The King's Evil

by Andrew Taylor

  After we had searched the body and examined the rest of the pavilion, I dined privately with Milcote in the steward’s quarters. He did not press me further with his arguments for moving the body. I had the impression that part of him was ashamed of having suggested it. Not that I condemned him – indeed, I honoured him for it in one way, because I realized that his loyalty to Lord Clarendon lay behind it.

  I scarcely noticed what I ate, and we had little conversation. My mind was full of what I had learned in the last two hours. Our inspection of the pavilion had made it clear that the lower windows were barred and the upper ones were secure. The roof appeared intact. There was a viewing platform at the top, but the door to it, which was at the head of the staircase that had brought us down to the basement, was bolted and barred from the inside.

  In other words, the door from the garden appeared to be the only point of access. And there were – as both Milcote and later the steward confirmed – only four keys to it: Lord Clarendon’s, the steward’s, Milcote’s – and Hakesby’s.

  Before we left the pavilion, I had examined both the lock and Milcote’s copy of the key. I was no expert but I could see that it was a modern lock; the wards of the key were designed to turn four levers within the lock, and each was a different size from the others. To copy a key like this, I suspected, would require the services of a skilled locksmith. There was no sign of the mechanism having been forced.

  To add to the mystery, the garden was full of people by day and overlooked from the house. No stranger could have passed through unobserved. By night, the garden gates were locked, the dogs let loose and the night watchmen patrolled at regular intervals.

  True, I had solved another, lesser mystery to my private satisfaction, or at least discovered a plausible solution to it: if Hakesby had been here to work on the pavilion, then Cat might well have accompanied him at least some of the time. Alderley could have caught sight of her on one of his visits to Milcote.

  Time was running out. The body could not be kept a secret for long, not in a world where the Duke of Buckingham and his allies were working so industriously against Lord Clarendon. The Duke of York was determined to avoid Alderley’s corpse becoming an embarrassment to his father-in-law, and therefore to himself. The King seemed equally determined, though as ever his motives were difficult to discern; perhaps he simply wanted to oblige his brother, or perhaps he had his own reasons for not wanting to lend ammunition to the enemies of Lord Clarendon, his former Lord Chancellor and his loyal companion and adviser during the long years of exile.

  From Clarendon’s point of view, there were only two outcomes that would help him: the first was discovering how Alderley had died and bringing his killer, if there had been one, to justice in a way that completely absolved Clarendon himself; the other was far simpler – Milcote’s suggestion of moving the body elsewhere. If the King ordered the latter, it would be done. But not otherwise.

  What worried me most was this: if, as seemed probable, Alderley had been murdered, then the most likely killer was Catherine Lovett. As I knew only too well, she was a woman who had few scruples when her passions were engaged, and Edward Alderley had given her every reason to hate him.

  I would not betray her – or not willingly, for we had survived too much together for that. But if anyone else stumbled on the Clarendon House connection between her and Edward Alderley, then I would not give much for her chances – or indeed for my own, for I had already concealed what I knew of her.

  If they hanged the daughter of a Regicide for Edward Alderley’s murder, would it not be convenient for everyone except Hakesby and myself? Moreover, I had given Cat forewarning that Alderley had somehow found her. Might that be construed as making me an accessory to his murder?

  As the meal neared its end, I discussed at least some of this with George Milcote. He could not have been more helpful, though he was careful what he said when our conversation touched on anything that might affect the honour of Lord Clarendon. I liked his loyalty to his master, and I regretted that the circumstances obliged me to lie to him, at least by omission.

  ‘When did you last see Alderley?’ I asked.

  ‘Last week. We met at the Three Tuns at Charing Cross.’

  ‘He seemed as usual?’

  ‘Yes. He was in a good humour. We were discussing an investment of mine. I have a small share in a privateer, and he’d offered to buy it.’

  I remembered the purse we had found. ‘He wasn’t that poor, then?’

