The Parliament House

by Edward Marston

  'Do you see much of Sir Julius in parliament?'

  'Far too much. I do not mind lively debate - it's the essence of our democracy - but I do draw the line at personal invective. Respect for one's political opponents is important, I feel. When the business of the day is done, we should be able to shake hands and act as gentlemen.'

  'I cannot imagine Sir Julius shaking hands with a government minister,' said Henry. 'He would sooner amputate his whole arm.'

  'It makes for so much unnecessary hostility.'

  Henry did not know him well but he had followed Farwell's career with interest. The man's rise had been swift and sure. Unlike most successful politicians, he seemed to have held himself aloof from the cabals and conspiracies that animated the Parliament House. Maurice Farwell was above such things. Henry had never once heard his name connected with skullduggery or corruption.

  'In some ways,' admitted Farwell, 'I admire him. We need men of Sir Julius's calibre. He has a simple integrity that shines like a candle in the darkness. But he does not, alas, treat us with any regard,' he said. 'Full-throated abuse is all that we hear. And there is such a ring of defiance about him. He still seems to think that the Lord Protector will walk into the chamber at any moment.'

  'Cromwell is dead - thank goodness! Those dark days are over.'

  'You would not think so to listen to Sir Julius.'

  'He has supporters, I hear.'

  'A ragbag of hangers-on. Nobody of any standing follows him. Though he could have counted on Bernard Everett,' he conceded. 'Now, he would have been a much more formidable opponent. His death was untimely. By repute, he was a master of debate. I would have enjoyed locking horns with Mr Everett.'

  'My brother is involved in the pursuit of his killer.'

  'Indeed? More power to his elbow.'

  'Christopher was the architect who designed Sir Julius's house.'

  'Then he earned his fee,' said Farwell, approvingly. 'I've seen the place. It's a fine piece of architecture.' He lowered his voice. 'I trust that your brother does not share his client's political opinions?'

  'He finds them repellent.'

  'Too strong a word - Sir Julius is misguided, that is all.'

  'Christopher tells me that he has mellowed slightly of late.'

  'We saw no sign of it in parliament yesterday. He was as bellicose as ever. A debate is always another battlefield to him. However,' he added with a chuckle, 'I do believe that there's been something of a change in his private life and I, unwittingly, was the cause of it.'

  'Are you referring to Mrs Kitson?'

  'You've heard about the attachment?'

  'One of his daughters told me about it. I was thunderstruck. It's hard to think of a more eccentric liaison.'

  'My wife more or less prophesied it,' said Farwell, proudly. 'Adele warned me some time ago that Dorothy Kitson was ready to consider marriage once more and - lo and behold - along comes Sir Julius.'

  'I pity the poor lady.'

  'There's obviously a mutual attraction of some kind.'

  'Sir Julius has the appeal of a gargoyle.'

  'I disagree. Some might consider him to have a rugged charm. And I'm told that he has two very beautiful daughters.'

  Henry pounced on his cue. 'No, Mr Farwell,' he said, beaming, 'I dispute that. One is beautiful but the other is quite exquisite.'

  'Clearly, you know them both.'

  'Not as well as I would wish.'

  'Do they take after their father?'

  'Happily - no.'

  'It looks as if they may soon acquire a stepmother,' said Farwell, 'and I give my wholehearted blessing to the match. Dorothy Kitson is a delightful person. If anyone can tame Sir Julius, then it is she. He might yet be redeemed by the love of a good woman.'

  Jonathan Bale was an indifferent horseman and the ride was a trial for him. Conscious of his friends discomfort, Christopher Redmayne took them along at a steady trot. A canter would have troubled the constable. A hell-for-leather gallop would have hurled him from the saddle of the borrowed animal. After speaking with Bridget McCoy at the Saracens Head, the two men were on their way to Smithfield. Both she and her son were ready to go with them but Christopher declined the offer. Patrick needed rest and the sight of his mother would only put their quarry to flight again. With the drawing of the killer in his pocket, and with the certainty that the man worked as a Smithfield porter, Christopher felt that they had enough information to run him to ground themselves.

