She had a poultry stall and had just sold the last of her stock - a goose in a wooden cage - when they approached her. Bale put her in her sixties and poor eyesight made her squint, but her voice was clear enough even if it did crack. She gave them a toothless grin.
'What business have you with Gamaliel?' she said.
'We just need to speak to him,' explained Bale, squeezing Bridget's arm to stop her from blurting out their real intention. 'We believe that Mr Field may be able to help us.'
'He's not here now, sir.'
'Then where is he?'
'Drinking at the Black Horse, if I know him.'
'And where's that?' asked Bridget.
'I know where it is,' said Bale. He nodded at the old lady. 'Thank you very much. You've been very helpful.'
She grinned again. 'Tell Gamaliel that I'll see him tomorrow.'
'No, you won't!' said Bridget under her breath.
The two of them walked along Leadenhall Street until they came to an alleyway. Once through that, they turned into a narrow street that curved its way north. The Black Horse was only one of a number of taverns in the street, and it occupied a position between a warehouse and a carpenter's shop. Bale told his companion to stand directly opposite so that she could have a good view of anyone who came out. He then slipped down the passageway at the side of the building so that he could enter it at the rear.
Bridget McCoy waited impatiently, wishing that she had a weapon about her so that she could wreak her revenge. In using the Saracen's Head as a place from which to commit murder, Field had left the place tainted. It would always bear a stigma. The reputation that she had struggled so hard to maintain in the wake of her husband's death had been vitiated by a man with a broken nose. Bridget wanted the satisfaction of seeing him hang from the gallows so that she could hurl abuse at him. Her only regret was that she could not put the noose around his neck herself.
The longer she waited, the more incensed she became, letting her rage build until it was difficult to contain. Where was Jonathan Bale? Why was he spending so much time in the Black Horse? Had he met with resistance? Or had Gamaliel Field overpowered him? Concern mingled with fury to leave her throbbing with emotion. Having tracked the man down, they must surely not let him escape.
Bridget was on tender-hooks. Her blood was racing. She had just reached the point where she could endure it no longer when the front door of the Black Horse opened and Bale led out a burly man for her inspection. She identified him at once and she scurried across the street to attack him.
'That's the man!' she yelled. 'Arrest him, Mr Bale.'
Before he could move, Gamaliel Field was held in a bear hug then swung round quickly to face the tavern so that Bridget could not pummel him with her fists. She continued to screech and it took a while to calm her down. When she agreed not to assault the prisoner, Bale pulled him round so that she could have a closer look at him. Bridget was dismayed. Overwhelmed with eagerness for him to be the killer, she had been too hasty. The man was the same age and height as Bale but he was much fatter. His face was covered in a dark beard and his broken nose was nothing at all like the one owned by the killer who had rented a room from her at the Saracens Head. It was an agonising setback.
'Let him go, Mr Bale,' she said, quietly. 'That's not the man.'
Before they left the house, Christopher Redmayne wrote to Jonathan Bale, explaining that he was going to Cambridge for the funeral and suggesting that the constable make certain inquiries during his absence. The letter was given to Jacob so that he could arrange delivery. Christopher then went off down Fetter Lane with Susan Cheever at his side. It was several weeks since they had been out riding together and, although they were simply going to Westminster, they both took great pleasure from the journey, moving at a trot in order to stretch out the time spent alone in each other's company.
When they reached the Strand, the traffic thickened noticeably and they had to wend their way past coaches, carts, countless other riders and dozens of ambling pedestrians. The wide thoroughfare seemed to be alive with people, streaming to and from the city.
'It will be a long ride to Cambridge,' she noted.
'Mr Everett lived in a village just this side of the town.'
'Even so, you'll be in the saddle for hours.'
'Any discomfort that I suffer is irrelevant,' said Christopher. 'I feel impelled to go, whatever the distance. I take my example from the King.'
'The King?'
'Yes, His Majesty can ride all morning and afternoon without showing any strain. It must be forty miles or more to Newmarket, yet he'll go there and back in a day just to see the races.'
'I'd rather you didn't mention Newmarket,' said Susan.
'Why not?'
'That was where Father met Mrs Kitson.'
'You may live to be grateful for that, Susan.'
'Grateful?'
'Any woman who can make Sir Julius mellow a little must have quite exceptional qualities. I'd cultivate this friendship between them. It might be in everyone's interest.'
'I wish that I could be so sanguine about it.'
'Will this lady never overcome your objections?'
'It's unfair of me to resent her when we've never actually met,' she conceded. 'To be honest, it's not Mrs Kitson who concerns me. It's my father. I think it's rather unseemly of him to behave this way at his age - especially after the vow he gave.'
'What vow?'
'It was when Mother died. He swore that he'd never marry again because he knew she was irreplaceable.' Susan lifted her chin with indignation. 'Yet now he's allowed himself to become entranced with someone he met at a racecourse.'
'Would it have made a difference if they'd met in a church?' Her eyes flashed and he wished that he had not made the comment. It was clearly a sensitive topic for her and best avoided. 'That was a crass remark,' he said, immediately, 'and I take it back.'
Continuing on their way, they turned, by mutual consent, to the more neutral subject of the weather. The English obsession with the vagaries of the climate led them to endless speculation and they arrived at the Cheever house still wondering if it would be wet or fine for the funeral. The coach stood ready outside the front door but it was the horse and cart that caught Christopher's eye. In the back of the cart was an object that was covered in a dark tarpaulin. It was the coffin that contained the body of Bernard Everett and it gave both of them a start.
Sir Julius Cheever came waddling out of the house to greet them.
'Wherever have you been, Susan?' he asked, switching his gaze to Christopher before she could reply. 'And why have you come back again, young man? I need no more lectures from you.'
'It was Mr Everett who brought me here,' said Christopher, indicating the cart. 'I wish to attend the funeral and, since you are travelling to Cambridge today, I thought that I'd accompany you.'
'My coach is full enough.'
'Then I'll ride beside it, Sir Julius.'
'There's no need for you to come.'
'Christopher feels that he must,' said Susan, taking over from him. 'After all, he designed the house for Mr Polegate. That's what brought his brother-in-law to London in the first place. Christopher is implicated, Father.'
'That's true. He was there at the time.'
'I promise to keep out of your way,' said the architect.
'Well,' decided Sir Julius, stroking his jaw, 'I suppose that I can hardly stop you. And an extra person will help to deter any villains who might be tempted to rob us.' He took note of the sword and dagger that hung from the other man's belt. 'And you are armed, I see.'
Christopher patted his saddlebag. 'I carry a pistol as well.'
