The Parliament House Read online

  'Take him inside,' advised Christopher. 'I'll fetch a constable.'

  Before doing so, however, he hoped that he might be able to apprehend the murderer. Dashing across the road, Christopher pushed through the knot of customers around the door and entered the tavern. He went into the taproom and saw the staircase against the far wall. He darted past bemused drinkers before going up the stairs to the first floor, running along a narrow passageway until he came to the last door on the right. Christopher flung it open, only to find that the room was now completely empty. Drizzle was blowing in through the open window. He went quickly across to it and gazed down at the scene below. The corpse was now being carried into the shop, away from the prying eyes of the neighbours. Hester Polegate was patently in great distress at the death of her brother. Susan Cheever had an arm around her as she helped the grieving woman inside.

  Christopher went back into the passageway and saw that there was another staircase nearby. It corkscrewed its way to the floor below. Pounding down it, he came into a kitchen where an old woman was stirring something in a pot over the fire. When he popped up in front of her without warning, she turned to him with open-mouthed wonder.

  'Did anyone else come through here?' he demanded.

  'Yes, sir,' she croaked. 'A gentleman rushed in.'

  'When?'

  'Not a minute ago.'

  'Which way did he leave?'

  She pointed a stubby finger. 'That way, sir.'

  Christopher opened a door and found himself looking at a row of stables on the other side of a cobbled yard. Nobody was there. One of the stable doors had been left ajar. He ran through a stone archway and into the street beyond, arriving just in time to hear the distant clatter of hooves as a horse galloped down Bennet's Hill towards Thames Street. Christopher caught the merest glimpse of the rider before he turned a corner and vanished from sight. Pursuit was out of the question. The killer had been calculating. He had planned his escape in advance.

  Jonathan Bale had just returned home after patrolling the streets of Baynard's Castle Ward and his wife helped him off with his sodden coat. When she hung it on the back of the door, it began to drip on to the kitchen flagstones. Sarah was sympathetic.

  'You must be soaked to the skin,' she said.

  'A spot of rain never hurt anybody.'

  'It was more than a spot, Jonathan. The storm lasted for hours.'

  'We hardly noticed it,' said Bale with a shrug. 'One good thing about weather like this - it keeps villains off the streets.'

  'It ought to keep you off the streets as well.'

  'Don't fret, Sarah.'

  He gave her an affectionate squeeze. Bale was a hefty man in his late thirties with a facial ugliness that his loving wife had somehow failed to notice. As one of the constables in the ward, he guarded his territory with paternal care as if its entire population belonged to his own family. His wife, Sarah, was shorter, stouter and had a bustling energy that never seemed to flag. She wished that her husband's devotion to duty were tempered with more caution. Sarah thought him too fearless for his own good. Bale lowered himself heavily on to a chair. Before he could give her an account of his day, however, there was a loud knock at the front door. He started to rise.

  'Stay there,' she said, touching his shoulder. 'I'll see who it is.' When she opened the door, Sarah was pleasantly surprised. 'Why, Mr Redmayne!' she cried. 'Whatever are you doing here?'

  'I'm hoping to find your husband at home,' said Christopher.

  'Yes, I'm here,' called Bale, getting to his feet and coming to the door. 'What can I do for you, Mr Redmayne?'

  'At least step in out of the rain,' urged Sarah.

  'This is not a social visit, I fear,' explained Christopher. 'I've come to report a serious crime.' He turned to Bale. 'A murder has just been committed in Knightrider Street. You must come at once, Jonathan. I'll give you the details on the way.'

  Bale did not hesitate. Going back into the kitchen, he grabbed his coat and put it on again. He thrust his hat on his head then promptly left the house. As he and Christopher walked briskly up Addle Hill, his companion told him what had happened. Bale was alarmed by the news. He and Christopher were old friends. Thrown together in an earlier murder investigation, they had solved more than one crime together and had the highest respect for each other. They were unlikely soul mates. While the architect was a man of Cavalier inclinations, the constable was a dour and implacable Puritan, who firmly believed that the restoration of the monarchy was a grotesque mistake. In the normal course of events, their paths would never even have crossed. Yet whenever they worked together, their essential differences somehow vanished.