  'You are handling the mare well, Jonathan,' he said.

  'I'd rather not handle her at all.'

  'It's the quickest way to get to Smithfield.'

  'I'd sooner crawl there on my hands and knees,' said Bale, holding on to the reins as if his life depended on it. 'It feels so unsafe up here.'

  'You'll get used to it.'

  Covering over ten acres, Smithfield had been the city's largest meat market for centuries. It was famed for its turbulence and as the site of many executions. Smithfield was the home of the annual Bartholomew Fair, an occasion for unbridled rowdiness and debauchery. So notorious was it as a place of fighting and duelling that it was known as Ruffians Hall. In an attempt to impose a degree of order, the area had been paved and provided with sewers and railings, but old habits died hard. It was still pulsing with danger.

  Christopher and Bale became aware of it long before it came into view. Slaughtermen had been working in earnest and the stink of blood and offal was carried on the light breeze. It made them both retch. The noise, too, came out to meet them. Crazed cattle, sheep and pigs set up a constant din as they scuttled here and there in a vain attempt to avoid their grisly fate. When the riders got to Smithfield itself, the stench was indescribable. Everywhere they looked, axes were being swung and doomed animals were sending their last cries of protest up to heaven.

  It was no place for the faint-hearted or for the unwary. As soon as they dismounted, the first thing that Christopher did was to employ a young boy to look after their horses, promising to pay him when they returned so that they could guarantee he would still be there. A ghastly scene confronted them. Blood-soaked men were loading meat into carts. A fresh supply of cattle was just arriving. A barking dog was chasing some sheep. A mischievous drover, much the worse for drink, let loose a large bull and it rampaged around the market, scattering all and sundry, before disappearing into one of the shops to cause even more havoc. It was a typical day at Smithfield.

  They talked to anyone who hired porters. A description was given, the drawing was shown and Christopher hinted at a reward for any help. Their efforts brought little result at first. People either did not recognise the man or protected him out of a false loyalty. It took them an hour before they finally found someone willing to assist them. He was a squat individual with a porcine face and thick forearms. After staring at Bridget McCoy’s art for some time, he gave a nod.

  'Yes, I know him,' he said. 'Dan Crothers.'

  'Are you certain of that?' asked Bale.

  'I should be. He works for me.'

  'Is he here now?'

  'No,' said the man. 'He disappeared. Dan's like that.'

  'Could he have been in Leadenhall Market earlier on?'

  'That's where I sent him with the cart. He had meat to deliver. Dan brought the cart back then vanished.'

  'Has he always worked here?' said Christopher.

  'On and off.'

  'Was he ever in the army?'

  'Yes, sir. Eight years, he served.'

  'So he'd be used to handling weapons?'

  'Sword, dagger, pistol, musket - Dan knows them all.'

  'I see,' said Christopher with a meaningful glance at Bale. 'Has he been here all this week?'

  'No,' grumbled the man, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'Dan went off somewhere for a day or two. I only employ him, of course, so he didn't bother to tell me. When he got back, I swinged him soundly. If he kept going off, I warned him, I'd find another porter.'

  Christopher tried to conta
in his excitement. Everything he had heard confirmed that they might have found the elusive Mr Field at last. He had been in Leadenhall Street that morning so could well have encountered Bridget McCoy and her son. He had also been away from his work at the very time when Sir Julius Cheever had been ambushed in Hertfordshire. As a former soldier, Crothers would be proficient with a musket. If he were only a humble porter, being paid to commit murder would have a strong temptation for him.

  'Where does he live?' said Christopher.

  'Old Street,' the man told him. 'Hard by St Luke's Church. Are you going to pay Dan a visit, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then tell him not to come back here. I'll not take him on again.'

  'You won't be able to,' said Bale, solemnly.

  Christopher dropped some coins into the man's grubby hand. After collecting their horses, they rode off towards Old Street, glad to escape the multiple horrors of Smithfield. Bale's face was expressionless but he felt the same inner thrill as Christopher. The hunt might be over. The killer who had desecrated the constable's beloved ward would now pay for his crime. So keen was Bale to get there that he forgot all about his fear of riding a horse.

