The Parliament House cr-5 Read online

  'And are they are close friends of your brother?'

  Christopher smiled. 'If you mean that they are amongst Henry's many drinking companions,' he said, 'then I must concede that they are. But that does not disqualify them as shrewd judges of the political scene. Mr Askray has been talked of as a future Secretary to the Treasury and Mr Seal is part of the Duke of Buckingham's entourage.'

  Bale was surprised. 'The Duke?'

  'Yes, Jonathan, so he is close to the seat of power. Nobody has more influence over the King's councils than Buckingham.' He grinned as the other man gave a sniff of disapproval. 'Yes, I know that he would never win plaudits from you, Jonathan, but perhaps you should remember that he married the daughter of a Parliamentary general.'

  'It's the Duke of Buckingham who needs to remember that,' said Bale, censoriously. 'Lord Fairfax's daughter deserves more respect from her husband. By all accounts, he leads the kind of life that makes a mockery of the marriage vows.'

  Christopher did not contradict him. It was common knowledge that Buckingham was a notorious voluptuary, acquainted with every vice in a city where it flourished in abundance. But it was the way that he flouted the law that outraged Bale. In the previous year, Buckingham had killed the Earl of Shrewsbury in an illegal six-man duel, a scandal that was heightened by the fact that, before and after the event, the Countess of Shrewsbury was Buckingham's mistress. It worried Christopher that so much power had been vested into the hands of such a man. It appalled Bale. In his codex, Buckingham was Henry Redmayne writ large.

  'I'm not asking you to admire Roland Askray or Ninian Teale,' said Christopher. 'Neither man is a saint. But you must accept that their experience of political matters commands attention.'

  'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

  'They both told me how Sir Julius has a positive gift for making enemies, some of whom would like to see him forcibly removed from the Parliament House.'

  'Then Mr Everett is to be pitied even more.'

  'He is, Jonathan. He took the bullet that was supposed to kill another man. That means we have a second reason to catch the villain.'

  'A second one?' said Bale.

  'He needs to pay dearly for one murder, and be prevented from committing another. As long as the man is at liberty, Sir Julius's life is in danger.'

  'Have you warned him?'

  'I tried to,' admitted Christopher, 'but he refused utterly to believe that someone would wish to kill him. Indeed, he was so indignant that I should ever suggest such a thing that he threatened to ban me from his house. You can imagine how difficult that would be for me.'

  'Yes,' said Bale, knowing of his attachment to Susan Cheever. 'It could make things very awkward. But, if you were unable to convince him that he was in jeopardy, why did you not ask his daughter to take on the office? From what I recall of the young lady, Miss Cheever knew how to deal with her father better than anyone.'

  'That's certainly true.'

  'Then entrust the task to her.'

  'I dare not do so,' explained Christopher. 'It would only cause her grief and expose her to the sort of hurtful rebuke that I suffered. Susan would be terrified whenever her father stirred from the house.'

  'He needs someone to keep watch on him.'

  'He's too perverse to allow it.'

  'Then what are we to do, Mr Redmayne?'

  'Pursue the killer relentlessly and hope that we can overhaul him before he makes a second attempt on Sir Julius's life.'

  'So my efforts today were in vain?'

  'I take the blame for that, Jonathan. I should have stopped you.'

  'What I should have asked Mr Polegate was whether or not he told those three friends of his that Sir Julius would be among the guests at his house yesterday.'

  'That, too, would have been a futile exercise.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I suspect that it was not Francis Polegate who let the cat out of the bag,' said Christopher, seriously. 'Sir Julius himself would have told many people where he would be that day, though only a foolhardy man would dare to ask him who they were. I'd not be equal to the task. He'd bite my head off again. Then, of course, we have to consider his daughter. Susan may well have mentioned to friends that she would be going to Knightrider Street with Sir Julius.'

  'You might have done the same, Mr Redmayne.'

  'I did - no question about it.'

  'Do you have a record of the people to whom you spoke?'

  'No,' said Christopher. 'I let slip the information in a coffee house when I was talking to a client of mine. Several people could have overheard the name of Sir Julius Cheever and taken an interest. Do you see what that would mean?'

