The King's Evil

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’s useful to know.’

  ‘We intend to erect a partition to make a separate well chamber. It will be safer. Perhaps we should install a pump. I must see what Mr Milcote says.’ Hakesby’s voice was suddenly stronger, and his face looked younger and keener. Then he remembered where he was, and why I was asking him these questions, and he covered his face with his hands.

  ‘Did Cat go there with you?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes,’ he said. ‘We went over there most days during the last week or two – to discuss the work with Mr Milcote and direct the builders. They are lazy, incompetent fellows, and we must watch them like hawks.’ His lips tightened. ‘I believe they are more terrified of Cat than of me.’

  ‘I’m told you have your own keys for the pavilion.’

  ‘Yes. They confiscated them when they arrested me.’

  ‘Where did you keep them?’

  ‘At the Drawing Office, of course.’

  When I had last talked to Hakesby, four months earlier, Cat had slept in a closet next to the Drawing Office in Henrietta Street, and Hakesby had gone home every night to his lodgings off the Strand. But that might have changed, now they were betrothed, a term that covered a multitude of domestic arrangements.

  ‘And at night?’ I asked.

  Hakesby knitted his tangled eyebrows. ‘What do you mean? My clients’ keys usually stay at the office. They are perfectly safe.’

  ‘And Cat?’

  ‘She’s there too – in her closet, for the present. I trust her entirely, Mr Marwood, and I have no fears about her honesty. You know we are to marry? The bans will be called at St Paul’s, here in Covent Garden, God willing. After our wedding, I intend for us to settle in Henrietta Street. I’ve arranged to take a lease on the apartments below the Drawing Office.’

  I nodded, ignoring my inexplicable relief that they were not already sharing a bed. But I couldn’t ignore the inconvenient fact that Cat had had access to the pavilion keys at night, after Hakesby and Brennan had left the office.

  ‘Why am I being held here?’ Hakesby burst out. ‘What have I done, for God’s sake? Why would I wish Alderley any harm? They keep asking me where Cat is, but I don’t know. I wish I did.’

  I crouched in front of him. ‘If I am to help her,’ I whispered, ‘and help you into the bargain, I must find her. Have you any idea where she might be?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know if I trust you.’

  I ignored that.

  He hesitated but in the end he must have decided that his silence could help no one. ‘On Saturday,’ he said. ‘We supped together at the Lamb. You remember – the tavern in Wych Street where we met in May? And afterwards we parted for the night.’

  ‘Was there anything strange about her manner?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t aware of anything. She was a little quieter than usual, perhaps …’ Again, his depression briefly lifted. ‘We talked about Dr Hooke, I remember – I heard a rumour he may design a house after the French way for my Lord Montagu.’

  ‘And after supper, you parted directly?’

  Hakesby nodded. ‘She walked back to the Drawing Office, and I went to my lodgings.’

  ‘So the last time she was seen was at the Lamb?’

  ‘By me, yes.’

  I stared at him. ‘So did someone else see her after that?’

  ‘Brennan did. He supped with us, and offered to walk back with her. He lodges near Charing Cross, so it’s not far out of his way, and Covent Garden can be a sadly profligate place, especially by night.’ Hakesby’s eyes were anxious. ‘He’s done it before when we’ve supped at the Lamb.’

  ‘Were you and Brennan concerned when she wasn’t in the office yesterday morning?’

  ‘No. Not at first, in any case. She had told Brennan she had some errands to run on Monday morning. It was only later, when she didn’t return, that I began to grow anxious. And then …’

  I questioned him for a few minutes more, but found out nothing of importance. He was desperately worried about Cat and also about his own plight. His inability to work hung heavily over him, and his ague seemed to have worsened since I had last seen him. But, for all his weakness, Hakesby was wary of me, and I could not be sure he was not withholding information.

  He and I had been thrown together in the past, but I was never sure he trusted me. For a start, I worked for the King and government; whereas his loyalties had been with the other side during the late disturbances and during the Commonwealth. Then there was Cat. He thought I had led her into danger last May. I could hardly blame him for that: he was right.

