The Parliament House (25 page)

    'But his hands were shaking, Mr Redmayne. He told me that he could not stop them. That letter was written by Erasmus Howlett.'

    'He's not the only man to suffer from some kind of palsy. Many people - especially older ones - have hands that tremble badly.'

    'I still believe that we should look into it.'

    'What is the point? You met Mr Howlett, did you not?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    'How would you describe him?'

    'I found him very personable.'

    'And he's one of Francis Polegate's friends. That in itself should be enough to exonerate him.'

    Jonathan Bale was abashed. Having walked all the way to Fetter Lane with the information, he had expected it to be received with more interest. Instead, Christopher was inclined to discount it completely. Bale still felt that he had stumbled on something of importance.

    'Look at the facts, sir,' he said. 'The killer fired his musket from a window of the Saracen's Head in Knightrider Street. Only days before, Mr Howlett had visited the tavern.'

    'He had good reason. His brewery supplied its beer.'

    'But he's not involved in its delivery. His draymen take care of that. Mrs McCoy made that very point. She could not understand why he bothered to come in person when he could easily have sent one of his employees.'

    'And what's your conclusion?'

    'That he came to see if the tavern would provide a good vantage point from which to overlook Mr Polegate's shop.'

    'Surely, he'd have known that in advance?'

    'I doubt it. The brewery supplies taverns all over London. Mr Howlett could not remember the exact location of each one.'

    'So he went there that day to refresh his memory?'

    'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

    'But why would he want Sir Julius Cheever killed and how would he know that he would be there on that day?'

    'You answered the second half of that question yourself,' Bale reminded him. 'You told me that lots of people were aware that you'd be attending the opening of the shop with Sir Julius and his daughter. In any case, Mr Howlett might have heard it when he dined with the vintner. If he talked about his brother-in-law being there, Mr Polegate would probably have mentioned that you and Sir Julius would also be present. That could have been the origin of the plot.'

    'It could,' conceded Christopher, 'but I remain sceptical.'

    'As to the first half of your question, I freely admit that I have no idea why the brewer would want Sir Julius to be murdered. But that does not mean a reason does not exist.'

    'Quite.'

    'We simply have to discover what it was.'

    Christopher glanced at the letter again. They were in the parlour and candles had been lighted to dispel the evening shadows. He was on his feet but Bale - always uneasy in a house that was so much bigger and more comfortable than his own - sat on the edge of a chair with his hat in his hand. Christopher could see how disappointed he was at the architect's luke-warm response. He also knew that his years as a parish constable had sharpened Bale's instincts, and that it was unwise to discard any of his suggestions too rashly.

    'There's an easy way to discover if Erasmus Howlett wrote this,' he said, holding up the letter. 'We simply compare it with another example of his handwriting. Are there any invoices from him at the Saracen's Head?'

    'I thought of that, sir,' said Bale. 'When I asked Mrs McCoy, she showed me all the correspondence she had from the brewery and it had been sent by a clerk.'

    'Then we need to look elsewhere.'

    'Why not go straight to Mr Howlett?'

    'No,' said Christopher, firmly. 'That's the one thing we must not do, Jonathan. If he's innocent - as I suspect - he'll be deeply insulted.'

    'Supposing he's guilty?'

    'Then we must creep up on him stealthily. He must have no warning that his name has even crossed our minds.' Christopher handed the letter to him. 'Take charge of this in case you can find something else that Mr Howlett has written. And speak to Mr Polegate.'

    'I thought that he was away.'

    'They return from Cambridge tomorrow. Sound him out gently on the subject of Erasmus Howlett. Say nothing to show that we have any suspicions of his friend but find out if the brewer has any political allegiances,' said Christopher. 'If we can establish a connection between him and parliament, then, in due course, we may think about confronting Mr Howlett.'

    'Very well.'

    'And it might be worth speaking to Lewis Bircroft again.'

    'Why is that?' said Bale.

    'I talked to my brother about the pamphlet that caused such an uproar. Henry says that there was an intensive search for the author. Mr Bircroft was one of the suspects.'

    'That's why he was set on by bullies.'

    'Drop a name into his ear and see how he responds.'

    'And what name would that be, Mr Redmayne?'

    'One that my brother mentioned. A man who was so infuriated by the pamphlet that he would do absolutely anything to catch and punish the man who wrote it.'

    'Who is he?'

    'The Earl of Stoneleigh.'

    'Is he an acquaintance of your brother?' said Bale, glowering as he thought about Henry Redmayne's irregular private life.

    'Yes,' replied Christopher with a laugh, 'but there's no need to look at me like that. The earl does not share Henry's faults. By all accounts, he's a man of many parts.'

    'Is he?'

    'Soldier, statesman, poet, playwright, favourite at court. The Earl of Stoneleigh has even stolen some of
my
thunder.'

    'In what way?'

    'He's also a talented architect.'

       The evening had been only a moderate success. Too many hidden tensions had surfaced for it to be an occasion when any of them could relax properly and have any real enjoyment. Sir Julius Cheever had tried too hard to win over Orlando Golland, succeeding only in alienating him even more. Brilliana's questioning of Dorothy Kitson had soon evolved into a searching interrogation and the other woman was discomfited. In attempting to rein back her sister, Susan had only made her lose her temper and Brilliana had been unnecessarily spiky thereafter. The only person to get real satisfaction from the evening was Lancelot Serle, glad to have found a fellow connoisseur of horses and to have gleaned such excellent advice from him about how to become a magistrate.