  When they reached Old Street, they soon found the house. It was little more than a hovel. Whatever he had done with his blood money, Dan Crothers had not used it to find more a comfortable lodging. They tethered their horses and approached with care. Christopher sent Bale around to the rear of the house before he knocked on the door. There was no reply. He pounded with his fist and, this time, the door swung back on its hinges.

  'Mr Crothers!' he called. 'Are you there?'

  Still there was no response. Taking out his sword, Christopher pushed the door fully open and stepped furtively into the house. On the ground floor, it comprised two small rooms and an evil- smelling scullery. They were all empty. He went slowly up the bare wooden stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible but unable to stop the loud creak of a loose step. Two rooms stood ahead of him. One door was ajar and he could see that there was nobody inside the room. When he turned to look at the other door, however, he sensed danger.

  'Mr Crothers!' he called again. 'Dan Crothers!'

  There was an eerie silence. Convinced that there was someone in the room, Christopher inched forward. It was no time for misplaced heroism. The man had a musket and he knew how to fire it. Christopher had to temper his eagerness with commonsense. He yelled once more.

  'Mr Crothers - I'm coming in!'

  Kicking open the door, he then jumped back quickly out of sight so that any shot would go harmlessly past him. As it happened, there was no resistance at all. Dan Crothers was in no position to offer it. He was lying on his back in the middle of the room. Christopher took out the drawing to compare it with the face of the dead man. Bridget McCoy's work was uncannily accurate. All his features were there. Mr Field was without doubt the alias of Dan Crothers. There was one significant difference between the drawing and the man on the floor. It was a detail that the Irishwoman might be pleased to add.

  His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  'There's no need at all for you to be there, Orlando,' said Dorothy Kitson.

  'I could not possibly let you go alone.'

  'I do not require a chaperone.'

  'I think that you do,' said her brother, fussily 'and that's why I insist on accompanying you. My presence will act as a needful restraint.'

  Dorothy laughed. 'A restraint against what?'

  'Impulsive action. It will also introduce some balance. If you went there alone, you would be hopelessly outnumbered.'

  'This is an informal meeting, Orlando, not a skirmish.'

  'Nevertheless, I'll not see my sister put at a disadvantage.'

  Orlando Golland had called on her to find out what time they were bidden that evening. Ordinarily, he would strenuously have avoided the company of Sir Julius Cheever but circumstances compelled him to go. What surprised him was how calm and unflustered his sister was about the forthcoming event. Golland was already having qualms.

  'I spoke to Maurice Farwell about it,' he said.

  'About what?'

  'This ludicrous friendship you have with Sir Julius.'

  'It's not ludicrous,' she replied, sharply.

  'Then what is it?'

  'Something that has given me untold pleasure. As for Maurice, I think it very unkind of you to discuss my personal affairs with him.'

  'I took him to task for introducing the pair of you at Newmarket.'

  'Then talked about us as if we were two horses in the paddock, I've no doubt.' Dorothy took a moment to suppress her anger. 'Orlando, I have a pleasant friendship with a certain gentleman. That is all. It's not a source of gossip for you and Maurice Farwell.'

  'But his wife foresaw it all.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Adele had a distinct feeling about you.'

  'She made no mention of it to me.'

  'According to her husband, she sensed that you were ready to welcome a man back into your life again. The tragedy is that you chose Sir Julius.'

  'I chose him as a friend - not as anything else.'

  'He may have higher aspirations.'

  'Well, he has not discussed them with me.'

  'Maurice was as surprised as any of us.'

  'I'm not interested in Maurice's opinion, or that of his wife.'

  'He could not believe that Sir Julius could turn suitor at his age,' said Golland, 'and he found it even more difficult to accept that you should encourage his overtures.'

  'Sir Julius has not made any overtures.'

  'What else is this invitation but a declaration of intent?'