  Bale listened with interest to all that he was told.

  'And you went into the tavern?' he asked.

  'Yes, Jonathan. I thought that the man might still be there. But the bird had flown. He obviously had a horse, saddled and waiting.'

  'Did you speak to Mrs McCoy?'

  'Who?'

  'Bridget McCoy. She owns the Saracen's Head.'

  'I didn't have time for conversation,' said Christopher. 'As soon as I saw that the killer had fled, I came running to you.'

  'I'm glad that I lived so close.'

  'So am I. It meant that I knew where to find you.'

  They turned into Knightrider Street and saw that a crowd was lingering outside the shop. Bale recognised a number of them. Calling him by name, he sent a boy to summon another constable. He and Christopher then went into the shop. Bernard Everett had been carried into the warehouse at the rear of the building and was laid out on a table. The women had gone upstairs but Sir Julius Cheever and Francis Polegate were standing beside the corpse, still shaken by the incident. An hour before, Everett had been a welcome guest in the house, a happy man on the brink of entering parliament. He was now a murder victim.

  There was no need to introduce Bale to Sir Julius. They had met before in similar circumstances when the constable had been involved in the search for another killer, the man responsible for the death of Gabriel Cheever, the estranged son of Sir Julius. They had soon discovered a bond between them. Like Sir Julius - or, for that matter, the deceased - Jonathan Bale had borne arms at the battle of Worcester. Unlike the unfortunate Bernard Everett, he had come through it all unscathed.

  'Good to see you again, Bale,' said Sir Julius, gruffly. 'We need your help. This is Mr Polegate,' he added, indicating the vintner. 'The victim is his brother-in-law.'

  'So I hear,' said Bale.

  'This is an appalling crime,' said Polegate, wringing his hands. 'My wife is distraught. Bernard was her only brother.' He shook his head.

  'Perhaps you could describe exactly what occurred, sir.'

  'I'm the best witness,' insisted Sir Julius. 'I was standing beside him when he was shot down. I actually saw the rogue at the window.'

  'What else did you see?'

  Sir Julius went on to give a highly emotional account of the crime and it was supplemented by a few comments from Polegate. Bale weighed all the facts at his disposal before speaking.

  'You say that the weapon was a musket, Sir Julius?'

  'True,' confirmed the other.

  'Did you actually see it?'

  'No - it all happened so quickly.'

  'Then how can you be certain it was a musket?'

  'By the sound, of course,' said Sir Julius, testily. 'I know the difference between a pistol shot and musket fire. I hear the latter far too often on my estate,' he grumbled. 'I'm plagued by poachers.'

  'The shot seems to have been very accurate,' noted Bale, glancing down at the wound in Everett's forehead. 'To hit his target from that distance, he must have been something of a marksman.'

  'A trained soldier, perhaps?' Christopher wondered.

  'A hired killer with a black heart,' said Sir Julius.

  'But why should he have shot Mr Everett?' asked Bale, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 'And something else puzzles me. How could he be certain that the gentleman would be here?'
/>   'I can answer that,' said Polegate. 'It was no secret that the shop was to open for business today. There's been a sign in the window for weeks. We had a party to celebrate.'

  'But how did the killer know that Mr Everett would be present?'

  'He's my brother-in-law. Bernard was going to stay with us.'

  'That information was private,' argued Christopher. 'Nobody outside the family could possibly have been aware of it.'

  'Someone was.'

  'Yes,' agreed Sir Julius, 'and he lay in wait at that window until Bernard finally made his appearance. Speak to the landlord, Bale. He'll be able to tell you who rented that room.'

  'The Saracen's Head is run by a woman,' said Bale, 'and I'll talk to Mrs McCoy in due course. But I'd like to establish a motive first. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against Mr Everett?'

  'No,' replied Polegate. 'Bernard had no enemies that I know of.'

  'What about you, Mr Polegate?'

