The Parliament House cr-5 Read online

  Lancelot Serle was too honest a man to nurse a guilty secret for long. After a day of brooding, and in spite of warnings from his wife, he blurted it out over supper that evening.

  'We met Christopher's brother yesterday,' he volunteered.

  'Did you?' Susan was astonished. 'Why did you not say so when you returned from your drive?'

  'Because it was only a casual encounter,' said Brilliana, shooting her husband a venomous look, 'and hardly worth mentioning.'

  'Where did this encounter take place?'

  'Outside his house.'

  'And inside, Brilliana,' said Serle, determined to make a clean breast of it. 'We went to Bedford Street to look at his house from outside when Mr Redmayne came riding home.'

  'It was a happy accident,' said Brilliana.

  'I call it bare-faced audacity,' cried Susan, looking across the table at her sister. 'Whatever possessed you to go near Henry's house?'

  'We were only acting on your account.'

  'I did so with great reluctance,' said Serle.

  'Keep out of this, Lancelot,' advised his wife in a tone of voice that suggested he would be severely reprimanded later on. 'You've already said too much.'

  'I'm glad that Lancelot spoke,' Susan continued, her anger rising. 'It's bad enough that you should do such a thing. Hiding your treachery from me only makes it worse.'

  'No treachery was involved, Susan.'

  'You went there behind my back.'

  'Only because you'd never have sanctioned a visit.'

  'I'd have resisted the notion with every breath in my body.'

  'When you spoke about Henry Redmayne,' said Brilliana, 'I felt that you were hiding something and I wanted to know what it was. A first step was to look at the house where he lived.'

  Serle nodded. 'We were doing that when the gentleman rode up.' He caught another glare from his wife. 'You tell it, Brilliana.'

  'As it was,' continued his wife, 'Mr Redmayne - Henry - was kind enough to invite us in so that we could see the inside of the house. In fact, we stayed there for some time.'

  'Talking about me, I suppose?' said Susan, clearly upset.

  'Your name did come into the conversation.'

  'Brilliana, this is quite unforgivable! How dare you intrude into my private life? Even by your standards, this is shameful behaviour.'

  'My standards have always been impeccably high.' 'Well, they sank to the depths yesterday.'

  'I was acting on your behalf, Susan. Don't you understand that? If we are to be more closely allied to the Redmayne family, it behoves me to find out more about it.'

  'And where is your next port of call?' asked her sister with biting sarcasm. 'Do you intend to bang on the doors of Gloucester cathedral and demand to see the dean?'

  'No. Henry is much more entertaining company.'

  'Though I deplore his taste in art,' Serle put in.

  'I found it rather diverting.'

  'Brilliana, how can you say such a thing?' He turned to Susan. 'The first thing you see as you enter the hall is a depiction of a Roman orgy, and there's hardly a room where naked females do not adorn the walls. They are painted with great cunning, I grant you, but are they suitable for public exhibition?'

  'You are too narrow-minded, Lancelot.'

  'Would you hang such obscenities in our home?'

  'That's neither here nor there,' said Susan, irritably. 'The simple fact is that you should never have gone anywhere near Bedford Street. As for being invited into the house so that you could discuss my private affairs, that was unpardonable.'

  'But we learned something of importance about Father.'

  'It was the reason why I had to speak out,' said Serle. 'Since you actually share the house with Sir Julius, it would be wholly unfair to keep it from you a moment longer. The wonder is that you did not hear it from Christopher.'

  'Hear what?' asked Susan.

  'Henry Redmayne has been advising his brother with regard to the murder investigation.'

  'Yes,' said Brilliana, admiringly. 'Henry is remarkable. He knows everyone in London who is worth knowing, from His Majesty downwards. After the tragedy in Knightrider Street, he had a visit from his brother. Christopher asked him about any enemies that Bernard Everett might have in parliament.'

  'Mr Everett had not even taken his seat.'

