The King's Evil

add to it. She asked another question which she had been saving up for some time.

'When you were at the house in London, did you find anything?'

A slight pause. 'No, Mother.'

'Did you search?'

'In truth, no.'

'Were you afraid that you might find something?'

'Probably,' said Penelope, anxious to quash the topic. 'I am beginning to wish that I had not found those letters here. They have turned everything sour.'

'No,' murmured the other. 'Sourness was already there.'

Rising to her feet, she pulled Penelope gently after her.

'Let us go for a walk,' she suggested.

'Very well. Some fresh air would benefit me.'

'Let me attend to something first.'

When they came around the angle of the hawthorn hedge, she strolled across to the fire. Picking up the last few books from the pile, she tossed them into the heart of the blaze. Penelope was shocked. She recognised the beautiful calf-bound volumes at once. They were treasured items from the library.

'You're burning all of Father's books!' she protested.

'No, dear,' said her mother. 'Only the ones written in French.'

Though he would never admit it to anyone else, Jonathan Bale was missing him badly. It was over a week since Christopher Redmayne had set sail for France and the constable wished now that he had gone with him, both to act as his bodyguard and to join in the search for clues that would help to solve two murders. At the same time, however, he saw the value in remaining behind to explore other avenues on his own. He had amassed a lot of information about the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields and it irked him that he was not able to pass it on to Christopher. There was another reason why he wanted the other to return soon. It would put a stop to Sarah's solicitous enquiries about the young architect.

Heavy rain swept the streets that morning. As Jonathan ate his breakfast with his wife and children, he did not look forward to going out in the storm. When there was a knock at the door, Sarah went to open it.

'Why, Mr Redmayne!' she exclaimed. 'Look at the state of you!'

'Good morning, Mrs Bale. Is your husband here?'

'Yes, he is. Come in out of the wet.'

'Thank you.'

Jonathan was as surprised as his wife to see his visitor. Drenched by the rain, Christopher also bore some reminders of the fight at the inn. One side of his face had been badly grazed by the rough floorboards, discouraging him from even attempting to shave. Bruises still showed on his temple and his right eye was rimmed with yellow. His coat was sodden and Jonathan also noticed that it was spattered with bloodstains. Choppy waves had made the Channel crossing an especial ordeal for him, leaving Christopher pale and drawn. Sarah clucked maternally over their visitor and insisted on making him some broth to warm him up. Conducting him into the little parlour, her husband shut the door behind them. He waved his guest to a chair and Christopher dropped gratefully into it, removing his hat to reveal tousled hair.

'I did not expect you today,' said Jonathan. 'They told me that no ship would arrive from Calais until Thursday at least.'

'I sailed from Boulogne.'

'Why?'

'It is a long story, Mr Bale.'

Having raked over the details many times in his mind, Christopher was able to give a full and lucid account of all that happened to him in France. Jonathan listened without interruption. The narrative reached the point where Christopher was fighting for his life at the inn when Sarah came in with a bowl of broth. Though the visitor did not feel that he would ever eat anything again, he thanked her graciously and assured her that he was in a much better condition than he looked. A warning glance from her husband sent Sarah back to the kitchen where the two boys were disputing ownership of an apple. Their noisy bickering was soon silenced by their mother.

'Go on, sir,' said Jonathan, keen to hear the rest of the story. 'You were forced to kill the man in self-defence. What then?'

'I lit a candle to look at his face.'

'Did you recognise him?'

'Yes, Mr Bale. He was the servant who answered the door at the home of Monsieur Bastiat. I think his name was Marcel.'

'Why should he follow you?'

'I did not stop to consider,' said Christopher. 'The fact was that I had killed him. If I was found standing over a dead body, nobody would believe my version of events. So I left immediately.'

'Where did you spend the night?'

'On the road, for the most part. I snatched a couple of hours' sleep under the trees then pressed on to Beauvais at dawn. When I returned my horse, I took the first coach which was heading for the coast. I had a good start,' he said, watching the steam rise from the broth, 'but I was taking no chances. Monsieur Bastiat knew that I was travelling to Calais. He took the trouble to ask me where I would lodge for the night. Just in case he sent someone else after me, I made for Boulogne to throw them off the scent.'

'That was a wise decision.'

'At least it means that I returned in one piece.' He managed a grin. 'More or less, anyway. I am sorry to turn up on your doorstep in this fashion.'

'I was thankful to see you again, sir.'

'It was touch and go at that inn, Mr Bale.'

'You acquitted yourself well.'

'I could not rely on French justice to take that view.'

'In your place, I would have done exactly the same.'

'Then we agree on something at last.'

Jonathan smiled. 'What does it all signify, Mr Redmayne?' he asked. 'Have you manage to puzzle that out yet?'

'I have spent days trying to, my friend, and I have been able to draw some conclusions. Before I tell you what they are, let me hear your news. Did you do what I asked?'

'Yes, sir. I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields a number of times.'

'What did you learn?'

It was Jonathan's turn to take over. His report had a plodding slowness to it but nothing was left out. The constable had been vigilant. Christopher listened attentively and even found the appetite to sip at the broth. He sat up at the mention of a French visitor to the house though Jonathan's garbled pronunciation of the name led to some confusion. It was the man with the mask who really held his attention.

'You say that he let himself into the premises?'

'Yes,' confirmed Jonathan. 'By the side door.'

'Mrs Mandrake's clients would not have a key. What makes this man so special? And why did he need to conceal his identity by wearing a mask?' He ran a hand through his hair. 'A tall man with a hat and a walking stick. That description fits the person whom Margaret Littlejohn saw going into the cellars with Sir Ambrose.'

'It also fits thousands of other men in London, sir.'

'True.'

'And there was no mention of a mask by Miss Littlejohn.'

'She was too far away to see it and the man kept his head down. Besides,' mused Christopher, 'he may not have been wearing the mask on that particular evening. We must not rule him out. It is a pity that he was the one visitor to Lincoln's Inn Fields for whom you do not have a name. The rest, you say, are all noted?'

'I have the list here, Mr Redmayne.'