  When I left him, I gave him ten shillings and told him to use the money to buy better food than the mixture of grit, rancid fat and rat-droppings that they served to prisoners who had no means to pay for anything better. On my way out, I gave the sergeant a crown piece and told him to make sure that no harm came to the old man.

  I tapped the side of my nose and told him in a confidential whisper, ‘They want to keep him plump and in the best of health at present.’

  ‘As you fatten a goose for Christmas, sir?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I patted my purse. ‘If all goes well, I’ll be back in a day or two with another crown for you.’

  When I went outside, I discovered it had started to rain again. The weather matched my mood. I was not in a good humour. It had saddened me to see Hakesby in the condition he was in. I had made no substantial progress whatsoever. I didn’t know who had killed Alderley, and I didn’t know where Cat was. There was the nagging uncertainty about the identity of the anonymous letter writer who had betrayed Cat and Hakesby to Chiffinch. I was not looking forward to my rendezvous with Milcote and Gorse tonight, either.

  Nor had I much liked my behaviour with the sergeant. The ways of Whitehall – bullying, bribery and flattery – were rubbing off on me. Indeed, I was so adept at using them that I feared they were becoming part of me.

  If you touch pitch, my father used to tell me, you’ll be defiled. I was well on my way to becoming as black as sin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  OUTSIDE THE GREAT Gate at Whitehall, I took a hackney coach. As I was closing the door, I glanced past it and saw someone who looked familiar among the knot of men loitering under the archway.

  It was hard to be sure, but it looked like the man in the brown coat who had been at the back of the crowd outside Clarendon House this morning – one of those whom Milcote suspected of being in the Duke of Buckingham’s pay. Even as I saw him, however, the man turned away and sauntered out of sight.

  Suddenly, and with a sense of impending disaster, I remembered where I had seen him earlier: if I was right, he had been not merely at Clarendon House, but before that, on Sunday, standing outside the house where Lady Quincy, Stephen and I had called on Mr Knight. But what possible connection could there be between Lord Clarendon’s enemies and Lady Quincy’s visit to the surgeon?

  I ordered the coachman to take me to Covent Garden. Now that Alderley was dead, and I was under orders to investigate both his death and Cat’s disappearance, there was no reason why I shouldn’t visit Hakesby’s office quite openly. On the way, I tried not to let my mind dwell too much on the man in the long brown coat. I had never seen him closely, after all, either at Whitehall or in Piccadilly. I would surely have noticed him before if he had followed me all the way from Clarendon House. Perhaps I had been led astray by a chance similarity.

  When the coach set me down in Henrietta Street, I knocked on the door of Hakesby’s house and asked for Brennan. I looked respectable enough for the porter to admit me without question. He was about to summon his boy to take me up to the Drawing Office, when I stopped him.

  ‘A word in your ear first. I’ve just seen Mr Hakesby at Scotland Yard. He’s concerned about his cousin, Mistress Hakesby.’ Cat went under that name here, to hide her true identity. ‘Has she returned yet?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t help you, sir. I hardly know
them.’

  He was a bad liar. No doubt Hakesby’s arrest had scared him into holding his tongue.

  I showed him my warrant. ‘I ask in the King’s name. Have you seen Mistress Hakesby?’

  The porter shuffled his feet. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘Saturday evening.’

  I thanked him with a shilling. Then, as if a sudden thought had struck me, I said, ‘You saw her when she came back after supper?’

  ‘Yes, I saw her then.’ He hesitated, his eyes straying towards the warrant in my hand. There had been a slight stress on the word ‘then’.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I saw her again later, sir, when she went out. She said she’d arranged to meet a friend, and she might stay the night.’

  ‘A friend? Who?’

  He was growing uneasy. ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Was it something she often did?’

  ‘Never, since you ask.’ He gave a little shrug, as if coming to a decision. ‘Between you and me, she wanted it kept quiet. Didn’t want Mr Hakesby to know, or Mr Brennan – or anyone. Didn’t want to worry them, she said.’

