Jem loped off and Christopher went across to the house, stepping over the lowest point of the exterior wall then walking to the steps which led down to the cellars. He was still staring down into the dark tunnel when the nightwatchman handed him the lantern.
'The candle is burned right down, sir,' he apologised.
'There is enough light still.'
'Do you want me to come with you?'
'No, Jem. Stay here. I will not be long.'
Holding the lantern, Christopher descended the steps with sure feet. Having designed and supervised the construction of the cellars, he knew every inch of them but there was no time to admire the vaulting or the intricate brickwork now. He was there for an express purpose. His visit was dictated purely by instinct. As he moved from bay to bay, the brittle sound of his footsteps reverberated throughout the whole vault. He still did not know why Sir Ambrose Northcott had insisted on such large cellars and surmised that his employer wished to keep a vast stock of wines down there. The place was empty now though soft, scurrying noises indicated that rats were making their own tour of inspection.
The dank smell began to take on a slightly noisome odour. It puzzled him. Christopher feared at first that someone had dared to use his cellars as a privy and violated their pristine cleanliness. He was outraged at the thought that one of Littlejohn's men might have slipped in there unseen to relieve himself. The further he went, the more distinct became the smell. Yet when he reached the last chamber and raised his lantern, he could see nothing which might produce it. The glow from the candle was too faint to illumine every corner. It was only when he heard a sudden darting movement that he crouched down and swung the lantern across the floor area.
Christopher did not see the rat which had just fled the scene. His attention was monopolised by the figure which lay in the corner of the chamber. The man was on his back, his body twisted in pain and his clothing soaked with blood from gashes in his chest. No respect had been shown to the dead by the rats. They had started to eat the man's face away, removing both eyes and reducing an already small nose to a jagged piece of bone. The crimson jowls were gnawed into shreds. Christopher still recognised him immediately.
Sir Ambrose Northcott would no longer require a new house.
Overcome with nausea, he began to sway and retch. Christopher had to put out a hand against the cold wall to steady himself. For a few minutes, he was completely stunned. He had not expected to find anyone in the cellars, least of all in such a hideous condition. His mind was numb. It was the nightwatchman's voice which jerked him out of his daze as it boomed through the cellars.
'Is everything all right down there, Mr Redmayne?' he called.
'No,' croaked the other.
'What is the matter?'
'Fetch a constable.'
'Why, sir?'
'Just do as I say, Jem. There has been an accident.'
'Have you been hurt?' said the voice anxiously. Heavy feet came down the stone steps. 'Do you need help?'
'I am not injured,' replied Christopher, recovering quickly. 'Do not come any closer. I will stay here while you run for a constable.'
The feet halted. 'If you say so, sir.'
'I do, Jem. It is an emergency.'
'What shall I tell him?'
'Just that. There is a dire emergency.'
'I will go at once,' promised the other, moving off.
'Wait!' shouted Christopher as a thought struck him. The feet halted again. 'Do you live in this ward?'
'Yes, sir. I was born and brought up here.'
'Do you know a man named Jonathan Bale?'
'Very well. Mr Bale lives in Addle Hill.'
'Fetch him. He is the constable I want.'
'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'
'Now, hurry!'
Jem needed no more instruction. The urgency in Christopher's command was enough to send the night- watchman scrambling up the steps in the half-dark. He was soon trotting clumsily through the streets on his errand.
Christopher was glad that he had gone. Wanting to spare the man the shock of seeing the dead body, he was also keen to have some time alone to take a closer look at the scene of the crime and he could not do that with a horrified nightwatchman on his hands. Jem's presence would be a definite hindrance. He was best kept in ignorance of what had been found until the constable was summoned.
As the first wave of disgust faded, Christopher plucked up the courage to study the corpse with more care. Kneeling beside it, he held the lantern close and saw that Sir Ambrose Northcott had been stabbed in the chest. A number of wounds had been opened up but the most telling thrust was to the heart. The dagger was still buried deep inside it. He had not been a passive victim. Signs of a struggle were evident from the marks in the dust which covered the floor and there was a piece of material clutched in the dead man's hand, as if torn from his assailant's clothing. Something else caught Christopher's eye. Sir Ambrose's other hand lay open, its palm covered with tiny white flakes. Christopher spotted some more of them on the floor, speckling the dust, but had no idea what they were. He picked a flake up on his fingertip and sniffed it. There was no smell. He blew the flake away again.
Taking care not to touch the body, he ran the lantern from head to toe by way of a cursory autopsy. It yielded little further information. Sir Ambrose was still wearing the apparel in which he had dined though the vivid blood had redefined its colours. Rings still adorned some fingers on both hands. One shoe had come off, its silver buckle glinting in the meagre light. Christopher shook his head sadly, offered up a prayer for the soul of the dead man then rose to his feet.
The implications slowly dawned on him. If Sir Ambrose was dead, what would now happen to the house and to the sizeable fee which the architect was due to be paid for designing it? His personal ambitions suddenly crumbled. Yet he was not only concerned with the prospect of the huge personal loss. How would Samuel Littlejohn react when he learned that his employer had been murdered? Bricklayers, carpenters, stonemasons, tilers, glaziers and all the other tradesmen engaged to work on the property would have to be laid off instantly. The death would have widespread effects. Christopher did not relish the task of passing on the bad tidings to his brother, still less to Solomon Creech.
Both men had been very alarmed by Sir Ambrose's disappearance. Christopher wondered why. How much did they know? Did they sense that a tragedy like this might occur? Had a shadow been hanging over Sir Ambrose Northcott? Who or what cast it?
Caught up in his reflections, Christopher did not at first hear the approaching footsteps. It was only when a fresh lantern threw more light into the cellar that he realised someone was coming.
'I am here!' he called. 'At the far end.'
'We are coming, sir,' answered a voice.
'Tell Jem to stay back. There is no need for him to see this.'
'Very well, sir. You heard that, Jem.'
'Yes,' said the nightwatchman.
One pair of feet halted but the other came on in purposeful strides. Lantern held before him, Jonathan Bale walked forward until he reached the last chamber and found Christopher blocking his way.
'Why did you send for me, sir?' asked the constable.
'Something terrible has happened, I fear.'
'What is it?'
Christopher stepped aside to reveal the scene of horror.
'See for yourself,' he murmured.