  'Me?'

  'Do you have any serious rivals?'

  'Naturally. I face the heaviest competition in my trade.'

  'Would any of your competitors stoop to this kind of thing?' asked Bale. 'It does seem an odd coincidence that it happened on the day that you opened your new premises. What better way to hamper your business than to leave a dead body on your doorstep? It's a bad omen.'

  'I never thought of it that way,' confessed Polegate.

  'The notion is certainly worth considering,' said Christopher.

  Sir Julius was impatient. 'It's a mere distraction,' he asserted. 'I know why Bernard Everett was shot, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the opening of the shop. Bernard was a man of strong convictions and he was about to bring them to bear on the Parliament House. The moment one enters politics - as I learned myself - one makes a host of vicious, merciless, unseen enemies. That's why a decent man was murdered in the street today. He was a victim of political intrigue.'

  There was a tap on the door and Tom Warburton, the constable who had been sent for, entered with his dog trotting at his heels. Tall, stringy and weasel-faced, he was much older than Bale but had nothing of his authority. Whisking off his hat, he nodded to everyone present then stared wide-eyed at the corpse.

  'Who's that, Jonathan?' he said.

  'Mr Everett,' returned the other. 'We need to take him to the coroner, then we must seek a grant of hue and cry. A heinous crime has been committed under our noses, Tom, and we must solve it quickly.'

  'There'll be a reward if you do that,' volunteered Polegate.

  'I'll double it,' promised Sir Julius. 'As for the body, it can be conveyed in my coach. But, first, disperse that collection of ghouls outside. Respect for the dead is the least that we can ask.'

  Christopher watched while the constables did as they were told. He then helped to carry the body out and lay it gently on the floor of the coach. Before clambering into the vehicle himself, Sir Julius ordered his coachman to drive very slowly to their destination. Bale and Warburton plodded side by side in its wake but the dog scampered irreverently between the wheels, blithely unconcerned with the solemnity of the procession. The rain had finally stopped. It was scant consolation.

  Anxious to see Susan again, Christopher reasoned that she would be preoccupied with comforting Hester Polegate over the loss of her brother. It would be wrong to intrude. In any case, Christopher wanted to assist the murder inquiry and he could think of one obvious way that he might do that. Retrieving his horse, he hauled himself up into the saddle and trotted away. The crime had cast a dark shadow over the house he had designed. Until it was solved, he would never be able to look at the building with real satisfaction again.

  Henry Redmayne was in a bad mood. His superior at the Navy Office had chastised him at length that morning. His physician had told him to drink far less and exercise far more. His tailor had failed to deliver his new suit on time. And - compounding his misery - the young lady whom Henry had been courting so sedulously for weeks had succumbed to an attack of marital fidelity, spurning his advances in the most hurtful way before returning to the arms of her undeserving husband. Henry was thoroughly piqued. The servants at his house in Bedford Street had the sense to keep well out of his way.

  He was still nursing his wounds when his brother arrived. Draped across a couch, Henry did not even get up when Christopher was shown into the room. A sigh of discontent was all that he could rise to by way of a welcome. Christopher identified the telltale signs at once.

  'Who is the lady this time, Henry?' he asked, wearily.

  'I would not soil my tongue by naming her.'

  'Yet you pursued her with your usual tenacity, I daresay.'

  'Sheer folly on my part,' said Henry. 'I should have known better than to choose such an unworthy creature. She was utterly beneath me. And since she refuses to be beneath me in a bedchamber, I am liberated from an attachment that could only have tarnished my reputation.'

  'It's tarnished enough already by now.'

  Henry sat up. 'I expect sympathy from my brother, not mockery.'

  'Then leave off this show of self-pity,' said Christopher.

  'Is that all you have to say to me?'

  'No, I've come in search of a favour.'

  'Then search elsewhere!'

