Jonathan was brusque. 'It will suffice, sir. We do not seem to have a coach and horses at hand. Excuse me.'
He carried the plank into the cellar and left the two men to make what they wished of his tart comment. Christopher resisted the impulse to go after the constable in order to confront him. Nothing could be served by an argument with Jonathan Bale at this stage. It would have to wait. He was of far more use in helping Littlejohn to recover from the shock. The builder was still struggling to come to terms with the tragedy.
'What of his wife, his family?' he wondered.
'They will have to be told as soon as possible.'
'And his friends?'
'My brother, Henry, was an intimate of his. He will pass the word around Sir Ambrose's circle. They will be grief- stricken. Solomon Creech will doubtless inform any business associates of Sir Ambrose.'
'Was he not also a Member of Parliament?'
'Yes, Mr Littlejohn. He will be sorely missed there as well.'
'So many lives affected by this calamity.' He glanced towards the cellar steps. 'May I go and see him?'
'I would counsel against it,' said Christopher. 'You would not recognise the man you knew. It is a gruesome sight, believe me, and it would only unsettle you further. Leave everything to the constable. He seems to know what he is doing.' His jaw tightened. 'Though I wish that his manner was a little more pleasant.'
'Sir Ambrose Northcott murdered? Who could do such a thing?'
'That is what I intend to find out.'
'He was such a generous client.'
'And a very brave one. I was a young and untried architect. He took a huge risk with me.'
'A justified risk, Mr Redmayne. I had no qualms about your talent.'
'Thank you.'
'And my daughter thinks you are a genius.'
Unable to answer his smile, Christopher was glad to be interrupted by the arrival of Jem Raybone and two elderly watchmen. Jonathan emerged from the cellar to beckon all three of them over to him. As soon as they disappeared down the steps, Littlejohn saw the first of his own men approaching the site and he went across to pass on the sad tidings. Christopher could see the horror on their faces. A horse-drawn cart rattled along the cobblestones with four other workmen on board. They were as shocked as their colleagues by the news but all chose to linger rather than to disperse. They felt a loyalty to their former employer. When the body of Sir Ambrose Northcott was brought up from the cellar, Littlejohn and his men doffed their hats in respect.
The corpse lay on the wooden plank. Jonathan Bale and Abraham Datchett carried it between them to negotiate the narrow steps. The watchmen's staves were then placed on the ground so that the plank could be rested on it. All four men now bore the load, lifting up the body and carrying it slowly towards the cart on the staves. Christopher was touched to observe that the constable had removed his coat in order to cover the face and chest of the dead man, sparing him the indignity of attracting any ghoulish interest. Sir Ambrose Northcott's hat rested on his chest. The shoe had been replaced on his foot.
Littlejohn climbed into the cart and used a hand to brush away the accumulated dust. Christopher went over to help them to ease the body into the cart. Everything was done with the utmost care. As other men reported for work on the site, they were told in whispers of the murder.
Jonathan Bale turned to Christopher.
'You will need to give a sworn statement, Mr Redmayne.'
'I appreciate that. First, however, I must contact Solomon Creech. He is Sir Ambrose Northcott's lawyer. It is imperative that he hears about this immediately.'
'Very well,' said Jonathan. 'I have met Mr Creech myself and I would certainly prefer that you spoke to him. The news will come better from you. We will take the body to the mortuary. Find me there, please.'
'I will, Mr Bale.'
'Goodbye, sir.'
Littlejohn climbed out of the cart as the two watchmen clambered into it. Jonathan joined them and took up the reins. A gentle flick sent the horse ambling forward. Christopher and the others watched until the cart and its grim cargo disappeared out of sight. There was a protracted silence. Some of the men gradually began to drift away. Latecomers were turned back with the news. Samuel Littlejohn looked on the verge of tears.
Christopher thought about his daughter and sighed. It was time to go.
Henry Redmayne was in an irascible mood. Everything was conspiring against him that morning. His breakfast had been late, his servants slovenly and his barber had twice drawn blood while shaving him. Other domestic shortcomings annoyed him further. Over-arching these minor annoyances was his intense fear for the safety of a good friend. Henry hoped that Sir Ambrose Northcott would have written to him by now to explain his uncharacteristic absence on the previous evening but no word came. Apprehension deepened at the house in Bedford Street. Even a draught of Canary wine did not relieve it.
The manservant found his master still in his bedchamber.
'You have a visitor, sir,' he said.
'Sir Ambrose Northcott?' asked Henry eagerly.
'No, sir. Your brother.'
'Does Christopher have any news?'
'I am to summon you at once, sir. He said that it was urgent.'
Henry brushed him aside and darted through the door. When he hastened down the stairs, he saw his brother waiting for him in the hall.
'What has happened?' he demanded.
'Can we speak in private?' said Christopher.
'Of course. This way.'
Christopher was shepherded into the parlour and the door was shut behind them. There was no easy way to break the tidings to Henry. He was twitching with anxiety and would brook no delay.
'Well, Christopher?'
'Sir Ambrose has been found.'
'Alive or dead?' 'Dead, I fear.'
Henry's body sagged. 'I knew it!'
'He has been murdered.'
'Dear God!'
Christopher helped him to a chair then stood beside him to relate all the details. Henry winced throughout. His head pounded. The cuts on his face began to smart afresh.
'This is dreadful!' he cried, putting his hands over his ears. 'I will hear no more. I have lost a dear, dear friend in Sir Ambrose. This is quite insupportable. I will never get over it.'
'You must, Henry. I need your help.'
'Leave me be.'
'No,' said Christopher, gently removing his brother's hands from his ears. 'This is a terrible crime and someone must pay for it.'
'I am paying for it!' wailed the other. 'In pity and sorrow.'
'This is no time to think of yourself, Henry.'
'But this is such a blow to me.'
'Strike back at the man who delivered it.'
'How?'
'By helping me to track down the killer.'
'But I have no idea who he might be, Christopher.'
'I think you may,' said his brother, pulling a chair across to sit directly in front of him. 'You knew Sir Ambrose well. I did not. Let us look in the obvious place first. Did he have any enemies?'
'Several. Enemies and rivals.'
