The King's Evil

'No, Sarah. It is not my blood. I used my coat to cover the body of a man who was stabbed to death. I did not want anyone to see him.'

'Who was he?'

'It does not matter,' he soothed, easing her back on to the stool. 'I only came back to change my coat and to warn you that I will be out for the rest of the day. Dine alone with the children. I will eat later.'

'But you must have something, Jonathan.'

'There is too much to do.'

'What exactly happened?'

'Nothing that need concern you, Sarah.'

'Is it to do with that summons from Jem Raybone?'

'Expect me when you see me.'

He gave her a kiss on the forehead. The constable never discussed his work at any length with his wife. He was keen to spare her any gory details. He also wanted to allay her fears for his own safety. Even though the population of the city had been reduced by the fire, the streets were still fraught with danger. A watchman had been badly wounded only a fortnight earlier and one of the other constables in the ward had been bludgeoned to the ground when he tried to arrest a felon. Jonathan Bale chose to keep such disturbing intelligence from Sarah. There was another reason for leaving his work at the threshold. His home was a refuge. It was the place in which he could rest from his duties and enjoy the simple pleasure of being a husband and a father.

Hanging his coat on a hook, he took down another and started to put it on. There was a knock on the door. Sarah made to rise but he gestured for her to sit down again. He adjusted his coat and went to the front door. When he opened it, his face fell.

His refuge was being invaded by Christopher Redmayne.

'Mr Datchett told me you might be here,' said the visitor.

'I am busy, sir, and have no time for idle chat.'

'There is nothing idle about what I have to say, Mr Bale.'

'Then please say it quickly and depart.'

'In brief,' said Christopher, 'we are of necessity together in this.'

'I do not follow.'

'Whether you like it or not, I am involved in this murder and have resolved to seek out the killer.'

'Leave that to others more skilled in the work.'

'No,' replied Christopher. 'It is a question of honour. Since neither my brother nor Mr Creech is prepared to do so, I will first ride off to Sir Ambrose's estate in Kent to break the news to his family. They must not be kept in ignorance.'

'That is considerate of you, sir,' remarked Jonathan.

'The visit will have a secondary purpose, Mr Bale. I will gather more information about Sir Ambrose, perhaps even uncover the names of some enemies of his. The more we know about the murder victim, the more likely we are to track down the man who stabbed him. Do you hear what I am telling you?'

'I think so. You will learn things which could be of value to me.'

'But we must strike a bargain.'

'Go on.'

'We need to clear the air,' said Christopher seriously. 'Solving this crime is all-important. You must set aside your inexplicable dislike and distrust of me. In return, I will overlook your surly manner towards me. Then, perhaps, we can pool our resources in the interests of justice.' He looked the constable in the eye. 'Is that fair?'

'Very fair, sir.'

'And you agree?'

'Up to a point.'

'We can help each other. It is the only way forward, Mr Bale.'

Jonathan weighed up the offer. His face was impassive.

'Ride off to Kent,' he said at length.

'Then we are partners in this enterprise?

'Let us see what you find out first.'

Chapter Eight

Lady Frances Northcott sat on a rustic bench and surveyed the garden with a glow of pride. Its colour and variety never ceased to delight her and its multiple fragrances were particularly enchanting at that time of the year. Reclining in the shadow of an elm, she looked down an avenue of well-trimmed yew trees and admired the symmetry of the scene. The extensive formal garden at Priestfield Place was largely her creation. It occupied most of her leisure time and kept the small army of gardeners at full stretch. They worked very happily under her serene command. Lady Northcott was a far more amenable employer than her husband.

A tall, gracious woman of middle years, she had the finely-sculpted features which seem to improve with age and which were somehow enhanced by the gentle greying of her hair. An air of quiet distinction marked her and even in what she called her gardening dress, she remained unmistakably the mistress of the estate. Whenever any of the gardeners passed, they gave her a deferential nod which was always repaid with a friendly smile. She was herself one of the salient features of the garden. Warm weather invariably brought her out into it.

'I knew that I would find you here,' said a teasing voice.

'Hello, Penelope.'

'You're the patron saint of this garden, Mother.'

'There is nothing I would prefer to be.'

'Is it true that they are going to make another pond?'

'Yes,' said Frances. 'It will absorb some of the overflow from the lake. I've asked them to build sluice-gates to control it.'

'But we already have three ponds.'

'You can never have too much water, Penelope. It brings interest and tranquillity to any prospect. If it were left to me, I would surround the whole of Priestfield Place with water.'

'Like a moat. To keep people out?'

'To keep me in.'

She made room on the bench for her daughter to sit beside her. Penelope Northcott inherited little from her father apart from her name and the fair hue of her hair. For the rest, she was a younger version of her mother with the same high cheekbones, the same elegant nose, the same heart-shaped face and a pair of sparkling turquoise eyes which were interchangeable with those of the other woman. Her admirers often described Lady Northcott as Penelope's older sister. It was a compliment which, politely accepted by the person to whom it was paid, always made Penelope herself giggle.

'I wanted to ask you when Father is coming home,' she said.

'I wish I knew.'

'He has been away for so long this time.'

'Yes,' agreed her mother. 'His business affairs occupy him more and more. His last letter said that he may not return here until the end of the month.'

'That is weeks away!' complained Penelope. 'We need him here to discuss the plans for the wedding. How can we make final arrangements if Father is never at home?'

'You will have to be patient.'

'You always say that.'

'Patience is something I have had to learn myself.'

'George is riding over tomorrow,' said her daughter. 'I hoped to be able to give him a firm date for Father's return. He is getting very restless. George is as eager as I am to decide on the arrangements.'

'The most important arrangement has already been decided.'

'Has it?'