarmed by the fact that he had gone under the water for a few seconds. He was sodden from head to foot and he twitched on the ground like a giant fish caught in a net. Christopher insisted on easing off the coat so that he could examine the wound. When he saw that it was a deep gash, and that no bone had been shattered, he removed his own coat. He tore a long strip from his shirt, using it to bind the wound and stem the flow of blood.
'What happened?' asked Sir Julius, still dazed by it all.
'Someone fired at you,' said Christopher.
'Who was the devil?'
'That's what I hope to find out.'
Satisfied that Sir Julius was now safe, Christopher hared across the grass towards the spinney and vanished into the trees. His sword was back in his hand and he did not mind that he was dripping wet to the waist. He blamed himself for being caught off guard. Determined to make amends, he searched the spinney thoroughly, using his sword to push back shrubs and bushes. But the attacker had fled. As he came out of the trees on the other side, Christopher found a set of hoof prints gouged in the earth, suggesting a speedy departure. The man could be half a mile away by now.
Filled with remorse, he trudged back towards the oth
ers, fearing how Susan Cheever would react when she learned what had happened to her father. Christopher had not forewarned her of the danger that Sir Julius faced and that was certain to horrify her. There would be fierce recriminations. It was only by luck that Sir Julius had not been killed. In responding to Christopher’s yell, he had turned almost simultaneously as the shot was fired. That sudden movement had saved his life but it was no use pointing that out to his younger daughter. She would want to know why Christopher had not confided in her beforehand so that she could have insisted her father take more care on the journey.
Sir Julius was sitting up as Christopher approached.
Any sign of the villain?'
'None,' replied Christopher. 'He got clean away.'
'A pox on him! Look at me,' said Sir Julius, indignantly. 'I was almost drowned, my arm is on fire, my coat has been ruined, and my pipe has floated off downstream.'
'It could have been worse, Sir Julius. Someone tried to kill you. It's only by the grace of God that you are not making the rest of the journey beside Mr Everett.'
'Do you think I don't know that? Get me up.'
Are you sure that you can stand?'
'Of course, man. It's only a flesh wound. I've had far worse.'
Taking care not to touch the injured arm, Christopher lifted him to his feet with the help of the coachman. Water was still dripping copiously from Sir Julius. He let out a snort of disgust.
'Thank heaven I have some fresh apparel with me!'
'It might be better if you changed in private,' advised Christopher.
'I was not intending to strip naked in front of an audience.' 'What I meant is that Mrs Polegate and her children would be shocked if they learned what had happened. To spare them any further distress, it might be politic to say nothing.'
'I agree.' Sir Julius glanced at the other men. 'Not a word of this, do you understand?' Both gave a nod of assent. 'We'll give out that I fell in the river by accident and that Mr Redmayne rescued me. Now - fetch some blankets from the inn. Nobody should see us in this state.'
The coachman and the footman went off. Sheathing his sword, Christopher glanced towards the spinney Unbeknown to them, they had been followed. When they stopped at the inn, someone had worked his way around them then lurked in the trees ahead on the off-chance that his target would come into view. Christopher had one tiny consolation. Sir Julius would no longer be able to deny that he was in jeopardy. It was, however, certainly not the time to emphasize that point.
'How do you feel now, Sir Julius?' he inquired.
'Very wet.'
'What about your arm?'
'It hurts like blazes,' said Sir Julius, 'but that's the least of my worries. My main concern is for Hester Polegate and the boys.'
'Why?'
'I'm a marked man, Christopher. The rogue who failed to kill me will surely try again. As long as they travel with me, Hester and her sons are imperilled. I'm knowingly putting them at risk.'
'There's no need to feel guilty, Sir Julius.'
'How can I help it?'
'By remembering the man in the trees.'
'What do you mean?'
'His shot knocked you off your feet and into the stream,' said Christopher. 'From where he was standing, it must have looked as if he'd killed you. That's why he made such a rapid escape. You can forget about him altogether now. He's riding back to London to tell his paymaster that Sir Julius Cheever is dead.'
Because the man was a Member of Parliament, involved in the government of the nation, Jonathan Bale had assumed that he would have a distinguished address in London. This was not the case at all. When the House of Commons was sitting, and his presence was required in the capital, Lewis Bircroft, who hailed from Norfolk, lodged with friends in their modest house in Coleman Street. Bale had an immediate affinity with the district. In earlier days, the place had been a well-known stronghold of Puritanism.
He was admitted to the house by its owner and asked to wait in the little parlour while Bircroft was summoned. It was some time before the man actually appeared because he had some difficulty descending the staircase. Expecting someone with an air of authority about him, Bale was surprised to meet a short, stooping, emaciated old man with tufts of grey hair sprouting above a prominent forehead like patches of grass on a cliff top. There was a hunted look in Bircroft s eyes and his face was lined with concern. Using a walking stick, he also held his neck at an unusual angle as if it had been twisted out of shape.