  ‘And where did you think she was going?’

  ‘A young woman sneaking off at eleven o’clock at night, sir?’ He winked. ‘Not wanting her betrothed to know? It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘A lover?’ I said. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. And you were wise to tell me of it.’

  The boy took me upstairs. I found Brennan hunched over his drawing board. He was not a prepossessing man to look at, but then nor was I.

  ‘Mr Marwood,’ he said, laying down his pen and coming towards me. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I come from your master,’ I said.

  He spat out, ‘Was it you who had him arrested?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m trying to help him. And Mistress Hakesby.’

  Brennan coloured at the mention of Cat. He was in love with her, I believed, and he disliked me because the fool mistook me as his rival for her affections.

  ‘I must talk to her if I’m to help her,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t want to help her. You want me to betray her.’

  I gave him credit for courage, if not for intelligence. ‘Don’t be a fool. I could have you arrested if I wanted, but that wouldn’t help her. Or Mr Hakesby. You walked her back here on Saturday evening, after you’d supped with her and your master at the Lamb. What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He waved his hand towards his desk. ‘Work.’

  I had nothing to lose so I resorted to bluff. ‘I think you know where she is. Tell her I have been here. Tell her I may be able to help but she must let me talk to her. I can do nothing for her without that.’

  He shrugged and turned away.

  ‘Otherwise,’ I said softly, ‘they will find her sooner or later, and they will hang her.’

  Brennan caught his breath. But he said nothing.

  ‘And it will be your fault.’

  He would not budge. I cajoled him. I threatened him. I shouted at him. All the while, he stood there, pen in hand, with an obstinate expression on his face and his mouth clamped shut, tight as an oyster. They could have burned him at the stake and he wouldn’t have uttered a word. I’ve seen how religion can turn a man into a martyr. Love can do it too.

  There was a knock at the open door. The porter’s boy was hovering in the doorway. ‘There’s a man wants you, sir,’ he said, looking at Brennan.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir – he’s got something for you. He’s downstairs.’

  ‘Send him up then.’

  ‘He won’t come – he won’t leave his pack and his horse.’

  ‘What’s he got for me? Can’t he give it to you?’

  The boy looked dumbly at Brennan and shrugged. Brennan swore and said, ‘Very well, I’ll come down.’ He glanced at me. ‘After you, sir.’

  He was clearly glad to have an excuse to get rid of me. We filed downstairs. The porter was on the doorstep, talking to the pedlar or whoever he was, a ragged fellow with a pronounced squint. They stood aside to let me pass. I walked slowly away towards Covent Garden.

  ‘What do you want?’ I heard Brennan say behind me.

  ‘Mr Brennan?’ the pedlar said. ‘Ginger hair, yes, I see it’s you. I’ve a letter for you.’

  I glanced back. Brennan was staring past the pedlar at me. I raised my hand, as if in farewell, and hurried away.

  From Covent Garden I walked through the rain to Fetter Lane. On the way I made myself pass by Clifford’s Inn, where the Fire Court sat to adjudicate disputes on the rebuilding of London. It was also where I had suffered the burns which had left me scarred for life. One must face one’s devils or they grow stronger.

  I came out of the inn by the Fetter Lane gate and turned up towards Holborn. Barnard’s Inn, another inn of Chancery, was on the west side: which was fortunate for its inhabitants, for most of the buildings on the east side of the lane had been destroyed by the Fire last year; the area was still a wasteland of blackened ruins and the temporary shelters of the poor.

  I asked at the lodge for Mr Turner and was directed to a staircase beyond the hall. Originally the inn had been intended for students of law but in recent years a number of attorneys had taken chambers here, finding it a convenient place to transact their business.

  Mr Turner had a commodious set on the first floor. In the outer office, his clerk was at work at a high desk. The room was lined with deed boxes and beribboned files stacked high on shelves. The door to the inner room was ajar, and I glimpsed two men sitting in conversation, their periwigged heads so close they were almost touching.

