The Parliament House (12 page)

    'Well?' she asked as he put the letter aside.

    'Mr Redmayne's gone to Cambridge for the funeral,' he explained. 'He wants me to talk to someone while he's away.'

    'Who is it?'

    'A man called Lewis Bircrofit. He's a Member of Parliament.'

    She was impressed. 'A politician? Does that mean you'll have to go to the Parliament House?'

    'In the first instance. I'll also need to find out where this man lives when he's staying in London.'

    'Why must you speak to him, Jonathan?' 'He's a friend of Sir Julius Cheever,' said her husband, concealing from her the information that Bircroft had been savagely beaten in an alleyway in Covent Garden. 'He may be able to tell us something that throws a light on this present case.'

    'I see.' She recalled his earlier remark. 'But what's this about going to Leadenhall Market?'

    'Oh, that was Mrs McCoy's doing.'

    'Bridget McCoy from the Saracen's Head?'

    Bale nodded. Lowering himself on to one of the wooden chairs that he had made himself, he told her about their search for the man who had been seen at the market earlier. While she listened, Sarah started to prepare dinner, reaching for some bread to cut into thick slices. Like her husband, she was sorry that the trail had gone cold. She was interested to hear that Patrick McCoy had been involved.

    'That lad is so unlike his father,' she noted.

    'I disagree, Sarah. He's the image of him.'

    'He may
look
like him but that's as far as he goes. Patrick, his father, was such a quick-witted man and so amiable. The son can barely hold a conversation. Whenever I see him,' she went on, 'I thank God that our boys are not like that. They go to school. They learn things. All that Patrick McCoy has learned is how to clear the tankards off the tables at the Saracen's Head.'

    'It's not his fault.'

    'I know, Jonathan. I feel sorry for the poor lad.'

    'Anyway, he does more than simply clear away the tankards. His mother keeps most of her customers under control but, if one of them does start to cause mischief, it's Patrick who throws him out, young as he is. The lad's as strong as an ox.'

    'Yes,' she confirmed. 'I saw him lift a beer barrel off a cart the other day. Most men would have rolled it along the ground but he carried it as if it was as light as a feather.' She shook her head worriedly. 'What's Bridget McCoy going to do with him?'

    'Keep him at the tavern where she can watch over him,' said Bale. 'Mind you, that's not what the lad wants himself.'

    'No?'

    'He has an ambition, Sarah.' 'To do what?'

    'My job - he wants to be a parish constable.'

    She spluttered. 'Patrick McCoy?'

    'Everyone's entitled to dream.'

    'He could
never
do what you do, Jonathan.'

    'The lad's eager and that's a good start. I've met too many officers who've been pushed into it against their will. If you resent what you have to do, how can you do it properly?'

    'There are not many parish constables like you,' she said with an admiring smile. 'You love the work
and
do it well. And you're fit enough for the post. Constables in some parishes are almost decrepit.'

    'I know at least three who are disabled, Sarah, yet they're kept hard at it because nobody else will come forward to take their place.' Clicking his tongue, he repeated a familiar complaint. 'No wonder there's so much crime in London when there are so few able-bodied men employed to prevent it. What's the point of laws if we lack the means to enforce them? We need more constables on the streets.'

    'Could that lad possibly be one of them?'

    'It's unlikely, I agree.'

    'He's not clever enough.'

    'Tom Warburton is hardly known for his brains.'

    'Maybe not but Tom has other qualities.'

    'So does Patrick - he's strong, honest and God-fearing.'

    Sarah looked him in the eye. 'Would
you
like to work with him?'

    'If it was a case of talking to people, or looking for clues, or reading documents of some sort, then the lad would be hopelessly out of his depth. But if I had to patrol the riverbank on a dark night,' said Bale, meeting her gaze, 'then I'd be more than happy to have him walking beside me.'

        They had gone the best part of ten miles before they stopped at a wayside inn. While the horses were rested and watered, the travellers went inside for refreshment. Hester Polegate and her sons were too locked in their private anguish to be capable of any conversation so they dined alone in a corner. Christopher Redmayne shared a table with Sir Julius Cheever. It gave him an opportunity for time alone with the other man. Mindful of their last encounter, he kept off the subject that had so enraged his companion earlier.

    'Having your daughter arrive from Richmond must have been a very pleasant surprise for you,' he began.

    'I do not like surprises.'

    'But this one must have gladdened your heart, Sir Julius.'

    'Must it?'

    'Mrs Serle is a member of your family.'

    'Yes,' agreed Sir Julius, 'Brilliana does indeed have that claim on my affections. The trouble is that, where Mrs Serle goes, Mr Serle is always compelled to follow.'

    'Do you not enjoy your son-in-law's company?'

    'What is there to enjoy? Lancelot has neither wit nor affability.'

    'I've always found him extremely affable.'

    'That's because you've never had to endure his presence for any length of time. There's hardly any subject that I dare raise with him. If we discuss the way he manages his estates, I end up quarreling with him about his farming methods. And if he unloads his political opinions on me, I want to strangle the fellow with my bare hands.' He gave a mime by way of illustration. 'Last time I visited Richmond, he had the gall to tell me that the King was a credit to the Stuart dynasty.'

    'I admire his bravery in doing so, Sir Julius.'

    The old man glared at him. 'You share his sentiments?'

    'Not entirely,' said Christopher. 'But if I did, I'd not have the courage to voice them so boldly in front of you. That must surely make you respect your son-in-law.'

