The King's Evil (26 page)

'No,
Mr Strype.'

'I
see that you remember my name.'

'I
can hardly forget it.'

'You
seem to have forgotten that it is linked with the name of Penelope Northcott,'
said the other pointedly. 'She and I are engaged to be married. I take a dim
view of any man who lures my betrothed into spending a night beneath his roof.'

Christopher
tried to douse the man's smouldering anger.

'Perhaps
you would care to step inside my house,' he said with great courtesy. 'We can
discuss this like gentlemen and I promise you that I will be able to put your
mind at rest.'

'I
did not come here to discuss anything with you, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then
what is the purpose of this visit?'

'To
retrieve those letters.'

'Miss
Northcott entrusted them to me.'

'She
now wants them back.'

'I
beg leave to doubt that.'

'Give
me the letters, man!'

'They
are valuable evidence. I need them.'

'Miss
Northcott wishes to have them back!'

'Do
you have a written request to that effect?'

'Of
course not.'

'Then
I will not return them.'

'She
empowered me to speak on her behalf.'

'I
find that unlikely, Mr Strype,' said Christopher evenly. 'When the letters
first came to light, Miss Northcott chose to keep their existence from you. I
can see why.'

'Damn
you, man! Hand them over.'

'Not
unless she comes here in person.'

'Must
I
take
those letters from you?'

George
Strype hauled himself up and stood menacingly in the doorway of the coach, back
crouched and head thrust forward. One hand closed on his sword and he drew it
halfway from its sheath. Christopher did not move an inch. When their eyes
locked, his were glistening with quiet determination.

'You
are most welcome to try to take them, Mr Strype,' he said.

His
pugnacious visitor ducked out of the coach then paused on the step when he saw
that Christopher did not budge. He was almost inviting attack. Strype noticed
his hand, resting on the handle of his own sword with the nonchalance of a man
who knew how to use the weapon. The prospect of a duel in the street suddenly
lost all appeal. There was a long pause while the visitor reviewed the
situation. With a snort of anger, George Strype then stepped back into the
coach and slammed the door behind him. Christopher gave him a cheery wave.

'I
will return!' warned Strype.

Then
he ordered the coachman to drive off.

Arresting
prostitutes was not a duty Jonathan Bale ever enjoyed. He did not mind the
violent altercations which often ensued; but the propositions troubled him.
Many women whom he apprehended tried to buy their freedom with all manner of
favours and it pained him to put any woman in that position, however immoral
her life might be. Though he always refused such favours, he was insulted that
they should even be offered and was ashamed to be taken as the kind of man who
might succumb to them. Besides, he had lived in London long enough to know that
brothels could never be entirely eradicated. To him, they were a symbol of the
capital's decay and he believed that their numbers had proliferated since the
restoration of a Stuart king. He habitually referred to Whitehall Palace as the
largest house of resort in the city.

On
the long walk to Lincoln's Inn Fields, he had to remind himself of the
importance of the work he was undertaking. Something of real value to a murder
investigation might be learned. Molly Mandrake's establishment would cater for
a much higher standard of clients than those who rutted in the stews of
Clerkenwell or caroused in the brothels of Southwark but position and place did
not absolve them in his eyes. Whether artisans or aristocrats, men who
frequented such places were uniformly corrupt. They deserved arrest just as
much as the women who served their carnal appetites.

As
he strolled down Fleet Street, he felt a twinge of guilt about lying to his
wife. Instead of admitting that he was going to keep vigil outside the abode of
the infamous Molly Mandrake, he had told Sarah that he was visiting the
riverside taverns again. It puzzled him that he had found such deceit
necessary. Fie wondered what he should say to her when he got back home. As he
turned right into Chancery Lane, he was grateful that he would only have the
role of an observer. The area lay outside city jurisdiction and he would not
need to enforce laws which could not be ignored within his own ward.

It
was dark when he reached Lincoln's Inn Fields but a half-moon threw enough
light to guide his footsteps and to dapple the buildings around him. He did not
take long to find the house. It was the largest and most palatial on view,
rising to three storeys with extensive gardens at the rear. Jonathan paused
when he saw a coach stopping outside the house ahead of him. Two men alighted
and went swiftly inside. Torches burned beneath the marble portico and a
sunburst of candlelight spilled out when the front door was opened. It was no
place to lurk unseen.

