The King's Evil Read online

  'Ah, yes,' she said, failing to cover her surprise. 'I was forgetting. That house. Please continue, Mr Redmayne.'

  Christopher was as discreet and succinct as he could be but the full horror of what had occurred could not be hidden. The two of them held each other throughout and he saw the mother's arms tighten to the point where she was almost supporting her daughter. Lady Northcott's pain was confined to her eyes but Penelope expressed hers more openly, gasping aloud, sagging, swaying then gritting her teeth in an effort to master her emotions. Christopher answered their questions briefly and honestly. Realising that neither of them had any knowledge of a new London house, he took care not to mention it again.

  Lady Frances Northcott drew herself up to her full height.

  'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said without a tremor. 'It is very kind of you to ride down here to impart this news. Would you please wait here for a little while? We need to excuse ourselves for a few minutes.'

  'Of course.'

  He crossed to open the door for them and they went out. Penelope was too absorbed in her own sadness to do anything more than shuffle past on her mother's arm but the latter moved with natural dignity. Christopher shut the door gently behind them. Walking over to the portrait above the mantelpiece, he looked up at Sir Ambrose Northcott and wondered why a man should spend such an immense amount of money on a house while omitting to mention its construction to his wife and daughter. It was baffling. It also put Christopher in the unfortunate position of having to deliver an additional blow to the two women. He consoled himself with the thought that he had probably handled an awkward situation with more tact and sensitivity than Solomon Creech. Had the lawyer travelled to Priestfield Place, he would doubtless have compounded their misery. x

  Asked to wait briefly, Christopher was left alone for well over half an hour. Though it gave him an opportunity to explore the Great Hall and its many intriguing features, it also left him with the sense that he was now in the way.

  Some sort of collapse must have taken place, he surmised, as both women struggled with their grief in private. He had a vision of Penelope Northcott, lying on her bed, crying in despair, knocked senseless by the news he had relayed to her. Christopher had an impulse to reach out to comfort her but he sensed that she was beyond solace of any kind and it was not, in any case, his place to offer it. Lady Northcott had maintained her calm in his presence but he doubted if it would last indefinitely. The most probable thing, he decided, was that both of them were so caught up in their distress that they had forgotten all about him. It would be a kindness to them to steal quietly away.

  Christopher had almost reached the front door when she called.

  'Where are you going, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.

  'Oh,' he said, turning. 'I thought that I was perhaps intruding.'

  'You were leaving?'

  'It seemed advisable.'

  'But I must speak to you.'

  It was Penelope Northcott who had come down the stairs and not her mother. Though her face was still white and her eyes swollen by a bout of tears, she was now much more controlled and her voice was calm. She took him by the arm and led him back into the Great Hall.

  'I must apologise,' she said earnestly. 'It was unmannerly of us to leave you alone for so long but we needed to ...' Her voice tailed off. She needed a deep breath before she could speak again. 'Anyway, I am glad that I came down in time to stop you going before I could add my personal thanks. I do appreciate your taking the trouble to ride all the way to Priestfield Place.'

  'It was no trouble, I assure you. I felt it my bounden duty.'

  'Duty?'

  'Your father was very kind to me, Miss Northcott.'

  'Ah, yes,' she said distantly. 'The house. You designed it.' 'My first commission.' He felt the need to soothe her. 'Your father obviously planned to surprise you with it when the house was finally built. Sir Ambrose clearly had an interest in architecture. How could he not, living in such a magnificent property as this? Yes,' he said without any real conviction. 'That must have been it. The London house was destined to be a gift to your mother. Or perhaps even to you and your future husband. It would have made a perfect wedding present.'

  'Yes,' she said.

  But they both knew that the notion was wildly improbable.

  'Were you a close friend of my father's?' she asked.

  'Not at all. I was just one of many people whom he employed. Sir Ambrose always kept his distance. To tell you the truth, he was a rather mysterious figure to me.'