  ‘Frankley!’ One of the periwigged heads turned. Blue eyes set in a red face glared impartially at the clerk and me. ‘I told you to shut that door.’

  The clerk scuttled across the room and closed the inner door. He was a small, dark man with one shoulder higher than the other. He bowed to me and asked how he might be of service.

  ‘I wish to enquire about a mortgage which was recently redeemed. I believe Mr Turner handled the transaction.’

  There was a flash of understanding in the man’s face, a brief rearrangement of the muscles: it suggested that he knew what I was talking about. Perhaps the transaction had not been in Mr Turner’s usual line of business, or had been memorable for some other reason.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know when my master will be at leisure, sir. He has a gentleman with him now.’

  ‘The matter relates to a property in Fallow Street owned by Mr Edward Alderley. I merely want to know who held the mortgage on it.’

  ‘I can’t possibly tell you that, sir. The business of my master’s clients is confidential.’

  I wondered if the clerk was looking at the side of my face that had been marked by the fire. ‘You would be wise to do so,’ I said, more sharply than I had intended.

  I showed him my warrant. His eyes widened when he saw the signature and the seal. He glanced up at me with fear in his eyes.

  ‘I’m pressed for time,’ I said gently. ‘I shall apply formally to Mr Turner for the information in due course. But there is no need to disturb him if you would rather not. All I need is the name of the mortgagee. Not in writing or officially. Just the name will do, at this stage.’

  He hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should ask Mr Turner after all …’ he said, looking at the closed door.

  ‘I will not look kindly on delay,’ I said, making my voice harsh. I tapped the warrant. ‘And nor will my master.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there can be no harm in it …’

  ‘None in the world.’

  Frankley glanced again at the closed door. He licked his lips. ‘The mortgagee was my Lady Quincy, sir.’

  I stared at him, unable to believe my ears.

  The clerk misinterpreted my silence as irritation. ‘Forgive me, I can’t tell you more. Indeed there’s little more I could say. Mr Turner dealt with it himself. When you
apply to him, he will be—’

  ‘Did she come here herself?’ I cut in.

  ‘No, sir. The gentleman did, but Mr Turner called on the lady at her house.’

  ‘The gentleman? Mr Alderley?’

  Frankley stared at me, his eyes wide with apprehension. ‘Yes, sir. He came to discuss another matter as well as the mortgage. To do with a marriage contract, I believe.’

  I came a step closer to him. ‘Are you telling me that Alderley hoped to marry Lady Quincy?’

  My tone made him recoil. ‘Sir, I don’t know – you must ask my master. I heard Mr Alderley say something about a marriage contract before the door closed. That’s all.’

  ‘Frankley!’ bellowed Mr Turner in the next room. ‘Here!’

  The clerk stared at me. For a moment, his fear of me was perfectly balanced by his fear of his master.

  I took pity on him and laid two shilling pieces on the table. ‘Thank you. Go.’

  I left the room and clattered down the stairs into the rain-slicked courtyard. Lady Quincy, I thought, Lady Quincy. Will I ever be rid of that damned woman? What in God’s name is she doing in this?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BY HER THIRD evening at Mangot’s Farm, Cat’s life had assumed a routine of sorts. In the mornings, she cleaned the kitchen and brought in fuel for the fire. The kitchen, the most habitable of the downstairs rooms, was in a filthy state, with years of dirt impacted into every surface. Cleaning it was a task that had no obvious end in sight, particularly because all she had to help her was cold well water and a few rags. But there was a certain pleasure in this small attempt to bring order to chaos, and it left her mind free to roam.

  They ate dinner around midday, and then the afternoon was her own. She read or drew in her bedchamber, filling her notebook with fantastical designs that might one day lead to a house which Palladio or Vitruvius would not find wholly barbarous. Sometimes she ventured outside, though rarely far from the house. There was a wildness about some of the refugees, Mangot had said, especially the younger ones, and they were not to be trusted.