The Parliament House (11 page)

    What hampered them was that vendors were too busy serving customers to talk to Bale and Bridget for more than a few seconds. They were there to sell their produce, not to engage in conversation with an angry Irishwoman and an inquisitive constable. In certain cases, Bale feared, even if they had known the wanted man, some vendors would not have admitted it. They would have protected a friend. Bale and Bridget pressed on until they finally had a more promising response.

    'Field?' said the old woman. "Would that be Gamaliel Field?'

    'It could be,' replied Bale.

    'Then, yes, I do know him.'

    'Was he here this morning?'

    'Of course. Gamaliel is always here.'

    'And is he about my age and build?'

    'With a broken nose?' added Bridget, starting to believe that they had eventually picked up a scent. 'A proper brute of a man.'

    'Some would say so,' decided the old woman.

    She had a poultry stall and had just sold the last of her stock - a goose in a wooden cage - when they approached her. Bale put her in her sixties and poor eyesight made her squint, but her voice was clear enough even if it did crack. She gave them a toothless grin.

    'What business have you with Gamaliel?' she said.

    'We just need to speak to him,' explained Bale, squeezing Bridget's arm to stop her from blurting out their real intention. 'We believe that Mr Field may be able to help us.'

    'He's not here now, sir.'

    'Then where is he?'

    'Drinking at the Black Horse, if I know him.'

    'And where's that?' asked Bridget.

    'I know where it is,' said Bale. He nodded at the old lady. 'Thank you very much. You've been very helpful.'

    She grinned again. 'Tell Gamaliel that I'll see him tomorrow.'

    'No, you won't!' said Bridget under her breath.

    The two of them walked along Leadenhall Street until they came to an alleyway. Once through that, they turned into a narrow street that curved its way north. The Black Horse was only one of a number of taverns in the street, and it occupied a position between a warehouse and a carpenter's shop. Bale told his companion to stand directly opposite so that she could have a good view of anyone who came out. He then slipped down the passageway at the side of the building so that he could enter it at the rear.

    Bridget McCoy waited impatiently, wishing that she had a weapon about her so that she could wreak her revenge. In using the Saracen's Head as a place from which to commit murder, Field had left the place tainted. It would always bear a stigma. The reputation that she had struggled so hard to maintain in the wake of her husband's death had been vitiated by a man with a broken nose. Bridget wanted the satisfaction of seeing him hang from the gallows so that she could hurl abuse at him. Her only regret was that she could not put the noose around his neck herself.

    The longer she waited, the more incensed she became, letting her rage build until it was difficult to contain. Where was Jonathan Bale? Why was he spending so much time in the Black Horse? Had he met with resistance? Or had Gamaliel Field overpowered him? Concern mingled with fury to leave her throbbing with emotion. Having tracked the man down, they must surely not let him escape.

    Bridget was on tender-hooks. Her blood was racing. She had just reached the point where she could endure it no longer when the front door of the Black Horse opened and Bale led out a burly man for her inspection. She identified him at once and she scurried across the street to attack him.

    'That's the man!' she yelled. 'Arrest him, Mr Bale.'

    Before he could move, Gamaliel Field was held in a bear hug then swung round quickly to face the tavern so that Bridget could not pummel him with her fists. She continued to screech and it took a while to calm her down. When she agreed not to assault the prisoner, Bale pulled him round so that she could have a closer look at him. Bridget was dismayed. Overwhelmed with eagerness for him to be the killer, she had been too hasty. The man was the same age and height as Bale but he was much fatter. His face was covered in a dark beard and his broken nose was nothing at all like the one owned by the killer who had rented a room from her at the Saracens Head. It was an agonising setback.

    'Let him go, Mr Bale,' she said, quietly. 'That's not the man.'

