The King's Evil (9 page)

Over
thirty of them attended the meeting but they took care to leave at intervals in
twos and threes. Under the terms of the Clarendon Code, a gathering of more
than five adults for the purposes of worship was considered to be an unlawful
assembly. If they were caught, heavy fines would be imposed. Persistent
offenders could be imprisoned or even transported and Jesus-Died-To-Save- Me
Thorpe belonged in that category. He was the last to slip out of the house. He
had no fears for himself but family responsibilities weighed upon him. His
wife, Hail- Mary, was ill and unable to attend the Quaker meeting that night.
She needed him to look after her. It was a bad time for him to be apprehended
so he was obliged to exercise discretion for once.

There
was another reason why he had to avoid arrest. Concealed under his coat were
the remaining copies of a pamphlet which he had written and printed for
distribution to the Friends. His views On
The Evils Of
The Established Church
were trenchant and they would lead to severe punishment if they fell into the
hands of the authorities. Carrying such forbidden tracts on his person gave him
a feeling of righteous power but it was tempered by the caution brought on by
worries about Hail-Mary Thorpe's illness. Her husband had to get back to her
safely.

Since
she was upset that she had missed the meeting, he decided to console her by
reading his pamphlet to her once again. It would be a form of medicine.

It
was late as he wended his way home. Part of his journey took him along the
riverbank and he could hear the Thames lapping greedily at the wharves. Many
warehouses had now been rebuilt and commercial activity restored to an area
blighted by the fire. Thorpe walked swiftly, glad that there were so few people
about at that hour. He was leaving Queenhithe Ward when the three men lurched
out ahead of him. Instinctively he stepped into a doorway, his black garb
merging with the darkness to make him virtually invisible. He tightened his
hold on the pamphlets beneath his coat.

Evidently,
the men had not long come from a tavern. One of them paused to relieve himself
against a wall and broke wind loudly at the same time. The others walked on a
few paces then stopped. They were close enough to him for Thorpe to smell the
ale on their breath and to hear their low whispers.

'Let
us go back,' urged one. 'The nightwatchman is alone again.'

'It
is too dangerous,' said another.

'Not
if the old man is asleep.'

'We
may not be so lucky this time.'

'Then
we make our own luck,' insisted the first man, fingering the cudgel under his
belt. 'We put him to sleep. One blow will be enough. We could steal every stone
from Baynard's Castle before he woke up again.'

'No,
I am against it.'

'Are
you turning coward?'

'You
know me better than that.'

'Then
why hold back?'

'If
we harm the old man, a hue and cry will be raised.'

'Hours
later - when we are well away. I say we do it.'

'Do
what?' asked the third man, lumbering over to them.

'Go
back again. One more time.'

'Yes,'
agreed the newcomer. 'Take all we can and fill the boat. We have never had such
easy pickings. The bricks and timber are there for the taking. The house even
has its own jetty. What could be better?'

They
rehearsed their plans for a few minutes then linked arms before moving off.
Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was in a quandary. Wanting to challenge them and
denounce them for their sinfulness, he was realistic enough to see the folly of
such an action. They would respond with violence. His wife wanted her husband
at her side, not lying in a pool of blood in a dark street. Yet Thorpe was
impelled to take some action. Everything about the three men offended his
sensibilities. A feeling of outrage coursed through him. He watched them go
then stepped out of his hiding place. Keeping to the shadows, he trailed them
carefully as they made their way towards the ruins of Baynard's Castle.

The
nightwatchman was hopelessly confused. When the theft was first discovered, he
was all but accused by Samuel Littlejohn of being a party to the crime yet
twelve hours later, as he came on duty again, the old man was given a handsome
apology by the builder and a large flagon of beer by the architect. It made him
resolve to discharge his office with more care that night.

Good
intentions were not enough. Loneliness soon began to peck away at his
resolution and fatigue slowly set in. He tried to stave off the latter by
walking around the site and checking that all was well but his legs quickly
tired and his lids began to droop. The flagon of beer was inevitably pressed
into service. The first few swigs revived him for a while and he was confident
that he could, after all, remain awake at his post all night. He allowed
himself one more long drink. It was fatal.

Watching
him from the bottom of the garden, the three thieves were growing restless.
They had been there for well over an hour now. It was a starlit night and they
had a good view of the whole site. They could see the night- watchman in dark
profile, lifting the flagon to his lips.

The
man with the cudgel took it out in readiness.

'The
old fool will never go to sleep!' he grumbled.

'We
cannot wait much longer,' said a second man.

'We'll
not wait at all. I'll knock him out.'

'Hold!'
advised the third man. 'I think he is going to lie down.'

The
nightwatchman could no longer maintain the pretence of being diligent. It was
good beer and its seductive taste could not be resisted. He emptied the whole
flagon. By the time he discarded it, he was barely able to sit upright on his
bench. A short nap was urgently required. Summoning up the last of his
strength, he hauled himself off the bench and staggered across to a pile of
soft earth, dug from the ground to create space for the cellars. It made an
inviting bed. No sooner had he stretched himself on its gentle gradient than he
fell asleep. Gentle snores rose up into the night air.