Bale introduced himself and explained that he had been to the Parliament House to discover where Bircroft was staying in London. He apologised for calling but said that it was necessary to do so. The other man was extremely wary.
'What do you want with me, Constable?' he asked.
'A few minutes of your time, sir.'
'Then I must sit down.'
'Of course, Mr Bircroft.'
'Bear with me.'
What was a simple movement for Bale was a more complicated exercise for the other man. Shuffling to a chair, he lowered himself with agonising slowness on to it, his limbs poking out at odd angles as he settled down. He was clearly in constant pain. Sitting opposite him. Bale felt sorry for the man. However, he had been sent to get information and did not wish to leave without it.
'Do you know a man named Bernard Everett?' said Bale.
'Yes, he lives near Cambridge.'
'Not any more, I'm afraid. He died some days ago.'
'Dear me!' exclaimed Bircroft. 'What a terrible shame! Bernard was about to join us in the Parliament House. I only arrived here yesterday so I was quite unaware of this news. Had he been ill for long?'
'It was not a natural death, Mr Bircroft. He was murdered.'
The old man gurgled and looked as if he were on the point of having a seizure. Bale had to wait a long while before Bircroft felt able to continue. The visitor explained what had happened in Knightrider Street and how he had become part of the hue and cry that had been set up.
'I'll not abide it, Mr Bircroft,' he said, grimly. 'I'll not have people shot dead in Baynard's Castle ward. However much time and effort it takes, we'll find this villain and see him hang.'
'I admire your commitment, Mr Bale, but I fail to see how I can be of any assistance to you. I did not know Bernard Everett well.'
'But you were a close friend of Sir Julius Cheever.'
'I was,' confessed Bircroft:, 'at one time.'
'Are you no longer associated with him?'
'Only in the loosest way.'
'I believe that you and he shared so many common objectives,' said Bale. 'May I ask why the two of you fell out?'
Bircroft looked away. 'That's a private matter.'
'You were wont to visit his house.'
'Yes, I was.'
'Did you lose faith in your ideals?'
'No!' retorted Bircroft. 'I would never do that and I find your question offensive. I repudiate nothing.' He was trembling with passion. 'Do you know where you are, Mr Bale?'
'Yes, sir - in Coleman Street.'
'And are you aware of its reputation?'
'Of course, Mr Bircroft. I rejoice in its Puritan values.'
'In 1642, when the King's father was on the throne, he sought to silence opposition in parliament by arresting five of its leaders. Those men - Pym, Hampton, Hesilrige, Holies and Strode - had to flee for their lives. They hid here in Coleman Street. A week later, they were able to return in triumph to Westminster.'
'I'm familiar with the story, sir.' 'Then do not accuse me of lacking ideals. I stay in this part of the city because this is where I belong, politically and in every other sense. I may not have the same strength to champion my beliefs in the House of Commons, but I can work by other means to achieve my ends. I write pamphlets, I speak to clubs in private, I disseminate ideas.'
'Yet you withdrew from the group that is led by Sir Julius.'
'I admit it freely.'
'And another man who fell away was Mr Manville.'
'Art
hur had his own reasons.'
'Was it because he had his nose slit?' said Bale, repeating the question he had read in Christopher's letter. 'And were you, in turn, frightened away by the men who attacked you with cudgels?'
Bircroft shuddered as harrowing memories flooded back. Two hideous minutes in an alleyway had left his body permanently distorted and he would never be able to walk properly again. Yet he tried to cling on to a shred of dignity.
'Violence will never change my fundamental ideals.'
'But it can stop you expressing them.'
'I was foolish,' claimed Bircroft. 'When I walked through Covent Garden that day, I did not keep my wits about me. Those bullies fell on me because I was an easy prey. Once they'd knocked me senseless, they stole my purse and made off. Anyone else who'd been alone in that alleyway would have suffered the same fate.'
'So you did not see the beating as a kind of warning?'
'No, Mr Bale.'
'What about the attack on Mr Manville?'
'Ask him about that,' said Bircroft:, knuckles tightening on his walking stick. 'Arthur was too reckless. He courted a particular lady even though she was married. Her husband learned of it. I think that he paid for the disfigurement.'
'Is that what Mr Manville thinks?'
'Yes.'
'And was the husband in question a politician, by any chance?'
'What difference does that make?'
'Was he, Mr Bircroft?' pressed Bale.
The old man shifted uneasily in his chair. 'Yes,' he said.
'But not of your persuasion?'
'Good Lord - no!'
'So it could have been an attack on a political opponent?'
'Why are you bothering me with these questions?'
'Because we see a link here,' said Bale.
'Between what?'
'All three of you, sir.'
'I do not follow.'
'You, Mr Manville and Mr Everett,' said the constable. 'It's too much of a coincidence. One by one, Sir Julius Cheever's supporters have been whittled away. Mr Manville does not speak in parliament any more, you are in no condition to do so, and Mr Everett was never even allowed to take his seat. The same person is behind all these outrages. You must have some idea who he might be.'
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