The Parliament House (8 page)

    'No,' she replied, quickly. 'I simply mentioned that…' She paused to choose her words with care. 'Well, that someone has come into your life, and that you seem to spend a lot of time with your new friend.'

    'Do you have any objection to that?'

    'None at all, Father.'

    'What Susan objects to,' said Brilliana with the boldness of an older sister, 'is that you pretend to be visiting your parliamentary friends when, in fact, you are sneaking off to be with Mrs Kitson. I don't think it's unreasonable of her, Father. Do you?'

    Sir Julius scowled. The tension in the room was almost tangible. Susan braced herself for an explosion that would be largely aimed at her, and she wished that she had never even told Brilliana about their father's growing interest in a certain lady. It had been a serious mistake on her part. When she was kept safely down in Richmond, her sister was comparatively unthreatening. Brought to London, however, Brilliana Serle had an uncanny knack of introducing maximum embarrassment into any family discussion.

    Susan closed her eyes in readiness but the expected onslaught did not come. Instead, repenting of his evasive behaviour, Sir Julius chose to be more honest with his daughters. He cleared his throat.

    'You were right to upbraid me, Susan,' he confessed with a forgiving smile. 'My friendship with Dorothy - with Mrs Kitson - has been cloaked in too much secrecy. My only defence is that I feared our acquaintance would only be a short one, and that I would be left looking foolish if I had set too much store by it.'

    'Tell us about her,' coaxed Brilliana.

    'It's difficult to know where to start. Suffice it to say that she's one of the most remarkable women I've ever met. Mrs Kitson has so many accomplishments that she takes my breath away.'

    'How old is she, Father?'

    'Brilliana!' reproached Susan.

    'It's a fair question,' said her sister. 'It would be insupportable if he were infatuated with someone who is younger than we ourselves.'

    'Mrs Kitson does not fit into that category,' Sir Julius assured her, yet neither is she declined in years. I would describe her as being in the very prime of life.'

    'Widowed, I presume?'

    'Yes, Brilliana. Twice.'

    'Comfortably off?'

    Susan was shocked. 'You've no right to ask such a thing.'

    'Nevertheless,' said her father, 'I'm happy to provide you with an answer. No, Mrs Kitson is not comfortably off.' He grinned as he saw the look that was exchanged between the sisters. 'She is
extremely
well provided for, so the pair of you can stop thinking that she is after my money. Mrs Kitson has more than enough of it herself.'

    'That sounds promising,' observed Serle. 'May one inquire how you first met the lady, Sir Julius?'

    'Through a mutual acquaintance who was at Newmarket one day. It was pure accident,' he said, 'but she has transformed my life. Mrs Kitson has been kind enough to say the same of me. That's why I'm glad that you and Lancelot have descended on us, Brilliana.'

    'You were not so pleased a minute ago,' commented Susan.

    'I was still trying to hide and dissemble then. Now that it's out in the open, I can speak freely at last.' He looked at his younger daughter. 'I know that you disapprove, Susan, but only because you have never met Mrs Kitson. That can soon be remedied. Only today,' he told them, 'when we dined together, she said how much she was looking forward to meeting my family. I'll arrange it at the earliest opportunity.'

    Sarah Bale made no secret of her fondness for him. When Christopher Redmayne called at the house on Addle Hill that evening, she gave him a cordial welcome and ushered him into the little parlour as if he were an honoured guest. She then took her two young sons into the kitchen so that Christopher could speak to her husband alone.

    'What sort of a day have you had, Jonathan?' said the architect.

    'An exhausting one,' replied Bale.

    'Did you find out anything of value?'

    'No, Mr Redmayne. I've walked far but learned little.' 'Where exactly did you go?'

    Bale told him about the three people whose names had been given to him by Francis Polegate, and how none of them recalled passing on the information to anyone else that Bernard Everett would be at the house in Knightrider Street on the previous day. Christopher felt a twinge of guilt.

    'I owe you an apology, Jonathan,' he said.

    'Why?'

    'I may, unwittingly, have sent you on a wild goose chase.'

    'But it's crucial for us to find out who was aware of the fact that Mr Everett would be at that address. That's why I tracked down those three friends of Mr Polegate.'

    'You asked them the wrong question.'

    'Did I, Mr Redmayne?'

    'I think so,' said Christopher. 'Having made some inquiries on my own behalf, I'm not at all sure that the man at that window shot the person he was really after. My feeling is that he was there to kill Sir Julius Cheever.'

    Bale blinked in surprised. 'Sir Julius?'

    'He's the man who has caused such a stir in parliament, not Bernard Everett. If, as I believe, this murder has a political dimension, then Mr Everett was killed by mistake.'

    He gave his reason for thinking so and told him of the conversation with his brother. Bale was sceptical. He found it difficult to place much reliance on the word of Henry Redmayne. Having met him a number of times, and being aware of the decadent existence that he led, he had the gravest reservations about Christopher's elder brother. In the constable's opinion, Henry symbolised all that was wrong with the Restoration, an event that Bale would never be able to accept as either necessary or in any way advantageous to his fellow-countrymen.

    'Who were these other men you spoke to?' he asked.

    'Roland Askray and Ninian Teale. Both have been Members of Parliament for several years.'

    'And are they are close friends of your brother?'

    Christopher smiled. 'If you mean that they are amongst Henry's many drinking companions,' he said, 'then I must concede that they are. But that does not disqualify them as shrewd judges of the political scene. Mr Askray has been talked of as a future Secretary to the Treasury and Mr Seal is part of the Duke of Buckingham's entourage.'

    Bale was surprised. 'The Duke?'

