The King's Evil (27 page)

'Most
of it.'

'And
is that how you met?'

'No,'
she said wistfully. 'We met in Calais. He was so
kind
to me.' She turned to Christopher. 'I know what you must think, monsieur. A
young girl, being spoiled by a rich man who takes advantage of her innocence.
But it was not like that. He was attentive. He treated me with respect. He just
liked to be with me. And the truth of it is, I have always felt more at ease
with older men. They are not foolish or impetuous.' She gave a little shrug. 'I
loved him. I still love him even though he lied to me. He must have planned to
leave his wife,' she continued, as if desperate to repair the damage which had
been done to a cherished memory. 'That was it. He was working to free himself
from this other woman. Proceedings must already have been under way. They had
to be. Ambrose was mine. That house in London was not being built for anyone
else. It belonged to
us.
He encouraged me to make
suggestions about it.'

'I
remember commenting on the French influence.'

'That
came from me, monsieur.'

'So
I see.'

She
gazed down at the ring and fondled it with her other hand.

'Ambrose
gave this to me,' she said.

'It
is beautiful.'

'I
will never part with it.' She looked at the bundle of letters which lay in her
lap. 'Why did you bring these to me, monsieur?'

'I
felt that you would want them back.'

'I
do but there was no need for you to bring them. A courier could have been sent.
That is how Ambrose kept in touch with me. By courier.' She stared up at him.
'Why come in person?'

'Because
I hoped to break the news as gently as I could.'

'Was
that the only reason?'

'No,
I wanted to meet you.'

'Why?'

'I
need your help, mademoiselle.'

'What
can I do?'

'Tell
me about Sir Ambrose,' he explained. 'I owe him a great debt and it can only be
repaid by tracking down the man who killed him. I have dedicated myself to that
task.'

'That
is very noble of you, monsieur.'

'His
death must be avenged.'

'Oh,
yes!' she exclaimed. 'The murderer cannot go unpunished. He must be caught
quickly. Do you know who he is?'

'No,
mademoiselle.'

'But
you have some idea?'

'I
feel that I am getting closer all the time,' he said with a measure of
confidence. 'The trail led to Paris.'

'Why
here?'

'That
is what I am hoping you can tell me.'

'But
this was where Ambrose came to escape. To be with me.'

'When
did you last see him?'

'Let
me see ...'

Christopher
plied her with questions for a long time and she gave ready answers but none of
them contained any clues as to why Sir Ambrose was murdered and by whom. Marie
Louise Oilier had been kept largely ignorant of his business affairs and he had
told her nothing whatsoever about the true nature of his domestic situation.
Time spent together had been limited, taken up for the most part with discussions
about the new house and its furnishings. She made flattering comments about
his design and Christopher realised that some of his earlier drawings of the
house must have been shown to her. The man she described was very different
from the confirmed rake who sought pleasure in the company of men such as Henry
Redmayne.

As
he listened to her fond reminiscences, Christopher was left in no doubt about
the fact that she truly loved him and he could understand very clearly why Sir
Ambrose had been besotted with her. Now that he was so close to her, he could
see that she was perhaps a few years older than Penelope Northcott but she had
a childlike charm which made her seem much younger.

Having
described her own history, she asked him about his memories of Sir Ambrose.
Christopher searched for positive things to say about the man, concealing
anything which might strike a discordant note. It was only when she gave a
slight shiver that he realised something was amiss.

Marie
Louise Oilier was sitting in the chair closest to the open shutters and an
evening breeze was disturbing her headdress. When there were more comfortable
chairs in the room, it seemed odd that her uncle should conduct her to that
one. The library looked out on the garden at the rear of the house and it
suddenly occurred to Christopher that anyone standing outside could eavesdrop
on them with ease. He was about to stand up and investigate when she reached
out to grab his arm.

'Will
you send word to me, monsieur?' she begged.

'Word?'

'When
you catch the man who killed him, please let me know.'

'I
will,'

'Send
word to this address.'

'Even
though you do not live here?'

'It
will reach me.'

'Would
it not be easier if I had your own address?'

'No,
monsieur.'

'Is
your own house nearby?'

'Send
word here.'

Christopher
detached her hand and got up to cross to the window. When he glanced out into
the garden, he could see nobody but he still had the uncomfortable feeling that
they had been overheard.

'Evening
is drawing in,' he announced. 'I must away.'

'Will
you not stay the night in Paris?'

'No,
mademoiselle. It is a long ride. I would like to put a few miles between myself
and the city tonight.'

'I
understand. Wait here while I call my uncle.'

She
moved to the door and let herself out, leaving the room still inhabited with
her presence and charged with her fragrance. Christopher had a moment to
compose himself. Though he had not been given the valuable clues he sought, he
had discovered much that would be useful once he had sifted carefully through
it. Yet he was still left with many imponderables. Before Christopher could
rehearse them, Bastiat came into the room on his own. There was concern in his
voice.

'My
niece tells me that you are leaving, monsieur.'

'I
fear that I must.'

'You
are most welcome to spend the night here as my guest.'

'That
is very tempting, Monsieur Bastiat, but I must begin the homeward journey
tonight.'

'Are
you sure?'

'I
have no choice.'

'Where
will you stay?' 'There is an inn which I passed on the way here,' said
Christopher. 'It must be ten or twelve miles along the road to Beauvais. I will
lodge there and make an early start in the morning.'

