The Parliament House (22 page)

    'I see,' said Christopher with a meaningful glance at Bale. 'Has he been here all this week?'

    'No,' grumbled the man, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 'Dan went off somewhere for a day or two. I only employ him, of course, so he didn't bother to tell me. When he got back, I swinged him soundly. If he kept going off, I warned him, I'd find another porter.'

    Christopher tried to contain his excitement. Everything he had heard confirmed that they might have found the elusive Mr Field at last. He had been in Leadenhall Street that morning so could well have encountered Bridget McCoy and her son. He had also been away from his work at the very time when Sir Julius Cheever had been ambushed in Hertfordshire.
As
a former soldier, Crothers would be proficient with a musket. If he were only a humble porter, being paid to commit murder would have a strong temptation for him.

    'Where does he live?' said Christopher.

    'Old Street,' the man told him. 'Hard by St Luke's Church. Are you going to pay Dan a visit, sir?'

    'Yes.'

    'Then tell him not to come back here. I'll not take him on again.'

    'You won't be able to,' said Bale, solemnly.

    Christopher dropped some coins into the man's grubby hand. After collecting their horses, they rode off towards Old Street, glad to escape the multiple horrors of Smithfield. Bale's face was expressionless but he felt the same inner thrill as Christopher. The hunt might be over. The killer who had desecrated the constable's beloved ward would now pay for his crime. So keen was Bale to get there that he forgot all about his fear of riding a horse.

    When they reached Old Street, they soon found the house. It was little more than a hovel. Whatever he had done with his blood money, Dan Crothers had not used it to find more a comfortable lodging. They tethered their horses and approached with care. Christopher sent Bale around to the rear of the house before he knocked on the door. There was no reply. He pounded with his fist and, this time, the door swung back on its hinges.

    'Mr Crothers!' he called. 'Are you there?'

    Still there was no response. Taking out his sword, Christopher pushed the door fully open and stepped furtively into the house. On the ground floor, it comprised two small rooms and an evil- smelling scullery. They were all empty. He went slowly up the bare wooden stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible but unable to stop the loud creak of a loose step. Two rooms stood ahead of him. One door was ajar and he could see that there was nobody inside the room. When he turned to look at the other door, however, he sensed danger.

    'Mr Crothers!' he called again. 'Dan Crothers!'

    There was an eerie silence. Convinced that there was someone in the room, Christopher inched forward. It was no time for misplaced heroism. The man had a musket and he knew how to fire it. Christopher had to temper his eagerness with commonsense. He yelled once more.

    'Mr Crothers - I'm coming in!'

    Kicking open the door, he then jumped back quickly out of sight so that any shot would go harmlessly past him. As it happened, there was no resistance at all. Dan Crothers was in no position to offer it. He was lying on his back in the middle of the room. Christopher took out the drawing to compare it with the face of the dead man. Bridget McCoy's work was uncannily accurate. All his features were there. Mr Field was without doubt the alias of Dan Crothers. There was one significant difference between the drawing and the man on the floor. It was a detail that the Irishwoman might be pleased to add.

    His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

        'There's no need at all for you to be there, Orlando,' said Dorothy Kitson.

    'I could not possibly let you go alone.'

    'I do not require a chaperone.'

    'I think that you do,' said her brother, fussily 'and that's why I insist on accompanying you. My presence will act as a needful restraint.'

    Dorothy laughed. 'A restraint against what?'

    'Impulsive action. It will also introduce some balance. If you went there alone, you would be hopelessly outnumbered.'

    'This is an informal meeting, Orlando, not a skirmish.'

    'Nevertheless, I'll not see my sister put at a disadvantage.'

    Orlando Golland had called on her to find out what time they were bidden that evening. Ordinarily, he would strenuously have avoided the company of Sir Julius Cheever but circumstances compelled him to go. What surprised him was how calm and unflustered his sister was about the forthcoming event. Golland was already having qualms.

    'I spoke to Maurice Farwell about it,' he said.

    'About what?'

    'This ludicrous friendship you have with Sir Julius.'

    'It's not ludicrous,' she replied, sharply.

    'Then what is it?'

    'Something that has given me untold pleasure. As for Maurice, I think it very unkind of you to discuss my personal affairs with him.'

    'I took him to task for introducing the pair of you at Newmarket.'

    'Then talked about us as if we were two horses in the paddock, I've no doubt.' Dorothy took a moment to suppress her anger. 'Orlando, I have a pleasant friendship with a certain gentleman. That is all. It's not a source of gossip for you and Maurice Farwell.'

    'But his wife foresaw it all.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'Adele had a distinct feeling about you.'

    'She made no mention of it to me.'

    'According to her husband, she sensed that you were ready to welcome a man back into your life again. The tragedy is that you chose Sir Julius.'

    'I chose him as a friend - not as anything else.'

    'He may have higher aspirations.'

    'Well, he has not discussed them with me.'

    'Maurice was as surprised as any of us.'

    'I'm not interested in Maurice's opinion, or that of his wife.'

    'He could not believe that Sir Julius could turn suitor at his age,' said Golland, 'and he found it even more difficult to accept that you should encourage his overtures.'

    'Sir Julius has not
made
any overtures.'

    'What else is this invitation but a declaration of intent?'

