The Parliament House (16 page)

    '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 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.

    'Oh, I will, I will.'

    'Go out as little as possible.'

    'I must to the Parliament House when the session opens.'

    'From what Susan tells me, Sir Julius, your own home is a veritable Parliament House. It's a pity you cannot conduct business there, well away from danger.'

    'I'm not afraid, Christopher. I need to be
seen.
I have to show my enemies that I'm not put to flight by a stray musket ball.'

    'They'll have a shock when they realise you are still alive.'

    'I'll give them even more shocks when they're unmasked!'

    'Go armed at all times,' advised Christopher.

    'I do.'

    'I see no weapon about you.'

    'Stand up.'