  'For heaven's sake, Orlando,' she said, her exasperation showing. 'It's perfectly natural that Sir Julius should want me to make the acquaintance of his daughters. It will put a stop to any idle speculation on their part about our friendship. At least,' she continued, 'I hoped that it would. Your presence will probably only inflame it.'

  'How?'

  'They will interpret it as a sign that you are examining their family to see if a closer relationship with them is desirable.'

  'I'm certain that it is not.'

  'Only because you do not know Sir Julius.'

  'Maurice Farwell does.'

  'Leave him out of this,' she responded, tartly.

  'He considers him to be an ogre.'

  'Maurice's views are irrelevant. So, for that matter, are yours. I'll not let anyone else live my life for me. I'm old enough and wise enough to make my own decisions. And that, Orlando,' she said, looking him in the eye, 'is exactly what I intend to do.'

  When he saw that the man was dead, Christopher Redmayne went to the window and summoned his companion. Jonathan Bale soon joined him and the pair of them bent over the corpse to inspect it.

  'He has not been dead long,' decided Bale.

  'How do you know?'

  'Because I've seen too many murder victims in my time.'

  'Yes, I'm sure.'

  'The blood is still fresh and there's no sign of rigor mortis. That only starts to set in after four hours or more.'

  'He was obviously a strong man,' noted Christopher, looking at the broad shoulders and the muscular arms. 'He'd not have been easy to overpower.'

  'That's why he was knocked out first,' said Bale, turning the head of the corpse so that a gash became visible. Blood had stained the back of the scalp. 'I think that Mr Crothers was hit from behind before having his throat slit. What I don't know is why anyone should want to kill him.'

  'It was because he failed, Jonathan.'

  'Failed?'

  'He had two attempts at shooting Sir Julius and, each time, his victim survived. It must have been very galling for his paymaster,' said Christopher. 'I was there when the second shot was fired and it looked as if Sir Julius was dead. That report would have been brought back to London. Imagine the shock for the man who employed Crothers when he realised that Sir Julius was, in fact, still alive.'

 
'He'd be very angry, Mr Redmayne.'

  'I think he lost patience with his hired killer.'

  'There's another thing,' said Bale. 'As long as Mr Crothers carried on his old job as a porter, there was always the chance that he'd be found in the end. He knew too much. Someone silenced him.'

  'He may yet be able to tell us something.'

  'Search his pockets.'

  'I will. You see what else you can find.'

  Bale looked around the room. It was small, dirty and poorly furnished. Dan Crothers had pathetically few possessions. Beyond a pile of old clothing, there was little apart from some bread, wrapped up in a cloth, and a flagon of beer. Hidden away underneath the bed, however, was a collection of weapons. Bale got down on his knees to pull out a dagger, a cudgel, a flintlock pistol and a musket. There was powder and ammunition for both firearms.

  'This is the musket that killed Mr Everett,' said Bale, holding it in his hands. 'The murder's been solved. Mr Crothers is the guilty man.'

  'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Unfortunately, someone has done the executioner's job for us. If we'd caught him alive, he might have been able to tell us who suborned him to commit the crime. That's the real villain, Jonathan - the man behind all this.'

  'Was there anything in his pockets?'

  'A piece of cheese and a few coins, that's all.'

  'Have you felt inside the coat, sir?'

  'I could find no pockets there.'

  'Let me try,' said Bale, putting the musket aside and crouching beside the corpse. 'Criminals sometimes have secret pouches sewn into their coats where they can hide things.' He groped around until his hand closed on something. 'I thought so.'

  'What have you discovered?'

  'Not much, sir, but it may help us.' He withdrew his hand and opened his palm. He was holding two pieces of paper. 'Messages of some kind, I think.'

  Christopher took them from him. The first one was a short letter, written in a neat hand, informing Crothers that Sir Julius Cheever would be travelling to Cambridge that very day. It was unsigned. A different correspondent had sent the other letter. Using a spidery scrawl, he simply gave a date and the name of the Saracens Head in Knightrider Street. Christopher passed both missives to Bale to read.