The King's Evil (15 page)

Jonathan
Bale had a busy morning. It was hours before he was able to slip back to Addle
Hill. Sarah was in the kitchen, slicing up vegetables with a knife before dropping
the pieces into a large pot. He took off his coat. When she caught sight of it,
she got up anxiously from the stool.

'There
is blood on it,' she said in alarm.

'Calm
down, my love.'

'Have
you been wounded?'

'No,
Sarah. It is not my blood. I used my coat to cover the body of a man who was
stabbed to death. I did not want anyone to see him.'

'Who
was he?'

'It
does not matter,' he soothed, easing her back on to the stool. 'I only came
back to change my coat and to warn you that I will be out for the rest of the
day. Dine alone with the children. I will eat later.'

'But
you must have something, Jonathan.'

'There
is too much to do.'

'What
exactly happened?'

'Nothing
that need concern you, Sarah.'

'Is
it to do with that summons from Jem Raybone?'

'Expect
me when you see me.'

He
gave her a kiss on the forehead. The constable never discussed his work at any
length with his wife. He was keen to spare her any gory details. He also wanted
to allay her fears for his own safety. Even though the population of the city
had been reduced by the fire, the streets were still fraught with danger. A
watchman had been badly wounded only a fortnight earlier and one of the other
constables in the ward had been bludgeoned to the ground when he tried to
arrest a felon. Jonathan Bale chose to keep such disturbing intelligence from
Sarah. There was another reason for leaving his work at the threshold. His home
was a refuge. It was the place in which he could rest from his duties and enjoy
the simple pleasure of being a husband and a father.

Hanging
his coat on a hook, he took down another and started to put it on. There was a
knock on the door. Sarah made to rise but he gestured for her to sit down
again. He adjusted his coat and went to the front door. When he opened it, his
face fell.

His
refuge was being invaded by Christopher Redmayne.

'Mr
Datchett told me you might be here,' said the visitor.

'I
am busy, sir, and have no time for idle chat.'

'There
is nothing idle about what I have to say, Mr Bale.'

'Then
please say it quickly and depart.'

'In
brief,' said Christopher, 'we are of necessity together in this.'

'I
do not follow.'

'Whether
you like it or not, I am involved in this murder and have resolved to seek out
the killer.'

'Leave
that to others more skilled in the work.'

'No,'
replied Christopher. 'It is a question of honour. Since neither my brother nor
Mr Creech is prepared to do so, I will first ride off to Sir Ambrose's estate
in Kent to break the news to his family. They must not be kept in ignorance.'

'That
is considerate of you, sir,' remarked Jonathan.

'The
visit will have a secondary purpose, Mr Bale. I will gather more information
about Sir Ambrose, perhaps even uncover the names of some enemies of his. The
more we know about the murder victim, the more likely we are to track down the
man who stabbed him. Do you hear what I am telling you?'

'I
think so. You will learn things which could be of value to me.'

'But
we must strike a bargain.'

'Go
on.'

'We
need to clear the air,' said Christopher seriously. 'Solving this crime is
all-important. You must set aside your inexplicable dislike and distrust of me.
In return, I will overlook your surly manner towards me. Then, perhaps, we can
pool our resources in the interests of justice.' He looked the constable in the
eye. 'Is that fair?'

'Very
fair, sir.'

'And
you agree?'

'Up
to a point.'

'We
can help each other. It is the only way forward, Mr Bale.'

Jonathan
weighed up the offer. His face was impassive.

'Ride
off to Kent,' he said at length.

'Then
we are partners in this enterprise?

'Let
us see what you find out first.'

Christopher
Redmayne threw caution to the winds and set out alone. He was in too much of a
hurry to wait for the security of an escort to Kent, trusting instead in a fast
horse, a strong sword-arm and an instinct for danger. Only one incident
disrupted his long ride south. As the afternoon began to shade into evening,
he saw a figure on the brow of the hill ahead of him. Crouched beneath a tree,
the man used a crutch to haul himself upright and hobbled to the middle of the
road. His hand stretched out in search of alms. Dressed in rags and wearing a
battered old hat, he looked like a lonely beggar but there was something about
him which alerted Christopher, who took note of the thick bushes nearby. It was
an ideal place for an ambush. From that vantage point, anyone approaching in
either direction could be seen a long way off. Christopher could not understand
why a lame man should drag himself up such a steep hill.

Slowing
his horse to a trot, he held the reins in his left hand while keeping the right
free. It was a wise precaution. When the rider was only a few yards away, the
beggar suddenly sprang to life, shed his apparent lameness and ran forward,
lifting the crutch to swing it viciously at his quarry. Christopher's sword was
out in a flash, parrying the blow then jabbing hard to inflict a wound in the
man's shoulder. Two accomplices leaped out from behind the bushes but they,
too, met their match. The first was kicked full in the face and the second had
the cudgel struck from his hand by the flashing sword. Before any of the trio
could recover, Christopher was galloping hell-for-leather down the other side
of the hill.

