The King's Evil Read online

  'Why?'

  'It is a personal matter. Now, please let go of me.'

  Christopher released his arm then followed him through the cellars and up the stone steps. Both men were glad to be back out in the fresh air again and they inhaled deeply. Samuel Littlejohn was waiting for them, his face etched with concern. He lurched forward.

  'What has happened, constable?' he said.

  'I have sad news, I fear,' said Jonathan. 'Sir Ambrose Northcott has been stabbed to death. His body lies in the cellar.'

  Littlejohn recoiled and brought both hands up to his head.

  'This cannot be!' he gasped.

  'Mr Redmayne found and identified him.'

  'It is true, Mr Littlejohn,' confirmed Christopher.

  The builder was aghast. 'But what about the house?'

  'That is the least of my concerns at the moment, sir,' said Jonathan briskly. 'A murder has been committed. Finding the killer is my priority. Jem,' he continued, turning to the nightwatchman. 'Run to the Hope and Anchor on St Peter's Hill. You should find Abraham Datchett and his partner there. Bid them come as fast as they can.'

  'Yes, Mr Bale.'

  The nightwatchman hurried off. Littlejohn was still stunned.

  'What shall I do with my men?' he asked blankly. 'They will be coming to the site very soon, expecting to start work.'

  'Send them back home, sir,' advised Jonathan.

  'Work must be suspended,' agreed Christopher. 'The first thing we must do is to inform Solomon Creech. He is responsible for all of Sir Ambrose's affairs and will make decisions on his behalf. Who knows?' he said with forlorn enthusiasm. 'There may yet be some way in which the house can be built. Sir Ambrose's family may take on the responsibility themselves.'

  'Is that likely, Mr Redmayne?' asked Littlejohn with a sigh. 'Sir Ambrose was killed here. The property will hardly hold fond memories for his family. We have lost everything.'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'The project is doomed.'

  Christopher tried to console him but his words sounded hollow. In his heart, he shared the builder's pessimism. Construction had to be abandoned. There seemed to be no chance of it ever being resumed. In a city where so much rebuilding was taking place, Samuel Littlejohn would soon find alternative work for himself and his men but Christopher might not. His one venture into architecture had foundered.

  Preoccupied with the business implications, Littlejohn also spared a thought for a member of his family. There was real pain in his voice.

  'What will become of Margaret?' he asked.

  'Your daughter will be upset at the turn of events.'

  'She will be distraught, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Was she fond of Sir Ambrose?'

  'It is not his death which will hurt her the most,' said Littlejohn. 'It is the consequences. If we stop work on the house, how will Margaret see you? That is why she came to here so often.'

  'I see.'

  'You must be aware of her feelings for you.'

  'Well... yes, Mr Littlejohn.'

  'The girl dotes on you, sir.'

  Christopher saw that there might yet be a consolation for him. In losing a prized commission, he would also escape the attentions of an amorous young lady. There was an awkward pause. It was broken by a sound behind them and they turned to see Jonathan Bale rolling back the tarpaulin so that he could select a plank of wood.

  'I will need to borrow this,' he explained. 'We can use it to carry the body up from the cellar. Will your men bring a cart, Mr Littlejohn?'

  'Yes, constable. Make what use of it you will.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Will you need a hand to lift the body out?'

  'No, sir. The watchmen will help me along with Jem Raybone. But I would appreciate the loan of the cart to take it to the mortuary. How soon will it be here?'

  'Very soon,' said Littlejohn, looking rather embarrassed. 'It is a mean conveyance for so august a gentleman as Sir Ambrose Northcott.'

  Jonathan was brusque. 'It will suffice, sir. We do not seem to have a coach and horses at hand. Excuse me.'

  He carried the plank into the cellar and left the two men to make what they wished of his tart comment. Christopher resisted the impulse to go after the constable in order to confront him. Nothing could be served by an argument with Jonathan Bale at this stage. It would have to wait. He was of far more use in helping Littlejohn to recover from the shock. The builder was still struggling to come to terms with the tragedy.

  'What of his wife, his family?' he wondered.

  'They will have to be told as soon as possible.'

  'And his friends?'

  'My brother, Henry, was an intimate of his. He will pass the word around Sir Ambrose's circle. They will be grief- stricken. Solomon Creech will doubtless inform any business associates of Sir Ambrose.'

  'Was he not also a Member of Parliament?'

  'Yes, Mr Littlejohn. He will be sorely missed there as well.'

  'So many lives affected by this calamity.' He glanced towards the cellar steps. 'May I go and see him?'

  'I would counsel against it,' said Christopher. 'You would not recognise the man you knew. It is a gruesome sight, believe me, and it would only unsettle you further. Leave everything to the constable. He seems to know what he is doing.' His jaw tightened. 'Though I wish that his manner was a little more pleasant.'

  'Sir Ambrose Northcott murdered? Who could do such a thing?'

  'That is what I intend to find out.'

  'He was such a generous client.'

