The King's Evil (12 page)

The
night passed without incident. The old man had been replaced with a much
younger one, who patrolled the site conscientiously without being tempted in
any way either by drink or the blandishments of sleep. He kept a lonely vigil
but that did not disturb him. He was being paid well. When dawn began to break,
he strolled to the bottom of the garden and stood on a mound of earth to look
out across the river as it slowly came into view. The plash of oars told him
that a boat was passing but he could not pick it out. A glimpse of a lantern
identified another vessel. He watched with interest until the scrunch of feet
made him turn.

Someone
had come on to the site. The intruder, seen in hazy outline, was making his way
around the angle of the house. Drawing his sword, the nightwatchman hurried
back up the garden to accost the stranger. His challenge was firm and
unequivocal.

'Hold
there, sir!' he ordered. 'You are trespassing.'

'It
is I, Jem,' said Christopher. 'Put up your sword.'

'Is
it really you, Mr Redmayne?'

'The
same. Good morning.'

'Good
morning, sir.'

Jem
was a tall, muscular, ungainly young man with a face as round and
expressionless as a full moon. Suspicious by nature, he waited until he was
only yards away before he accepted that the unexpected visitor was indeed the
architect. He sheathed his sword and cocked his head to one side in curiosity.

'What
are you doing here, Mr Redmayne?' he wondered.

'I
wanted to see the house.'

'This
early?'

'There
will soon be light enough.'

'A
strange time to come calling.'

'I
am hoping to meet someone here, Jem.'

'Mr
Littlejohn and his men will not be along for an hour or more.'

'It
is Sir Ambrose whom I wish to see, however long I need to wait. He comes to the
site every day when he is in London.'

'Yes,
Mr Redmayne. He was here yesterday.'

Christopher
started. 'You saw him?'

'As
I was coming on duty, sir.'

'That
must have been well into the evening.'

'It
was.'

'Did
he say anything to you?'

'Not
a word,' said the nightwatchman. 'When I tried to speak to him, Sir Ambrose
waved me away. He just wanted to look around, I think.'

'And
what time did he leave?'

'Who
knows? I was minding my own business.'

'Do
you have no idea how long he was here?'

'None,
sir.'

'What
exactly did he do on the site?'

Jem
shook his head. 'I kept out of his way.' He could see the other's concern. 'Is
something wrong, Mr Redmayne?'

'That
is what I am trying to find out.'

'I
was only obeying orders,' said the nightwatchman defensively. 'Sir Ambrose made
it quite clear that he wanted me to ignore him. So I turned the other way. He
pays my wages, sir. I do as he wishes.'

'Yes,
yes,' said Christopher, giving him a conciliatory pat on the arm. 'You did
right. I am not criticising you. I just wish you could give me a little more
information, that is all. Any detail will be helpful.'

Jem
scratched his head vigorously. His face was blanker than ever. Eager to help,
he was quite unable to do so and his impotence annoyed him. Christopher was
about to abandon the interrogation when the other man hunched his shoulders in
apology.

'I
am sorry, Mr Redmayne.'

'You
are not to blame.'

'I
saw nothing after they went down into the cellars.'

'They?'
Christopher stepped closer to him. 'Are you telling me that Sir Ambrose was
here with someone else?'

'Yes,
sir. Another man.'

'Who
was he?'

'I
do not know, sir. I barely gave him a glance. I know my place.' He ran a tongue
over his lips. 'Sir Ambrose was hardly likely to introduce a friend of his to a
mere night- watchman. I was nothing to them.'

'Was
the man old or young? Tall or short?'

Jem
cudgelled his brain but it was a futile exercise. He was there to guard the
site, not to keep his employer under surveillance. Nothing could be dredged up
from his memory. He licked his lips again.

'He
was a man, Mr Redmayne. That is all I can tell you.'

'I
see.'

'Have
I been any help?'

'Oh,
yes,' said Christopher. 'What you have told me is invaluable. At least, I now
know where Sir Ambrose was yesterday evening.' He glanced around. 'Do you have
a iantern here?'

'Down
by the bench, sir.'

'May
I borrow it, please?'

'Why?'

'Just
fetch it.'

Jem
loped off and Christopher went across to the house, stepping over the lowest
point of the exterior wall then walking to the steps which led down to the
cellars. He was still staring down into the dark tunnel when the nightwatchman
handed him the lantern.

'The
candle is burned right down, sir,' he apologised.

'There
is enough light still.'

'Do
you want me to come with you?'

'No,
Jem. Stay here. I will not be long.'

Holding
the lantern, Christopher descended the steps with sure feet. Having designed
and supervised the construction of the cellars, he knew every inch of them but
there was no time to admire the vaulting or the intricate brickwork now. He was
there for an express purpose. His visit was dictated purely by instinct. As he
moved from bay to bay, the brittle sound of his footsteps reverberated
throughout the whole vault. He still did not know why Sir Ambrose Northcott had
insisted on such large cellars and surmised that his employer wished to keep a
vast stock of wines down there. The place was empty now though soft, scurrying
noises indicated that rats were making their own tour of inspection.

The
dank smell began to take on a slightly noisome odour. It puzzled him.
Christopher feared at first that someone had dared to use his cellars as a
privy and violated their pristine cleanliness. He was outraged at the thought
that one of Littlejohn's men might have slipped in there unseen to relieve
himself. The further he went, the more distinct became the smell. Yet when he
reached the last chamber and raised his lantern, he could see nothing which
might produce it. The glow from the candle was too faint to illumine every
corner. It was only when he heard a sudden darting movement that he crouched
down and swung the lantern across the floor area.