    'Yes, Jonathan, so he is close to the seat of power. Nobody has more influence over the King's councils than Buckingham.' He grinned as the other man gave a sniff of disapproval. 'Yes, I know that he would never win plaudits from you, Jonathan, but perhaps you should remember that he married the daughter of a Parliamentary general.'

    'It's the Duke of Buckingham who needs to remember that,' said Bale, censoriously. 'Lord Fairfax's daughter deserves more respect from her husband. By all accounts, he leads the kind of life that makes a mockery of the marriage vows.'

    Christopher did not contradict him. It was common knowledge that Buckingham was a notorious voluptuary, acquainted with every vice in a city where it flourished in abundance. But it was the way that he flouted the law that outraged Bale. In the previous year, Buckingham had killed the Earl of Shrewsbury in an illegal six-man duel, a scandal that was heightened by the fact that, before and after the event, the Countess of Shrewsbury was Buckingham's mistress. It worried Christopher that so much power had been vested into the hands of such a man. It appalled Bale. In his codex, Buckingham was Henry Redmayne writ large.

    'I'm not asking you to admire Roland Askray or Ninian Teale,' said Christopher. 'Neither man is a saint. But you must accept that their experience of political matters commands attention.'

    'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

    'They both told me how Sir Julius has a positive gift for making enemies, some of whom would like to see him forcibly removed from the Parliament House.'

    'Then Mr Everett is to be pitied even more.'

    'He is, Jonathan. He took the bullet that was supposed to kill another man. That means we have a second reason to catch the villain.'

    'A second one?' said Bale.

    'He needs to pay dearly for one murder, and be prevented from committing another. As long as the man is at liberty, Sir Julius's life is in danger.'

    'Have you warned him?'

    'I tried to,' admitted Christopher, 'but he refused utterly to believe that someone would wish to kill him. Indeed, he was so indignant that I should ever suggest such a thing that he threatened to ban me from his house. You can imagine how difficult that would be for me.'

    'Yes,' said Bale, knowing of his attachment to Susan Cheever. 'It could make things very awkward. But, if you were unable to convince him that he was in jeopardy, why did you not ask his daughter to take on the office? From what I recall of the young lady, Miss Cheever knew how to deal with her father better than anyone.'

    'That's certainly true.'

    'Then entrust the task to her.'

    'I dare not do so,' explained Christopher. 'It would only cause her grief and expose her to the sort of hurtful rebuke that I suffered. Susan would be terrified whenever her father stirred from the house.'

    'He needs someone to keep watch on him.'

    'He's too perverse to allow it.'

    'Then what are we to do, Mr Redmayne?'

    'Pursue the killer relentlessly and hope that we can overhaul him before he makes a second attempt on Sir Julius's life.'

    'So my efforts today were in vain?'

    'I take the blame for that, Jonathan. I should have stopped you.'

    'What I should have asked Mr Polegate was whether or not he told those three friends of his that Sir Julius would be among the guests at his house yesterday.'

    'That, too, would have been a futile exercise.'

    'Why?'

    'Because I suspect that it was not Francis Polegate who let the cat out of the bag,' said Christopher, seriously. 'Sir Julius himself would have told many people where he would be that day, though only a foolhardy man would dare to ask him who they were. I'd not be equal to the task. He'd bite my head off again. Then, of course, we have to consider his daughter. Susan may well have mentioned to friends that she would be going to Knightrider Street with Sir Julius.'

    'You might have done the same, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I did - no question about it.'

    'Do you have a record of the people to whom you spoke?'

    'No,' said Christopher. 'I let slip the information in a coffee house when I was talking to a client of mine. Several people could have overheard the name of Sir Julius Cheever and taken an interest. Do you see what that would mean?'

    'What?' asked Bale.

    'Indirectly, I'd be responsible for the death of Bernard Everett.'

    'I think that very unlikely, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Unlikely, perhaps - but not out of the question.'

    'You'd be wrong to let it prey on your mind. The chances are that this is nothing to do with a remark you made in a coffee house. All you need to think about,' said Bale, solemnly, 'is how we can track down the villain who fired that shot.'

    'We'll find him,' vowed Christopher, gritting his teeth. 'I owe it to Mr Everett's family. And I owe it to Susan to make sure that her father doesn't suffer the same fate. We've testing days ahead, Jonathan. I know that we've had some success in the past but this case - I feel it in my bones - will really put us on our mettle.'

      The Saracen's Head served food as well as drink and Bridget McCoy made sure that its meals were of good quality. Instead of delegating the task to anyone else, therefore, she did all of her own shopping so that she could run a knowing eye over any meat, fish, poultry, vegetables and bread before buying it. Her companion on such expeditions was her son, Patrick, named after his father but entirely devoid of his charm and lively sense of humour. Barely eighteen, Patrick McCoy was a hulking youth of limited intelligence, pleasant, amenable but only fit for the most menial tasks. All too aware of his deficiencies, his mother loved him nonetheless.

    It was on trips to market that Patrick really came into his own, able to carry heavy loads with apparent ease and acting as an escort for his mother. Before they set out early that morning, Bridget had to remind him time and again to bring the two large baskets. They came out of the tavern and began their journey, soon joining many others who were heading in the same direction. Before the Great Fire, there had been many markets in London, spreading indiscriminately along streets and lanes, and causing intense congestion. Such haphazard development had now been replaced by a more ordered arrangement.

    Of the four new markets that had been created, the one in Leadenhall Street was the grandest, comprising a bewildering array of stalls in a quartet of extensive open courtyards. It was the major market for meat. A hundred stalls had beef for sale and even more were devoted to mutton, veal and poultry. Rabbits were also available, strung up in rows like so many hanged felons. Patrick McCoy liked the constant noise and bustle of Leadenhall with its sense of immediacy and its compound of pungent aromas. Taking it all in, he lumbered obediently behind his mother as she searched for bargains.