The King's Evil

Chapter Ten

When he finally caught sight of his home, Christopher Redmayne gave a mild groan of relief. A tiring day had begun with an early departure from the inn where he spent the night. In his eagerness to confront Solomon Creech, he had ridden past Fetter Lane on his arrival back in London and gone straight to the lawyer's office in Lombard Street. The bruising exchange with his brother at the coffee house had been followed by the meeting with Jonathan Bale, after which he was drawn back inescapably to the scene of the crime. Searching the cellars for clues, he lost all track of time and only abandoned his examination when the candle he was using dwindled to a pale flicker. It was now well into the afternoon. Christopher began to realise that what he needed most was a restorative meal and a period of reflection. He was confident that the trusty Jacob would provide the first without hesitation then melt discreetly away while his master enjoyed the second. The house had never looked more like a haven of peace.

As he dismounted and unsaddled his horse, he consoled himself with the thought that progress of a kind had been made. He certainly knew far more about Sir Ambrose Northcott than he had when he set out on his journey and none of the new information was remotely flattering. Tenants at Priestfield Place and rivals in the mercantile community shared a general dislike of the man and Christopher was disgusted by the way that he had deceived his wife and daughter over the building of the new house. He was still puzzled by Lady Northcott's ambiguous reaction to her husband's death but his chief memory of the visit to Kent concerned Penelope Northcott, to whom he had felt strongly attracted from the start. His protective instincts were aroused by her supercilious fiance’s treatment of her and he was already beginning to wonder how he could prise them apart and save her from an unfortunate marriage. The fact that her late father had encouraged the match with the odious George Strype left yet another stain on the paternal character.

Reluctantly, both Solomon Creech and Henry Redmayne added fresh detail to the posthumous portrait of Sir Ambrose and it made nowhere near as impressive a painting as the one which hung with martial dignity in the Great Hall at Priestfield Place. Truth was a more reliable artist. It worked with honest colours. Christopher realised that natural sympathy for a murder victim should not obscure the fact that he was a deeply flawed human being. It remained to be seen how many more defects came to light.

Christopher's mind turned to Penelope once again. Everything about her delighted him. He just wished that they could have met in more propitious circumstances. Penelope Northcott was a much more rewarding subject for meditation than her father and he mused fondly about the chances of meeting her again one day. Accepting that it would probably never happen, he decided to address more immediate matters such as the rumbling noise from his stomach. After stabling his horse, he walked around to his front door and found Jacob waiting for him. The look on his servant's face told him that he had a visitor.

'Who is it, Jacob?'

'A young lady, sir.'

His hopes rose. 'Miss Northcott, by any chance?'

'No, sir. Miss Margaret Littlejohn.'

Christopher was at once startled and dismayed. Nobody was less welcome in his house and in his life at that moment than the builder's daughter. However, courtesies had to be observed so he steeled himself before going into the parlour. Margaret Littlejohn was accompanied by her maidservant and both rose from their chairs when he entered. They exchanged pleasantries. In response to his invitation, Margaret resumed her seat but Nan, the maidservant, hovered watchfully in the background.

'What brings you here, Miss Littlejohn?' he asked politely.

'I wanted to see you, Mr Redmayne,' she said, blushing slightly.

'How did you know where to find me?'

'Mr Bale told me that you were expected back in London today and my father mentioned that you lived in Fetter Lane. He did not tell me which number,' she said with a breathy laugh, 'so Nan and I had to knock on several doors before we found you.'

'Why did you not ask your father the number?'

'Because he would not have given it to me. Father has always guarded your privacy. He warned me that I was not to bother you in any way but I simply had to come here.'

'I see.'

'You are not angry with me, are you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Of course not.'

'I like to think that we are friends.'

'Yes, yes,' he said gallantly.

'You will not tell my father that I called here, will you? He would not approve. I can trust Nan,' she said with a glance at her companion. 'She will say nothing. I hope that I can trust you as well.'

'Implicitly.'

'Thank you.'

Margaret Littlejohn was both embarrassed and elated, bashful in the presence of the man she adored yet savouring the experience all the same. Christopher was glad that the maidservant was there, hoping that his visitor would not blurt out any declaration in front of a third person. His mind was already grappling with the problem of how he could get rid of them without undue rudeness.

'Father kept most of it from me,' explained Margaret. 'He did not want to upset me with the nasty details. All that he told me was that Sir Ambrose Northcott had met with an accident and that the building work had been stopped.'

'In essence, that is the truth.'

'But the poor man was murdered.’.'

'Alas, yes.'

'What happened to him is too horrible to contemplate.'

'That is why Mr Littlejohn protected you from it.'

'I shudder every time I think about the way Sir Ambrose died.'

'Try to put it out of your mind.

'But I was there, Mr Redmayne,' she confessed, eyes widening with consternation. 'On the day that he was killed, I was there at the site.'

'So were the rest of us. The place was humming with activity.'

'I am talking about that evening. When ...' Her voice died and she needed a moment to compose herself. 'When it happened,' she continued. 'What I saw may be of no use at all, of course, but I felt I had to tell you about it just in case. I feel guilty at holding it back.'

'You saw something?' he pressed, moving in closer. 'You were at the site on the evening when Sir Ambrose was killed?' She nodded. 'Did you see him arrive with another man?'

'No, Mr Redmayne. When we got there - Nan was with me - the only person we saw was the nightwatchman. He was in the garden, well away from the house itself. He was pulling the tarpaulin over the bricks and the timber,' she recalled. 'He did not see the man leave.'

'What man?'

'The one who came out of the cellar.'

Christopher crouched down before her. 'You saw a man come out of the cellar?' he said. 'On his own?'

'Yes.'

'Did you recognise him?'

'Unhappily, no. I hoped for a moment that it might be ...' She blushed again but covered her coyness with a swift recital of events. 'I have never seen him before. He was tall, well-dressed and wore a wide-brimmed hat that was pulled down over his face. We were too far away to see much more than that, Mr Redmayne. I was afraid to venture too close in case the nightwatchman saw me and reported it to my father.' She tossed a look over her shoulder at Nan. 'I misled him. He thought that I was visiting my cousin but I was near Baynard's Castle instead.'

'If I understand you correctly,' recapitulated Christopher, sensing that the girl had invaluable information, 'you