  'Yes,' she murmured.

  'The one person who did know him was my brother, Henry.'

  'Your brother?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher. 'It was Henry who showed some of my drawings to your father and encouraged him to meet me. From my point of view, it was the most wonderful stroke of fortune. Until now.'

  Penelope indicated a chair, waited until he was seated then sat next to him. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Now that she was alone and much closer to him, he became more conscious of her beauty. Mild excitement stirred inside him. She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  'Why did you bring the news, Mr Redmayne?'

  'I felt that you had a right to be informed as soon as possible.'

  'But it was not your place to act as the messenger.'

  'I believe that it was.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I was the person who actually found the body,' he said, 'and because the hideous crime took place in a property which I designed for your father.' 'That still does not make it your duty,' she replied. 'Especially as you did not really know my father very well. His lawyer should have brought the news or sent someone in his stead. We are very used to receiving messages from Mr Creech. Father often made contact with us through him.'

  'Solomon Creech would not take on the responsibility.'

  'But it fell to him.'

  'He was shaken by news of the murder. When I told him, he became very agitated. He more or less refused to send word to you so I took on the office. Nobody else seemed willing to do so, including my brother, Henry. To be honest, Miss Northcott...' The scent of perfume drifted into his nostrils again and he paused momentarily to enjoy it. 'To be honest,' he added, leaning a little closer, 'I was grateful for the opportunity. I hoped that it would enable me to learn much more about Sir Ambrose.'

  'Why should you want to do that, Mr Redmayne?'

  'Because I intend to find the man who killed him.'

  'Oh!' she said, blinking in astonishment. 'But surely it is not your task to do so. You are an architect.'

  'I was an architect. Until yesterday.'

  'Must you now turn into an avenging angel?'

  'There will be nothing angelic about my vengeance.'

  'But think of the danger. The murderer is a ruthless man.'

  'I am all too aware of that,' said Christopher. 'I witnessed his handiwork. He must be called to account and I will do everything in my power to catch him. You have my word.'

  The turquoise eyes roamed freely over his face, ignited by a mixture of admiration and apprehension. He basked in her frank curiosity. It was oddly exhilarating.

  'Take care, sir,' she said at length.

  'I will, Miss Northcott.'

  'Do you have any clues as to the identity of the killer?'

  'None as yet.'

  'Were you expecting to find some at Priestfield Place?'

  'As a matter of fact, I was.'

  'How?'

  'I thought that your mother might at least be able to give me some guidance,' he admitted. 'Lady Northcott would know the names of her husband's enemies and details of any bitter arguments in which Sir Ambrose was engaged. Possibly your father's life has even been threatened in the recent past.'

  'If it had been,' she said softly, 'he would not have confided in Mother. Still less in me. The truth is that Father was very rarely here long enough to tell us anything.' She gave a shrug. 'We have not seen him for months.'

  'But he was away from London
for almost three weeks.'

  'Did he tell you that he was coming home?'

  'No,' said Christopher, 'but that is what I assumed.'

  'We have all made too many assumptions about my father.'

  She lowered her head and became lost in her thoughts. Penelope was torn between sorrow at her father's death and regret that she knew so little about the man who had been cruelly murdered at a new house of whose existence she was quite unaware. It was embarrassing to make such a confession to a complete stranger. When she looked up, she tried to mumble an apology but Christopher waved it away.

  'Say nothing now,' he advised. 'It was wrong of me to expect any help when you and your mother were still reeling from this dreadful shock. I will trespass on your feelings no longer,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Let me just add this, Miss Northcott. If - in due course - either of you does recall something about Sir Ambrose which might be helpful to me, please send word. A message can reach me in London.'

  'Where?'

  'Fetter Lane. Number seven.'

  'Fetter Lane.'

  'Will you remember that address?'

  'Yes, Mr Redmayne, but I hold out no promises.'

