The Parliament House

were to find out what we've done?'

    'Then we'll deny it hotly.'

    'But that would be a deception.'

    'It would be a white lie and therefore of no consequence,' she said, flicking away his objection with a peremptory gesture. 'We are acting in my sister's best interests, Lancelot. Keep that in mind.'

    'Yes, Brilliana.'

    'If I knew where Mrs Kitson lived, I'd suggest that we perused her residence in passing as well.'

    'That would be quite wrong,' he argued. 'We are not spies.'

    'We are intelligencers for our family, and that entitles us to take whatever steps we decide.'

    'Whatever steps you decide, I fancy.'

    'Someone has to make the decisions.'

    Their coach was part of the traffic that rattled along the Strand but it soon swung left into Bedford Street, a wide thoroughfare with handsome buildings on either side. The coachman drove up to the end of the street then stopped so that its occupants could alight. Taking her husband's arm, Brilliana strolled back down the street with him until she found the house that she was after. They paused in order to appraise it. Henry Redmayne's home was a tall, elegant, stone-built structure with a pleasing symmetry and a good location. Well outside the reach of the Great Fire, it had sustained none of the damage that afflicted most of the city. Over the years, it had weathered well.

    Serle felt embarrassed to be staring at someone else's house but his wife wanted to see her fill. She ran her eyes over every inch of the building before she gave her verdict.

    'It's the home of a gentleman,' she announced.

    'May we return to the coach now, Brilliana?'

    'Though it's in need of repair in one or two places.'

    'We are not surveyors, my dear,' he said, trying to lead her away. 'Now that you have satisfied your curiosity, let us withdraw.'

    The clatter of hooves made them turn towards the Strand and they saw a horseman approaching at a canter. He reined in his mount only yards away from them.

    'Why are you peering at my house?' he inquired, eyeing them with faint suspicion. 'Do you have business here?'

    'Am I speaking to Henry Redmayne?' said Brilliana.

    'You are.'

    'I see little resemblance to your brother.'

    'You are acquainted with Christopher?'

    'My name is Brilliana Serle,' she said, 'and this is my husband, Lancelot. We are staying in London at the home of my father, Sir Julius Cheever. I believe that you've met my sister.'

    'Briefly.' Henry dismounted and doffed his hat with a flourish. 'I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs Serle - and you, sir.' His gaze remained on Brilliana. 'I can see a clear likeness to Susan.'

    'In character,' Serle volunteered, 'they are poles apart.'

    'And rightly so. It would not do if sisters were exactly the same, and I think it imperative for a man to be as different from his brother as he can possibly contrive. Variety is needed in a family - don't you agree, Mrs Serle?'

    'I do, Mr Redmayne,' she said, studying him shrewdly.

    'You work at the Navy Office, I hear,' said Serle.

    'I've just returned from there,' said Henry, sparing him no more than a glance. 'When one lives on an island, as we do, the maintenance of a strong navy is vital. I'm proud to assist in that important mission.'

    'Then I commend you, sir.'

    Henry did not even hear him. He was too busy contemplating Brilliana, noting how irresistibly fetching she looked in a dress of blue and gold, colours that enhanced her beauty. For his part, Henry wore less flamboyant apparel than was usual but he was still a model of ostentation beside the more soberly attired Lancelot Serle. His dark periwig threw the paleness of his face into relief. Brilliana accorded him the same close scrutiny as the house. Older than his brother, his features were sharper, more mature and, in her opinion, far more interesting. It was a face that, self-evidently, had seen a great deal of life and it somehow gave her an unexpected thrill.

    'What brought you to London?' said Henry.

    'News of that foul murder in Knightrider Street,' she replied. 'My father was inadvertently caught up in it.'

    'So was my brother.'

    'We know.'

    'As a matter of fact, I was able to furnish him with information that may in time lead to an arrest. I have many friends in the political arena,' he went on, airily, 'and my attendance at court has widened my circle even more. Christopher often trades on my knowledge of the great and good of England.'

    Brilliana was intrigued. 'You belong to the court?'

    'His Majesty has been kind enough to include me among his many acquaintances. We have always been on excellent terms.'

    'You hear that, Lancelot?'

    'What, my dear?' said Serle.

    'Mr Redmayne moves in high places. It's the sort of thing that you should be doing.' She turned back to Henry. 'My husband has ambitions to enter parliament. To move in court circles as well would be an even greater achievement.'

    'But well outside my reach, Brilliana.'

    'I disagree.'

    'What would your father say? You know his opinion of monarchy.'

    'I'm only concerned with my opinion,' she said, proudly, 'and I'm an admirer of His Majesty. What do you think, Mr Redmayne? Would it be possible for someone like my husband to enter the portals of the Palace?'

    'If he were introduced by the right person,' replied Henry, unable to keep his eyes off her. 'But why are we discussing such * lofty subjects out here in the street? Since you have taken an interest in my house, perhaps you would like to see its interior as well. It would be an honour to welcome you as my guest.' He and Brilliana exchanged a prolonged smile. Henry then remembered that someone else was there. His head swung round to Serle. 'And you, too, sir. Pray, follow me.'

        Accustomed to rising early, Christopher Redmayne was up not long after dawn to wash, shave and eat his breakfast. The funeral was to be held in the parish church of a village some four miles south-east of Cambridge. Since there was no room at the Everett household for either of them, Christopher and Sir Julius were staying at an inn nearby. The injury sustained by the latter had been concealed from everyone else, though Sir Julius had taken the precaution of finding a local doctor who had examined and dressed the wound for him. Since the old man's enemies would presume that he was dead, Christopher felt that his companion was out of immediate danger. That encouraged him to slip quietly away from the inn while Sir Julius was still snoring contentedly in his bed as he dreamed of Dorothy Kitson.

    Cambridge looked majestic in the early morning light, a seat of learning that was also a display of architectural excellence over the centuries. Christopher found it breathtaking. He knew Oxford well but this was his first visit to its rival in the fens. Peterhouse, the oldest college, had been founded in 1280 and by the time of the Reformation, fourteen more colleges had been added. But it was not only the university that defined the town. Churches, chapels, halls, houses, civic buildings and extensive parks made their contribution, and the River Cam was an ever- present landmark. Christopher felt that he was stepping back in time to a more scholarly era when men were untroubled by the religious and political upheavals that had shaken the Stuart dynasty to its foundations.

    Permitting himself only a few hours, he did not waste a second of it. He went everywhere, saw everything and drank it in like fine wine. As a practising architect, he never travelled without his sketchbook and it came out of his saddlebag as soon as he arrived. Any feature that caught his eye was duly recorded, more for its own intrinsic