The King's Evil (19 page)
Ten
When
he finally caught sight of his home, Christopher Redmayne gave a mild groan of
relief. A tiring day had begun with an early departure from the inn where he
spent the night. In his eagerness to confront Solomon Creech, he had ridden
past Fetter Lane on his arrival back in London and gone straight to the
lawyer's office in Lombard Street. The bruising exchange with his brother at
the coffee house had been followed by the meeting with Jonathan Bale, after
which he was drawn back inescapably to the scene of the crime. Searching the
cellars for clues, he lost all track of time and only abandoned his examination
when the candle he was using dwindled to a pale flicker. It was now well into
the afternoon. Christopher began to realise that what he needed most was a
restorative meal and a period of reflection. He was confident that the trusty
Jacob would provide the first without hesitation then melt discreetly away
while his master enjoyed the second. The house had never looked more like a
haven of peace.
As
he dismounted and unsaddled his horse, he consoled himself with the thought
that progress of a kind had been made. He certainly knew far more about Sir
Ambrose Northcott than he had when he set out on his journey and none of the
new information was remotely flattering. Tenants at Priestfield Place and
rivals in the mercantile community shared a general dislike of the man and
Christopher was disgusted by the way that he had deceived his wife and daughter
over the building of the new house. He was still puzzled by Lady Northcott's
ambiguous reaction to her husband's death but his chief memory of the visit to
Kent concerned Penelope Northcott, to whom he had felt strongly attracted from
the start. His protective instincts were aroused by her supercilious fiancé’s
treatment of her and he was already beginning to wonder how he could prise
them apart and save her from an unfortunate marriage. The fact that her late
father had encouraged the match with the odious George Strype left yet another
stain on the paternal character.
Reluctantly,
both Solomon Creech and Henry Redmayne added fresh detail to the posthumous
portrait of Sir Ambrose and it made nowhere near as impressive a painting as
the one which hung with martial dignity in the Great Hall at Priestfield Place.
Truth was a more reliable artist. It worked with honest colours. Christopher
realised that natural sympathy for a murder victim should not obscure the fact
that he was a deeply flawed human being. It remained to be seen how many more
defects came to light.
Christopher's
mind turned to Penelope once again. Everything about her delighted him. He just
wished that they could have met in more propitious circumstances. Penelope
Northcott was a much more rewarding subject for meditation than her father and
he mused fondly about the chances of meeting her again one day. Accepting that
it would probably never happen, he decided to address more immediate matters
such as the rumbling noise from his stomach. After stabling his horse, he
walked around to his front door and found Jacob waiting for him. The look on
his servant's face told him that he had a visitor.
'Who
is it, Jacob?'
'A
young lady, sir.'
His
hopes rose. 'Miss Northcott, by any chance?'
'No,
sir. Miss Margaret Littlejohn.'
Christopher
was at once startled and dismayed. Nobody was less welcome in his house and in
his life at that moment than the builder's daughter. However, courtesies had to
be observed so he steeled himself before going into the parlour. Margaret
Littlejohn was accompanied by her maidservant and both rose from their chairs
when he entered. They exchanged pleasantries. In response to his invitation,
Margaret resumed her seat but Nan, the maidservant, hovered watchfully in the
background.
'What
brings you here, Miss Littlejohn?' he asked politely.
'I
wanted to see you, Mr Redmayne,' she said, blushing slightly.
'How
did you know where to find me?'
'Mr
Bale told me that you were expected back in London today and my father
mentioned that you lived in Fetter Lane. He did not tell me which number,' she
said with a breathy laugh, 'so Nan and I had to knock on several doors before
we found you.'
'Why
did you not ask your father the number?'
'Because
he would not have given it to me. Father has always guarded your privacy. He
warned me that I was not to bother you in any way but I simply had to come
here.'
'I
see.'
'You
are not angry with me, are you, Mr Redmayne?'
'Of
course not.'
'I
like to think that we are friends.'
'Yes,
yes,' he said gallantly.
'You
will not tell my father that I called here, will you? He would not approve. I
can trust Nan,' she said with a glance at her companion. 'She will say nothing.
I hope that I can trust you as well.'
'Implicitly.'
'Thank
you.'