  'Any detail, however minor, could be useful. I need to know about any disputes Sir Ambrose may have had. Problems with tenants, things of that nature. But not now. Forget me until... until you are ready.'

  'I will not forget you,' she said, rising to her feet. 'You have been so considerate to us, sir. And now you tell me that you are trying to solve this murder on our behalf even if it means putting your own life at risk. I am profoundly touched and Mother will feel the same when I tell her. You are very brave, Mr Redmayne.'

  'I am very determined, that is all.'

  'Find him, please.'

  'I will.'

  'Find the man who killed my father.'

  'He will not escape, Miss Northcott.'

  She reached out to squeeze both of his hands in a gesture of gratitude and Christopher felt another thrill of excitement. Even in her distress, Penelope Northcott was an entrancing young lady and he had to remind himself that his interest was wholly misplaced. He was there for one purpose alone. It was time to go yet somehow he could not move away from her and the wonder of it was that she seemed to share his reluctance at their parting. He stood there, gazing at her, searching for words of farewell which simply would not come. Christopher felt that such a tender moment justified all the effort of riding down to Kent. The tenderness did not last long.

  The door suddenly opened and a young man came striding in.

  'Penelope!' he said, descending on her. 'I have just heard the news from Lady Northcott.'

  'George!'

  'You poor thing!' He enfolded her in his arms. 'What an appalling crime! Someone will be made to pay for this, mark my words!'

  The arrival of her fiancée unnerved Penelope and she lost her control for a short while, sobbing into his shoulder. George Strype made soothing sounds and patted her gently on the back. He was a tall man with long dark hair which fell in curls to the shoulders of his coat. Though he was moderately handsome, his costly attire failed to hide the fact that he was running to fat. Christopher noticed the podgy hands and the nascent double chin. He also experienced a surge of envy at a man who was entitled to embrace Penelope Northcott so freely.

  George Strype flung an inhospitable glance at Christopher.

  'Who are you, sir?' he said coldly.

  'My name is Christopher Redmayne.'

  'The messenger, I presume?'

  'Oh, Mr Redmayne is much more than that,' said Penelope.

  'Indeed?' said Strype.

  'Yes, George.'

  She introduced the two men properly then spoke so warmly about the visitor that Strype interrupted her. Keeping a proprietary arm around her shoulder, he sized the other man up then gave a contemptuous snort.

  'So you intend to solve a murder, do you?'

  Christopher held his gaze. 'Yes, Mr Strype.'

  'How do you propose to do that?'

  'This is neither the time nor place to discuss it.'

  'In other words, you have no earthly notion where to start.'

  'In other words,' said Christopher, 'this is an occasion of intense sadness for Miss Northcott and I would not dare to distress her further by talking at length about her father's murder. It would be unseemly.'

  'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said.

  'He does not deserve your thanks, Penelope.'

  'Yes, he does, George.'

  'Why?'

  'For showing such tact.'

  'What use is tact?'

  'And for displaying such courage.'

  'There is nothing courageous in a foolish boast.' 'Mr Redmayne did not boast.'

  'He is raising false hopes, Penelope, and that is a cruelty.'

  'Nothing on earth would induce me to be cruel to your fiancée, sir,' said Christopher courteously. 'I am sorry that my plans meet with such disapproval from you, especially as you might be in a position to render me some assistance. Evidently, I would be misguided if I looked for help from your direction. When the killer is caught - as he will be - you may yet have the grace to admit that you were too hasty in your assessment of my character. You may, Mr Strype, though I suspect that you will not.' He turned to Penelope. 'Please excuse me, Miss Northcott. I have stayed far too long as it is.'

  'No, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Let him go,' grunted Strype.

  'But the least we can do is to offer our guest refreshment.'

  'He can find that at the nearest inn, Penelope.'

  'George!'

  'He is not a guest, Penelope. Merely a messenger.'

  'That is very unkind,' she chided.

  'We need to be alone.'