  'What?' asked Bale.

  'Indirectly, I'd be responsible for the death of Bernard Everett.'

  'I think that very unlikely, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Unlikely, perhaps - but not out of the question.'

  'You'd be wrong to let it prey on your mind. The chances are that this is nothing to do with a remark you made in a coffee house. All you need to think about,' said Bale, solemnly, 'is how we can track down the villain who fired that shot.'

  'We'll find him,' vowed Christopher, gritting his teeth. 'I owe it to Mr Everett's family. And I owe it to Susan to make sure that her father doesn't suffer the same fate. We've testing days ahead, Jonathan. I know that we've had some success in the past but this case - I feel it in my bones - will really put us on our mettle.'

  The Saracen's Head served food as well as drink and Bridget McCoy made sure that its meals were of good quality. Instead of delegating the task to anyone else, therefore, she did all of her own shopping so that she could run a knowing eye over any meat, fish, poultry, vegetables and bread before buying it. Her companion on such expeditions was her son, Patrick, named after his father but entirely devoid of his charm and lively sense of humour. Barely eighteen, Patrick McCoy was a hulking youth of limited intelligence, pleasant, amenable but only fit for the most menial tasks. All too aware of his deficiencies, his mother loved him nonetheless.

  It was on trips to market that Patrick really came into his own, able to carry heavy loads with apparent ease and acting as an escort for his mother. Before they set out early that morning, Bridget had to remind him time and again to bring the two large baskets. They came out of the tavern and began their journey, soon joining many others who were heading in the same direction. Before the Great Fire, there had been many markets in London, spreading indiscriminately along streets and lanes, and causing intense congestion. Such haphazard development had now been replaced by a more ordered arrangement.

  Of the four new markets that had been created, the one in Leadenhall Street was the grandest, comprising a bewildering array of stalls in a quartet of extensive open courtyards. It was the major market for meat. A hundred stalls had beef for sale and even more were devoted to mutton, veal and poultry. Rabbits were also available, strung up in rows like so many hanged felons. Patrick McCoy liked the constant noise and bustle of Leadenhall with its sense of immediacy and its compound of pungent aromas. Taking it all in, he lumbered obediently behind his mother as she searched for bargains.

  The four courtyards were, as usual, thronged with customers, and vendors competed for their attention with ear-splitting cries. Street hawkers also tried to sell their wares and Patrick bumped by mistake into a pretty young girl with a basket of dead pigeons on her head. Raising his hat in apology, he gave her a vacant grin but she was already threading her way through the jostling crowd. Bridget stopped at a stall, appraised its selection of beef, checked the price, then haggled so tenaciously that the vendor agreed to a discount simply to get rid of her. She put the beef into one of the baskets and they pressed on through the tumult.

  Slow in speech and movement, Patrick was nevertheless extremely wary of thieves and pickpockets. When someone tried to steal the beef from his basket, he knocked the man summarily to the ground. The sly youth who attempted to slip a hand into Bridget’s purse got a kick in the buttock from Patrick that sent
him yelping away in pain. It was a normal market day for her so Bridget did not even notice these random moments of violence. She took it for granted that her son would protect her.

  By the time they had finished, both baskets were bulging with meat and Bridget was carrying a brace of dead rabbits. It was time to move on so that they could purchase fruit and vegetables elsewhere. Side by side, they picked their way through the forest of bodies. They had not gone far before Bridget saw a face that she thought she recognized. It was only a fleeting glimpse but the broken nose was too distinctive to miss. A cry burst from her lips.

  'That's him!'

  'Who?' asked Patrick.

  'Mr Field. The man who rented that room.'

  'What room, Mother?'

  'After him,' she ordered, pushing her way forward.

  Patrick grinned helpfully. 'Is he a friend?'

  'No, he's a murderer.' 'Ah.'

  'Catch him up,' urged Bridget. 'We must see where he goes.'

