The King's Evil

saw a man coming out of the cellar and leaving before the nightwatchmen could descry him?'

'He took care that it would not happen, Mr Redmayne.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well,' she said, 'he crept up those steps and peeped around to make sure that nobody could see him. Then he put down the lantern he was carrying and hurried off quickly. Oh, did I say that he was carrying a stick? I do remember that. A tall man with a hat and a stick.'

'Did he notice you and your maidservant?'

'No, Mr Redmayne. We were hiding behind the corner.'

'Which way did he go?'

'Towards the river. I think he had a boat waiting.'

'Did you see a boat?'

'No,' she said, delighted at his interest and keen to maintain it. 'The wall of the house blocked him from sight for most of the way. But I did catch a glimpse of the top of his hat when he reached the landing stage beyond the garden. Why else would he go there?'

'Quite so, Miss Littlejohn.'

'After that, it was time for us to leave ourselves.'

'So you saw nothing else?'

She shook her head. Christopher took her carefully through each detail of her story once again and fixed the approximate times of her arrival and departure. Her evidence dovetailed with that of Jem Raybone. The night- watchmen saw two men enter the cellar. Christopher was certain that the one whom Margaret Littlejohn observed leaving was the killer. The probable time of the murder was confirmed.

'Was I right to come to you?' she asked.

'Oh, yes. I am most grateful.'

'Father said that you were determined to solve this crime. I hoped that I could be of some little help to you.'

'You have been of great help,' said Christopher, standing up.

'Thank you, sir. Do not think too badly of me.'

'Badly?'

'A dutiful daughter should have told all this to her father,' she admitted. 'But I could not do that or he would have known that I deceived him about where I was that evening. Please do not betray me.'

'I would not dream of it.'

'The simple truth is ...' She reached out to touch his arm. 'The simple truth is that I hoped against hope that you might be at the site that evening. That is why I came. That was why I always came.'

Margaret Littlejohn suddenly burst into tears and flung herself clumsily forward. Christopher had no alternative but to catch her. It put him in an awkward predicament, compounded by the fact that Nan had mysteriously disappeared from the room as if by some pre-arranged signal. Margaret sobbed, clung tightly to him, felt the comfort of his arms then turned a tearful face up for some return of affection. Christopher managed a smile but his emotions were swirling. He was still wondering how he could detach himself from her when Jacob came to his rescue.

Materialising out of the kitchen, the old servant was resourceful.

'I see that the young lady is unwell, sir,' he said, moving her gently away from his master and easing her towards the door. 'I take it that you would wish me to accompany her back home at once?'

Margaret felt profoundly cheated and Nan appeared in the doorway with a look of exasperation on her face but Christopher was so relieved that he vowed to give his servant a handsome reward.

'Thank you, Jacob,' he said in a tone of the utmost consideration. 'Your offer is most timely. See them to the very door of their house and take especial care of Miss Littlejohn who is a trifle upset. She has just given me the most enormous amount of help. I am so glad that she made the effort to come here.'

Partially appeased, Margaret Littlejohn stemmed her tears with a lace hankerchief and bestowed a yearning smile of farewell on her host before going out with her maidservant. Neither woman overheard the urgent command which Christopher whispered into Jacob's hairy ear.

'Never - never, ever - let them across my threshold again!'

The Jolly Sailor belied its name that evening. It was half-empty when Jonathan Bale arrived and the atmosphere felt curiously flat. Most patrons were either too drunk to exhibit any jollity or too sober to get drawn into a song. The constable did not mind. During his years as a shipwright, the tavern had been a favourite of his. He felt comfortable among seafaring men, sharing their concerns, understanding their problems and talking their language. His office might have given him a new sense of responsibility but it did not deprive him of his love of the sea or of those who made their living in its capricious bosom.

Jonathan talked easily to six or seven sailors before he chanced upon one who could really help. The man was on his own in a corner.

'You have heard of Sir Ambrose Northcott, then?' said Jonathan.

'Oh, yes,' replied the other before spitting dramatically on the floor. 'I know the rogue only too well.'

'Why is that?'

'Because I sailed aboard his ship.'

'For how long?'

'Almost two years.'

Jonathan smiled. 'Let me fill your tankard for you, my friend.'

'I'll not try to stop you.'

The constable sat opposite him at a rough wooden table and called for more beer. When both their tankards were full, they clinked them before taking a long sip apiece. Appraising his companion, Jonathan realised why the man chose to lurk in a shadowy corner of the tavern. He was a short, solid individual in his forties with huge scarred hands. His face was so ugly that it had a kind of grotesque fascination. Nature had contrived the misshapen features and an occasional brawl accounted for the broken nose and the swollen ear but these were minor distractions from the dozens of large, hideous, red boils which swarmed across his cheeks, chin and forehead like so many enraged wasps.

'Do not look too close, sir,' said the man. 'Take pity on me.'

'Have you always had this condition?'

'It came on me this last year.'

'Is there no cure?'

'I have not found one yet so I am instead trying to cure people of staring at me like a freak.' He bunched a menacing fist. 'The only thing which seems to work is to loosen their teeth with this.'

'I am sorry,' said Jonathan, averting his gaze. 'You mentioned a ship. I had heard that Sir Ambrose owned a vessel.'

'That is right. The Marie Louise.'

'A strange name for an English ship.'

'It was called The Maid of Kent when I sailed in her.'

'Marie Louise does not sound much like a maid of Kent.'

A throaty laugh. 'More like a whore of Calais!'

'When was the name changed?'

'Some time last year, they tell me.'

'And did they say why?'

'No,' replied the man. 'Some whim of Sir Ambrose Northcott's. He was always doing things like that. Making decisions, changing things around. And he was a loathsome passenger to have aboard. Real tyrant, he was. Never stopped harrying the crew. Many's the time I'd have liked to push him overboard.'

'Where did you sail?'

'Anywhere and everywhere. Spain, Portugal, France, Holland, even Norway on occasion. As soon as one cargo