  ‘No. I gathered that his affairs had taken a turn for the better.’ There was a ghost of a smile on Milcote’s face. ‘He paid for our wine.’

  ‘I must speak as soon as possible to the servant who found the body,’ I said. ‘Gorse, was it?’

  ‘Yes – Matthew Gorse. Will you come back here in the evening, or shall I send him to you?’

  ‘I shall need to come back here at some point,’ I said with more certainty than I felt. ‘Don’t let him leave until I’ve seen him.’

  To maintain the fiction that I had never heard of Hakesby, I asked Milcote who he was, and whether he was to be trusted.

  ‘Mr Pratt vouched for him,’ he said. ‘In fact it was my lady – the late Lady Clarendon, that is – who suggested him.’

  ‘Pratt?’

  ‘Mr Roger Pratt – the architect. He designed the house for my lord, but he was unable to take on the pavilions.’

  ‘How did Lady Clarendon know of Mr Hakesby?’

  ‘I don’t think she ever mentioned it.’ Milcote shrugged. ‘No reason why she should have done, of course. The important thing is that Mr Pratt vouched for him. I understand that he has worked with both Dr Wren and Dr Hooke, and they speak highly of him too.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘Henrietta Street – he has a Drawing Office at the sign of the Rose. He handles the overseeing of the builders as well as the surveying and designing. I own I was a little concerned when I first met him – he has a palsy or ague, poor man – but it seems not to affect the quality of his work. He has able people working under him. I know my lady valued his willingness to indulge her desire to retain so much of the old banqueting house in the new building. Will you go and see him now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, with intentional vagueness, ‘I must see Mr Hakesby. And as soon as possible.’

  But I had other things to do first. There was no reason to mention that to Mr Milcote.

  It was still raining. I decided to take a coach.

  I walked along Piccadilly in search of a hackney, trying to avoid the spray from passing vehicles and horses. Perhaps it was because of the rain but I couldn’t find a coach for hire at the nearest stand. I went on, pulling my hat down and huddling into my cloak.

  William Chiffinch had sent me to meet Lady Quincy. And it was also he who had sent me here. But he was the King’s creature in all he did, for there lay his best chance of advancing his own interest. Was the King behind both these commissions? Did that mean they were somehow connected?

  Opposite the Royal Mews, liveried servants were opening the great gates of Wallingford House, where the Duke of Buckingham lived when he was in town. I stopped to watch. Outriders appeared, followed by an enormous coach, which was decorated with golden lions and peacocks and drawn by six matching horses. Afterwards came four running footmen, who held on to the straps behind the coach and splashed through the puddles, careless of the filth thrown up on their clothes.

  Now that he had been freed from the Tower, the Duke had no intention of hiding his presence in London. The coach drew up outside the front door, which opened immediately. The Duke himself appeared at the head of the steps. He was a tall, florid gentleman in a blond periwig and a plumed hat. He was dressed in a silver coat and blue breeches, with the matching blue of the Garter ribbon across his chest, and the Garter star itself gleaming over his heart. He waved at the small crowd that had gathered, tossed them a handful of silver and climbed into the coach.

  The crowd cheered him as he dr
ove off towards Whitehall. I walked on in the direction of the hackney stand by Charing Cross.

  The contrast between the Duke and Lord Clarendon could not have been more clearly illustrated – the one a hero to the common people of London, the other a villain. It seemed that even the King was throwing his weight behind Buckingham. But if His Majesty had decided to throw Clarendon to the wolves, to Buckingham and his enemies in Parliament, why had he sent me on a mission that seemed designed to protect Clarendon’s reputation? Was it the Duke of York’s influence? Or did he have some other, deeper motive?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE COACHMAN DROPPED me by Holborn Bridge. ‘Phugh!’ he said, covering his nose with his sleeve. ‘Smells like a whore’s armpit.’

  Fallow Street ran north–south on the east side of the bridge over the Fleet River. The river was choked with rubbish. There was a tannery nearby, and nothing made a neighbourhood stink worse than tanning leather.