  They tried to move faster but it was virtually impossible in such a crowd. When they finally reached the place where she had seen the man, he was no longer there. Bridget stood on tiptoe to look around her but to no avail. Mr Field had been swallowed up in the swirling mass of bodies. In sheer frustration, she swung the dead rabbits viciously against the side of a wooden cart.

  'A pox on it!' she exclaimed. 'We've lost the lying bastard!'

  Chapter Five

  Christopher Redmayne’s day began with a surprise. His brother called to see him shortly after breakfast, thereby setting a remarkable precedent. Having caroused half the night away, Henry Redmayne rarely woke before mid-morning and, as a rule, it was almost noon before his barber ventured to shave him. Yet there he was, as large as life, dressed in his finery, dismounting from his horse in Fetter Lane when the clock was barely past the eighth hour of a bright new day. Seeing him through the window, Jacob, the ever-reliable old servant, went out of the house to take charge of Henry's horse. He indicated the door.

  'Please go in, Mr Redmayne,' he said.

  'Thank you.'

  'Your brother has been up for hours.'

  'He always is,' said Henry, bitterly. 'Such an disgusting habit.'

  Swaying slightly, he went into the house and found Christopher in his study, poring over his latest design with a pencil in his hand. His brother looked up in astonishment. Face haggard, shoulders sagging, eyes barely managing to remain open, Henry slumped into the nearest chair and let out a groan of disbelief.

  'Why on earth am I up at this ungodly hour?'

  'I was about to ask the same thing,' said Christopher.

  'Then address your question to the Surveyor at the Navy Office. He will tell you why I've been hauled so cruelly from the comfort of my bed. I'm in deep disgrace, Christopher,' he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, 'because of some trifling error that I made in the accounts for the victualling contracts. To make amends, I've been ordered to work in the mornings for the next two weeks. It's a barbaric demand. My constitution will not hold out.'

  'I disagree. It could be the making of you.'

  'That's an absurd suggestion!'

  'It's the very one that your physician has made,' Christopher reminded him. 'He's always urging you to keep more regular hours for the sake of your health.' 'Such a regimen would be the ruination of my health. It was never like this when Sir William Batten was Surveyor,' said Henry, sounding a nostalgic note. 'He understood that a gentleman could not possibly be expected to arrive for work until afternoon. Sir William - God rest his soul - had many faults and the old sea dog could hardly get through a sentence without sprinkling it with foul language, but he was a merry soul when he chose to be. We spent some joyful times, drinking with him at the Dolphin in Seething Lane.'

  'I'm certain of that, Henry, but I'm equally certain that you did not come here to reminisce about Sir William Batten.'

  'Too true. I'm here to tell you about last night.'

  'I'm impressed that you are wide awake enough to remember it.'

  'Leave your gibes aside. I came to help you.'

  'In what way?'

  'I supped last night with Ninian Teale,' said Henry. 'Afterwards, we joined some friends for a game or two of cards and dear Ninian was kind enough to lose a creditable amount to me.'

  Christopher sat up hopefully. 'So you are now in a position to repay the debts you owe me?'

  'Alas, no. Hard on my good fortune, I had a run of bad luck and my winnings disappeared before I had time to count them properly.'

  'It was ever thus.'

  Henry was peevish. 'Stop interrupting me, Christopher. I found out something that may be of use to you. Did you not beseech me to keep my ears open on your behalf?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'Then listen to what they picked up,' said his brother, using the back of his hand to stifle a dramatic yawn. 'Ninian is an intimate of mine. I know that you conversed with him at length, but there are things he'd confide in me that you could never elicit.'

  'Such as?'

  'The fact that Sir Julius Cheever's camp has already been under attack. Does the name of Arthur Manville sound familiar?' 'No, Henry. Who is he?'

  'Another troublesome Member of Parliament with revolutionary notions. Last year, he and Sir Julius were hand in glove. Then the assault occurred.'

  'Assault?'

  'One dark night, Manville had his nose slit open.'

  'By whom?'

  'He has no idea,' said Henry, 'but it did force him to moderate his political opinions. He's no longer the raging dissident that he once was. And Manville was not the only loss that Sir Julius sustained.'

  'No?'

  'Lewis Bircroft also fell away from the group.'