Margaret
Littlejohn was both embarrassed and elated, bashful in the presence of the man
she adored yet savouring the experience all the same. Christopher was glad
that the maidservant was there, hoping that his visitor would not blurt out any
declaration in front of a third person. His mind was already grappling with the
problem of how he could get rid of them without undue rudeness.
'Father
kept most of it from me,' explained Margaret. 'He did not want to upset me with
the nasty details. All that he told me was that Sir Ambrose Northcott had met
with an accident and that the building work had been stopped.'
'In
essence, that is the truth.'
'But
the poor man was
murdered.’.'
'Alas,
yes.'
'What
happened to him is too horrible to contemplate.'
'That
is why Mr Littlejohn protected you from it.'
'I
shudder every time I think about the way Sir Ambrose died.'
'Try
to put it out of your mind.
'But
I was
there,
Mr Redmayne,' she confessed, eyes widening with consternation. 'On the day that
he was killed, I was there at the site.'
'So
were the rest of us. The place was humming with activity.'
'I
am talking about that evening. When ...' Her voice died and she needed a moment
to compose herself. 'When it happened,' she continued. 'What I saw may be of no
use at all, of course, but I felt I had to tell you about it just in case. I
feel guilty at holding it back.'
'You
saw something?' he pressed, moving in closer. 'You were at the site on the
evening when Sir Ambrose was killed?' She nodded. 'Did you see him arrive with
another man?'
'No,
Mr Redmayne. When we got there - Nan was with me - the only person we saw was
the nightwatchman. He was in the garden, well away from the house itself. He
was pulling the tarpaulin over the bricks and the timber,' she recalled. 'He
did not see the man leave.'
'What
man?'
'The
one who came out of the cellar.'
Christopher
crouched down before her. 'You saw a man come out of the cellar?' he said. 'On
his own?'
'Yes.'
'Did
you recognise him?'
'Unhappily,
no. I hoped for a moment that it might
be ...'
She blushed again but covered
her coyness with a swift recital of events. 'I have never seen him before. He
was tall, well-dressed and wore a wide-brimmed hat that was pulled down over
his face. We were too far away to see much more than that, Mr Redmayne. I was
afraid to venture too close in case the nightwatchman saw me and reported it to
my father.' She tossed a look over her shoulder at Nan. 'I misled him. He
thought that I was visiting my cousin but I was near Baynard's Castle instead.'
'If
I understand you correctly,' recapitulated Christopher, sensing that the girl
had invaluable information, 'you saw a man coming out of the cellar and
leaving before the nightwatchmen could descry him?'
'He
took care that it would not happen, Mr Redmayne.'
'What
do you mean?'
'Well,'
she said, 'he crept up those steps and peeped around to make sure that nobody
could see him. Then he put down the lantern he was carrying and hurried off
quickly. Oh, did I say that he was carrying a stick? I do remember that. A tall
man with a hat and a stick.'
'Did
he notice you and your maidservant?'
'No,
Mr Redmayne. We were hiding behind the corner.'
'Which
way did he go?'
'Towards
the river. I think he had a boat waiting.'
'Did
you see a boat?'
'No,'
she said, delighted at his interest and keen to maintain it. 'The wall of the
house blocked him from sight for most of the way. But I did catch a glimpse of
the top of his hat when he reached the landing stage beyond the garden. Why
else would he go there?'
'Quite
so, Miss Littlejohn.'
'After
that, it was time for us to leave ourselves.'
'So
you saw nothing else?'
She
shook her head. Christopher took her carefully through each detail of her story
once again and fixed the approximate times of her arrival and departure. Her
evidence dovetailed with that of Jem Raybone. The night- watchmen saw two men
enter the cellar. Christopher was certain that the one whom Margaret Littlejohn
observed leaving was the killer. The probable time of the murder was confirmed.
'Was
I right to come to you?' she asked.
'Oh,
yes. I am most grateful.'
'Father
said that you were determined to solve this crime. I hoped that I could be of
some little help to you.'
'You
have been of great help,' said Christopher, standing up.
'Thank
you, sir. Do not think too badly of me.'
'Badly?'
'A
dutiful daughter should have told all this to her father,' she admitted. 'But I
could not do that or he would have known that I deceived him about where I was
that evening. Please do not betray me.'