    'For heaven's sake, Orlando,' she said, her exasperation showing. 'It's perfectly natural that Sir Julius should want me to make the acquaintance of his daughters. It will put a stop to any idle speculation on their part about our friendship. At least,' she continued, 'I hoped that it would. Your presence will probably only inflame it.'

    'How?'

    'They will interpret it as a sign that you are examining their family to see if a closer relationship with them is desirable.'

    'I'm certain that it is not.'

    'Only because you do not
know
Sir Julius.'

    'Maurice Farwell does.'

    'Leave him out of this,' she responded, tartly.

    'He considers him to be an ogre.'

    'Maurice's views are irrelevant. So, for that matter, are yours. I'll not let anyone else live my life for me. I'm old enough and wise enough to make my own decisions. And that, Orlando,' she said, looking him in the eye, 'is exactly what I intend to do.'

    When he saw that the man was dead, Christopher Redmayne went to the window and summoned his companion. Jonathan Bale soon joined him and the pair of them bent over the corpse to inspect it.

    'He has not been dead long,' decided Bale.

    'How do you know?'

    'Because I've seen too many murder victims in my time.'

    'Yes, I'm sure.'

    'The blood is still fresh and there's no sign of
rigor mortis.
That only starts to set in after four hours or more.'

    'He was obviously a strong man,' noted Christopher, looking at the broad shoulders and the muscular arms. 'He'd not have been easy to overpower.'

    'That's why he was knocked out first,' said Bale, turning the head of the corpse so that a gash became visible. Blood had stained the back of the scalp. 'I think that Mr Crothers was hit from behind before having his throat slit. What I don't know is why anyone should want to kill him.'

    'It was because he failed, Jonathan.'

    'Failed?'

    'He had two attempts at shooting Sir Julius and, each time, his victim survived. It must have been very galling for his paymaster,' said Christopher. 'I was there when the second shot was fired and it looked as if Sir Julius was dead. That report would have been brought back to London. Imagine the shock for the man who employed Crothers when he realised that Sir Julius was, in fact, still alive.'

    'He'd be very angry, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I think he lost patience with his hired killer.'

    'There's another thing,' said Bale. 'As long as Mr Crothers carried on his old job as a porter, there was always the chance that he'd be found in the end. He knew too much. Someone silenced him.'

    'He may yet be able to tell us something.'

    'Search his pockets.'

    'I will. You see what else you can find.'

    Bale looked around the room. It was small, dirty and poorly furnished. Dan Crothers had pathetically few possessions. Beyond a pile of old clothing, there was little apart from some bread, wrapped up in a cloth, and a flagon of beer. Hidden away underneath the bed, however, was a collection of weapons. Bale got down on his knees to pull out a dagger, a cudgel, a flintlock pistol and a musket. There was powder and ammunition for both firearms.

    'This is the musket that killed Mr Everett,' said Bale, holding it in his hands. 'The murder's been solved. Mr Crothers is the guilty man.'

    'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Unfortunately, someone has done the executioner's job for us. If we'd caught him alive, he might have been able to tell us who suborned him to commit the crime. That's the real villain, Jonathan - the man behind all this.'

    'Was there anything in his pockets?'

    'A piece of cheese and a few coins, that's all.'

    'Have you felt inside the coat, sir?'

    'I could find no pockets there.'

    'Let me try,' said Bale, putting the musket aside and crouching beside the corpse. 'Criminals sometimes have secret pouches sewn into their coats where they can hide things.' He groped around until his hand closed on something. 'I thought so.'

    'What have you discovered?'

    'Not much, sir, but it may help us.' He withdrew his hand and opened his palm. He was holding two pieces of paper. 'Messages of some kind, I think.'

    Christopher took them from him. The first one was a short letter, written in a neat hand, informing Crothers that Sir Julius Cheever would be travelling to Cambridge that very day. It was unsigned. A different correspondent had sent the other letter. Using a spidery scrawl, he simply gave a date and the name of the Saracens Head in Knightrider Street. Christopher passed both missives to Bale to read.

    'That's the date on which Bernard Everett was killed,' he said, pointing to the second letter. 'This is clear proof that someone gave Dan Crothers instructions to shoot Sir Julius.'

    'Someone else sent the other message,' observed Bale, reading it. 'That means we have to look for two people.'

    'Or even more. I think we'll find a conspiracy at work.'

    'How do we expose it?'

    'With a combination of patience and hard work, Jonathan. We caught up with one villain. Now we have to find the person or persons who paid him.' Christopher took the letters from him. 'This murder must be reported at once.'

    'I'll do that, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Thank you.'

    'Sir Julius will need to hear about this as well.'

    'I'll tell him that we found the man who tried to kill him on his way to Cambridge. But I'll urge him not to drop his guard,' said Christopher. 'One hired killer might be dead but there's clearly another at work. My fear is that he might turn his attention to Sir Julius now.'

    'What about Mrs McCoy, sir?'

    'I leave you to inform her - and to thank her for that drawing she made. It helped us to find the man. I think she'll be delighted to learn that he's dead.'

    'Delighted or disappointed?'

    'You know her better than I do, Jonathan.'

    'Mrs McCoy is a woman of strong passions,' said Bale. 'She'd have preferred to cut his throat herself then have the pleasure of dancing a jig on his grave.'

      When he stormed into the house with a dark scowl on his face, it was clear that Sir Julius Cheever had not enjoyed his day in parliament. His daughters greeted him in the hall.