  The street was straight and narrow. The southern end had been destroyed by the Fire. The ruins had been cleared, but nothing had been rebuilt yet. People were living there, nevertheless, in makeshift shelters that looked as if a puff of wind would bring them down.

  The southern end of the roadway had recently been partly blocked by the collapse of a long wall that had once marked the outer boundary of a building destroyed by the Fire. Someone on foot could work their way along, but the street was impassable to wheeled traffic.

  I paid off the coachman and picked my way up the street. It was busy enough at the undamaged northern end. I found the carpenter’s shop by the sound of sawing and hammering that came from it. Since the Fire, there had been a great demand for carpenters and a chronic shortage of suitable timber.

  The shutters were open. The master and his apprentice were erecting the frame of a simple bedstead, helped rather than hindered by a small boy of about ten or twelve, who was probably the carpenter’s son. The joints wouldn’t fit together properly – hence the hammering and the sawing and the palpable air of frustration.

  I stood outside, sheltering from the rain and blocking some of their light, until the carpenter paused in his work and glanced up. His shoulders were hunched forward, and he had a big, narrow face and a very small forehead. He looked like a Barbary ape.

  ‘What is it?’ he said curtly. He belatedly assessed my clothes and my air of respectability, and added, ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Alderley’s lodgings,’ I said.

  He pointed at the ceiling. ‘Up there. But he’s away.’

  ‘I know that. I have a key.’

  The carpenter shrugged.

  ‘I also have a warrant that permits me to go inside.’ This was not strictly true. ‘You may have a sight of it.’

  The carpenter came into the doorway and examined the paper I showed him.

  ‘That is the King’s signature,’ I said, pointing. ‘And that is his private seal.’

  He squinted at the warrant and said, in a slightly uncertain voice: ‘It doesn’t say you can come into my house, does it?’

  I lowered my voice, because there was nothing to be gained from shaming the man in front of his inferiors, and said, ‘It’s not your house. It’s Mr Alderley’s. I can come back with a magistrate and a couple of constables if you’d prefer, and I’ll also see you in court for obstructing the King’s justice. Or you can save yourself some trouble and show me where Alderley’s door is.’

  He licked his lips. ‘Did you say you’ve got a key?’

  ‘Of course.’ I showed him the keyring with Alderley’s two keys. ‘And the warrant allows me to use it.’

  ‘All right. Hal – look sharp, take the gentleman round to Mr Alderley’s door.’

  ‘One moment. What’s your name?’

  ‘Thomas Bearwood.’

  ‘When did you last see Mr Alderley?’

  ‘I don’t know. Last week sometime? The wife might know.’ The small boy came out to join us, wiping the snot from his nostrils with the back of his sleeve. His father cuffed him. ‘I said look sharp.’

  The boy let out a howl as a matter of form, though he seemed unharmed. He led me to a passage at the side of the shop that led to the main house. Behind us, the sawing resumed. Without a word, the lad indicated a door with his hand.

  I pushed the larger key into the lock and twisted. The wards turned. The boy stared up at me, and I knew he was trying to get a better look at the scarring that the fire had left on my face. He caught my eye and ran off the way he had come. I glanced up and down the passage. No one was in sight. I opened the door and went inside.

  There was a tiny lobby with a flight of stairs going up from it.

  I shut and bolted the door. I climbed the stairs. They were steep and narrow and let out a creak at every step. At the top was a landing, with three closed doors. The air smelled powerfully of stale urine, which was unremarkable in a house so close to a tannery.

  The nearest door led to a chamber almost entirely filled by a finely carved bedstead. The curtains were drawn back and the bed was unmade. Beyond it was a closet full of clothing, either hanging from pegs on the wall or spilling from a large press. I saw at a glance that these were a rich man’s clothes, a man who liked lace and ribbons and satin. Some showed signs of wear and dirt. But others were new. I touched the sleeve of a velvet suit and wondered how much it had cost Alderley.

