The Parliament House (15 page)

    The coachman and the footman went off. Sheathing his sword, Christopher glanced towards the spinney Unbeknown to them, they had been followed. When they stopped at the inn, someone had worked his way around them then lurked in the trees ahead on the off-chance that his target would come into view. Christopher had one tiny consolation. Sir Julius would no longer be able to deny that he was in jeopardy. It was, however, certainly not the time to emphasize that point.

    'How do you feel now, Sir Julius?' he inquired.

    'Very wet.'

    'What about your arm?'

    'It hurts like blazes,' said Sir Julius, 'but that's the least of my worries. My main concern is for Hester Polegate and the boys.'

    'Why?'

    'I'm a marked man, Christopher. The rogue who failed to kill me will surely try again. As long as they travel with me, Hester and her sons are imperilled. I'm knowingly putting them at risk.'

    'There's no need to feel guilty, Sir Julius.'

    'How can I help it?'

    'By remembering the man in the trees.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'His shot knocked you off your feet and into the stream,' said Christopher. 'From where he was standing, it must have looked as if he'd killed you. That's why he made such a rapid escape. You can forget about him altogether now. He's riding back to London to tell his paymaster that Sir Julius Cheever is dead.'

       Because the man was a Member of Parliament, involved in the government of the nation, Jonathan Bale had assumed that he would have a distinguished address in London. This was not the case at all. When the House of Commons was sitting, and his presence was required in the capital, Lewis Bircroft, who hailed from Norfolk, lodged with friends in their modest house in Coleman Street. Bale had an immediate affinity with the district. In earlier days, the place had been a well-known stronghold of Puritanism.

    He was admitted to the house by its owner and asked to wait in the little parlour while Bircroft was summoned. It was some time before the man actually appeared because he had some difficulty descending the staircase. Expecting someone with an air of authority about him, Bale was surprised to meet a short, stooping, emaciated old man with tufts of grey hair sprouting above a prominent forehead like patches of grass on a cliff top. There was a hunted look in Bircroft s eyes and his face was lined with concern. Using a walking stick, he also held his neck at an unusual angle as if it had been twisted out of shape.

    Bale introduced himself and explained that he had been to the Parliament House to discover where Bircroft was staying in London. He apologised for calling but said that it was necessary to do so. The other man was extremely wary.

    'What do you want with me, Constable?' he asked.

    'A few minutes of your time, sir.'

    'Then I must sit down.'

    'Of course, Mr Bircroft.'

    'Bear with me.'

    What was a simple movement for Bale was a more complicated exercise for the other man. Shuffling to a chair, he lowered himself with agonising slowness on to it, his limbs poking out at odd angles as he settled down. He was clearly in constant pain. Sitting opposite him. Bale felt sorry for the man. However, he had been sent to get information and did not wish to leave without it.

    'Do you know a man named Bernard Everett?' said Bale.

    'Yes, he lives near Cambridge.'

    'Not any more, I'm afraid. He died some days ago.'

    'Dear me!' exclaimed Bircroft. 'What a terrible shame! Bernard was about to join us in the Parliament House. I only arrived here yesterday so I was quite unaware of this news. Had he been ill for long?'

    'It was not a natural death, Mr Bircroft. He was murdered.'

    The old man gurgled and looked as if he were on the point of having a seizure. Bale had to wait a long while before Bircroft felt able to continue. The visitor explained what had happened in Knightrider Street and how he had become part of the hue and cry that had been set up.

    'I'll not abide it, Mr Bircroft,' he said, grimly. 'I'll not have people shot dead in Baynard's Castle ward. However much time and effort it takes, we'll find this villain and see him hang.'

    'I admire your commitment, Mr Bale, but I fail to see how I can be of any assistance to you. I did not know Bernard Everett well.'

    'But you were a close friend of Sir Julius Cheever.'

    'I was,' confessed Bircroft:, 'at one time.'

    'Are you no longer associated with him?'

    'Only in the loosest way.'

    'I believe that you and he shared so many common objectives,' said Bale. 'May I ask why the two of you fell out?'

    Bircroft looked away. 'That's a private matter.'