After
waiting a short while, the man with the cudgel crept furtively up the garden to
investigate. Weapon raised, he stood menacingly over the nightwatchman but he
was not called upon to strike. The old man was fast asleep and unlikely to be
roused by any sounds. After beckoning his companions, the thief made his way
across to the tarpaulin which covered the building materials and which had been
protection enough until the pilfering began. Stakes had been hammered into the
ground so that the tarpaulin could be tied to them and thus rendered safe
against high winds. Since it would be their last visit to the site, there was
no point in untying the ropes, then later retying them to their stakes, as they
had done on previous occasions when trying to conceal their theft. A knife was
used to cut through the ropes then two of the men held a corner each of the
tarpaulin and drew it back to expose their target.

Expecting
to see nothing more than piles of bricks and stacks of timber, they were taken
completely unawares when two figures suddenly sprang out at them. Christopher
Redmayne unleashed his pent-up rage by flinging himself at one of the thieves
and knocking him to the ground. Samuel Littlejohn, sweating profusely from his
close confinement beneath the tarpaulin, grappled with another man and showed
no mercy. It was not simply a case of apprehending the thieves. Architect and
builder alike wanted revenge. They were possessive about their house. It had been
defiled by intruders. It made the pair of them rain hard, unforgiving blows on
their respective quarries.

Still
free, the man with the cudgel did not know whether to save himself or help his
fellows. In the event, self- interest won his vote. After a few ineffective
swings at Littlejohn with his cudgel, he took to his heels and raced towards
the boat which was moored at the jetty. He did not get far. Lurking in the
shadows was a bulky figure who stepped out to block his way. The cudgel swung
again but the blow was easily parried by a staff. Before the thief could defend
himself, the end of the staff jabbed deep into his stomach to take the wind out
of him then it clipped him hard on the side of the head. He dropped his cudgel
and fell.

Jonathan
Bale caught him before he hit the ground.

'Come,
sir,' he said. 'Let us get you back to your fellows.'

The
constable gave a call and three watchmen came out of their hiding place to take
charge of the thief. When they had deprived him of a dagger, they dragged him
up the garden of the house.

Surprise
had been decisive in catching the other men. Swiftly overpowered, they now lay
groaning on the ground. Christopher stood over them with a sword in his hand
while Littlejohn used an arm to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Blood
dripped from the builder's cheek but it was not his own. It belonged to the man
whose lip he had opened with his angry knuckles. Littlejohn was now panting
heavily but delighted with his night's work.

'We
did well, Mr Redmayne,' he boasted. 'Very well.'

'Not
well enough,' said Christopher. 'We only caught two of them.'

'The
third is also taken,' announced a voice. 'I had thought to arrest all three
myself but it seems that you have done my office for me.'

Christopher
and Littlejohn were amazed to see the constable coming towards them with the
thieves' accomplice in the grip of the watchmen. They were thrilled that all
the malefactors had been caught. In the gloom, Christopher did not at first
recognise the constable.

'You
came at an opportune moment,' he said.

'I
was acting on information, sir,' explained Jonathan.

'Information?'

'Yes,
sir. I was roused from my bed and advised that a crime was about to take place
on this site.'

'Who
gave you such advice?'

'Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me
Thorpe.'

Littlejohn
was baffled. 'Who?'

'A
neighbour of mine, sir. A Quaker. He chanced to overhear these rogues plotting
their crime. After following them here, Mr Thorpe came straight to my house to
warn me.'

'We
are most grateful to him,' said the builder. 'And grateful to you as well.
These villains have already stolen far too much from this site and they had to
be caught. They deserve to rot in prison.'

'They
will, sir.'

'We
hope we may recover some of the property taken earlier.'

'That
depends where it went,' said Jonathan, glancing at the men on the ground.
'These men came by boat so the likelihood is that they had a warehouse nearby
where they could take the stolen goods. Do not worry, sir, I am sure they will
tell us all we wish to know.'

Jonathan
grabbed each of them in turn by the scruff of his neck and pulled him upright.
Both were too dazed to resist, let alone to attempt an escape. Two of the
watchmen seized a man apiece. The constable was very pleased. In a
crime-infested ward, the forces of law and order had achieved a small triumph.
Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe had been instrumental in securing one arrest. A
man who had violated several laws on his own account that night had helped to
foil a serious crime.

Christopher
took a closer look at the providential constable.

'Do
I not know you, friend?' he said.

'No,
sir,' protested Jonathan. 'We have never met.'

'Yes,
we have. I remember you now.'

'I
have no memory whatsoever of you, sir.'

'But
you must have,' said Christopher, warming to him. 'You came to my aid once before.
It was near St Paul's when a pickpocket robbed me of my purse. Yes, you are
Jonathan Bale, are you not?' he recalled. 'I had a feeling we would meet again
one day. I am Christopher Redmayne. I offered you a drawing of the cathedral by
way of thanks. Surely, you remember me now, my friend? I was the artist whose
purse you restored. Christopher Redmayne.'

Jonathan
took a deep breath before issuing a polite rebuff.

'You
are mistaken, sir. I have never heard that name before.'