'I
would not dream of it.'
'The
simple truth
is ...'
She reached out to touch his
arm. 'The simple truth is that I hoped against hope that
you
might be at the site that evening. That is why I came. That was why I always
came.'
Margaret
Littlejohn suddenly burst into tears and flung herself clumsily forward.
Christopher had no alternative but to catch her. It put him in an awkward
predicament, compounded by the fact that Nan had mysteriously disappeared from
the room as if by some pre-arranged signal. Margaret sobbed, clung tightly to
him, felt the comfort of his arms then turned a tearful face up for some return
of affection. Christopher managed a smile but his emotions were swirling. He
was still wondering how he could detach himself from her when Jacob came to his
rescue.
Materialising
out of the kitchen, the old servant was resourceful.
'I
see that the young lady is unwell, sir,' he said, moving her gently away from
his master and easing her towards the door. 'I take it that you would wish me
to accompany her back home at once?'
Margaret
felt profoundly cheated and Nan appeared in the doorway with a look of
exasperation on her face but Christopher was so relieved that he vowed to give
his servant a handsome reward.
'Thank
you, Jacob,' he said in a tone of the utmost consideration. 'Your offer is most
timely. See them to the very door of their house and take especial care of Miss
Littlejohn who is a trifle upset. She has just given me the most enormous
amount of help. I am so glad that she made the effort to come here.'
Partially
appeased, Margaret Littlejohn stemmed her tears with a lace hankerchief and
bestowed a yearning smile of farewell on her host before going out with her
maidservant. Neither woman overheard the urgent command which Christopher
whispered into Jacob's hairy ear.
'Never
- never, ever - let them across my threshold again!'
The
Jolly Sailor belied its name that evening. It was half-empty when Jonathan Bale
arrived and the atmosphere felt curiously flat. Most patrons were either too
drunk to exhibit any jollity or too sober to get drawn into a song. The
constable did not mind. During his years as a shipwright, the tavern had been a
favourite of his. He felt comfortable among seafaring men, sharing their
concerns, understanding their problems and talking their language. His office
might have given him a new sense of responsibility but it did not deprive him
of his love of the sea or of those who made their living in its capricious
bosom.
Jonathan
talked easily to six or seven sailors before he chanced upon one who could
really help. The man was on his own in a corner.
'You
have heard of Sir Ambrose Northcott, then?' said Jonathan.
'Oh,
yes,' replied the other before spitting dramatically on the floor. 'I know the
rogue only too well.'
'Why
is that?'
'Because
I sailed aboard his ship.'
'For
how long?'
'Almost
two years.'
Jonathan
smiled. 'Let me fill your tankard for you, my friend.'
'I'll
not try to stop you.'
The
constable sat opposite him at a rough wooden table and called for more beer.
When both their tankards were full, they clinked them before taking a long sip
apiece. Appraising his companion, Jonathan realised why the man chose to lurk
in a shadowy corner of the tavern. He was a short, solid individual in his
forties with huge scarred hands. His face was so ugly that it had a kind of
grotesque fascination. Nature had contrived the misshapen features and an
occasional brawl accounted for the broken nose and the swollen ear but these
were minor distractions from the dozens of large, hideous, red boils which
swarmed across his cheeks, chin and forehead like so many enraged wasps.
'Do
not look too close, sir,' said the man. 'Take pity on me.'
'Have
you always had this condition?'
'It
came on me this last year.'
'Is
there no cure?'
'I
have not found one yet so I am instead trying to cure people of staring at me
like a freak.' He bunched a menacing fist. 'The only thing which seems to work
is to loosen their teeth with this.'
'I
am sorry,' said Jonathan, averting his gaze. 'You mentioned a ship. I had heard
that Sir Ambrose owned a vessel.'
'That
is right. The
Marie Louise.'
'A
strange name for an English ship.'
'It
was called
The Maid of Kent
when I sailed in her.'
'Marie Louise
does not sound much like a maid
of Kent.'
A
throaty laugh. 'More like a whore of Calais!'
'When
was the name changed?'
'Some
time last year, they tell me.'
'And
did they say why?'