    Conscious that the evening had been less than a success, Sir

    Julius consoled himself with the thought that Dorothy Kitson had looked so beautiful in the candlelight. He retired to bed early so that the others could conduct a post-mortem.

    'I thought that she was delightful,' said Brilliana.

    'Then why did you never stop harrying her?' asked Susan.

    'I harried nobody.'

    'You did hound her a little, my dear,' said Serle.

    'I was entitled to search for the truth, Lancelot. If Mrs Kitson is to marry Father, I need to know as much about her as possible. Having done so, I must say that I would have no qualms about her being our stepmother.'

    'Nor would I.'

    'Then I must disagree with both of you,' said Susan.

    'Why? Mrs Kitson is a charming lady.'

    'I do not doubt her charm, Lancelot. She could not have been more pleasant. What I could not do was to see her and Father together somehow. They seem so ill-assorted.'

    'That's what people said about Lancelot and me,' Brilliana put in. 'And, quite candidly, I could make the same observation about you and Christopher.'

    'Our ages are at least fairly similar,' said Susan. 'Father is so much older than Mrs Kitson and his background is so different. Can you imagine her being happy in Northamptonshire?'

    'If a wife loves her husband, she will be happy wherever they are.'

    'Thank you, Brilliana,' said Serle.

    'Differences simply disappear in a close relationship.'

    'That was certainly so in our case.'

    'I still have reservations about this friendship,' said Susan, 'and I do not wish to see Father getting hurt. Though he's advanced in years, he's very sensitive in some ways. We must protect him from making a mistake by acting too hastily.'

    'There's no chance of that with Mr Golland involved,' remarked Serle. 'He wishes to slow everything down to a snail's pace.'

    Brilliana sniffed. 'I found him a rather disagreeable fellow.'

    'I liked him. He knows so much about horses.' 'He did not come here primarily to talk about those, Lancelot,' said Susan. 'While we were getting acquainted with Mrs Kitson, her brother was subjecting us to scrutiny. And he was very displeased.'

    'How could he possibly have found us wanting?' said Brilliana.

    'Because he was looking at us through a haze of prejudices. Mr Golland holds one set of values and they are firmly imprinted on his face. Father has strongly differing principles and we, by extension, are tarred with the same brush. He resented us from the start.'

    'But I do not share Father's political views,' said Brilliana.

    'Neither do I,' added Serle.

    'It does not matter,' said Susan. 'We are all one to Mr Golland. He will do everything in his power to dissuade his sister from continuing with this friendship. Put simply, he detests Father.'

    'I gave him the benefit of the doubt,' said Orlando Golland. 'I went there, with judicial impartiality, to weigh the evidence as I saw it.'

    'Your mind was made up before we even arrived.'

    'That's not so, Dorothy.'

    'Yes, it is,' she rejoined. 'You are a man of fixed opinions, Orlando. Those opinions were formed when you were an undergraduate at Cambridge and you have not changed any of them since. I knew that it was a mistake to take you.'

    'You needed someone there as an objective observer.'

    'You were only a hindrance.'

    'So much for gratitude!' he said, huffily.

    Dorothy put a hand on his arm. 'I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I can see it from your point of view. You feel that I need safeguarding.' She gave a wan smile. 'Not any more, Orlando.'

    They had returned to her house in Covent Garden and were seated in the parlour. On the drive back, Golland had not restricted his criticism to Sir Julius. He considered Brilliana Serle to be too garrulous and Susan Cheever to be too quiet and watchful. The one person who had excited his admiration was Lancelot, a son-in-law who clearly had nothing whatsoever in common with Sir Julius and who would therefore suffer at his hands. He decided that the disparity between the two men was as glaring as that between Sir Julius and Dorothy.

    'Differences will out, Dorothy,' he warned.

    'You do not have to lecture me.'

    'But you did not see how out of place you were in that family.'

    'I felt it,' she confessed, 'and it made me look at myself afresh.'

    'Sanity at last!'

    'No, Orlando. Plain commonsense.'

    'Sir Julius is a ridiculous suitor for a woman of your quality.'

    'I do not want him as a suitor - only as a friend. When I saw him with his daughters this evening, I realised that I could never replace the wife that he lost. I would be like a fish out of water. When we are alone together,' she went on, 'Sir Julius is wonderful company and I'd hate to lose that. Anything else, I've come to see, is out of the question.'

    'I told you so.'

    'I had to find out for myself.'

    'What will you tell, Sir Julius?'

    'Nothing,' she said. 'He's an intelligent man. He could sense that we did not belong together in the wider circle of his family.'

    'You do not belong together
anywhere,
Dorothy.'

    'I'll not let you spoil our friendship.'

    'But it's so embarrassing for me. How could I admit to anyone in my circle that my sister has formed an attachment with Sir Julius?'

    'That's a problem you must cope with as best you may. I love you as a brother and listen to you as an adviser. But the one thing I will not allow if that you should dictate the terms of my social life.'

    'As you wish,' he said, backing off. 'One object has been achieved. I've saved you from even contemplating a third marriage. Well,' he added quickly as she tried to speak, 'if we are being pedantic, you saved yourself from that irredeemable folly. But I do claim credit for moving you in the right direction.'

    She kissed him on the forehead. 'It's too late for an argument, Orlando,' she said, wearily, 'and I'm far too tired to engage in one. Though you might not have thought it, this evening was a rather bruising encounter for me.'