The Parliament House

    'Then you are welcome to travel with us.' His eyes twinkled. 'Now I know why my daughter rode off with such eagerness this morning. Susan went to warn you what was happening.'

    'Christopher had a right to know,' said Susan.

    'I accept that.'

    'I'm also looking forward to seeing a little of Cambridge,' said Christopher. 'I hear that it's a place that every architect should study. But my principle reason for going, of course, is to attend the funeral. I liked Mr Everett. He was entertaining company. Even on such a brief acquaintance, I could see that he was a very able man.'

    'A truly estimable fellow.' Looking towards the cart, Sir Julius heaved a sigh. He became businesslike. 'We are by no means ready to leave yet. Come inside and meet everyone else.'

    Christopher dismounted then helped Susan down from the saddle. He was rewarded with a warm smile of gratitude. A servant took care of the horses and they went into the house, stepping from bright sunshine into a funereal atmosphere. Hester Polegate was seated in the parlour with her twin sons either side of her. All three were dressed in black. Though she was the sister rather than the widow of the deceased, Hester wore a peaked black headdress that helped to obscure her face. She looked up at the newcomers.

    There was a muted flurry of greetings and expressions of sympathy from Christopher and Susan. Hester Polegate was touched to hear that the architect was making the journey with them. Her two sons, only fourteen years of age, were still too shocked by the violent death of their uncle to speak. Also in the room were Brilliana and Lancelot Serle. They were pleased to see Christopher again but, because of the pervading mood of sorrow, they were unable to engage in a proper conversation with him. Christopher was relieved. Warned by Susan, he was glad to escape the threatened ambush from her sister.

    Twenty minutes later, the travellers left the house and climbed into Sir Julius's coach. Mounting his horse, Christopher noted that both a coachman and a footman were making the journey, and that two men were accompanying the coffin in the cart. All would be armed, making the little cortege an uninviting target for any footpads or highwaymen they might meet on their way. Brilliana and her husband came out to wave them off but Christopher's gaze was directed at Susan. After exchanging a private smile with her, he set off behind the coach and the cart. The vehicles rumbled along, their iron-rimmed wheels resounding on the hard road. When they hit open country, Christopher knew, ridges, depressions and potholes would make Bernard Everett's last journey a very undignified one.

    Heading north up King Street, they were all lost in thought. Inside the coach, Hester Polegate and her children were consumed with grief while Sir Julius Cheever searched for words to console them. In the light of what he had been told, Christopher wondered what sort of woman had managed to attract a choleric old knight who had seemed so entrenched in his bachelor existence. He hoped that he would have the opportunity of meeting the lady in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, using his artistic skills, Christopher drew a series of conjectural portraits of her in his mind. None sat easily beside the image of Sir Julius Cheever.

    So diverted was he by the exercise of bringing Dorothy Kitson to life that he did not realize that they were being followed. The, lone rider stayed well back, knowing the route that they would have to take and biding his time. It was simply a question of choosing his moment.

Chapter Six

    After driving Bridget McCoy and her son back to their tavern, Jonathan Bale returned the horse and cart to the blacksmith from whom he had borrowed it. He then strode to his house on Addle Hill.

    'I'm glad that you're home,' said his wife as he came through the door. 'There's a letter for you from Mr Redmayne.'

    'When did it arrive?'

    'Half an hour ago, at least. I expected you earlier.'

    'I had to go to Leadenhall Market.'

    'Whatever for?'

    'I'll tell you later,' said Bale, looking around. 'Where's the letter?'

    'On the kitchen table.'

    He went into the kitchen and snatched up the missive, breaking open the seal to read it. Sarah saw the consternation in his face and hoped that it was not bad news. As she had discovered years ago, the problem with being a parish constable was that good tidings were few and far between. Reports of murder, theft and assault were far more likely to be brought to the door. Bale was also frequently called upon to intervene in disputes between neighbours or - as if he did not have enough crime to occupy him - to rescue pet animals from the precarious situations into which they had got themselves. Whatever else the letter contained, Sarah mused, it was not another plea to haul an injured dog from a stinking quagmire.

    'Well?' she asked as he put the letter aside.

    'Mr Redmayne's gone to Cambridge for the funeral,' he explained. 'He wants me to talk to someone while he's away.'

    'Who is it?'

    'A man called Lewis Bircrofit. He's a Member of Parliament.'

    She was impressed. 'A politician? Does that mean you'll have to go to the Parliament House?'

    'In the first instance. I'll also need to find out where this man lives when he's staying in London.'

    'Why must you speak to him, Jonathan?' 'He's a friend of Sir Julius Cheever,' said her husband, concealing from her the information that Bircroft had been savagely beaten in an alleyway in Covent Garden. 'He may be able to tell us something that throws a light on this present case.'

    'I see.' She recalled his earlier remark. 'But what's this about going to Leadenhall Market?'

    'Oh, that was Mrs McCoy's doing.'

    'Bridget McCoy from the Saracen's Head?'

    Bale nodded. Lowering himself on to one of the wooden chairs that he had made himself, he told her about their search for the man who had been seen at the market earlier. While she listened, Sarah started to prepare dinner, reaching for some bread to cut into thick slices. Like her husband, she was sorry that the trail had gone cold. She was interested to hear that Patrick McCoy had been involved.

    'That lad is so unlike his father,' she noted.

    'I disagree, Sarah. He's the image of him.'

    'He may look like him but that's as far as he goes. Patrick, his father, was such a quick-witted man and so amiable. The son can barely hold a conversation. Whenever I see him,' she went on, 'I thank God that our boys are not like that. They go to school. They learn things. All that Patrick McCoy has learned is how to clear the tankards off the tables at the Saracen's Head.'

    'It's not his fault.'

    'I know, Jonathan. I feel sorry for the poor lad.'

    'Anyway, he does more than simply clear away the tankards. His mother keeps most of her customers under control but, if one of them does start to cause mischief, it's Patrick who throws him out, young as he is. The lad's as strong as an ox.'

    'Yes,' she confirmed. 'I saw him lift a beer barrel off a cart the other day. Most men would have rolled it along the ground but he carried it as if it was as light as a feather.' She shook her head worriedly. 'What's Bridget McCoy going to do with him?'

    'Keep him at the tavern where she can watch over him,' said Bale. 'Mind you, that's not what the lad wants himself.'

    'No?'

    'He has an ambition, Sarah.' 'To do what?'

    'My job - he wants to be a parish constable.'

    She spluttered. 'Patrick McCoy?'

    'Everyone's entitled to dream.'

    'He could never do what you do, Jonathan.'

    'The lad's eager and that's a good start. I've met too many officers who've been pushed into it against