The King's Evil (28 page)

'Why,
Mr Strype!' she said happily. 'This is a pleasant surprise.'

'Have
you missed me, Molly?'

'We
all have, sir. Desperately.'

'I
have not been able to visit London for some time.'

'More's
the pity!' A deep sigh followed. 'We were so shocked to hear about what
happened to Sir Ambrose.'

'A
dreadful business, Molly. Quite devastating!'

'I
hope that it has not dragged you down too much, sir.'

'I
must confess that it has.'

'Are
you sad and lonely?'

'Sad,
lonely and in need of jollity.'

'Then
step inside, Mr Strype,' she said with a ripe chuckle, taking him by the arm.
'We have the cure for your malady right here. Nobody is allowed to be sad or
lonely in my house. Jollity reigns supreme.'

'Lead
me to it, Molly.'

One
door shut in Jonathan's face but another one had

just
opened. It gave him something to think about on the walk back home.

**********************************

Christopher
was a mile away from his destination when he realised that he was being
followed. He slowed his horse and listened for the sound of hoofbeats behind
him. Only one rider could be discerned. When he came to a stand of poplars, he
reined in his mount and waited among the trees. The hoofbeats had stopped.
After waiting a few minutes, he decided that the other horseman must have
turned off the road and taken another route. Christopher continued on his way
but instinct told him that he was still being trailed. He doubted if it was a
highwayman. Such men usually operated in bands and lurked in ambush. There was
no attempt to catch him up. Whoever rode behind him was content to keep an
appreciable distance between them.

Knowing
how treacherous the roads could be, Christopher was well armed, carrying a
loaded pistol as well as a rapier and dagger. He hoped that he would not be
called upon to use any of the weapons.

When
the lights of the inn finally came into sight, he kicked a last burst of speed
out of his horse. Clattering into the courtyard, he dropped from the saddle,
handed the reins to the ostler who came running and noted to which stable his
horse was taken. Then he shook off the night and went into a hostelry which
blazed with dozens of candles.

Business
was scarce so the landlord gave him a cheerful welcome. He was a scrawny old
man with a ragged beard and a gap-toothed grin.

'Do
you need a bed for the night, monsieur?'

'Yes,
please.'

'We
can offer you our best room.'

'I
want somewhere which overlooks the stables.'

'As
you wish.'

'And
I will need something to eat before I retire.'

'My
wife will see to your needs, sir.'

There
were no more than half a dozen other guests in the taproom and most took no
notice of him, engaged either in desultory conversation or in the important
ritual of sampling the hostelry's stock of wine. Christopher found himself a
table in a corner from which he could watch the door. The landlord's wife
brought him bread and cheese. A full-bodied red wine helped to wash it down and
revive him after his travels. Nobody came or left. After an hour, Christopher
paid his bill in advance and followed the landlord up a rickety staircase and
along a narrow passageway to his room. His host opened the door and set down
the lighted candle on the table beside the bed.

'You
will be comfortable enough here, monsieur.'

'Thank
you,' said Christopher, giving the room a cursory glance. 'This will be most
adequate, landlord. Good night.'

'If
you need anything else, just call.'

'I
will.'

When
the man went out, Christopher closed the door behind him and saw that there was
no bolt on it. He crossed to the window to gaze down into the courtyard. It was
deserted. Only the occasional whinny from the stables disturbed the silence.
There was no sign at all of the mysterious rider who had shadowed him. Closing
the shutters, he took a closer look at his room. Small, musty and simply
furnished, it had a low ceiling and undulating oak floorboards but it was
reasonably clean and its bed looked inviting. Christopher was annoyed that he
would not get to sleep in it because a sixth sense rearranged his accommodation.

After
making up the bed to look as if it were occupied, he took the solitary chair
into the corner behind the door and settled down on it. None of his apparel was
removed. His sword rested within reach against the wall and the pistol was on
the floor at his feet. The dagger remained in its sheath at his belt. He closed
his eyes for a few moments then opened them again as if disturbed and crossed
to the bed in four short strides. Confident that he could do so again in the
dark, he blew out the candle and returned to his position in the corner. The
chair was hard but he endured the discomfort willingly.

With
so much to ponder, he found it difficult to keep his mind alert for sounds of
danger and fatigue began to steal over him. Eventually he dropped off to sleep.

The
creaking of the floorboards in the passageway brought him out of his slumber.
His hand went swiftly to his belt, to the wall and to the floor. Dagger, sword
and pistol were all there. A faint glimmer of light came under his door, then
it inched slowly open. Candlelight illumined the bed for a second before the
flame was snuffed out. Christopher heard the sound of the candle-holder being
set down on the floor; a murky figure entered the room and surged towards the
bed.

The
man's dagger flashed but its point found nothing more than a couple of blankets
which had been rolled up. There was an angry grunt from the intruder then a
gasp of surprise as Christopher jumped on him from behind and knocked him
forward on to the bed. He tried to jab behind his back with the dagger but
Christopher already had a firm grasp on his wrist and he twisted it until the
man let his weapon go with a cry of pain. Before he could struggle, the
intruder felt the point of Christopher's own dagger pricking the nape of his neck
and he froze.

'Who
are you?' demanded Christopher.

'Let
me go,' begged the man. 'Do not kill me, monsieur.'

'Tell
me who sent you.'

'Nobody
sent me. I saw you on the road.'

'What
were you after?'

'Your
purse, monsieur. That is all.'

'Don't
lie!'

Christopher
stood up and dragged the man after him by the hair, spinning him around and
buffeting him across the face with his arm. The man rocked back but quickly
recovered, aiming a kick at Christopher's legs and scything him to the floor
before flinging himself on top of him. A firm hand closed on the wrist which
held the dagger and the weapon was twisted inexorably around until its point
threatened Christopher's eye. Though he could barely see it in the gloom, he
felt its proximity and the sweat of fear began to flow. The man exerted
additional power then suddenly put all his strength into a downward thrust.
Christopher's head rolled out of the way just in time as the dagger sank into
the floorboards.

Releasing
the weapon, he grappled with the man and rolled him over on his back, getting
in a relay of punches which took some of the energy out of his assailant. When
Christopher felt a thumb trying to gouge his eye, his temper flared and he
smashed a fist into the man's nose, splitting it open and sending blood all over
his face. Rage served to revive the intruder and he found enough strength to
hurl Christopher off before groping around in the dark for the dagger.
Christopher was too quick for him. As he fell against the chair in the corner,
he knew exactly where his rapier was standing and his hand closed gratefully on
it. He hauled himself quickly to his feet.

The
intruder saw only the outline of his body in the darkness. When he found the
dagger on the floor, he leaped up and ran straight at Christopher, intending to
stab him viciously in the chest. Instead, he let out a long agonised wheeze as
he found himself impaled on a sharp and merciless sword. He dropped the dagger,
flailed uselessly at Christopher with both hands then slumped to the floor on
his side. As the sword was withdrawn, he remained motionless. Christopher
waited for a couple of minutes to see if the noise of the brawl would bring
anyone running but he was relieved that nobody came. He did not relish having
to explain the situation in which he had unwittingly been caught.

Stepping
over the fallen body, he groped his way to his candle and lit the wick. He then
held the flame over his visitor and saw that the man was comprehensively dead,
islanded by a sea of blood. Turning him over on his back, he let the candle
illumine the man's face. The shock of recognition made him reel for a second.
He had met the man before.

The
dark moustache was unforgettable. It was the servant Marcel, who had admitted
him to the house of Arnaud Bastiat.