'Very
well. I can see that there is no point in trying to persuade you against your
will.'

'None
at all.'

'You
are a determined young man, Monsieur Redmayne.'

'Of
necessity.'

'Why?'

'You
niece will explain.'

'Then
I bid you adieu.'

He
conducted his visitor out into the hall and opened the front door for him.
Christopher looked around in disappointment.

'I
would like to take my leave of Mademoiselle Oilier.'

'That
will not be possible, monsieur.'

'Why
not?'

'She
is deeply upset by the terrible news which you brought. In your presence, she
held up bravely but it has taken its toll. She wishes to be alone with her
grief now.' He hunched his shoulders. 'There is darkness in her heart. It would
be a cruelty to intrude.'

'Say
no more, monsieur. I understand.'

'It
was good of you to come all this way.'

'I
felt that it was an obligation.'

'An
obligation?'

'Nobody
else would have come here.'

'You
deserve our thanks,' said the other. 'My niece did not need to tell me why you
travelled to Paris. I saw it in her face. Poor creature! She is suffering
badly.' He touched his guest's shoulder. 'I hope your journey will not be too
onerous. Do you sail from Calais?'

'Yes,
Monsieur Bastiat.'

'You
will have much to reflect upon, I suspect.'

'Oh,
yes,' said Christopher warmly. 'I did not simply come on an errand of mercy. I
was in search of guidance.'

'Indeed?'

'Thanks
to Mademoiselle Oilier, I found it.'

Jonathan
Bale had always believed that honesty was the best policy, especially where
matrimonial exchanges were concerned. He was proved right once again. Unskilled
in hiding anything from his wife, he told her exactly where he went when he
returned from his first night's vigil in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Sarah was at
once critical and curious, disapproving strongly of places such as Molly
Mandrake's establishment yet wanting to know exactly what happened inside their
walls and who patronised them. Her husband was reticent about activities within
the house but he gave her several names from the memorised list of visitors.
That list had been committed to paper and added to substantially as a result of
two subsequent visits.

As
Jonathan prepared to set out for Lincoln's Inn Fields for a fourth time, he sat
in the kitchen of his home and consulted his list of names once again. It
contained one earl and more than a scattering of baronets. In his view nothing
more clearly mirrored a degenerate aristocracy. He stuffed the paper into his
pocket and rose to leave. His wife got up from the table with him.

'At
least you had time to put the boys to bed this evening,' she said gratefully.
'When shall I expect you back?'

'I
have no idea, Sarah.'

'As
long as you do not get lured inside that place.'

'It
holds no attraction for me.'

'Even
though it must be filled with gorgeous young ladies?'

'They
are poor women, led astray,' said Jonathan sadly. 'Besides, I could never
afford to keep company with them. They charge more for one night than most men
earn in a month.'

'How
do you know?' teased his wife.

He
grinned. 'That is a secret.'

'What
happened to that man with the mask?'

'I
only saw him on that first visit.'

'Has
he not been back to the house?'

'Not
while I have been there, Sarah.'

'Why
would a man wear a mask like that?' she said.

'To
conceal his identity. I guess him to be a person of high rank who does not wish
anyone to know that he frequents the place. Who knows? It might even have been
the King himself.'

She
was shocked. 'He would never sink so low!'

'Do
not put it past him, my love. The rumour is that he tires of his mistresses on
occasion and seeks entertainment elsewhere.'

'Well,
it is a scurvy rumour and I will not believe it.'

He
was worried. 'I hope you are not turning into a royalist, Sarah.'

'Of
course not,' she said stoutly. 'I deplored the Restoration as much as you did.
Life was better under the Lord Protector. But while we have a King on the
throne, I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt. Now, off with you and
prove me wrong.'

'I
may well do so.'

She
gave him a kiss then walked with him to the front door.

'When
is Mr Redmayne coming back?' she wondered.

'I
do not know.'

'He
has been gone for days now. Why did you not offer to go with him, Jonathan? It
is dangerous for someone to travel all that way on his own. You could have been
his bodyguard.'

'Mr
Redmayne can look after himself, Sarah. He would never have considered taking
me and I would certainly not have enjoyed spending so much time alone with
him.'

'It
would have given you chance to get to know him better.'

'That
was my fear.'

He
let himself out of the house, gave her a wave and strode off. The route was
familiar now and he seemed to arrive in Lincoln's Inn Fields sooner than ever.
Clouds drifted across the moon to keep the whole area largely in darkness. It
enabled him to slip into his accustomed hiding-place with no danger of being
seen. Revellers soon began to arrive. Some were regular visitors whose names
had already been recorded but others were memorised for the first time. When
another coach arrived, its lone passenger was given an especially warm welcome
by Molly Mandrake as she opened the door to greet him. It was a French name and
Jonathan doubted if he would be able to spell it correctly when he added it to
his list.

The
most interesting snatch of dialogue which he overheard came towards the end of
his stay in the shadows. A man arrived on horseback, tethered his mount then
pulled the doorbell. Caught between the two torches under the portico, he gave
Jonathan a clear view of his profile and the constable was forced to ask once
again why yet another elegant young gentleman had to pay for pleasures which he
could more properly enjoy within a lawful marriage. When the door swung open,
light blazed out and brought Molly Mandrake's rich voice with it.