'No proof, maybe,' she admitted, 'but I have my suspicions. Don't ask me to explain what they are, Christopher, because I'm not able to put them into words. Father could be in danger, that's all I know.'
It was the ideal cue for him to tell her about a more immediate peril faced by her father but he drew back from doing so. At a time when she was already distressed, it would hurt her even more. It would also reveal that he had deceived her and Susan would feel aggrieved at that. There was an awkward silence. He wished that he could reach out and enfold her in his arms but there was an invisible barrier between them. Two names suddenly popped into his head.
'Did you ever meet a man called Arthur Manville?' he asked.
'Why, yes,' she replied. 'He used to come to the house.'
'Used to?'
'We've not seen him for a long time. He and Father probably fell out. Mr Manville had robust opinions. He tended to express them at the top of his voice. I heard father shouting him down on occasion.'
'What about Lewis Bircroft?'
'Why do you ask about him?'
'Curiosity. My brother happened to mention his name.'
'Mr Bircroft also took part in regular meetings at our house in Westminster,' she said, 'but, for some reason, he stopped coming as well. I was sorry about that. He was a pleasant man, very intelligent, and something of a philosopher. Mr Bircroft wrote many political pamphlets. Father had a great admiration for him.'
'Did he say why the man stopped visiting your house?'
'No, Christopher, but, then, he never talks about politics with me. He says that I could not even begin to understand what goes on inside the walls of the Parliament House.'
Susan was being deliberately misled. In order not to alarm her, Sir Julius had said nothing about the violence inflicted on his friends. He kept her ignorant of the hazards of political life for someone with views similar to his own. Christopher elected to do the same. Given her deep concern over her father's romantic friendship, he reasoned that Susan had enough to worry about.
'Well,' she said, rising from the couch, 'I suppose that I had better return home. They will be wondering where I am and, if you are going to Cambridge for a couple of days, you'll need time to pack some things.'
Christopher stood up. 'Jacob will do that for me,' he said, 'so I've plenty of time in hand. Tarry a little and I'll ride back to Westminster with you. Fine horsewoman that you are, I don't like the idea of your going abroad on your own.'
'Then I'll wait until you're ready.'
'Shall I ask Jacob to get you some refreshment?'
'No, thank you. I've not long had breakfast.'
'I had mine some hours ago,' said Christopher. 'Since I need to give so much time to this investigation, I'm attending to my own work early in the morning. Though I'm willing to play the constable, I can't forget that I'm also an architect. So,' he went on, 'your sister is staying with you, is she? Is her husband with her?'
'Yes, she and Lancelot came together.'
'I hope that I have the chance to spend time with them.'
Susan looked embarrassed. 'It might be better if you didn't,' she suggested. 'At all events, I think that you should avoid Brilliana.'
'Why - does she disapprove of me?'
'Quite the opposite.' 'Oh?'
'Brilliana likes to exert control over people,' said Susan.
'That was the first thing I noticed about her. She enjoys power. Your sister is a very beautiful woman but I do not envy Mr Serle.'
'Lancelot is content to be dominated by her.'
'Most men would resent that.'
'Not only men, Christopher. I've suffered more than anyone at her hands. When she cannot persuade, Brilliana will hector. When that fails, she'll resort to abuse. It can be very painful.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
'Because my sister turned her attention to me last night,' said Susan with obvious discomfort. 'Or, to be more precise, she's decided to use her influence on us.'
'Us?' said Christopher, mystified. 'We are the best of friends. Surely, your sister appreciates that? She has no call to interfere. How can she possibly use her influence on us?'
Susan said nothing but her silence was an explanation in itself.
Jonathan Bale acted swiftly. He gave Bridget McCoy and her son time to leave their provisions at the Saracen's Head, then the three of them drove back to Leadenhall Street in a borrowed cart. Bale took the reins and Bridget sat beside her. Patrick was perched at the back of the cart, his legs dangling over the edge, his whole body burning with excitement at the thought that he was helping a parish constable. If he could prove his worth on this occasion, he told himself, then his dream of becoming an officer might one day be fulfilled. When they reached the market, however, he was disappointed to learn that he had to guard the horse and cart. He could hardly demonstrate his prowess from there.
The market was still very busy and the pandemonium as deafening as ever. Barking dogs added to the cacophony. Bale had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
'Take me to the exact spot where you saw him, Mrs McCoy.'
'I will,' she said.
'And if, by chance, you do recognise him again, just point him out to me. I'll take over from there.'
'But I want to wring his neck for him.'
'Let the law take its course,' advised Bale. 'If you charge at the man, you'll only frighten him off and we'd have missed our opportunity. I need to creep up on the fellow. Do you understand that?'
'Yes, Mr Bale,' she said, reluctantly.
He buffeted his way through the crowd with Bridget at his heels. When they reached the place where she had spotted the man she took to be Field, she tapped Bale's shoulder and he stopped. She indicated where Field had been at the time. A woman of her height would not have been able to see much over the bobbing heads of the throng and the constable began to have doubts. Bridget McCoy was insistent.
'I know what I saw, Mr Bale,' she said, confidently. 'It was him.'
'In which direction was he going?'
She pointed a finger. 'Towards that lane.'
'Then let's talk to the stall holders between here and there,' said Bale, 'in case one of them knows the man.'
There were dozens of carts, stalls and booths in the vicinity but that did not deter Bale. He was methodical. After working their way down one side of the courtyard, they came back up the other. They asked if anyone was acquainted with a Mr Field and gave a description of the man. Their efforts were fruitless. When they enlarged the area of their search, they met with equal lack of success. Nobody recognised the name or identified the nasal abnormality. In a city where drunken brawls were a daily event, a broken nose was a common sight.
What hampered them was that vendors were too busy serving customers to talk to Bale and Bridget for more than a few seconds. They were there to sell their produce, not to engage in conversation with an angry Irishwoman and an inquisitive constable. In certain cases, Bale feared, even if they had known the wanted man, some vendors would not have admitted it. They would have protected a friend. Bale and Bridget pressed on until they finally had a more promising response.
'Field?' said the old woman. 'Would that be Gamaliel Field?'
'It could be,' replied Bale.
'Then, yes, I do know him.'
'Was he here this morning?'
'Of course. Gamaliel is always here.'
'And is he about my age and build?'
'With a broken nose?' added Bridget, starting to believe that they had eventually picked up a scent. 'A proper brute of a man.'
'Some would say so,' decided the old woman.