Keeping
to the shadows, he went instead around the side of the building and chose a
vantage point from which he could keep the road under surveillance.

Traffic
was fairly steady. Most clients arrived in coaches or on horseback. Only a few
approached on foot. They came in pairs or in small groups, all caught up in a
mood of anticipatory delight, laughing, joking and, in some cases, very
inebriated. Jonathan recognised only one of them by sight - a Justice of the
Peace from Queenhithe Ward - but he heard many names being trumpeted in Molly
Mandrake's distinctive voice as she welcomed each new visitor to her abode.
Skulking in the darkness, the anomaly of his position troubled the constable
but he memorised all the names with care. He chose to forget the boastful and
obscene comments he overheard from some of those who tumbled out happily into
the night when they had sated themselves.

Molly
Mandrake's popularity knew no bounds. Well after midnight, fresh clients were
arriving to replace those who had already left. Jonathan decided that it was
time to vacate his post and return to the sanctity of the marriage bed. Before
he could do so, however, he heard footsteps on the cobblestones and withdrew
into his hiding-place. Arriving alone, the newcomer ignored the front door and
came to the side of the house where Jonathan was waiting in the shadows. The
man looked around furtively to make sure that he was unobserved then produced a
key to let himself in through the side door.

At
first Jonathan only saw him in silhouette. Tall and slim, he carried a walking
stick. His movements were lithe and he was clearly on familiar ground. When the
door opened, enough light poured out to give Jonathan a brief glimpse of his
face. It was an eerie moment. What he saw beneath the broad-brimmed hat was a
long, white, tapered, impassive countenance with a flat nose, a narrow mouth,
slit eyes, a slight bulge in place of eyebrows and a smooth complexion which
had the most unnatural glow to it. At first, he wondered if he was looking at a
ghost. It took him a full minute to realise that the visitor's entire face was
covered by a mask.

Arnaud
Bastiat owned a fine house in the Faubourg St Germain. Alone in the room which
served as a library and study, he sat at his table, lost in contemplation. The
book which lay open before him was unnoticed and the booming of the nearby
church clock went unheard.

Bastiat
was a rotund man of middle years with a pale face which was pierced by two
intelligent blue eyes and a high forehead which was covered in a network of
veins. Lank grey hair hung to his shoulders, complemented by a small grey
beard. Dressed largely in black, he had white cuffs and a white lace collar
which spread its intricate pattern across his barrel chest. When his servant
knocked and entered, it took Arnaud Bastiat a while to become fully aware of
his presence. The servant, a compact young man with a dark moustache, stood
there in silence until his master spoke.

'Yes,
Marcel?'

'You
have a visitor, monsieur,' said the man.

'I
am expecting no callers this evening. Who is it?'

'A
young man from England.'

'From
England?' said the other guardedly. 'Did he give a name?'

'Christopher
Redmayne.'

'I
do not know him. What business can he have with me?'

'He
did not come in search of you, monsieur.'

'Oh?'

'The
person he seeks is Mademoiselle Oilier.'

Bastiat
sat back in surprise and stroked his beard. He signalled that the visitor was
to be brought in then rose from his chair, closing the book gently before
walking around the table. When Christopher entered, his host was standing in
the middle of the room, composed but alert, his eyes and ears now attuned to
what was in front of him. Introductions were made and each man tried to weigh
up the other as they spoke in French.

'You
have come all the way from England?' began Bastiat.

'Yes,
monsieur. A long journey but an unavoidable one.'

'Why
is that?'

'I
must see Mademoiselle Oilier at the earliest opportunity.'

'And
your reason?'

'That
is a matter between myself and the young lady.' 'What brought you to this
address?'

'It
was the one given in a letter which Mademoiselle Oilier sent to a mutual friend
of ours.'

'Have
you seen this letter?'

'I
carry it with me,' said Christopher, tapping his pocket.

'May
I look at it?'

'No,
Monsieur Bastiat. It is of a very private nature. I will only show it to Mademoiselle
Oilier to establish my credentials.'

A
lengthy pause. 'This mutual friend,' said Bastiat at length. 'Are you able to
tell me his name?'