  One of the other doors from the landing led to another, much larger closet, this one stuffed with household goods, probably salvaged from Barnabas Place: rolls of tapestries, curtains and carpets; chairs and tables stacked one upon the other; and an iron-bound chest secured with two padlocks and three internal locks. Four swords hung from a wood peg which had been hammered into a crack in the wall – why would any man need more than one? Everything in this room was covered with a layer of dust.

  The third door opened into a large square room at the back of the building, though it seemed smaller because it contained so much. The walls were panelled and hung with many pictures. Alderley had obviously used the chamber as his parlour or sitting room. On the table were the remains of a meal and two empty wine bottles.

  I searched the place as well as I could among such a confusion of objects. What made it more difficult was that I had no idea what I was looking for, other than something that might explain why Alderley’s body had been discovered in the well of Lord Clarendon’s half-built pavilion. I kept my eyes open for boxes and cabinets and the like, but I found nothing with a lock that matched Alderley’s small silver key.

  I paid particular attention to a large desk set in an alcove. The drawers were stuffed with papers – bills, notes of gambling debts and letters. Some of the letters were in a hand I took to be Alderley’s, for several memoranda of debts were in the same writing. These letters were drafts and copies, most of which concerned attempts to raise money by one means or the other. But, on the pile in the right-hand drawer, there was a note in a clerkly hand that stood out from the rest by its neatness. It was dated last Monday, exactly a week ago.

  Sir

  The deeds of your property in Fallow Street are ready for collection from my chambers at any reasonable hour convenient to both parties.

  J. Turner

  No. 5, Barnard’s Inn

  Milcote had said the property was mortgaged. But this letter suggested the mortgage had been redeemed. I had no idea of the size of the loan that a house like this might command, but it might well be substantial; since the Fire, all the remaining property in London had increased in value. I made a note of Turner’s name and address and returned the letter to where I had found it.

  I knew by the light outside that the afternoon was sliding towards evening. Nothing I had found in these overcrowded apartments hinted at a previous connection between Clarendon House and Alderley. Nor had I found any mention of Milcote. The only oddity was the unexpected signs of recent affluence – the new clothes, for example, and the letter from J. Turner of Barnard’s Inn.

  As I was closing
the drawer, a picture hanging on the wall above the desk snagged my attention like a rock in the current of a stream. I stopped and stared at it. I felt a momentary chill.

  The painting was a small portrait of the head and shoulders of a gentlewoman in a plain but heavy frame. The woman was Catherine Lovett.

  Except, of course, it wasn’t Cat at all. This woman belonged to another time, at least twenty or even thirty years ago. She wore a dark green gown with puffed sleeves and a necklace of pearls. Her hair tumbled in ringlets to her white neck.

  In the background of the painting was a house whose outlines were familiar to me. It was called Coldridge, and I had visited it last year. It had once belonged to the family of Cat’s mother, and she had lived there with an aunt for several years when she was a child. It should have been hers but her uncle and Edward Alderley had cheated her out of it.

  There was something wrong with the picture. I drew closer and stooped towards it. The eyes in the portrait were unnaturally large and blank. Then I saw why. Someone had gouged out the pupils of both eyes, probably with the point of a dagger.

  A series of thunderous knocks sounded below.

  I went back downstairs. ‘Who is it?’ I said.

  ‘Mistress Bearwood. Open up.’

  I unbolted the door. The carpenter’s wife barely came up to my elbow but what she lacked in inches she more than made up with force of character. She pushed past me into Alderley’s lobby. She glared at me, her hands on her hips. To all intents and purposes, she felt herself mistress of the situation.

  ‘And who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing, poking around where you’ve no reason to be? Is there any reason I shouldn’t call the constable?’

  I showed her my warrant, which she read attentively.

  ‘It doesn’t say in black and white that you can come into my house,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Not in so many words. But I suppose it’s all right. You’d think Bearwood was born yesterday. He’s as innocent as a newborn baby, and just as stupid. I’m sorry, master, but you could have been anyone.’