The King's Evil (29 page)

Though
he would never admit it to anyone else, Jonathan Bale was missing him badly. It
was over a week since Christopher Redmayne had set sail for France and the
constable wished now that he had gone with him, both to act as his bodyguard
and to join in the search for clues that would help to solve two murders. At the
same time, however, he saw the value in remaining behind to explore other
avenues on his own. He had amassed a lot of information about the house in
Lincoln's Inn Fields and it irked him that he was not able to pass it on to
Christopher. There was another reason why he wanted the other to return soon.
It would put a stop to Sarah's solicitous enquiries about the young architect.

Heavy
rain swept the streets that morning. As Jonathan ate his breakfast with his
wife and children, he did not look forward to going out in the storm. When
there was a knock at the door, Sarah went to open it.

'Why,
Mr Redmayne!' she exclaimed. 'Look at the state of you!'

'Good
morning, Mrs Bale. Is your husband here?'

'Yes,
he is. Come in out of the wet.'

'Thank
you.'

Jonathan
was as surprised as his wife to see his visitor. Drenched by the rain,
Christopher also bore some reminders of the fight at the inn. One side of his
face had been badly grazed by the rough floorboards, discouraging him from even
attempting to shave. Bruises still showed on his temple and his right eye was
rimmed with yellow. His coat was sodden and Jonathan also noticed that it was
spattered with bloodstains. Choppy waves had made the Channel crossing an
especial ordeal for him, leaving Christopher pale and drawn. Sarah clucked
maternally over their visitor and insisted on making him some broth to warm him
up. Conducting him into the little parlour, her husband shut the door behind
them. He waved his guest to a chair and Christopher dropped gratefully into it,
removing his hat to reveal tousled hair.

'I
did not expect you today,' said Jonathan. 'They told me that no ship would
arrive from Calais until Thursday at least.'

'I
sailed from Boulogne.'

'Why?'

'It
is a long story, Mr Bale.'

Having
raked over the details many times in his mind, Christopher was able to give a
full and lucid account of all that happened to him in France. Jonathan listened
without interruption. The narrative reached the point where Christopher was
fighting for his life at the inn when Sarah came in with a bowl of broth.
Though the visitor did not feel that he would ever eat anything again, he
thanked her graciously and assured her that he was in a much better condition
than he looked. A warning glance from her husband sent Sarah back to the
kitchen where the two boys were disputing ownership of an apple. Their noisy
bickering was soon silenced by their mother.

'Go
on, sir,' said Jonathan, keen to hear the rest of the story. 'You were forced
to kill the man in self-defence. What then?'

'I
lit a candle to look at his face.'

'Did
you recognise him?'

'Yes,
Mr Bale. He was the servant who answered the door at the home of Monsieur
Bastiat. I think his name was Marcel.'

'Why
should
he
follow you?'

'I
did not stop to consider,' said Christopher. 'The fact was that I had killed
him. If I was found standing over a dead body, nobody would believe my version
of events. So I left immediately.'

'Where
did you spend the night?'

'On
the road, for the most part. I snatched a couple of hours' sleep under the
trees then pressed on to Beauvais at dawn. When I returned my horse, I took the
first coach which was heading for the coast. I had a good start,' he said,
watching the steam rise from the broth, 'but I was taking no chances. Monsieur
Bastiat knew that I was travelling to Calais. He took the trouble to ask me
where I would lodge for the night. Just in case he sent someone else after me,
I made for Boulogne to throw them off the scent.'

'That
was a wise decision.'

'At
least it means that I returned in one piece.' He managed a grin. 'More or less,
anyway. I am sorry to turn up on your doorstep in this fashion.'

'I
was thankful to see you again, sir.'

'It
was touch and go at that inn, Mr Bale.'

'You
acquitted yourself well.'

'I
could not rely on French justice to take that view.'

'In
your place, I would have done exactly the same.'

'Then
we agree on something at last.'

Jonathan
smiled. 'What does it all signify, Mr Redmayne?' he asked. 'Have you manage to
puzzle that out yet?'

'I
have spent days trying to, my friend, and I have been able to draw some
conclusions. Before I tell you what they are, let me hear your news. Did you do
what I asked?'

'Yes,
sir. I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields a number of times.'

'What
did you learn?'

It
was Jonathan's turn to take over. His report had a plodding slowness to it but
nothing was left out. The constable had been vigilant. Christopher listened
attentively and even found the appetite to sip at the broth. He sat up at the
mention of a French visitor to the house though Jonathan's garbled
pronunciation of the name led to some confusion. It was the man with the mask
who really held his attention.

'You
say that he let himself into the premises?'

'Yes,'
confirmed Jonathan. 'By the side door.'