  'Bircroft,' said Christopher, thoughtfully. 'Now where have I heard that name before?'

  'You probably read it in a newspaper. There was a report of the incident. It happened in Covent Garden a few months ago, when Mr Bircroft was unwise enough to take a stroll down an alleyway on his own. Bullies set upon him with cudgels. They not only cracked several bones,' said Henry, 'they broke his spirit as well. Like Mr Manville, he has not been agitating quite so enthusiastically for the removal of the monarchy.'

  'Were the two attacks the work of political opponents?'

  'What else could they be?'

  'All sorts of things,' said Christopher. 'Mr Manville could have been the victim of a private quarrel, and Mr Bircoft would not be the only man to fall foul of ruffians who lurk in Covent Garden.'

  'I prefer to trust Ninian Teale's opinion.'

  'Which is?'

  'That dire warnings are being sent to Sir Julius.'

  'He's far too stubborn to heed them.'

  'Then someone needs to counsel him before it is too late,' said Henry with a meaningful look at his brother. 'There's a pattern here that he cannot ignore. Arthur Manville has his nose slit, Lewis Bircroft has his bones broken, then Bernard Everett, the latest of Sir Julius's parliamentary creatures, is shot dead in the street.' 'Each time the punishment is more severe.'

  'Point that out to the counterfeit knight.'

  'Sir Julius is no counterfeit,' said Christopher, stoutly. 'He earned the title by his outstanding service to the Commonwealth.'

  Henry Redmayne was harsh. 'The only outstanding service he could render now,' he observed, tartly, 'is to get himself killed for voicing his incendiary views in the House of Commons. If he persists, that will surely happen and I, for one, will be delighted to see him go.'

  'Are you quite sure that it was him, Mrs McCoy?' asked Jonathan Bale.

  'I'd take my oath on the Bible,' she replied.

  'How far away from you was he?'

  'Ten or fifteen yards.'

  'It would be easy to make a mistake at that distance.'

  'Not if your eyes are as sharp as mine,' said Bridget McCoy. 'His face was only there for a second but I knew it at once, didn't I, Patrick? I saw that broken nose of his.'

  'She did, Mr Bale,' confirmed Pat
rick. 'Mother saw him.'

  The constable had met them in Knightrider Street on their way back from market. Bridget was still holding the pair of rabbits that had been thrashed against the side of the cart, and her son was carrying two large baskets brimming with provender. Only someone with Patrick's strength could have borne such a heavy load so far. Now that they had paused to talk to Bale, it never occurred to the lad that he could put the baskets on the ground to give his arms a rest.

  'What was he wearing, Mrs McCoy?' said Bale.

  'I only saw his face.'

  'What about a hat?'

  'He was wearing a cap.'

  'Was it the same one he had on at the Saracen's Head?'

  'No,' said Bridget, 'that was very different. The cap was much smaller so I had a good look at the whole of his face.'

  'For an instant.'

  'That's all it takes, Mr Bale. If you run a tavern, you have to keep your wits about you. Patrick - my husband, that is - taught me that. You must be able to weigh people up at a glance. Most of the time, I can do that. But I failed badly with Mr Field,' she confessed, 'and that hurt my pride. It rankled with me. Patrick - my son, that is - will tell you how quick I am to pick out a troublemaker at the Saracen's Head, yet I was deceived by a ruthless killer.'

  Bale took her through the story again, trying to establish the exact point where the man had been sighted in Leadenhall Market. If he was a regular customer there, one of the meat traders might know his name. The constable had a rough description but it would not enable him to identify the wanted man with any degree of confidence. When he went to the market, Bale would have to take Bridget McCoy with him.

  'Thank you for telling me,' he said to her. 'This could turn out to be very valuable.'

  'Only if you catch the devil, Mr Bale.'

  'We'll catch him eventually. Handbills have been printed with the description that you gave me of Field. A large reward has been offered for information leading to an arrest. That usually brings in results.'

  'I'd like to break that ugly nose of his all over again!'

  Patrick had been staring at Bale with a mixture of envy and veneration. A smile spread slowly across his unprepossessing features.