  Arms folded, the elder brother turned petulantly away. Only a few years separated them but Henry looked much older. Dissipation had added untold years to his age, hollowing his cheeks and leaving dark pouches beneath his eyes. His face had a deathly pallor and, since he had cast his periwig aside, his balding pate completed the destruction of what had once been handsome features. Ostentatious by nature, Henry could still cut a dash when dressed in his finery and puffed up with an aristocratic arrogance. Now, however, he looked like a rag doll cast aside by an indifferent child. Christopher sat beside him and gave him a compassionate pat on the knee. All that he got in return was a glare of hostility.

  'Come now, Henry,' he encouraged. 'Whatever your tribulations, you must rise above them. Display the true Redmayne spirit.'

  'I've forgotten what that is, Christopher.'

  'Perseverance is our watchword.'

  'Bah!'

  'Imagine what our father would do in the same circumstances.'

  Henry let out a wild laugh. 'Our father?' he exclaimed. 'I don't think that the old gentleman could ever have been in such a position as I find myself. The Church of England would be rocked to its foundations if it learned that one of its holiest prelates had been pursuing a married woman with the ardour that I've shown this past month. The kind of impassioned language that I've been using to her would not be found in the Book of Common Prayer, I assure you. Father is a saint. He would never dare to stray from the strait and narrow. I - thank heaven - have never been in the slightest danger of finding it.'

  'Perhaps the time has come for you to mend your ways.'

  'Unthinkable!'

  Henry was defiant. Blessed with a sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed a handsome allowance from their father. The pious dean of Gloucester cathedral, a man of private wealth and high moral principle, did not realise that he was supporting an existence that was freely dedicated to every vice in the city. Christopher Redmayne was a conscientious architect, striving to make his mark. Henry, by contrast, was a confirmed rake. Yet he could sometimes be useful to his younger brother. Moving in court circles, and befriended by those sharing his decadent tastes, Henry knew almost everyone of consequence in London.

  'What's this about help, Christopher?' he asked. 'If you've come in search of money, I've none to lend you. As a matter of fact, I'd like to borrow some from you - just enough to keep penury at bay.'

  'You've not repaid the last loan I gave you.'

  'Brothers are brothers. Let's have no talk of "loans". We share and share alike. My purse is ever open to you.'

  'Only so that I can fill it yet again,' said Christopher, wryly. 'But enough of that - I'm here on more serious business. A foul murder occurred earlier on. I was there a
t the time.'

  As he listened to the description of events in Knightrider Street, Henry was torn between interest and derision. When the name of Sir Julius Cheever was mentioned, he curled his lip.

  'Sir Julius!' he said with a sneer. 'The fellow is nothing but an ignorant farmer who got his knighthood from that vile monster, Oliver Cromwell. If it were left to me, such freaks would be stripped of their titles forthwith. They were illegally bestowed.'

  Christopher did not rise to the argument. There was no point in antagonising Henry by challenging his opinions. To get any assistance from him, his brother had to be wooed, and that meant showing tolerance in the face of his many prejudices. Christopher was patient.

  'How is Sir Julius viewed in the Parliament House?' he asked.

  'With appropriate disgust.'

  'I'm told that he is a forceful speaker.'

  'Empty vessels make the most noise.'

  'What of Bernard Everett?'

  'The name is new to me,' said Henry, disdainfully, 'but, if he is another renegade from Cambridgeshire, I'll not shed a tear for him. We've had trouble enough from that part of England.'

  'Others in the Parliament House might think the same.'

  'They'd not have welcomed a friend of Sir Julius Cheever.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because he'd have shared the same damnable republican views. Parliament is a jungle,' said Henry, warming to his theme. 'It's full of conniving groups, factions, clubs and temporary alliances. There's a party that supports the King, another that favours his brother, the Duke of York, and a third from the country that opposes both with equal vehemence.'

  'Sir Julius will belong to the country party, then.'

  'It is not as simple as that, Christopher. Within each party are many smaller groups whose loyalties are constantly shifting. Look what happened to our once-revered Chancellor,' he went on. 'The Earl of Clarendon wielded enormous power until the Members of Parliament joined together in a ravenous wolf pack and tore him to shreds. By God - he's the Duke of York's father- in-law but even that did not save him.'