'No,'
replied the man. 'Some whim of Sir Ambrose Northcott's. He was always doing
things like that. Making decisions, changing things around. And he was a loathsome
passenger to have aboard. Real tyrant, he was. Never stopped harrying the crew.
Many's the time I'd have liked to push him overboard.'
'Where
did you sail?'
'Anywhere
and everywhere. Spain, Portugal, France, Holland, even Norway on occasion. As
soon as one cargo was unloaded here, we would set sail to collect another.
The Maid of Kent
was a trim vessel, I'll say that for her. When we clapped on full sail, she
could outrun most of her rivals. Yes,' he sighed nostalgically, 'when Sir
Ambrose was not aboard, I had some good times on that ship.'
'And
since then?'
'I
joined the crew of a coastal vessel, bringing coal down from Newcastle.
Miserable work until I was forced out of it.'
'Forced
out?'
'This
face,' said the man, jabbing a stubby finger at it. 'There's no better way to
lose shipmates than to sprout a crop such as I did. They could not bear to look
on me lest they catch some disease. When the captain discharged me, I could not
find anyone else to take me on. It is just as well, really. The sea spray used
to make these boils sting so much I felt that my face was on fire.'
He
took a long, noisy sip from his tankard then wiped his lips with the back of
his arm. Jonathan coaxed as much detail as he could out of the man about his
time on Sir Ambrose Northcott's vessel. He was surprised to hear how often the
owner went on the voyages. War did not seem to hinder his business. He traded
covertly with countries which were nominally at odds with his own.
'Sir
Ambrose sounds like a doughty privateer,' said Jonathan.
'I'd
sooner call him a black-hearted bastard.'
The
man's reminiscences became harsher as he retailed examples of what he saw as
the iniquities of Sir Ambrose Northcott. By the time his companion had
finished, Jonathan had been given some valuable insights into the commercial
activities of the dead man. He memorised the details so that he could pass them
on to Christopher Redmayne. Whatever his doubts about the latter, he had to
admit that the architect had dedicated himself to the pursuit of the killer in
the most selfless manner. Working with him might not turn out as unpleasant a
task as he feared.
A
degree of jollity at last entered the Jolly Sailor. Drink was flowing more
freely, raucous ditties were being sung, customers were flirting with the
landlady and two of them were trying to dance in the middle of the floor.
Jonathan decided to leave before the first brawl started but he paid to have
the other man's tankard filled first.
'Will
you not drink with me?' said the sailor.
'I
still have a drop left here, my friend.'
'Then
let us have a toast.'
'Gladly.'
'To
my future health!' said the man.
'I'll
drink to that,' said Jonathan, raising his tankard before emptying it with one
long gulp. 'I hope that you soon find the cure for your ailment and get back to
sea where you belong.'
'I
have one last chance.'
'Last
chance?'
'When
I take my boils to the finest physician in London.'
'And
who might that be?'
'Why,'
said the man proudly. 'His Majesty, of course. They say that the King's Touch
can cure any disease. Tomorrow, I am to present myself to Mr Knight, His
Majesty's surgeon, who lives in Bridges Street at the sign of the Hare in
Covent Garden. When he has examined me, I will be given a ticket to join those
other sufferers who will receive the King's Touch the next day.'
'I
wish you luck, my friend!'
'I
put my faith in His Majesty.'
'That
is more than I would do,' murmured Jonathan.
'Many
men have felt the King's Touch.'
'And
many women, too,' said the other under his breath.
'I
have heard tell of miracles taking place this way,' he added aloud. 'I pray
that you will be cured by one.'
'I
have to be,' said the man with an edge of desperation. 'This face of mine is
cursed. I'll not endure the pain for much longer. Mind you, I will admit this.
There are other poor souls in a worse condition than me. Most of those who will
go before His Majesty are stricken with the King's Evil, as they call it.
Scrofula. A cruel disease. It can turn a beautiful face into vile ugliness. I
have seen men whose skin looked as if they have been flayed alive and some have
been so stricken that they went blind.' He drank some more beer, then belched.
'Have you ever seen anyone with the King's Evil?'
'Oh,
yes!' said Jonathan ruefully. 'Indeed, I have, my friend. I have seen a whole
city afflicted with it.'
'A
whole city? What is it called?'
'London.'