The King's Evil

'He could never be less than that,' she chided. 'He is a perfect gentleman. It pains me that you cannot bring yourself to like him.'

'We were cast in two different moulds, Sarah.'

'So were he and I, yet I find him very affable.'

'Then you speak for yourself,' he said. 'I do not have time to find the man affable or not. We are investigating a murder together. It is a solemn undertaking. The most it leaves room for is companionship.'

'You are softening towards him,' she teased. 'I can see.'

'Then you see more than I feel.'

'So be it. Let us forget Mr Redmayne for the moment,' she said briskly. 'Someone else demands your attention. I hoped that you'd be home earlier because she sat in this kitchen with me for hours.'

'She?'

'Hail-Mary Thorpe.'

'What did she want?'

'To speak to you, Jonathan.'

'Why?'

'Her husband has been arrested.'

'On what charge?'

'She is not certain. He was taken from the house while she was visiting a neighbour. Mrs Thorpe thinks that it might be for refusing to attend church and to pay tithes.'

'Let us hope that she is right.' 'Why?'

'Because those offences carry a mild punishment, Sarah. If he is lucky, he may get away with a fine. My fear is that he could be arraigned for a far more serious offence.'

'What is that?'

'Printing and distributing a seditious pamphlet,' said Jonathan. 'I am fairly certain that he is the culprit and tried to warn him of the dangers he faced. But you know Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe. He enjoys danger. The man welcomes arrest.'

'His wife does not welcome it. She has only just recovered from a serious illness. Mrs Thorpe needs her husband beside her.'

'I made that point to him.'

'Would that he had heeded your advice!'

'It is not in his nature.'

'What will happen to him?'

'That depends on the charge brought against him,' said her husband, stroking his chin. 'If that pamphlet were found on his premises, it will go hard with him. Mr Thorpe could face a long prison sentence or even worse.'

'Worse?'

'Transportation.'

'God forbid!'

'What state was his wife in?'

Sarah heaved a sigh. 'She was very agitated, poor dear! It took me an age to calm her down. Mrs Thorpe was hoping that you might be able to help her in some way.'

'There is little enough that I can do, I fear.'

'Could you not find out with what he is charged?'

'Yes, Sarah. That is easily done.'

'Mrs Thorpe would be most grateful.'

'Who made the arrest?'

'Tom Warburton.'

'I could wish it was any other constable,' said Jonathan with a grimace. 'Tom Warburton does not like Quakers. If it were left to him, every member of the Society of Friends would be hurled into prison.' He hauled himself up. 'I'll walk to his house now. There is a good chance that Tom will still be up. He can tell me what charges Jesus-Died- To-Save-Me Thorpe faces.'

'What of Mrs Thorpe?'

'If I see a light in her house on my way back, I will call on her and tell her what I have learned. Otherwise, I will have to leave it until first thing in the morning.'

'Either way, she will not get much sleep tonight.'

'It is not the first time her husband has been taken.'

'That makes no difference,' she said, rising to her feet and reaching out to touch his arm. 'She is suffering badly. I know that you must perform your duties without fear or favour but they have been good neighbours to us. Try to help them, Jonathan. There must be something you can do for Mr Thorpe.'

'There is, Sarah.'

'What is it?'

'Pray.'

At intervals throughout the night, Christopher came awake with a smile as he realised that Penelope Northcott was sleeping only yards away from him. While he basked in his good fortune, he was also troubled by anxieties about her, fearing the consequences she might have to face. George Strype would be angry enough when he learned that she went to London without even telling him. If her fiancee discovered that she had spent the night in a house in Fetter Lane, he would be outraged. Christopher could imagine the kind of recriminations which would ensue. That she should take such risks argued daring on her behalf and, he hoped, hinted at slight affection towards him. In the privacy of his bedchamber, he was ready to acknowledge far more than slight affection on his side.

He rose at dawn and, by the light of a candle, read the letters which she had given him. They disclosed a relationship which had being going on for the best part of a year. Sir Ambrose Northcott had not stinted his mistress. Each time she wrote, she thanked him for some lavish gift and she was flattered when he changed the name of his ship to Marie Louise. The constant theme of the letters was the desire to spend more time with her lover and she looked forward to the moment when they could move into the new London residence together.

Christopher had designed the house. He was jolted by the thought that his career as an architect had begun in the lustful embraces of Sir Ambrose and his mistress. He was also angry that his brother had not warned him of the existence of Marie Louise Oilier. It was one more sin of omission with which to tax Henry Redmayne.

The correspondence raised a brutal question. It was easy to see what a middle-aged man like Sir Ambrose Northcott found so tempting about a beautiful young Frenchwoman but what did she see in him? His charms were hardly overpowering. Love was expressed in every one of the letters but Christopher had no means of judging how sincere it was. After a second reading of the billets-doux, he could still not decide whether he was looking at the tender outpourings of a woman in love or the guileful prose of someone in pursuit of Sir Ambrose's wealth. No false note was sounded by Marie Louise Oilier, however, and he slowly came to see her as the innocent victim of an older man's lechery. Whatever the true nature of their relationship, one thing was clear. She deserved to know that it had been brought to a premature end.

After a fruitful hour of reflection, Christopher dressed and went downstairs. He was surprised to see that Penelope Northcott was already up, seated at the dining room table over the breakfast which Jacob had prepared for her. He sensed an element of discomfort.

'Good morning, Miss Northcott.'

'Good morning.'

'Did you sleep well?'

'Extremely well, Mr Redmayne. The bed was very soft.'

'You were welcome to stay in it much longer,' he said. 'Did you have to rise so early?' 'My coachman will be here for me soon.'

'I am disappointed that you cannot tarry.'

'So am I,' she said, meeting his gaze. 'But I have imposed on you enough. Besides, I have business