asked him about any enemies that Bernard Everett might have in parliament.'
'Mr Everett had not even taken his seat.'
'Exactly - that was why Christopher was so puzzled by the murder. His worst suspicions were confirmed by Henry and by
Members of Parliament introduced to him by his brother.'
Susan was perplexed. 'Christopher told me of no suspicions.'
'Well, he certainly entertained them,' said Brilliana, 'and with justification. Henry confirmed what his younger brother feared. Bernard Everett was mistaken for someone else and died in his place. There's not a shadow of doubt about it. That man was hired to kill Father.'
Chapter Eight
Patrick McCoy was single-minded. Having decided that he would one day be an officer of the law, he thought about nothing else. Jonathan Bale may have taken the final crude portrait but there were half-a-dozen others that Bridget McCoy had drawn and her son had kept all of them. After careful study of each one, he felt that he had a good idea of what Field had looked like. Even though the Saracens Head would need no more provisions for days, Patrick decided to go to Leadenhall Market that morning. In his pocket were the sketches of the killer and he referred to them constantly.
It was a long walk and he was still well short of the market when he was distracted by a commotion. Jeering and laughing, a small crowd was walking along the street. When he saw what they were carrying, Patrick soon understood why they were so excited. At the heart of the crowd, a man was being dragged along to the pillory by two constables. What the onlookers were waiting for was the chance to pelt the prisoner with the various missiles they had collected on the way. Rotten fruit was preferred by most of them but some had stones or pieces of wood, and there was even a dead cat being held in readiness.
The prisoner was a scrawny man in his twenties, protesting his innocence and begging for mercy. The constables ignored his pleas. When they reached the pillory, one of them unlocked it and lifted up the top half so that the man's head and hands could be thrust into the rough shapes carved out of the wood. Because he was so short, the prisoner had to stand on tiptoe to reach the pillory and he was obviously in great discomfort. No sympathy was shown. The top half was slammed down and locked, securing him immovably in a position that would gradually become more and more agonising.
One of the constables read out the charge but it went unheard beneath the baying of the mob. No sooner had the officers stood back than the real punishment began. Missiles of all kinds were flung at him from close range. A ripe tomato splattered across the prisoner's nose and a piece of brick took the skin off the knuckles of one hand. When he yelled for mercy, he was hit full in the face by the putrid cat. Unable to defend himself, he was exposed to the ridicule and cruelty of the crowd. Sticks, stones, fruit, vegetables, and even a live frog were hurled at him.
Patrick watched it all with absent-minded interest. When he was younger, he had helped to bait such malefactors and take his turn at throwing anything that came to hand at a hapless target. The treatment meted out was brutal. Those trapped in the pillory could be cut, bruised, blinded, deprived of teeth or, in some cases, killed by the ferocity of the attack. They were fair game to any passing citizen and the ordeal might last all day. Patrick decided that this particular man was getting off quite lightly. He sidled across to one of the constables, a sturdy man in his forties with a thick brown beard.
'What's his offence, sir?' asked Patrick.
'Sedition,' replied the other.
'What's that?'
'Speaking against the King and his government.'
'Is that what he did?'
'Yes,' said the constable. 'In the presence of witnesses, this villain swore that His Majesty was a creeping Roman Catholic, that he went to Mass six times a day and that he and his bloodsucking ministers were in the pay of the Pope. That was sedition.'
'Then he deserves what he gets.'
'Every last minute of it.'
Patrick thrust out his chest. 'I'm going to be a constable one day.'
'Are you?' said the other with amusement.
'I'll enjoy putting rogues like him in the pillory.'
Snatching up a handful of offal from the street, he flung it hard at the man's head and secured a direct hit. The prisoner did not even feel it. He had already been knocked unconscious by a well- aimed horseshoe.
It was still morning when they finally returned to London. Having stayed overnight at an inn, they completed the rest of their journey and pulled up outside Sir Julius Cheever's house in
Westminster. As on the previous day, Christopher Redmayne travelled in the relative comfort of the coach, listening to his companion's strong political views while feeling unable to challenge them. He was grateful to be released from the litany.
As soon as the coach appeared, Susan and Brilliana came out of the house to greet their father and to ask if he had had a safe journey. Christopher had intended to ride back home but a glance from Susan kept him there. He could tell at once that she knew. The plan to keep her ignorant of what had been going on was instantly abandoned. Christopher felt chastened.
Brilliana made much of her father before sweeping him into the house. Susan was left alone with Christopher. He was subjected to a long and hostile stare before being invited into the house. She led him into the drawing room and shut the door firmly behind them. Hands on her hips, she rounded accusingly on her friend.
'I think that I owe you an explanation,' he said, apologetically.
'It's too late for that.'
'Susan, I did not want you to be hurt.'
'What is more hurtful than being deceived by the one person in my life that I thought I could trust? Really, Christopher,' she said. 'This has made me look at you in a whole new light.'
'I'm still the same person.'
'You mean that you were always given to lies and dissembling?'
'No, of course not.'
'I begin to think so.'
'Then let me put your mind at rest on that score.'
'Put it at rest?' she returned, harshly. 'You've set it ablaze.'
'There was no point in telling you about my anxieties with regard to your father,' he explained. 'I needed to find more proof.'
'Your own brother did that.'
'Henry?'
'He told you from the start that Mr Everett was an unlikely victim of any political plot. Father is the man with sworn enemies. Henry even arranged for you to speak to two Members of Parliament.' 'How do you know all this?'
'Brilliana had a long conversation with your brother.'
'But they've never even met.'
'They have now,' explained Susan. 'Having decided to push the two of us closer together, my sister took it upon herself to discover more about your family background. She and her husband went off to see what sort of a house your brother owned.'
Christopher was aghast. 'Are you telling me that they arrived in Bedford Street and knocked on Henry's door?'
'Even Brilliana would not be that impudent. They just happened to be there when your brother returned from the Navy Office. They fell into conversation. When he realised who they were, Henry invited them in. And that,' said Susan, bitterly, 'is how I came to hear something I should have been told days ago.'
'I concede that.'
'So why did you mislead me?'