    'I'd respect him far more if he kept Brilliana from snapping at my heels whenever we meet. Children,' he continued. 'That's what she needs more than anything else - children. And where are they? There's no sign of them. After years of marriage, I've still not been presented with my first grandchild. It's unnatural, Christopher.'

    'Perhaps your daughter does not wish for a family.' 'It's every woman's wish,' asserted Sir Julius, flatly. 'The fault lies not with Brilliana but with that milksop of a husband. He's clearly unequal to the office of fatherhood.'

    'That's unkind,' said Christopher, defensively. 'Mr Serle does not deserve your scorn. Apart from anything else, he's made himself into a fine swordsman. I've had a few bouts with him and he's improved beyond all recognition.'

    Sir Julius was grudging. 'I suppose that's in his favour.'

    'He has many other good qualities and you must surely be grateful to any man who makes your elder daughter so happy.'

    'Brilliana's happiness depends on having her every whim satisfied. There's no more capricious human being in the whole kingdom. I think that she should be challenged rather than indulged but Lancelot has chosen the easier path through life.'

    'And seems content to do so.'

    'Yes, I'll admit that.'

    Talking about his family had helped to relax Sir Julius. He had not forgotten his recent confrontation with Christopher but he was ready to set it aside. It was as if a truce had been declared between them. As time passed, his manner softened even more and Christopher was tempted to explore the limits of their truce.

    'Parliament sits in a few days, I believe,' he said.

    'Yes,' said Sir Julius, sadly, 'and I'd hoped to introduce Bernard Everett to the chamber. It was not to be, I fear. But I'm sure that he'll forgive me if I rush back to London as soon as the funeral is over.'

    'Mr Everett may have gone but you have other loyal friends there.'

    'I thank the Lord for it.'

    'One of them, I gather, is Lewis Bircroft.'

    'Bircroft?' The old man's eye kindled. 'What do you know of him?'

    'Only that he was a staunch supporter of you, Sir Julius.'

    'You've been listening to that lunatic brother of yours again.'

    'Henry is no lunatic.'

    'He's a blabbering gossip.'

    'He did tell me about the accident that befell Mr Bircroft,' admitted Christopher, 'that much is true. I wonder that you did not perceive a connection between that and what happened to Mr Everett.'

    'Be warned, young man.'

    'That's the very advice that you should take, Sir Julius.'

    'Silence!'

    'It's not only Mr Bircoft's fate that needs to be remembered. Arthur Manville must also be borne in-'

    'Enough - damn you!' Sir Julius cut him short, growling in an undertone so that he did not disturb the three members of the Polegate family at the other table. 'Are you determined to test my temper?'

    'Not at all, Sir Julius.'

    'Well, you are going the right way about it.'

    'I am bound to be concerned for your safety.'

    'If you bother me again,' said Sir Julius, 'then you'll need to be concerned for your own safety. Keep away from me. I thought you were coming with us to pay to your respects to Bernard Everett but I see now that it was just a ruse to hound me.' He got up and towered over Christopher. 'Stand off, sir. Oblige me by holding your tongue in future. I've nothing more to say to you.'

    The truce was over.

       Patrick McCoy was industrious. The Saracen's Head stayed open for long hours and he worked tirelessly throughout that time, fetching and carrying, sweeping and clearing away, dealing firmly with the occasional obstreperous customer and doing all the other tasks that his mother assigned to him. Cheerful, willing and good-natured, he laboured without the slightest complaint. What he lacked in intelligence, he made up for in sheer application.

    It was during a lull that afternoon that he spoke to his mother.

    'Mr Bale thought I could be a constable one day,' he said.

    'He was only being kind to you, Patrick.'

    'It's no more than I do here, Mother.'

    'It is,' she said. 'A parish constable has a lot of responsibilities. He has to keep his eye on so many different things. He has to make reports and appear in court. You could never do that.' 'I could if Mr Bale showed me how to do it.'

    'Your place is here,' she said, cupping his chin in her hand. 'I need you beside me, Patrick. What would I do without my son?'

    'Find someone else.'

    'There's nobody like you.'

    Bridget spoke with an amalgam of fondness and practicality. She loved her son deeply and depended on him completely. Had he been more competent, she would not have thwarted his ambition but she was aware of all the things that were beyond him. Ever since he had been born, she had been protecting him from mockery and doing her best to build his confidence. At the Saracen's Head, he had an important role. Anywhere else, his limitations would be cruelly exposed.

    'What if I was to catch him?' he asked.

    'Catch who?'

    'The man with the broken nose.'

    'You've no idea what he looks like, Patrick.'

    'You do, Mother.' The vacant smile surfaced. 'Do you remember what you used to do when I was little?'

    'I played with you whenever I could. So did your father.'

    'You were much better at it than he was.'

    'Better at what?'

    'Drawing pictures for me,' he said. 'You drew pictures of animals and people and ships on the river. I liked them.'

    'That was years ago, Patrick.'

    'You can still do it.'

    'I haven't the time,' she said. 'Besides, why should I bother?'

    'Because it would help me.'

    'I think you've outgrown childish pictures.'

    'But it would show me what he looked like, Mother.'

    'Who?'

    'The man who fired that musket from upstairs,' he told her. 'If you drew a picture of his face, I'd know who he was if I saw him at the market. I'd be able to catch him for you. That's what you want, isn't it?'

    She was taken aback. 'Yes, Patrick. It is.'