      Before they left the house, Christopher Redmayne wrote to Jonathan Bale, explaining that he was going to Cambridge for the funeral and suggesting that the constable make certain inquiries during his absence. The letter was given to Jacob so that he could arrange delivery. Christopher then went off down Fetter Lane with Susan Cheever at his side. It was several weeks since they had been out riding together and, although they were simply going to Westminster, they both took great pleasure from the journey, moving at a trot in order to stretch out the time spent alone in each other's company.

    When they reached the Strand, the traffic thickened noticeably and they had to wend their way past coaches, carts, countless other riders and dozens of ambling pedestrians. The wide thoroughfare seemed to be alive with people, streaming to and from the city.

    'It will be a long ride to Cambridge,' she noted.

    'Mr Everett lived in a village just this side of the town.'

    'Even so, you'll be in the saddle for hours.'

    'Any discomfort that I suffer is irrelevant,' said Christopher. 'I feel impelled to go, whatever the distance. I take my example from the King.'

    'The King?'

    'Yes, His Majesty can ride all morning and afternoon without showing any strain. It must be forty miles or more to Newmarket, yet he'll go there and back in a day just to see the races.'

    'I'd rather you didn't mention Newmarket,' said Susan.

    'Why not?'

    'That was where Father met Mrs Kitson.'

    'You may live to be grateful for that, Susan.'

    'Grateful?'

    'Any woman who can make Sir Julius mellow a little must have quite exceptional qualities. I'd cultivate this friendship between them. It might be in everyone's interest.'

    'I wish that I could be so sanguine about it.'

    'Will this lady never overcome your objections?'

    'It's unfair of me to resent her when we've never actually met,' she conceded. 'To be honest, it's not Mrs Kitson who concerns me. It's my father. I think it's rather unseemly of him to behave this way at his age - especially after the vow he gave.'

    'What vow?'

    'It was when Mother died. He swore that he'd never marry again because he knew she was irreplaceable.' Susan lifted her chin with indignation. 'Yet now he's allowed himself to become entranced with someone he met at a racecourse.'

    'Would it have made a difference if they'd met in a church?' Her eyes flashed and he wished that he had not made the comment. It was clearly a sensitive topic for her and best avoided. 'That was a crass remark,' he said, immediately, 'and I take it back.'

    Continuing on their way, they turned, by mutual consent, to the more neutral subject of the weather. The English obsession with the vagaries of the climate led them to endless speculation and they arrived at the Cheever house still wondering if it would be wet or fine for the funeral. The coach stood ready outside the front door but it was the horse and cart that caught Christopher's eye. In the back of the cart was an object that was covered in a dark tarpaulin. It was the coffin that contained the body of Bernard Everett and it gave both of them a start.

    Sir Julius Cheever came waddling out of the house to greet them.

    'Wherever have you been, Susan?' he asked, switching his gaze to Christopher before she could reply. 'And why have you come back again, young man? I need no more lectures from you.'

    'It was Mr Everett who brought me here,' said Christopher, indicating the cart. 'I wish to attend the funeral and, since you are travelling to Cambridge today, I thought that I'd accompany you.'

    'My coach is full enough.'

    'Then I'll ride beside it, Sir Julius.'

    'There's no need for you to come.'

    'Christopher feels that he must,' said Susan, taking over from him. 'After all, he designed the house for Mr Polegate. That's what brought his brother-in-law to London in the first place. Christopher is implicated, Father.'

    'That's true. He was there at the time.'

    'I promise to keep out of your way,' said the architect.

    'Well,' decided Sir Julius, stroking his jaw, 'I suppose that I can hardly stop you. And an extra person will help to deter any villains who might be tempted to rob us.' He took note of the sword and dagger that hung from the other man's belt. 'And you are armed, I see.'

    Christopher patted his saddlebag. 'I carry a pistol as well.'

    'Then you are welcome to travel with us.' His eyes twinkled. 'Now I know why my daughter rode off with such eagerness this morning. Susan went to warn you what was happening.'

    'Christopher had a right to know,' said Susan.

