The King's Evil (33 page)

'But
what happened to you, Mr Redmayne?' she said. 'Were you hurt?'

'Not
really, Miss Northcott.'

'George
boasted to me that you had been assaulted.'

'I
was,' said Christopher, fingering the back of his skull, 'and I still have a
lump on my head to prove it. Beyond that, the only injuries I suffered were a
few bruises. The aches and pains will soon wear off.'

'How
can you dismiss it so lightly?'

'Oh,
I am not doing that, I assure you.'

'George
could be arrested for attacking you like that.'

'Mr
Strype did not actually touch me,' he explained. 'He paid two ruffians to do
so. Fortunately, I had help nearby. Mr Bale frightened them off before they
could inflict any real damage.'

'I
am so
sorry,
Mr Redmayne,' she said, tormented with guilt.

'It
was not your fault.'

'But
it was, indirectly. If I had not come here with those letters and then spent
the night under your roof, this would never have happened.'

'I
would take any beating for the pleasure of seeing you again.'

Christopher's
declaration came out so easily that it took them both by surprise. She smiled
uncertainly and he became self-conscious. Waving her to a chair, he sat
opposite her and offered up a prayer of thanks that he had been at home when
she called. Penelope searched his face for signs of injury and felt glad that
she had broken off her engagement to George Strype. He had deliberately given
her the impression that he had fought with Christopher himself but, she now
learned, he had taken the more cowardly option of hiring bullies to do his work
for him. Having removed one man from her life, Penelope was now able to
appreciate the depth of her feeling for another.

'When
did you return from France?' she asked.

'Some
days ago.'

'Did
you find anything out?'

'A
great deal, Miss Northcott,' he said with enthusiasm. 'In spite of everything,
the journey was very worthwhile.'

'In
spite of everything?'

'The
trip was not without incident.'

Christopher
gave her the salient facts about his visit to Paris. His face was taut as he
talked about Marie Louise Oilier but it creased into dismay when he described
the attempt on his life at the inn. Penelope sat forward on the edge of her
chair.

'Why
did they try to kill you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Because
I stumbled on the truth,' he said. 'Or part of it, anyway. I knew too much.
Solomon Creech was murdered for the same reason. He was your father's
confidante, the one person in London who knew the full details of your father's
liaison with Mademoiselle Oilier.' He checked himself. 'I take it that you have
heard about Mr Creech?'

'Belatedly.
It came as a hideous shock.'

'One
advantage has followed. His clerk has been able to release information to me
which Mr Creech refused to divulge. I now know a great deal about Sir Ambrose's
commercial transactions with France.'

'George
could have told you about those,' she began then her voice faded away. She
shook her head. 'Perhaps not. He might not have proved very forthcoming.' A
thought pricked her. 'You do not think that
he
is involved in all this, do
you?'

'No,
Miss Northcott. I do not have the highest opinion of Mr Strype but I can
absolve him of any involvement here. Sir Ambrose kept him ignorant of too many
things. Besides, he would hardly collude in the death of his partner and future
father-in-law.' He noticed the glint in her eye. 'Have I said something out of
turn?'

'Our
engagement has been terminated,' she said quietly.

He
smiled inwardly. 'This is a surprising development.'

'I
prefer not to talk about it, Mr Redmayne. There are more important topics to
discuss. Tell me more about
her.'

'Marie
Louise Oilier?'

'Was
she very beautiful?'

'Some
might think so,' he said tactfully.

'How
old was she?'

'Not
as young as you thought.'

'Describe
her to me.'

Choosing
his words with care, Christopher drew his own sketch of the striking young
woman whom he had met in Paris, astonished at how much it varied from his first
impression of her. He no longer saw Marie Louise Oilier as the complete
innocent who had sat before him in Arnaud Bastiat's house. His visit to
Lincoln's Inn Fields had helped to revise that assessment. Sweet Ellen had
shown him how easy it was to feign childlike purity.

It
distressed him to talk about someone whose existence gave Penelope such obvious
pain. Though she pressed him relentlessly for details, she winced when she
heard them and her cheeks coloured at the mention of the claim made by
Mademoiselle Oilier.

'She
intended to
many
my father?'

'That
is what she told me.'

'But
how? He already had a wife.'

'Sir
Ambrose led her to believe that your mother had died.'

'He
would never do that!' she protested.

'I
am only reporting what I heard.'

'Did
you believe her?'

'At
the time.'

'And
now?'

'I
am not so sure,' said Christopher. 'I suspect that I was too ready to accept
her word. My opinion of her changed radically when I realised that she was
keeping me talking so that her uncle could eavesdrop on us and discover exactly
how much I knew. I begin to wonder how sincere her love for Sir Ambrose really
was.'

'You
read her letters. They were vastly sincere.'

'Save
for one thing, Miss Northcott.' 'What is that?'

'I
am not even sure that she wrote them.'

'But
they bore her signature.'

'Her
hand may have penned the words,' he said, 'but I think that someone else may
have dictated them.'

'What
do you conclude, Mr Redmayne?'

'Your
father was duped. Sir Ambrose loved her deeply, of that I am certain. He would
not have changed the name of his ship to the
Marie Louise
unless he were wholly committed
to her. But love throws people off guard. It makes them vulnerable.'

'To
what? Blackmail?'