  'I could not agree with Mr Strype more,' said Christopher, moving to the door. 'I have discharged my duty as a mere messenger and I must away. It is a long and tedious ride back to London. Please give my regards to Lady Northcott and tell her that I hope to meet her in less painful circumstances next time.'

  'There is no need for you to meet her at all,' said Strype.

  'You are probably right.'

  'Goodbye, sir!'

  'Goodbye.'

  'Wait!' called Penelope as he turned to go.

  Christopher hesitated but whatever she had meant to say went unspoken. George Strype exuded such a sense of displeasure that she was visibly cowed and took refuge in his shoulder once more. Her fiancée enjoyed his minor triumph, stroking her hair and placing a kiss on the top of her head. He was lavish in his affection. When he looked up to give himself the satisfaction of dismissing the visitor, he saw that he was too late. Christopher had already slipped out of the house.

  As he strolled towards the stables, Christopher asked himself why such a lovely young lady should allow herself to become engaged to such a disagreeable man. Strype looked ten years older than his fiancée and clearly set in his attitudes. He had the arrogant manner of someone whose authority was never challenged. Christopher felt even more pity for Penelope Northcott. At a time when she most needed sympathy, she was in the hands of George Strype. The man's arrival did have one advantage. It robbed Christopher himself of all vain interest in Penelope. She was spoken for and that was that. His mind was liberated to concentrate on the important task of tracking down the man who killed her father.

  The stables were at the side of the house but curiosity got the better of him. Instead of retrieving his horse, he went on to take a look at the garden which now stretched out before him. It was breathtaking in its sense of order. Neat rectangular lawns were fringed with colourful borders and dotted with circular flowerbeds. Trees and shrubs grew in serried ranks. Paths criss-crossed with geometrical precision and water met the eye in every direction. Gauging the amount of work which must have gone into its creation and maintenence, he could only marvel.

  Its most startling feature was sitting on a bench. She blended so perfectly with her surroundings that at first Christopher did not see her. Lady
Frances Northcott was resting in the shade of an arbour as she looked across to the willows edging the lake. Where she might have been tense and doleful, she seemed at that distance to be surprisingly at ease. Christopher could not resist getting a little closer to make sure that it really was the widow of Sir Ambrose Northcott. She had borne the news of his murder with extraordinary composure and Christopher fully expected her to return to him once she had escorted her daughter to her bedchamber. In the event, it was Penelope who came back, giving the impression that it was her mother who was so consumed by grief that she could not face the visitor again.

  Lady Northcott was not consumed with grief now. Christopher crept across a lawn until he was only ten yards or so away. Concealing himself behind some rhododendrons, he watched her with fascination for a few minutes. When her head turned briefly in his direction, giving him a clear view of her face, he was shocked. Instead of mourning the death of her husband, Lady Frances Northcott had a smile of contentment on her lips.

  Chapter Nine

  Jonathan Bale ignored the light drizzle as he moved slowly around with his gaze fixed firmly on the ground. It was a long painstaking search but it yielded nothing of real value. He withdrew to the road and studied the site pensively. It was deserted. Work on the house had been terminated and Samuel Littlejohn's men sent home while he looked for alternative employment for them. Most of the building materials had been removed for storage elsewhere. The once busy site had a forlorn air, its ambition snuffed out, its bold design unrealised, its vestigial walls giving it more of a kinship with the ruined households all around it than with the new dwellings which were gradually taking their place. Notwithstanding his reservations about the owner and architect, the constable felt a pang of genuine regret.

  It was not shared by the man who strutted up beside him.

  'The message could not be clearer,' he asserted.

  'What message?' said Jonathan.

  'God has spoken. No house should ever be built on this site. It is patently doomed to fall. First, came the Great Fire. Then, the spate of thefts. And now, a foul murder. These are all signs.'

  'Of what, Mr Thorpe?'

  'God's displeasure.'