The
remainder of the journey passed without interruption. Unable to reach his
destination before nightfall, Christopher elected to stay at an inn and rest
his horse. It was only when he climbed into bed that he realised how tired he
was. Before he could even begin to review his day, he was fast asleep. Restored
and refreshed, he was up shortly after dawn to eat a simple breakfast. The
landlord, a big barrel of a man with flabby lips and a bulbous nose, came
across to offer guidance.

'Do
you travel far, sir?' he asked.

'I
am not sure,' said Christopher. 'I am heading for a place near Sevenoaks.'

'What's
the name?'

'Shipbourne.'

'Where,
sir?'

'Shipbourne.'

The
landlord chuckled. 'There are no ships born around here, sir. We're miles from
the sea. I think you must want Shibborn. That's what we call it, sir. Not
Ship-bourne. Stubborn.'

'How
far away is it?'

'Eight
or nine miles.'

'Good.
Would you happen to have heard of Priestfield Place?'

'Everyone's
heard of it,' said the other, his face hardening. 'The estate belongs to Sir
Ambrose Northcott. All five hundred acres of it. Sir Ambrose is well known in
this county.'

'Well
known and well liked?'

'Ask
that of his tenants, sir.'

'What
do you mean?'

'They
do not speak too kindly of him,' muttered the landlord. 'That is all I am
prepared to say. I never met Sir Ambrose myself so I am no judge if he is
really as harsh as they claim.'

'How
would I find Priestfield Place?'

'Strike
off to the left before you reach Shibborn, sir. You will see a signpost to
Plaxtol. The estate lies between the two of them.'

'Thank
you, landlord.'

'Are
you a friend of Sir Ambrose?' probed the other.

Christopher
gave a noncommittal nod. He was carrying sad tidings which the Northcott family
deserved to hear first. He did not want the news to be spread by means of
rumour through the mouth of a portly innkeeper.

Having
paid his bill, he set off. It was a fine morning and his ride took him through
undulating countryside which offered all kinds of attractive vistas.
Christopher saw little of them. He was too distracted by the questions which
had haunted him since the moment of discovery in the cellars of the house near
Baynard's Castle.

Why
did Sir Ambrose Northcott visit the site so late of an evening? Who was his
companion? What was the motive behind the murder? Why had Solomon Creech
reacted with such fear when he heard of the crime? There were subsidiary
questions about the house in Westminster, the whereabouts of Sir Ambrose during
his long absence from London and the nature of his political activities.
Christopher was reminded time and again just how little he really knew of the
man for whom he had designed a house. Why had Henry kept so much from his
brother? Sir Ambrose Northcott was hidden behind a veil of secrecy. For what
purpose? One final question tugged repeatedly at Christopher's mind.

Why
did Jonathan Bale seem to resent him so much?

His
cogitations carried him all the way to the crude signpost with the first
mention of Plaxtol. Christopher turned his horse down a narrow track which had
been baked hard by the sun and which ran between bramble bushes. Riding at a
steady canter, he soon found himself entering the outer reaches of Priestfield
Place. Most of it was tenanted and those who farmed it were out working in the
fields but Sir Ambrose had reserved a vast swathe of land at the very heart of
the estate. After passing a herd of cows, grazing contentedly in a meadow,
Christopher followed a twisting path through woodland before coming out into
open country again. The house positively leaped into view. It still lay over
half a mile away but its effect was dramatic.

Set
in an elevated position, Priestfield Place was an Elizabethan manor house of
the finest quality. It was built of rose-coloured brick which blossomed in the
sunshine and which conveyed an impression both of solidity and delicacy. The
house was shaped like the letter H, its central portion gabled, its four
corners guarded by octagonal turrets which were topped by gilt weather vanes.
Climbing to three storeys and roofed with red tiles, it was an imposing edifice
which yielded ever more fresh and arresting detail the closer he got to it.
Christopher was staggered by the generosity of its proportions and its sheer
presence. The new London residence which Sir Ambrose Northcott had commissioned
from him was imposing enough. Compared to Priestfield Place, however, it was a
mere gatehouse.

When
he reached the paved courtyard, he brought his mount to a halt so that he could
admire the fountain in which water from sixteen separate invisible pipes played
into the huge scallop shell held by the statue of Venus before cascading down
again. Then he let his gaze travel to the elaborate porch over which the royal
coat of arms had been carved in stone to commemorate a visit by Queen Elizabeth
in the previous century. Before he could feast his eyes on the facade,
Christopher saw a manservant emerging from the porch. When he introduced
himself and announced his business, the visitor was invited into the house
while his horse was stabled by an ostler.

Conducted
into the Great Hall, he noted the striking pattern in the marble floor, the
carved heads on some of the oak panelling and the array of family portraits.
Over the mantelpiece hung a large painting of the late master of the house. Sir
Ambrose was wearing a breastplate, holding a helmet and striking a military
pose. The bold glare was that of a man who considered himself invincible.
Christopher sighed inwardly.