'I
fancy that this goes deeper than that,' said Christopher, rubbing his chin.
'Mademoiselle Oilier insisted that he told her he was a widower and therefore
free to marry. But she would never consider marriage to a man like Sir
Ambrose.'

'Why
not?'

'She
is a devout Roman Catholic.'

Penelope
stiffened as she remembered the purpose of her visit. Opening the bag which lay
in her lap, she took out two objects and handed them to him. Christopher looked
in astonishment at the rosary beads and the Catholic missal.

'I
found them at the house in Westminster,' she said.

'Was
your father planning to convert?'

'In
view of what you have said, it seems a possibility.'

'More
than that, Miss Northcott. In all likelihood he had been taking instruction. It
shows how far he was prepared to go to meet the demands of Mademoiselle Oilier.
It is strange,' he murmured. 'I never took Sir Ambrose for a religious man.'

'Then
you mistake him,' she said with unexpected loyalty. 'In the light of his
infidelity, this may seem an odd thing to say but my father took the spiritual
side of life very seriously.'

'Did
he?'

'That
is why he was so proud of our house in Kent.'

'What
do you mean?'

'Look
what it is called, Mr Redmayne.'

'Of
course,' he said. 'Priestfield Place.'

*****************************

Jonathan
Bale was thrilled to see the return of the
Marie Louise.
After sailing up the Thames, it
anchored in midstream to unload its cargo. As its crew brought casks and boxes
ashore, he tried to engage them in conversation but they would tell him little
beyond the fact that they had sailed from Calais and would be returning there
within a few days. Certain that the vessel held important secrets, Jonathan did
everything he could to contrive a visit to it but all his requests were met
with blank refusal. The
Marie Louise
would allow no strangers aboard.
Even a London constable would need a warrant before he was permitted to inspect
the craft. A law-abiding man was forced to contemplate the disconcerting notion
of trespass.

'Where
are you going?' asked Sarah.

'Back
to the wharf.'

'At
this time of night? It is almost dark, Jonathan.'

'It
needs to be, my love.'

'Why?'

'I
am going out on the river.'

'Is
that why you are leaving your hat and greatcoat behind?'

'It
is part of the reason.'

Jonathan
would say no more than that. Kissing his wife goodbye, he let himself out and
began the long walk, grateful that the darkness was slowly throwing its blanket
over the city. Dressed in the clothes he once wore as a shipwright, he felt a
sense of release. Anonymity liberated him and gave him the confidence to do
something which he would never even attempt in the guise of a constable. When
he reached the river, he could see the myriad lights of Southwark on the
opposite bank. He went down the steps and on to the landing stage.

The
boat had been borrowed from a friend and he had no qualms about rowing it until
he was caught up in the current. He had forgotten how treacherous the river
could be. It took him some time to master its swirling rhythms and his bare
forearms were soaked in the process but he persevered until old skills
returned. Craft of all kinds dotted the river and he had to pick his way
through them in order to reach the
Marie Louise.
She towered above him. The ship
was largely in darkness but lanterns burned on deck and he could see light in
some of the cabin windows. Most of the crew were still ashore but some surely
remained on watch. Stealth was vital.

He
shipped his oars and moored his boat to the sheet anchor. When he was certain
that nobody on deck had seen him, he went hand over hand up the cable, grateful
that it was not too slimy to allow a firm grip. It was slow work which made
demands on his muscles but he eventually reached the bulwark. Climbing over
it, he rolled behind the windlass then peeped out to take his bearings. Several
lanterns burned at strategic intervals. Two men were on watch, chatting
together outside the fo'c's'le, taking it in turns to swig from a flagon of
beer to offset the tedium of their duty. Their casual attitude suggested that
they did not expect visitors.

Though
Jonathan had never been aboard the
Marie Louise
before, he had an intimate
knowledge of its design. He had helped to build three almost identical vessels
and could feel his way around them in the dark. Keeping low and hugging the
bulwark, he crept past the two men and made his way towards the cabins at the
stern. He was tempted to search the hold while he was there but saw the folly of
that without a lantern. His real target was the captain's cabin where the
ship's log book and manifest were kept. It well might yield up other secrets
about the ship. Jonathan felt certain that the captain would be ashore. No
red-blooded sailor would spurn the delights of London for a lonely night aboard
a merchant ship.

Voices
came up from below to warn him that one of the cabins was occupied. He moved
with extra care, descending the wooden steps very slowly, glad that his
movements were disguised by the gentle creaking of the timbers.

Inching
his way towards what he took to be the captain's cabin, he tried the door and
found it predictably locked. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and used its
point to explore the lock. There was a loud click and the door gave before him.
He sheathed his dagger and stepped inside, grateful for the lantern which swung
from the beam. It cast an uncertain light but he was able to see that it was
not the captain's cabin at all. Jonathan was disappointed yet his visit brought
him one reward. Lying on a bunk and staring up at him with sightless eyes was
an object he felt he might have seen before.

It
was a large white mask.

Before
he could take a closer look at it, something hard and cold was thrust against
the side of his head. He heard the pistol being cocked.

'What
are you doing here?' growled a voice.

'Is
this the
Peppercorn!
'
asked Jonathan, thinking fast.

'No!'

'Then
I have come aboard the wrong ship, friend.'