The Parliament House

worth than because he could ever make use of it in his own work. He savoured the talents of stonemasons, wood carvers, blacksmiths, tapestry-makers, glaziers and carpenters. He marvelled at the minds of the master builders who had conceived the various edifices.

    Most of all, he loved the higgledy-piggledy nature of the town, its narrow, twisting, cobbled streets, its jumbled confusion, its pervading sense of improvisation. And there at the heart of it, reminding him that this was somewhere to live, eat and drink as well as to study, was a thriving marketplace, filled with noise, smells and all the paraphernalia of commerce. By the time that he had completed his tour of Cambridge, his sketchbook was brimming with memories and his heart was pounding at the thought of belonging to a profession with such a noble heritage. Christopher had only come to the funeral in order to protect Sir Julius Cheever. Three hours in the university town was a more than ample reward for the vicissitudes of the journey.

       Jonathan Bale had just left his house when he saw someone coming down Addle Hill, waving a piece of paper in his hand like a flag. It was Patrick McCoy and his face was glowing with excitement.

    'It was my idea, Mr Bale,' he bragged. 'It was my idea.'

    'What was, Patrick?'

    'This.'

    He thrust the paper into Bale's hands. The constable looked down at a rough portrait in charcoal of a man's face. Bridget McCoy was only an innkeeper but she had a good eye and a deft hand. The picture was striking. She had put enough detail and character into it to make it more than a crude sketch. The broken nose dominated but she had also recalled the man's large ears and the mole on his right cheek. Within her strict limitations, she had brought him to life again.

    'That's him,' said Patrick.

    'So I see.'

    'I know who to look for now.'

    'Does your mother think it's a fair likeness?'

    'Yes, Mr Bale. She spent hours over it. Mother must have done five or six drawings before she was happy. This is the man,' he said, jabbing a finger at the portrait. 'This is the killer.'

    'Then his face ought to be on some handbills.'

    'There's no need for that.'

    'I could go straight to the printer's now.'

    'No,' protested the youth. 'That would be unfair.'

    'Unfair?'

    'He's ours, Mr Bale. We don't want anyone else to catch him.'

    'Someone might identify him from this,' said Bale. 'They could tell us where we could find Mr Field.'

    'But we know where to find him.'

    'Do we, Patrick?'

    'Yes, at Leadenhall Market.'

    'That may just have been a chance visit on his part.'

    'It wasn't,' said Patrick. 'I know it for sure. He'll be there again one day. All we have to do is to wait and watch.'

    'I can't spend every morning in Leadenhall Street.'

    'I'll do it for you, Mr Bale.'

    'No, lad.'

    'It will be a test for me.'

    'Test?'

    'I can show you how good a constable I can be. Let me be your lookout, Mr Bale. Let me work with you.'

    'Tom Warburton does that.'

    'I'm stronger than Mr Warburton. I'm younger and faster.'

    'That's true,' said Bale, 'but you don't have Tom's experience. We know how dangerous Mr Field is. He may well go abroad armed. Tom and I know how to overpower such a man.'

    'So do I.'

    'No, Patrick. This man is no reeling drunk at the Saracen's Head. You can't just grab him. He's a killer. He needs to be stalked.'

    'Then let me stalk him.'

    'Leave him to us. We know what to do.'

    'But I want to help,' insisted Patrick.

    'You already have helped, lad.' Bale held up the drawing. 'If this really was your idea, then you deserve praise. It shows that you can think like a constable even if you're not old enough to be one yet.'

    'I will be old enough one day.'

    'Go back to your mother and thank her from me.' He patted the youth on the shoulder. 'And tell her that she has a very clever son.'

        The funeral took place late that afternoon. Customarily, funerals tended to be held in the evenings when light was falling and it was a common complaint that undertakers only encouraged the practice so that they could increase their profits by providing the candles. It was Bernard Everett's widow who decided to have her husband buried at the earliest opportunity so that it could remain essentially a private affair. Since he represented the county in parliament, Everett was known far and wide and, had all his friends and acquaintances come to mourn him, the funeral would have been so well-attended that the widow could not have coped. A service of remembrance for a much larger gathering could be held at a later date. What Rosalind Everett required now was a swift, simple ceremony.

    Christopher Redmayne stayed on the fringe of the event. He was invited into the house for drinks before the funeral and introduced to the various family members. The chief mourners wore black attire and the hearse, in which the coffin was draped in black, had black horses with black plumes to pull it. The service was both moving and disquieting. Though the priest heaped fulsome praise on Bernard Everett, his words brought little solace. Instead of thinking about his life, the congregation was preoccupied with the manner of his death. The widow bore up well throughout and it was Hester Polegate who collapsed in tears. She was taken aside and soothed by her husband, the London vintner.

    Everyone returned to the house for refreshments after the service but Christopher and Sir Julius soon took their leave so that they could travel at least part of the way back to London by nightfall. Since the Polegate family elected to remain at the Everett house for a few days, the coach only had one occupant on the return journey. Christopher was delighted when Sir Julius invited the architect to join him. With his horse tethered to the rear of the vehicle, Christopher sat opposite the other man as they drove towards London. From the time when they had first arrived, he had taken care not even to mention the attack upon Sir Julius. The subject now had to be discussed and it was the man himself who broached it.

    'I must tender my apologies, Christopher,' he said.

    'There's no need for that, Sir Julius.'

    'There's every need. I was rude, inconsiderate and stupid.'

    'I felt that I had to warn you,' said Christopher.

    'You were so wise to do so. And how did I respond? Was I grateful that you had such concern for my safety? Was I glad that you had taken the trouble to inquire about political colleagues of mine who had suffered for their ideals? No,' admitted Sir Julius. 'I was too busy pretending that it could never happen to me.'

    'And now?'

    'I know better, Christopher.'

    'Mr Everett died in your place. The shot was intended for you.'

    'I accept that.'

    'What happened by that stream proves it.'

    'Indubitably,' said Sir Julius. 'Every time I feel a twinge in my left arm, I'm reminded of the incident. Zounds! Though he failed to kill me, I could easily have drowned in that water, had you not pulled me out. Ugh!' he went on, grimacing. 'I can still taste the stuff. I must have drunk a gallon of it as I went under.'

    'As long as you take full precautions in future,' urged Christopher.