Christopher
did not see the rat which had just fled the scene. His attention was
monopolised by the figure which lay in the corner of the chamber. The man was
on his back, his body twisted in pain and his clothing soaked with blood from
gashes in his chest. No respect had been shown to the dead by the rats. They
had started to eat the man's face away, removing both eyes and reducing an
already small nose to a jagged piece of bone. The crimson jowls were gnawed
into shreds. Christopher still recognised him immediately.

Sir
Ambrose Northcott would no longer require a new house.

Overcome
with nausea, he began to sway and retch. Christopher had to put out a hand
against the cold wall to steady himself. For a few minutes, he was completely
stunned. He had not expected to find anyone in the cellars, least of all in
such a hideous condition. His mind was numb. It was the nightwatchman's voice
which jerked him out of his daze as it boomed through the cellars.

'Is
everything all right down there, Mr Redmayne?' he called.

'No,'
croaked the other.

'What
is the matter?'

'Fetch
a constable.'

'Why,
sir?'

'Just
do as I say, Jem. There has been an accident.'

'Have
you been hurt?' said the voice anxiously. Heavy feet came down the stone steps.
'Do you need help?'

'I
am not injured,' replied Christopher, recovering quickly. 'Do not come any
closer. I will stay here while you run for a constable.'

The
feet halted. 'If you say so, sir.'

'I
do, Jem. It is an emergency.'

'What
shall I tell him?'

'Just
that. There is a dire emergency.'

'I
will go at once,' promised the other, moving off.

'Wait!'
shouted Christopher as a thought struck him. The feet halted again. 'Do you
live in this ward?'

'Yes,
sir. I was born and brought up here.'

'Do
you know a man named Jonathan Bale?'

'Very
well. Mr Bale lives in Addle Hill.'

'Fetch
him. He is the constable I want.'

'Yes,
Mr Redmayne.'

'Now,
hurry!'

Jem
needed no more instruction. The urgency in Christopher's command was enough to
send the night- watchman scrambling up the steps in the half-dark. He was soon
trotting clumsily through the streets on his errand.

Christopher
was glad that he had gone. Wanting to spare the man the shock of seeing the
dead body, he was also keen to have some time alone to take a closer look at
the scene of the crime and he could not do that with a horrified nightwatchman
on his hands. Jem's presence would be a definite hindrance. He was best kept in
ignorance of what had been found until the constable was summoned.

As
the first wave of disgust faded, Christopher plucked up the courage to study
the corpse with more care. Kneeling beside it, he held the lantern close and
saw that Sir Ambrose Northcott had been stabbed in the chest. A number of
wounds had been opened up but the most telling thrust was to the heart. The
dagger was still buried deep inside it. He had not been a passive victim. Signs
of a struggle were evident from the marks in the dust which covered the floor
and there was a piece of material clutched in the dead man's hand, as if torn
from his assailant's clothing. Something else caught Christopher's eye. Sir
Ambrose's other hand lay open, its palm covered with tiny white flakes.
Christopher spotted some more of them on the floor, speckling the dust, but had
no idea what they were. He picked a flake up on his fingertip and sniffed it.
There was no smell. He blew the flake away again.

Taking
care not to touch the body, he ran the lantern from head to toe by way of a
cursory autopsy. It yielded little further information. Sir Ambrose was still
wearing the apparel in which he had dined though the vivid blood had redefined
its colours. Rings still adorned some fingers on both hands. One shoe had come
off, its silver buckle glinting in the meagre light. Christopher shook his head
sadly, offered up a prayer for the soul of the dead man then rose to his feet.

The
implications slowly dawned on him. If Sir Ambrose was dead, what would now
happen to the house and to the sizeable fee which the architect was due to be
paid for designing it? His personal ambitions suddenly crumbled. Yet he was not
only concerned with the prospect of the huge personal loss. How would Samuel
Littlejohn react when he learned that his employer had been murdered?
Bricklayers, carpenters, stonemasons, tilers, glaziers and all the other
tradesmen engaged to work on the property would have to be laid off instantly.
The death would have widespread effects. Christopher did not relish the task of
passing on the bad tidings to his brother, still less to Solomon Creech.

Both
men had been very alarmed by Sir Ambrose's disappearance. Christopher wondered
why. How much did they know? Did they sense that a tragedy like this might
occur? Had a shadow been hanging over Sir Ambrose Northcott? Who or what cast
it?

Caught
up in his reflections, Christopher did not at first hear the approaching
footsteps. It was only when a fresh lantern threw more light into the cellar
that he realised someone was coming.

'I
am here!' he called. 'At the far end.'

'We
are coming, sir,' answered a voice.

'Tell
Jem to stay back. There is no need for him to see this.'

'Very
well, sir. You heard that, Jem.'

'Yes,'
said the nightwatchman.

One
pair of feet halted but the other came on in purposeful strides. Lantern held
before him, Jonathan Bale walked forward until he reached the last chamber and
found Christopher blocking his way.

'Why
did you send for me, sir?' asked the constable.

'Something
terrible has happened, I fear.'

'What
is it?'

Christopher
stepped aside to reveal the scene of horror.

'See
for yourself,' he murmured.