  'And a very brave one. I was a young and untried architect. He took a huge risk with me.'

  'A justified risk, Mr Redmayne. I had no qualms about your talent.'

  'Thank you.'

  'And my daughter thinks you are a genius.'

  Unable to answer his smile, Christopher was glad to be interrupted by the arrival of Jem Raybone and two elderly watchmen. Jonathan emerged from the cellar to beckon all three of them over to him. As soon as they disappeared down the steps, Littlejohn saw the first of his own men approaching the site and he went across to pass on the sad tidings. Christopher could see the horror on their faces. A horse-drawn cart rattled along the cobblestones with four other workmen on board. They were as shocked as their colleagues by the news but all chose to linger rather than to disperse. They felt a loyalty to their former employer. When the body of Sir Ambrose Northcott was brought up from the cellar, Littlejohn and his men doffed their hats in respect.

  The corpse lay on the wooden plank. Jonathan Bale and Abraham Datchett carried it between them to negotiate the narrow steps. The watchmen's staves were then placed on the ground so that the plank could be rested on it. All four men now bore the load, lifting up the body and carrying it slowly towards the cart on the staves. Christopher was touched to observe that the constable had removed his coat in order to cover the face and chest of the dead man, sparing him the indignity of attracting any ghoulish interest. Sir Ambrose Northcott's hat rested on his chest. The shoe had been replaced on his foot.

  Littlejohn climbed into the cart and used a hand to brush away the accumulated dust. Christopher went over to help them to ease the body into the cart. Everything was done with the utmost care. As other men reported for work on the site, they were told in whispers of the murder.

  Jonathan Bale turned to Christopher.

  'You will need to give a sworn statement, Mr Redmayne.'

  'I appreciate that. First, however, I must contact Solomon Creech. He is Sir Ambrose Northcott's lawyer. It is imperative that he hears about this immediately.'

  'Very well,' said Jonathan. 'I have met Mr Creech myself and I would certainly prefer that you spoke to him. The news will come better from you. We will take the body to the mortuary. Find me there, please.'

  'I will, Mr Bale.'

  'Goodbye, sir.'

  Littlejohn climbed out of the cart as the two watchmen clambered into it. Jonathan joined them and took up the reins. A gentle flick sent the horse ambling forwa
rd. Christopher and the others watched until the cart and its grim cargo disappeared out of sight. There was a protracted silence. Some of the men gradually began to drift away. Latecomers were turned back with the news. Samuel Littlejohn looked on the verge of tears.

  Christopher thought about his daughter and sighed. It was time to go.

  Henry Redmayne was in an irascible mood. Everything was conspiring against him that morning. His breakfast had been late, his servants slovenly and his barber had twice drawn blood while shaving him. Other domestic shortcomings annoyed him further. Over-arching these minor annoyances was his intense fear for the safety of a good friend. Henry hoped that Sir Ambrose Northcott would have written to him by now to explain his uncharacteristic absence on the previous evening but no word came. Apprehension deepened at the house in Bedford Street. Even a draught of Canary wine did not relieve it.

  The manservant found his master still in his bedchamber.

  'You have a visitor, sir,' he said.

  'Sir Ambrose Northcott?' asked Henry eagerly.

  'No, sir. Your brother.'

  'Does Christopher have any news?'

  'I am to summon you at once, sir. He said that it was urgent.'

  Henry brushed him aside and darted through the door. When he hastened down the stairs, he saw his brother waiting for him in the hall.

  'What has happened?' he demanded.

  'Can we speak in private?' said Christopher.

  'Of course. This way.'

  Christopher was shepherded into the parlour and the door was shut behind them. There was no easy way to break the tidings to Henry. He was twitching with anxiety and would brook no delay.

  'Well, Christopher?'

  'Sir Ambrose has been found.'

  'Alive or dead?' 'Dead, I fear.'

  Henry's body sagged. 'I knew it!'

  'He has been murdered.'

  'Dear God!'

  Christopher helped him to a chair then stood beside him to relate all the details. Henry winced throughout. His head pounded. The cuts on his face began to smart afresh.

  'This is dreadful!' he cried, putting his hands over his ears. 'I will hear no more. I have lost a dear, dear friend in Sir Ambrose. This is quite insupportable. I will never get over it.'

  'You must, Henry. I need your help.'

  'Leave me be.'

  'No,' said Christopher, gently removing his brother's hands from his ears. 'This is a terrible crime and someone must pay for it.'

  'I am paying for it!' wailed the other. 'In pity and sorrow.'

  'This is no time to think of yourself, Henry.'

  'But this is such a blow to me.'

  'Strike back at the man who delivered it.'

  'How?'

  'By helping me to track down the killer.'

  'But I have no idea who he might be, Christopher.'

  'I think you may,' said his brother, pulling a chair across to sit directly in front of him. 'You knew Sir Ambrose well. I did not. Let us look in the obvious place first. Did he have any enemies?'

  'Several. Enemies and rivals.'