'Mrs
Mandrake's clients would not have a key. What makes this man so special? And
why did he need to conceal his identity by wearing a mask?' He ran a hand
through his hair. 'A tall man with a hat and a walking stick. That description
fits the person whom Margaret Littlejohn saw going into the cellars with Sir
Ambrose.'

'It
also fits thousands of other men in London, sir.'

'True.'

'And
there was no mention of a mask by Miss Littlejohn.'

'She
was too far away to see it and the man kept his head down. Besides,' mused
Christopher, 'he may not have been wearing the mask on that particular evening.
We must not rule him out. It is a pity that he was the one visitor to Lincoln's
Inn Fields for whom you do not have a name. The rest, you say, are all noted?'

'I
have the list here, Mr Redmayne.'

Jonathan
thrust a hand into his pocket and extracted a piece of paper which he handed
over. Five separate nights had found him lurking outside the house and his
findings were tabulated day by day. The list was a revelation. Christopher
recognised many of the names on it but one in particular sprang off the page.

'George
Strype?'

'Yes,
sir.'

'Are
you quite certain?'

'I
heard Molly Mandrake talk to him.'

'What
did he look like?'

Jonathan
gave a brief description. Christopher was left in no doubt that Penelope
Northcott's fiancée had gone in search of pleasure at the house. It made him
smart with anger on her behalf. At the same time, it opened up a new line of
thought. If George Strype was a patron of the establishment owned by his late
father-in-law, he must have known more about Sir Ambrose's life in London than
he admitted. Penelope's faith in the man was sadly misplaced. Christopher was
confronted by a moral dilemma. Did he inflict more pain by telling her the
truth or did he hold his peace and allow her to marry a man who had already
betrayed her?

He
studied the list again. His finger stopped at another name.

'Who
is this?'

'Where,
sir?' Jonathan peered. 'Ah, the Frenchman.'

'Sharonta?'

'That
is what it sounded like.'

Christopher
was bewildered for a moment then light dawned.

'Could
it possibly have been Charentin?'

'Yes,
sir. That was exactly it. Sharonta.'

'Cha
- ren - tin,' enunciated the other. 'No first name?'

'Molly
simply called him Mussyer Sharonta.'

'Or
something akin to that,' said Christopher with a kind smile. 'Well, Mr Bale,
you have done wonders. I know you found it demeaning to spy on the
establishment but it has yielded results. Mrs Mandrake is even more popular
than I thought. Some of the most illustrious names in the government are
recorded here. There is even a senior churchman or two. Red faces would light
up London if this list were ever made public.'

'How
does it help us?' 'I am not certain yet. What we have to establish is the
link.'

'Between
what?'

'One
house in Paris and another in Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

'Sir
Ambrose Northcott was one such link.'

'There
has to be another.'

'Mr
Strype?'

'He
must certainly be looked at and so must Monsieur Charentin. The search
evidently begins in Mrs Mandrake's house. One of us must pose as a client to
get inside it.'

'Not
I, sir!' cried Jonathan, baulking at the notion.

Christopher
laughed. 'Do not worry, Mr Bale,' he said. 'This is not an office which I would
thrust upon you. I know it would compromise your principles simply to step
across the threshold of that sinful place. And I must confess that I do not
look forward to the experience myself but it is an absolute necessity.'

'I
begin to think that you may be right.'

'Be
frank with me. Should I go there with a face like this?'

'You
do not look at your best, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then
I will wait a day or so until these bruises fade. When I look presentable
again, I will prevail upon my brother to introduce me to Mrs Mandrake. Henry
owes me a favour.'

'Do
you wish me to go with you, sir?'

'You?'

'To
guard your back,' said Jonathan seriously. 'There has already been one attempt
on your life. You survived that but only because you killed your assassin. Next
time, you might not be so fortunate.'

'I
am relatively safe now that I am back in England.'

'Sir
Ambrose was murdered here.'

'Only
because he was taken unawares.'

'Every
man can use an extra pair of eyes.'

'It
is a kind offer, Mr Bale, but I will not take advantage of it. I was attacked
in France because I was on the right trail. Monsieur Bastiat wanted me killed
before I found out anything else.'

'He
may have confederates in England.'

'I
am certain that he does,' said Christopher, 'but I do not intend to hide from
them. I want to draw them out into the light. When I went to France, I was
inclining to the view that Sir Ambrose's death had some political implications
and I still believe that is the case. But I am now convinced that something
else provided the real motive behind it.'

'What
is it, Mr Redmayne?'

'What
I saw in Monsieur Bastiat's face, on the shelves of his library and hanging
around the neck of Marie Louise Oilier.'

'Around
her neck?'

'Religion.'