  'Exactly - that was why Christopher was so puzzled by the murder. His worst suspicions were confirmed by Henry and by

  Members of Parliament introduced to him by his brother.'

  Susan was perplexed. 'Christopher told me of no suspicions.'

  'Well, he certainly entertained them,' said Brilliana, 'and with justification. Henry confirmed what his younger brother feared. Bernard Everett was mistaken for someone else and died in his place. There's not a shadow of doubt about it. That man was hired to kill Father.'

  Chapter Eight

  Patrick McCoy was single-minded. Having decided that he would one day be an officer of the law, he thought about nothing else. Jonathan Bale may have taken the final crude portrait but there were half-a-dozen others that Bridget McCoy had drawn and her son had kept all of them. After careful study of each one, he felt that he had a good idea of what Field had looked like. Even though the Saracens Head would need no more provisions for days, Patrick decided to go to Leadenhall Market that morning. In his pocket were the sketches of the killer and he referred to them constantly.

  It was a long walk and he was still well short of the market when he was distracted by a commotion. Jeering and laughing, a small crowd was walking along the street. When he saw what they were carrying, Patrick soon understood why they were so excited. At the heart of the crowd, a man was being dragged along to the pillory by two constables. What the onlookers were waiting for was the chance to pelt the prisoner with the various missiles they had collected on the way. Rotten fruit was preferred by most of them but some had stones or pieces of wood, and there was even a dead cat being held in readiness.

  The prisoner was a scrawny man in his twenties, protesting his innocence and begging for mercy. The constables ignored his pleas. When they reached the pillory, one of them unlocked it and lifted up the top half so that the man's head and hands could be thrust into the rough shapes carved out of the wood. Because he was so short, the prisoner had to stand on tiptoe to reach the pillory and he was obviously in great discomfort. No sympathy was shown. The top half was slammed down and locked, securing him immovably in a position that would gradually become more and more agonising.

  One of the constables read out the charge but it went unheard beneath the baying of the mob. No sooner had the officers stood back than the real punishment began. Missiles of all kinds were flung at him from close range. A ripe tomato splattered across the prisoner's nose and a piece of brick took the skin off the knuckles of one hand. When he yelled for mercy, he was hit full in the face by the putrid cat. Unable to defend himself, he was exposed to the ridicule and cruelty of the crowd. Sticks, stones, fruit, vegetables, and even a live frog were hurled at him.

  Patrick watched it all with absent-minded interest. When he was younger, he had helped to bait such malefactors and take his turn at throwing anything that came to hand at a hapless target. The treatment meted out was brutal. Those trapped in the pillory could be cut, bruised, blinded, deprived of teeth or, in some cases, killed by the ferocity of the attack. They were fair game to any passing citizen and the ordeal might last all day. Patrick decided that this particular man was getting off quite lightly. He sidled across to one of the constables, a sturdy man in his forties with a thick brown beard.

  'What's his offence, sir?' asked Patrick.

  'Sedition,' replied the other.

  'What's that?'

  'Speaking against the King and his government.'

  'Is that what he did?'

  'Yes,' said the constable. 'In the presence of witnesses, this villain swore that His Majesty was a creeping Roman Catholic, that he went to Mass six times a day and that he and his bloodsucking
ministers were in the pay of the Pope. That was sedition.'

  'Then he deserves what he gets.'

  'Every last minute of it.'

  Patrick thrust out his chest. 'I'm going to be a constable one day.'

  'Are you?' said the other with amusement.

  'I'll enjoy putting rogues like him in the pillory.'

  Snatching up a handful of offal from the street, he flung it hard at the man's head and secured a direct hit. The prisoner did not even feel it. He had already been knocked unconscious by a well- aimed horseshoe.

  It was still morning when they finally returned to London. Having stayed overnight at an inn, they completed the rest of their journey and pulled up outside Sir Julius Cheever's house in

  Westminster. As on the previous day, Christopher Redmayne travelled in the relative comfort of the coach, listening to his companion's strong political views while feeling unable to challenge them. He was grateful to be released from the litany.