Having
asked to speak alone to Lady Northcott, he was surprised to see two ladies
being shown into the hall. Penelope was keen to hear any news relating to her
father and, though neither women yet sensed how devastating that news would be,
both seemed to have braced themselves for disappointment. Introductions were
made then the two women sat beside each other. Christopher lowered himself on
to a chair opposite them. He cleared his throat before speaking.

'I
fear that I am the bearer of bad tidings,' he said quietly.

Penelope
immediately tensed but her mother retained her poise.

'Go
on, Mr Redmayne,' encouraged the latter.

'Has
something happened to Father?' asked Penelope. 'Is he ill? Has some accident
befallen him? Will he be detained in London even longer?'

'Let
Mr Redmayne tell us, dear.'

'I
will, Lady Northcott,' he said, 'but I do it with the utmost regret. What I
have to tell you is that your husband will not be returning to Priestfield
Place at any time. He has passed away.'

Penelope
turned white and tears welled in her eyes. Reaching out a hand to steady her
daughter, Lady Northcott somehow preserved her own equanimity. She searched
Christopher's eyes.

'I
think you have softened the news for our benefit,' she decided. 'I have never
known my husband to have a day's illness. He was a picture of health.' She
gestured to the portrait. 'As you can see for yourself. This was no natural
death, was it?'

'No,
Lady Northcott.'

'Was
he killed in an accident?'

Christopher
shook his head. 'It was no accident.'

Penelope's
self-control went and she burst into tears, turning to her mother who stood to
draw her daughter into her arms. Christopher felt cruel at having to deliver
such a shattering blow to them and he averted his gaze from their grief. Lady
Northcott seemed calm but there was a deep anguish in her eyes. Penelope was
moving towards hysteria and her mother had to hug and reassure her before the
sobbing began to ease. When her daughter had regained some of her composure,
Lady Northcott looked over at their visitor again.

'What
are the details, Mr Redmayne?' she said softly.

'I
would prefer to spare you some of those, Lady Northcott.'

'Sir
Ambrose was my husband. I have a right to know.' She saw the sympathetic glance
which he threw towards Penelope. 'We both have a right to know. Hide nothing
from us.'

'No,'
said Penelope bravely. 'I am sorry to break down in front of you like that,
sir. It will not happen again. Please do as my mother bids.'

'Very
well.' He rose to his feet and cleared his throat again. 'Sir Ambrose was
murdered by a person or persons unknown. His body was found in the cellar of
the new house.'

'New
house?' repeated Lady Northcott.

'The
one I designed for you near Baynard's Castle.'

'Ah,
yes,' she said, failing to cover her surprise. 'I was forgetting.
That
house. Please continue, Mr Redmayne.'

Christopher
was as discreet and succinct as he could be but the full horror of what had
occurred could not be hidden. The two of them held each other throughout and he
saw the mother's arms tighten to the point where she was almost supporting her
daughter. Lady Northcott's pain was confined to her eyes but Penelope expressed
hers more openly, gasping aloud, sagging, swaying then gritting her teeth in an
effort to master her emotions. Christopher answered their questions briefly and
honestly. Realising that neither of them had any knowledge of a new London
house, he took care not to mention it again.

Lady
Frances Northcott drew herself up to her full height.

'Thank
you, Mr Redmayne,' she said without a tremor. 'It is very kind of you to ride
down here to impart this news. Would you please wait here for a little while?
We need to excuse ourselves for a few minutes.'

'Of
course.'

He
crossed to open the door for them and they went out. Penelope was too absorbed
in her own sadness to do anything more than shuffle past on her mother's arm
but the latter moved with natural dignity. Christopher shut the door gently
behind them. Walking over to the portrait above the mantelpiece, he looked up
at Sir Ambrose Northcott and wondered why a man should spend such an immense
amount of money on a house while omitting to mention its construction to his
wife and daughter. It was baffling. It also put Christopher in the unfortunate
position of having to deliver an additional blow to the two women. He consoled
himself with the thought that he had probably handled an awkward situation with
more tact and sensitivity than Solomon Creech. Had the lawyer travelled to
Priestfield Place, he would doubtless have compounded their misery. 
^x

Asked
to wait briefly, Christopher was left alone for well over half an hour. Though
it gave him an opportunity to explore the Great Hall and its many intriguing
features, it also left him with the sense that he was now in the way.

Some
sort of collapse must have taken place, he surmised, as both women struggled
with their grief in private. He had a vision of Penelope Northcott, lying on
her bed, crying in despair, knocked senseless by the news he had relayed to
her. Christopher had an impulse to reach out to comfort her but he sensed that
she was beyond solace of any kind and it was not, in any case, his place to
offer it. Lady Northcott had maintained her calm in his presence but he doubted
if it would last indefinitely. The most probable thing, he decided, was that
both of them were so caught up in their distress that they had forgotten all
about him. It would be a kindness to them to steal quietly away.

Christopher
had almost reached the front door when she called.