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.
The four courtyards were, as usual, thronged with customers, and vendors competed for their attention with ear-splitting cries. Street hawkers also tried to sell their wares and Patrick bumped by mistake into a pretty young girl with a basket of dead pigeons on her head. Raising his hat in apology, he gave her a vacant grin but she was already threading her way through the jostling crowd. Bridget stopped at a stall, appraised its selection of beef, checked the price, then haggled so tenaciously that the vendor agreed to a discount simply to get rid of her. She put the beef into one of the baskets and they pressed on through the tumult.
Slow in speech and movement, Patrick was nevertheless extremely wary of thieves and pickpockets. When someone tried to steal the beef from his basket, he knocked the man summarily to the ground. The sly youth who attempted to slip a hand into Bridget’s purse got a kick in the buttock from Patrick that sent him yelping away in pain. It was a normal market day for her so Bridget did not even notice these random moments of violence. She took it for granted that her son would protect her.
By the time they had finished, both baskets were bulging with meat and Bridget was carrying a brace of dead rabbits. It was time to move on so that they could purchase fruit and vegetables elsewhere. Side by side, they picked their way through the forest of bodies. They had not gone far before Bridget saw a face that she thought she recognized. It was only a fleeting glimpse but the broken nose was too distinctive to miss. A cry burst from her lips.
'That's him!'
'Who?' asked Patrick.
'Mr Field. The man who rented that room.'
'What room, Mother?'
'After him,' she ordered, pushing her way forward.
Patrick grinned helpfully. 'Is he a friend?'
'No, he's a murderer.' 'Ah.'
'Catch him up,' urged Bridget. 'We must see where he goes.'
They tried to move faster but it was virtually impossible in such a crowd. When they finally reached the place where she had seen the man, he was no longer there. Bridget stood on tiptoe to look around her but to no avail. Mr Field had been swallowed up in the swirling mass of bodies. In sheer frustration, she swung the dead rabbits viciously against the side of a wooden cart.
'A pox on it!' she exclaimed. 'We've lost the lying bastard!'
Chapter Five
Christopher Redmayne’s day began with a surprise. His brother called to see him shortly after breakfast, thereby setting a remarkable precedent. Having caroused half the night away, Henry Redmayne rarely woke before mid-morning and, as a rule, it was almost noon before his barber ventured to shave him. Yet there he was, as large as life, dressed in his finery, dismounting from his horse in Fetter Lane when the clock was barely past the eighth hour of a bright new day. Seeing him through the window, Jacob, the ever-reliable old servant, went out of the house to take charge of Henry's horse. He indicated the door.
'Please go in, Mr Redmayne,' he said.
'Thank you.'
'Your brother has been up for hours.'
'He always is,' said Henry, bitterly. 'Such an disgusting habit.'
Swaying slightly, he went into the house and found Christopher in his study, poring over his latest design with a pencil in his hand. His brother looked up in astonishment. Face haggard, shoulders sagging, eyes barely managing to remain open, Henry slumped into the nearest chair and let out a groan of disbelief.
'Why on earth am I up at this ungodly hour?'
'I was about to ask the same thing,' said Christopher.
'Then address your question to the Surveyor at the Navy Office. He will tell you why I've been hauled so cruelly from the comfort of my bed. I'm in deep disgrace, Christopher,' he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, 'because of some trifling error that I made in the accounts for the victualling contracts. To make amends, I've been ordered to work in the mornings for the next two weeks. It's a barbaric demand. My constitution will not hold out.'
'I disagree. It could be the making of you.'
'That's an absurd suggestion!'
'It's the very one that your physician has made,' Christopher reminded him. 'He's always urging you to keep more regular hours for the sake of your health.' 'Such a regimen would be the ruination of my health. It was never like this when Sir William Batten was Surveyor,' said Henry, sounding a nostalgic note. 'He understood that a gentleman could not possibly be expected to arrive for work until afternoon. Sir William - God rest his soul - had many faults and the old sea dog could hardly get through a sentence without sprinkling it with foul language, but he was a merry soul when he chose to be. We spent some joyful times, drinking with him at the Dolphin in Seething