  As soon as the coach appeared, Susan and Brilliana came out of the house to greet their father and to ask if he had had a safe journey. Christopher had intended to ride back home but a glance from Susan kept him there. He could tell at once that she knew. The plan to keep her ignorant of what had been going on was instantly abandoned. Christopher felt chastened.

  Brilliana made much of her father before sweeping him into the house. Susan was left alone with Christopher. He was subjected to a long and hostile stare before being invited into the house. She led him into the drawing room and shut the door firmly behind them. Hands on her hips, she rounded accusingly on her friend.

  'I think that I owe you an explanation,' he said, apologetically.

  'It's too late for that.'

  'Susan, I did not want you to be hurt.'

  'What is more hurtful than being deceived by the one person in my life that I thought I could trust? Really, Christopher,' she said. 'This has made me look at you in a whole new light.'

  'I'm still the same person.'

  'You mean that you were always given to lies and dissembling?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'I begin to think so.'

  'Then let me put your mind at rest on that score.'

  'Put it at rest?' she returned, harshly. 'You've set it ablaze.'

  'There was no point in telling you about my anxieties with regard to your father,' he explained. 'I needed to find more proof.'

  'Your own brother did that.'

  'Henry?'

  'He told you from the start that Mr Everett was an unlikely victim of any political plot. Father is the man with sworn enemies. Henry even arranged for you to speak to two Members of Parliament.' 'How do you know all this?'

  'Brilliana had a long conversation with your brother.'

  'But they've never even met.'

  'They have now,' explained Susan. 'Having decided to push the two of us closer together, my sister took it upon herself to discover more about your family background. She and her husband went off to see what sort of a house your brother owned.'

  Christopher was aghast. 'Are you telling me that they arrived in Bedford Street and knocked on Henry's door?'

  'Even Brilliana would not be that impudent. They just happened to be there when your brother returned from the Navy Office. They fell into conversation. When he realised who they were, Henry invited them in. And that,' said Susan, bitterly, 'is how I came to hear something I should have been told days ago.'

  'I concede that.'

  'So why did you mislead me?'

  'It was an error of judgement, Susan.'

  'It was more than that,' she rejoined. 'It was proof that you neither understand nor care about me in the way that I'd naively assumed.'

  'I do care about you,' he declared, going to her with outstretched arms. 'How can you possibly doubt that?'

  'Then why did you betray me like this?'

  'Susan-'

  'Am I so weak and tender that I'm not able to hear bad news? Do you think that I'll burst into tears if you tell me that Father is in danger? Your memory is wondrous short, Christopher,' she went on, shaking with emotion. 'When my brother, Gabriel, was murdered, I did not take to my bed in a fit of despair. I did my best to help you in tracking down the man who was responsible.'

  'You showed amazing courage.'

  'I was the only member of the family who kept in touch with him.'

  'That, too, was an example of your steadfastness.'

  'It has not fled,' she told him. 'Had I been warned in advance that my brother's life was at risk, I'd have gone to any lengths to protect him. The same is true of my father. I love him. I'd do anything to save him. But only if I knew in advance that he was in jeopardy.'

  'This is all true,' he confessed. 'I deserve your reproaches.'

  'Supposing that he'd been killed in the last few days?' she said. 'How do you think I'd have felt when I learned that you were already aware of the fact that someone sought his life?'

  It was a sobering question and he could find no immediate answer. Instead, he wrestled with his conscience. Should he tell her about the attempted murder of Sir Julius, or suppress the information? Should he risk upsetting her or should he compound his earlier mistake by hiding something from her yet again? Looking into her eyes, he saw the swirling confusion in them. Susan wanted to trust him yet she felt hurt and disregarded. He could deny her no more.

  'I only went to the funeral to keep an eye on your father,' he said.

  'Without a single word of it to me.'

