Why did Jonathan Bale seem to resent him so much?
His cogitations carried him all the way to the crude signpost with the first mention of Plaxtol. Christopher turned his horse down a narrow track which had been baked hard by the sun and which ran between bramble bushes. Riding at a steady canter, he soon found himself entering the outer reaches of Priestfield Place. Most of it was tenanted and those who farmed it were out working in the fields but Sir Ambrose had reserved a vast swathe of land at the very heart of the estate. After passing a herd of cows, grazing contentedly in a meadow, Christopher followed a twisting path through woodland before coming out into open country again. The house positively leaped into view. It still lay over half a mile away but its effect was dramatic.
Set in an elevated position, Priestfield Place was an Elizabethan manor house of the finest quality. It was built of rose-coloured brick which blossomed in the sunshine and which conveyed an impression both of solidity and delicacy. The house was shaped like the letter H, its central portion gabled, its four corners guarded by octagonal turrets which were topped by gilt weather vanes. Climbing to three storeys and roofed with red tiles, it was an imposing edifice which yielded ever more fresh and arresting detail the closer he got to it. Christopher was staggered by the generosity of its proportions and its sheer presence. The new London residence which Sir Ambrose Northcott had commissioned from him was imposing enough. Compared to Priestfield Place, however, it was a mere gatehouse.
When he reached the paved courtyard, he brought his mount to a halt so that he could admire the fountain in which water from sixteen separate invisible pipes played into the huge scallop shell held by the statue of Venus before cascading down again. Then he let his gaze travel to the elaborate porch over which the royal coat of arms had been carved in stone to commemorate a visit by Queen Elizabeth in the previous century. Before he could feast his eyes on the facade, Christopher saw a manservant emerging from the porch. When he introduced himself and announced his business, the visitor was invited into the house while his horse was stabled by an ostler.
Conducted into the Great Hall, he noted the striking pattern in the marble floor, the carved heads on some of the oak panelling and the array of family portraits. Over the mantelpiece hung a large painting of the late master of the house. Sir Ambrose was wearing a breastplate, holding a helmet and striking a military pose. The bold glare was that of a man who considered himself invincible. Christopher sighed inwardly.
Having asked to speak alone to Lady Northcott, he was surprised to see two ladies being shown into the hall. Penelope was keen to hear any news relating to her father and, though neither women yet sensed how devastating that news would be, both seemed to have braced themselves for disappointment. Introductions were made then the two women sat beside each other. Christopher lowered himself on to a chair opposite them. He cleared his throat before speaking.
'I fear that I am the bearer of bad tidings,' he said quietly.
Penelope immediately tensed but her mother retained her poise.
'Go on, Mr Redmayne,' encouraged the latter.
'Has something happened to Father?' asked Penelope. 'Is he ill? Has some accident befallen him? Will he be detained in London even longer?'
'Let Mr Redmayne tell us, dear.'
'I will, Lady Northcott,' he said, 'but I do it with the utmost regret. What I have to tell you is that your husband will not be returning to Priestfield Place at any time. He has passed away.'
Penelope turned white and tears welled in her eyes. Reaching out a hand to steady her daughter, Lady Northcott somehow preserved her own equanimity. She searched Christopher's eyes.
'I think you have softened the news for our benefit,' she decided. 'I have never known my husband to have a day's illness. He was a picture of health.' She gestured to the portrait. 'As you can see for yourself. This was no natural death, was it?'
'No, Lady Northcott.'
'Was he killed in an accident?'
Christopher shook his head. 'It was no accident.'
Penelope's self-control went and she burst into tears, turning to her mother who stood to draw her daughter into her arms. Christopher felt cruel at having to deliver such a shattering blow to them and he averted his gaze from their grief. Lady Northcott seemed calm but there was a deep anguish in her eyes. Penelope was moving towards hysteria and her mother had to hug and reassure her before the sobbing began to ease. When her daughter had regained some of her composure, Lady Northcott looked over at their visitor again.
'What are the details, Mr Redmayne?' she said softly.
'I would prefer to spare you some of those, Lady Northcott.'
'Sir Ambrose was my husband. I have a right to know.' She saw the sympathetic glance which he threw towards Penelope. 'We both have a right to know. Hide nothing from us.'
'No,' said Penelope bravely. 'I am sorry to break down in front of you like that, sir. It will not happen again. Please do as my mother bids.'
'Very well.' He rose to his feet and cleared his throat again. 'Sir Ambrose was murdered by a person or persons unknown. His body was found in the cellar of the new house.'
'New house?' repeated Lady Northcott.
'The one I designed for you near Baynard's Castle.'
'Ah, yes,' she said, failing to cover her surprise. 'I was forgetting.
Christopher was as discreet and succinct as he could be but the full horror of what had occurred could not be hidden. The two of them held each other throughout and he saw the mother's arms tighten to the point where she was almost supporting her daughter. Lady Northcott's pain was confined to her eyes but Penelope expressed hers more openly, gasping aloud, sagging, swaying then gritting her teeth in an effort to master her emotions. Christopher answered their questions briefly and honestly. Realising that neither of them had any knowledge of a new London house, he took care not to mention it again.
Lady Frances Northcott drew herself up to her full height.
'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said without a tremor. 'It is very kind of you to ride down here to impart this news. Would you please wait here for a little while? We need to excuse ourselves for a few minutes.'
'Of course.'
He crossed to open the door for them and they went out. Penelope was too absorbed in her own sadness to do anything more than shuffle past on her mother's arm but the latter moved with natural dignity. Christopher shut the door gently behind them. Walking over to the portrait above the mantelpiece, he looked up at Sir Ambrose Northcott and wondered why a man should spend such an immense amount of money on a house while omitting to mention its construction to his wife and daughter. It was baffling. It also put Christopher in the unfortunate position of having to deliver an additional blow to the two women. He consoled himself with the thought that he had probably handled an awkward situation with more tact and sensitivity than Solomon Creech. Had the lawyer travelled to Priestfield Place, he would doubtless have compounded their misery. x
Asked to wait briefly, Christopher was left alone for well over half an hour. Though it gave him an opportunity to explore the Great Hall and its many intriguing features, it also left him with the sense that he was now in the way.
Some sort of collapse must have taken place, he surmised, as both women struggled with their grief in private. He had a vision of Penelope Northcott, lying on her bed, crying in despair, knocked senseless by the news he had relayed to her. Christopher had an impulse to reach out to comfort her but he sensed that she was beyond solace of any kind and it was not, in any case, his place to offer it. Lady Northcott had maintained her calm in his presence but he doubted if it would last indefinitely. The most probable thing, he decided, was that both of them were so caught up in their distress that they had forgotten all about him. It would be a kindness to them to steal quietly away.
Christopher had almost reached the front door when she called.
'Where are you going, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.
'Oh,' he said, turning. 'I thought that I was perhaps intruding.'
'You were leaving?'
'It seemed advisable.'
'But I must speak to you.'
It was Penelope Northcott who had come down the stairs and not her mother. Though her face was still