'I
am afraid not.'

'Then
it is a gentleman of whom we speak?'

'My
tidings are for Mademoiselle Oilier.'

'May
I at least know your relation to this mutual friend?'

'I
was employed by him as his architect.'

'An
architect? An exalted position for a messenger.'

Christopher
tired of his probing. 'The message I bring is of the most urgent nature,
monsieur,' he said. 'I implore you to tell me where I can find the young lady.'

'Mademoiselle
Oilier does not live here.'

'So
I deduce.'

'But
she could be sent for in an emergency.'

'I
believe that this qualifies as an emergency.'

'Why?'

'I
am sure that the young lady will tell you in due course.'

Bastiat
raked him with a shrewd gaze then moved to the door.

'Excuse
me one moment, monsieur.'

Christopher
noted that he went out to speak to the servant instead of summoning him and
giving him instructions in front of the visitor. Evidently, a private warning
was being sent to Marie Louise Oilier and Christopher wished that he could hear
what it was. He took advantage of his host's brief absence to look at some of
the books which filled the shelves. Bastiat was clearly a studious man. Before
the other returned, Christopher was just in time to observe that the volume
which lay on the table was an edition of the Bible.

'Mademoiselle
Oilier will be here soon,' said Bastiat.

'Thank
you, monsieur.'

'I
take it that you will have no objection if I am present during your
conversation with her?'

Christopher
was adamant. 'I object most strongly,' he said, 'and I suspect that the young
lady will do likewise when she realises the nature of what I have to reveal to
her.'

'But
I am her uncle, Monsieur Redmayne.'

'Were
you her father, I would still bar you from the room.'

'Then
your message must be of a very delicate nature.'

'It
is.'

'Can
you give me no hint of its content?'

'None,
monsieur.'

Bastiat
continued to fish for information but Christopher would not be drawn. Having
braved a taxing journey, he was not going to spill his news into the wrong pair
of ears. Besides, he was there to listen as well as to inform and he sensed
that he would learn far more from Marie Louise Oilier if they were alone than
if her uncle were in attendance. Bastiat was a quiet, softly-spoken man but he
exuded an authority which was bound to have an influence on his niece. The size
of the house suggested that its owner was a man of some means but it was not
clear what profession he followed. He did not look to Christopher like a person
who lived on inherited wealth. There was an air of diligence about him. He was
also very circumspect. Probing for detail about his visitor, Bastiat gave away
almost nothing about himself.

It
was twenty minutes before the servant returned and tapped on the door. Bastiat
excused himself again and Christopher could hear him conversing in a low voice
with someone in the hall. When he reappeared, he brought in Mademoiselle Oilier
and performed the introductions, lingering until his niece was seated and
assuring her that she only had to call if she wished to summon him.

Left
alone with the newcomer, Christopher needed time to adjust his thoughts because
Marie Louise Oilier bore no resemblance whatsoever to the person of his
expectations.

Penelope
Northcott had made a judgement about her based on a rough portrait which she
had seen but Christopher realised that no artist could possibly have conveyed
her essence in a sketch. Marie Louise Oilier had the kind of striking beauty
which was all the more potent for being unaware of itself. She was a tall,
slender, almost frail young lady with a fair complexion and fair hair which was
trained in a mass of short curls all over her head. The blue and white stripes
on her dress accentuated her height and poise. Its bodice was long and
tight-fitting and the low
decolletage
was encircled with lace frills.
The full skirt was closely gathered in pleats at the waist then hung to the
ground. On her head was a lawn cap with a standing frill in front and long
lappets falling behind the shoulders.

The
two things which struck Christopher most were the softness of her skin and her
aura of innocence. Marie Louise Oilier was not the coquette whom he thought he
saw on a first reading of her letters. She was much nearer to the victim who
seemed to emerge from a closer perusal of them. Yet she was not timid or
submissive. Framed in the window, she sat there with great self-possession as
she appraised him through large pale green eyes. Christopher took note of the
small crucifix which hung on a gold chain around her neck. Marie Louise Oilier
was a porcelain saint. The idea that she could be entangled with a man like Sir
Ambrose Northcott seemed ludicrous.