  'I failed, Susan. We were followed.'

  He told her about the incident and how he had agreed with her father to say nothing about it. As a result of the conversation with her, Christopher had changed his mind. Shocked by the revelation, she did at least give him credit for confiding in her at last and she wanted to know every detail of what had occurred on their journey. Some of the vehemence had gone from her voice. He was relieved.

  'I'll take the matter up with Father,' she said.

  'No, no. Let me speak to him first.'

  'The pair of you have done enough whispering together. I'll not be led astray again. Thanks to your brother, I know the truth. Brilliana had the whole story from him.'

  'That surprises me.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I'd not have thought that she and Henry would have been in any way compatible. To speak more plainly, I'd have expected Brilliana to be less than complimentary about my brother and the sort of life that he leads. If she went into the house,' said Christopher, 'she must have seen some of those lurid paintings that he favours.'

  'Brilliana saw them and liked them.'

  ' Liked them?'

  'It was Lancelot who found them scandalous. He could not stop talking about a picture of a Roman orgy. As for Henry, my sister was very impressed. Brilliana had never met anyone remotely like him.'

  'No,' said Christopher, sighing, 'I suppose that Henry does have a uniqueness about him. It's always been a cause for profound regret to me. On the other hand,' he added, keen to state one thing in his brother's favour, 'he can be extraordinarily helpful. He seems to know almost everyone in London.'

  'Including Dorothy Kitson.'

  Christopher blanched. 'Henry is acquainted with her as well?'

  'He knows of the lady,' said Susan, 'and had actually met her last husband. According to Brilliana, he spoke very highly of Mrs Kitson. It made me feel rather contrite.'

  'Contrite?'

  'I'd had some unkind thoughts about her.'

  'Only because you'd never had the advantage of meeting her, Susan. It was natural that should want to shield your father from any inappropriate advances.' He gave a short laugh. 'Though I pity any woman bold enough to make such an approach to Sir Julius.'

  'He loves Mrs Kitson,' she said. 'I ought to accept that.'

  'Only one question remains, then - does Mrs Kitson love him?'

  The Parliament House was part of the Palace of Westminster. It was situated in what had been, before it was secula
rised, St Stephen's Chapel, a tall, two-storied building with high turrets at the four corners and long stained-glass windows that reflected its earlier sacred function. Irreverent language was now more likely to be heard in the former chapel, and some of the rituals observed would have been regarded as profanities on consecrated ground. Maurice Farwell had been a Member of Parliament for many years and had risen to occupy an important place on the Privy Council. The House of Commons was his second home. As he alighted from his coach, he saw many familiar figures walking towards the chamber. The man who first accosted him, however, was not a politician.

  'You have a lot to answer for, Maurice,' said Orlando Golland.

  'I'm not responsible for all the legislation that comes out of parliament,' replied Farwell, pleasantly. 'Do not call me to account for it, Orlando.'

  'This has nothing to do with the statute book.'

  'Then why do you look so sullen?'

  'Because I am deeply worried about my sister.'

  'There's no novelty in that,' said Farwell. 'You've spent an entire lifetime, worrying about Dorothy. When she was single, you feared that she might never wed. And when she did take a husband - on two separate occasions - you felt that they were palpably unworthy of her.'

  'They were saints compared to her latest suitor.'

  'And who might that be?'

  'Sir Julius Cheever, of course,' said Golland. 'When we met him at the races, you not only acknowledged the rascal, you introduced him to Dorothy and set catastrophe in motion.'

  'What can you mean?'

  'He wishes to marry her.'

  Farwell's jaw dropped. 'Marry her? I'm astounded.'

  'It was you who played Cupid to this bizarre romance.'

  Well into his forties, Maurice Farwell was tall, rangy and passably handsome. There was an air of conspicuous prosperity about him and a natural dignity that came into its own during parliamentary debates. The last person he had expected to waylay him was Orlando Golland.

  'Have you been waiting to ambush me?' he asked.