    'I accept that.'

    'I'm also looking forward to seeing a little of Cambridge,' said Christopher. 'I hear that it's a place that every architect should study. But my principle reason for going, of course, is to attend the funeral. I liked Mr Everett. He was entertaining company. Even on such a brief acquaintance, I could see that he was a very able man.'

    'A truly estimable fellow.' Looking towards the cart, Sir Julius heaved a sigh. He became businesslike. 'We are by no means ready to leave yet. Come inside and meet everyone else.'

    Christopher dismounted then helped Susan down from the saddle. He was rewarded with a warm smile of gratitude. A servant took care of the horses and they went into the house, stepping from bright sunshine into a funereal atmosphere. Hester Polegate was seated in the parlour with her twin sons either side of her. All three were dressed in black. Though she was the sister rather than the widow of the deceased, Hester wore a peaked black headdress that helped to obscure her face. She looked up at the newcomers.

    There was a muted flurry of greetings and expressions of sympathy from Christopher and Susan. Hester Polegate was touched to hear that the architect was making the journey with them. Her two sons, only fourteen years of age, were still too shocked by the violent death of their uncle to speak. Also in the room were Brilliana and Lancelot Serle. They were pleased to see Christopher again but, because of the pervading mood of sorrow, they were unable to engage in a proper conversation with him. Christopher was relieved. Warned by Susan, he was glad to escape the threatened ambush from her sister.

    Twenty minutes later, the travellers left the house and climbed into Sir Julius's coach. Mounting his horse, Christopher noted that both a coachman and a footman were making the journey, and that two men were accompanying the coffin in the cart. All would be armed, making the little cortege an uninviting target for any footpads or highwaymen they might meet on their way. Brilliana and her husband came out to wave them off but Christopher's gaze was directed at Susan. After exchanging a private smile with her, he set off behind the coach and the cart. The vehicles rumbled along, their iron-rimmed wheels resounding on the hard road. When they hit open country, Christopher knew, ridges, depressions and potholes would make Bernard Everett's last journey a very undignified one.

    Heading north up King Street, they were all lost in thought. Inside the coach, Hester Polegate and her children were consumed with grief while Sir Julius Cheever searched for words to console them. In the light of what he had been told, Christopher wondered what sort of woman had managed to attract a choleric old knight who had seemed so entrenched in his bachelor existence. He hoped that he would have the opportunity of meeting the lady in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, using his artistic skills, Christopher drew a series of conjectural portraits of her in his mind. None sat easily beside the image of Sir Julius Cheever.

    So diverted was he by the exercise of bringing Dorothy Kitson to life that he did not realize that they were being followed. The, lone rider stayed well back, knowing the route that they would have to take and biding his time. It was simply a question of choosing his moment.

Chapter Six

    After driving Bridget McCoy and her son back to their tavern, Jonathan Bale returned the horse and cart to the blacksmith from whom he had borrowed it. He then strode to his house on Addle Hill.

    'I'm glad that you're home,' said his wife as he came through the door. 'There's a letter for you from Mr Redmayne.'

    'When did it arrive?'

    'Half an hour ago, at least. I expected you earlier.'

    'I had to go to Leadenhall Market.'

    'Whatever for?'

    'I'll tell you later,' said Bale, looking around. 'Where's the letter?'

    'On the kitchen table.'

    He went into the kitchen and snatched up the missive, breaking open the seal to read it. Sarah saw the consternation in his face and hoped that it was not bad news. As she had discovered years ago, the problem with being a parish constable was that good tidings were few and far between. Reports of murder, theft and assault were far more likely to be brought to the door. Bale was also frequently called upon to intervene in disputes between neighbours or - as if he did not have enough crime to occupy him - to rescue pet animals from the precarious situations into which they had got themselves. Whatever else the letter contained, Sarah mused, it was not another plea to haul an injured dog from a stinking quagmire.