    'You were wont to visit his house.'

    'Yes, I was.'

    'Did you lose faith in your ideals?'

    'No!' retorted Bircroft. 'I would never do that and I find your question offensive. I repudiate nothing.' He was trembling with passion. 'Do you know where you are, Mr Bale?'

    'Yes, sir - in Coleman Street.'

    'And are you aware of its reputation?'

    'Of course, Mr Bircroft. I rejoice in its Puritan values.'

    'In 1642, when the King's father was on the throne, he sought to silence opposition in parliament by arresting five of its leaders. Those men - Pym, Hampton, Hesilrige, Holies and Strode - had to flee for their lives. They hid here in Coleman Street. A week later, they were able to return in triumph to Westminster.'

    'I'm familiar with the story, sir.' 'Then do not accuse me of lacking ideals. I stay in this part of the city because this is where I belong, politically and in every other sense. I may not have the same strength to champion my beliefs in the House of Commons, but I can work by other means to achieve my ends. I write pamphlets, I speak to clubs in private, I disseminate ideas.'

    'Yet you withdrew from the group that is led by Sir Julius.'

    'I admit it freely.'

    'And another man who fell away was Mr Manville.'

    'Arthur had his own reasons.'

    'Was it because he had his nose slit?' said Bale, repeating the question he had read in Christopher's letter. 'And were you, in turn, frightened away by the men who attacked you with cudgels?'

    Bircroft shuddered as harrowing memories flooded back. Two hideous minutes in an alleyway had left his body permanently distorted and he would never be able to walk properly again. Yet he tried to cling on to a shred of dignity.

    'Violence will never change my fundamental ideals.'

    'But it can stop you expressing them.'

    'I was foolish,' claimed Bircroft. 'When I walked through Covent Garden that day, I did not keep my wits about me. Those bullies fell on me because I was an easy prey. Once they'd knocked me senseless, they stole my purse and made off. Anyone else who'd been alone in that alleyway would have suffered the same fate.'

    'So you did not see the beating as a kind of warning?'

    'No, Mr Bale.'

    'What about the attack on Mr Manville?'

    'Ask him about that,' said Bircroft:, knuckles tightening on his walking stick. 'Arthur was too reckless. He courted a particular lady even though she was married. Her husband learned of it. I think that
he
paid for the disfigurement.'

    'Is that what Mr Manville thinks?'

    'Yes.'

    'And was the husband in question a politician, by any chance?'

    'What difference does that make?'

    'Was he, Mr Bircroft?' pressed Bale.

    The old man shifted uneasily in his chair. 'Yes,' he said.

    'But not of your persuasion?'

    'Good Lord - no!'

    'So it could have been an attack on a political opponent?'

    'Why are you bothering me with these questions?'

    'Because we see a link here,' said Bale.

    'Between what?'

    'All three of you, sir.'

    'I do not follow.'

    'You, Mr Manville and Mr Everett,' said the constable. 'It's too much of a coincidence. One by one, Sir Julius Cheever's supporters have been whittled away. Mr Manville does not speak in parliament any more, you are in no condition to do so, and Mr Everett was never even allowed to take his seat. The same person is behind all these outrages. You must have some idea who he might be.'

    Lewis Bircroft tried to summon up a look of defiance but it simply would not come. Instead, his body drooped, his face crumpled and tears began to roll slowly down his cheeks.

    Brilliana Serle was an enterprising woman. Failing to get what she felt was adequate cooperation from her sister, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Accordingly, she and her husband set off in their coach to find out what they could about the Redmayne family. Susan had been so reticent about Christopher's brother that her suspicions had been aroused. Truth needed to be sought. While Brilliana was in high spirits, her husband was having doubts about the expedition.

    'Would it not be better to wait until Christopher returns?' he said.

    'No, Lancelot.'

    'But it would be quite improper of us to arrive on his brothers doorstep without the courtesy of a warning.'

    'We do not have to enter the building,' she explained. 'I merely wish to see it from outside. A house can tell one so much about its owner and I would like to learn all that I can about Henry Redmayne.' 'What if Susan 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.