'You
must excuse my uncle,' she said softly. 'He is very protective. Since my
parents died, he believes that it is his duty to look after me.'

'I
see.'

'He
was afraid to leave me alone with you.'

'Are
you
afraid, mademoiselle?'

'Yes,'
she admitted.

'Of
me.'

'Of
what you have come to tell me.'

'It
is not good news, I fear.'

'I
know.'

'How?'

'Because
I sense it, monsieur. He has not written to me since he left for England. That
is a bad sign. Something has happened. Something to stop him sending a letter.
Is he unwell?' Christopher shook his head. 'Worse than that?'

'Much
worse,' he whispered.

She
gave a little whimper then tightened her fists as she fought to control
herself. Her eyes were filled with tears and her face puckered with
apprehension but she insisted on hearing the truth. Christopher broke the news
to her as gently as he could. Her body convulsed and he moved across to her,
fearing that she was about to faint, but she waved him away and brought a lace
handkerchief up to her face. She sobbed quietly for some minutes and all that
he could do was to stand and wait. When she finally mastered her grief, she
found the strength to look up at him.

'Why
did you come to me?' she asked.

'I
felt that you had a right to be told.'

'Thank
you.'

'I
know how much Sir Ambrose meant to you.'

'Everything,'
she murmured. 'He was everything.'

The
bundle of letters suddenly became like a lead weight in his pocket. He took
them guiltily out, feeling that he was intruding into a private relationship
simply by holding them. He offered them to her.

'You
might want these back.'

She
took them sadly. 'Did you read them?' He nodded. 'They were not meant for
anyone else's eyes. They were for him. Only for him.'

'I
realise that, mademoiselle. But I needed to find you. It was one of the letters
which brought me to Paris.'

'I
am glad you came.'

'It
was not a welcome undertaking.'

'You
are very considerate, monsieur.' She used the handkerchief to wipe away a tear
and looked at him with more interest. 'So you are the architect,' she said with
a wan smile. 'Ambrose talked so much about our house. He was delighted with
what you had done, Monsieur Redmayne. I was so looking forward to living in
London. I dreamed of nothing else. What will happen to the house now?'

'It
will probably never be built.'

'That
is such a shame.'

She
stroked the bundle of letters with her fingers and he noticed for the first
time the handsome diamond ring on her left hand. Marie Louise Oilier went off
into a reverie and he did not dare to break into it. He waited patiently until
she blinked as if suddenly coming awake.

'Do
please excuse me, sir.'

'There
is nothing to excuse.'

'How
did you find the letters?' she asked.

'I
did not, mademoiselle. They were given to me.'

'By
whom?'

'Sir
Ambrose's daughter.'

'Daughter?'
She recoiled as if from a blow. 'He had a daughter?'

'Did
you not know that?'

'No,
monsieur. Ambrose told me that his wife died years ago. There was no mention of
any children. I was led to believe that he lived alone.'

'You
were deceived, I fear,' said Christopher, distressed that he had to inflict
further pain. 'Sir Ambrose owned a house in Kent which he shared with his wife
and daughter. Lady Northcott did not die. I have met her and she is in good
health.'

'But
he was going to marry
me,'
she protested.

'That
would not have been possible under English law.'

'Nor
in the eyes of God!'

Her
hand went to the crucifix and Christopher began to wonder if he had misread her
letters. A close physical relationship was implied in them yet he was now
getting the impression that Marie Louise Oilier was far from being an
experienced lover. If that were the case, a startling paradox was revealed.
After years of consorting with ladies of easy virtue, Sir Ambrose Northcott had
become obsessed with a virgin. He could only attain her with a promise of marriage.

'Mademoiselle,'
he said, sitting beside her. 'You told me earlier that you sensed something was
amiss because Sir Ambrose had not written to you since he went to England.'

'That
is so.'

'Was
he recently in France, then?'

'Yes,
he spent ten days here.'

'Together
with you?'

'Some
of the time,' she recalled. 'He stayed here at my uncle's house. Before that,
he had business to transact in Calais and Boulogne. And, of course, he had to
travel to the vineyard.'

'Vineyard?'

'In
Bordeaux. It is owned by my family.'

'Is
that where Sir Ambrose bought his wine?'