  'Anyone in particular?'

  'Not that I can think of at the moment.'

  'I will need some names, Henry.'

  'Well, do not come to me,' said the other. 'Solomon Creech is your man. He could give you a full list of Sir Ambrose's enemies.'

  'He refuses to do so.'

  'You've already spoken to him?'

  'I had to tell him the news.'

  Henry bridled. 'You mean, you kept me waiting while you went off to that lawyer? I am your brother, Christopher. Your sibling. Your closest blood relation. Damnation! You should have come to me first!'

  'Mr Creech had to be informed. Only he can make decisions about the future of the house.'

  'What future? That house will only have a past now.' He turned away and pouted. 'I feel slighted, Christopher. I have been sick with worry yet you kept me in suspense while you trotted off to Solomon Creech.'

  'I also had to make a sworn statement before the magistrate.'

  'Your brother should have been your first port of call.'

  'That is a matter of opinion.'

  'You know mine.'

  'Yes, Henry,' said Christopher, clicking his tongue, 'and I am sorry if I offended you. It was not deliberate. The facts of the case are these. Sir Ambrose has been murdered. Solomon Creech flew into a panic when I told him and more or less drove me out of his office. He gave me no assistance at all. The wretch would not even undertake to inform Sir Ambrose's family.'

  'But they must be told.'

  'I will come to them in due course. Let us return to these enemies. You say that Sir Ambrose had several of them?'

  'Of course. He was a politician. Such men always have enemies. And he was a very successful merchant. His rivals hated him. Look among them for the most likely killer.'

  'Where do I start?'

  'I have told you. With his lawyer.'

  'Forget him, Henry. Answer me this. When you and Sir Ambrose were together, did he ever express fear that his life was under threat?'

  'Never.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Quite sure. Sir Ambrose was a brave man. Nothing frightened him. He had such a wonderful lust for life. That is what drew us together. I have never known anyone with such appetites. He will be missed.' He shook his head and rolled his eyes. 'Oh, he will indeed be missed. There are many establishments in this city where his passing will be mourned.'

  'Let us turn to his politics.'

  'He was a man of some influence.'

  'Which party did he follow?'

  'He was a close associate of Lord Ashley.'

  'The Chancellor of the Exchequer? I had not realised that Sir Ambrose moved in such exalted circles. Was he seen at Court?'

  'From time to time.'

  'Would his position have aroused envy among rivals?'

  'Envy, spite and rancour.'

  'Could you name some of those rivals?'

  'Not while my head is spinning like this. Good gracious, man!' he exclaimed, glaring at his brother. 'I am in agony. I have just been told that a cherished friend of mine has been stabbed to death in a cellar. You cannot expect me to sit here calmly and talk about his political rivals. Besides,' he added, 'why should you want to know? It is not your business to hunt down the killer.'

  'I am making it my business, Henry.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I owe it to Sir Ambrose,' said Christopher earnestly. 'He gave me hope where anybody else would have offered rejection. And yes, perhaps my ambitions have now run aground but that is no reason to forget what Sir Ambrose Northcott did for me. The least that I can do in return is to search for the fiend who murdered him. And the least you can do, Henry, is to help me.'

  'But I do not see how.'

  'Begin with that list. Reflect on it at your leisure. When you are ready, write down the name of any political opponent with whom Sir Ambrose clashed. Or any other person with whom he fell out. Will you do that for me, please?' He shook his brother's arm. 'Henry?' 'I will try.'

  'Excellent!'

  'But I will make no promises.'

  'Do you have access to Lord Ashley?'

  'Not directly but I have friends who do.'

  'Use them to question him on this matter. Lord Ashley will have information about Sir Ambrose that could prove crucial. If they were close, I am sure that the Chancellor will be distressed to lose him.'

  Henry stiffened. 'And what about me? I am even more distressed. You do not realise what this means to your brother, Christopher. I put years into that friendship with Sir Ambrose. He opened doors for me.'

  'I will need to peep inside some of them.'

  'Not now, not now. Please! Pester me no further.'

  'One last request.'

  'What is it?'

  'I will need Sir Ambrose's address.'

  'In Westminster?'

  'No, Henry, in Kent. That is where his family live. You mentioned a daughter. That means he has a w
ife and, perhaps, other children. It is cruel to keep this news from them any longer. Where will I find them?'

  'You? It is not your responsibility, Christopher.'

  'Do you volunteer to take it on?'

  'How can I?' said Henry, getting to his feet. 'I have far too much to do to go riding off to Sevenoaks.'

  'Is that where his home is?'

  'Near there. A few miles to the east. It is a full day's ride even for such an accomplished horseman as yourself.'

  'Have you ever been there?'

  'No, but Sir Ambrose often spoke about the onerous journey.'

  'What is the name of the house?'

  Henry Redmayne needed some time to grope in his memory.

  'Well?' prompted Christopher.

  'Head for the village of Shipbourne.' 'And the house?'

  'Priestfield Place.'

  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.