The Parliament House (9 page)

    The four courtyards were, as usual, thronged with customers, and vendors competed for their attention with ear-splitting cries. Street hawkers also tried to sell their wares and Patrick bumped by mistake into a pretty young girl with a basket of dead pigeons on her head. Raising his hat in apology, he gave her a vacant grin but she was already threading her way through the jostling crowd. Bridget stopped at a stall, appraised its selection of beef, checked the price, then haggled so tenaciously that the vendor agreed to a discount simply to get rid of her. She put the beef into one of the baskets and they pressed on through the tumult.

    Slow in speech and movement, Patrick was nevertheless extremely wary of thieves and pickpockets. When someone tried to steal the beef from his basket, he knocked the man summarily to the ground. The sly youth who attempted to slip a hand into Bridget’s purse got a kick in the buttock from Patrick that sent him yelping away in pain. It was a normal market day for her so Bridget did not even notice these random moments of violence. She took it for granted that her son would protect her.

    By the time they had finished, both baskets were bulging with meat and Bridget was carrying a brace of dead rabbits. It was time to move on so that they could purchase fruit and vegetables elsewhere. Side by side, they picked their way through the forest of bodies. They had not gone far before Bridget saw a face that she thought she recognized. It was only a fleeting glimpse but the broken nose was too distinctive to miss. A cry burst from her lips.

    'That's him!'

    'Who?' asked Patrick.

    'Mr Field. The man who rented that room.'

    'What room, Mother?'

    'After him,' she ordered, pushing her way forward.

    Patrick grinned helpfully. 'Is he a friend?'

    'No, he's a murderer.' 'Ah.'

    'Catch him up,' urged Bridget. 'We must see where he goes.'

    They tried to move faster but it was virtually impossible in such a crowd. When they finally reached the place where she had seen the man, he was no longer there. Bridget stood on tiptoe to look around her but to no avail. Mr Field had been swallowed up in the swirling mass of bodies. In sheer frustration, she swung the dead rabbits viciously against the side of a wooden cart.

    'A pox on it!' she exclaimed. 'We've lost the lying bastard!'

Chapter Five

    Christopher Redmayne’s day began with a surprise. His brother called to see him shortly after breakfast, thereby setting a remarkable precedent. Having caroused half the night away, Henry Redmayne rarely woke before mid-morning and, as a rule, it was almost noon before his barber ventured to shave him. Yet there he was, as large as life, dressed in his finery, dismounting from his horse in Fetter Lane when the clock was barely past the eighth hour of a bright new day. Seeing him through the window, Jacob, the ever-reliable old servant, went out of the house to take charge of Henry's horse. He indicated the door.

    'Please go in, Mr Redmayne,' he said.

    'Thank you.'

    'Your brother has been up for hours.'

    'He always is,' said Henry, bitterly. 'Such an disgusting habit.'

    Swaying slightly, he went into the house and found Christopher in his study, poring over his latest design with a pencil in his hand. His brother looked up in astonishment. Face haggard, shoulders sagging, eyes barely managing to remain open, Henry slumped into the nearest chair and let out a groan of disbelief.

    'Why on earth am I up at this ungodly hour?'

    'I was about to ask the same thing,' said Christopher.

    'Then address your question to the Surveyor at the Navy Office. He will tell you why I've been hauled so cruelly from the comfort of my bed. I'm in deep disgrace, Christopher,' he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, 'because of some trifling error that I made in the accounts for the victualling contracts. To make amends, I've been ordered to work in the mornings for the next two weeks. It's a barbaric demand. My constitution will not hold out.'

    'I disagree. It could be the making of you.'

    'That's an absurd suggestion!'

    'It's the very one that your physician has made,' Christopher reminded him. 'He's always urging you to keep more regular hours for the sake of your health.' 'Such a regimen would be the ruination of my health. It was never like this when Sir William Batten was Surveyor,' said Henry, sounding a nostalgic note. 'He understood that a gentleman could not possibly be expected to arrive for work until afternoon. Sir William - God rest his soul - had many faults and the old sea dog could hardly get through a sentence without sprinkling it with foul language, but he was a merry soul when he chose to be. We spent some joyful times, drinking with him at the Dolphin in Seething Lane.'

    'I'm certain of that, Henry, but I'm equally certain that you did not come here to reminisce about Sir William Batten.'

    'Too true. I'm here to tell you about last night.'

    'I'm impressed that you are wide awake enough to remember it.'

    'Leave your gibes aside. I came to help you.'

    'In what way?'

    'I supped last night with Ninian Teale,' said Henry. 'Afterwards, we joined some friends for a game or two of cards and dear Ninian was kind enough to lose a creditable amount to me.'

    Christopher sat up hopefully. 'So you are now in a position to repay the debts you owe me?'

    'Alas, no. Hard on my good fortune, I had a run of bad luck and my winnings disappeared before I had time to count them properly.'

    'It was ever thus.'

    Henry was peevish. 'Stop interrupting me, Christopher. I found out something that may be of use to you. Did you not beseech me to keep my ears open on your behalf?'

    'Yes, I did.'

    'Then listen to what they picked up,' said his brother, using the back of his hand to stifle a dramatic yawn. 'Ninian is an intimate of mine. I know that you conversed with him at length, but there are things he'd confide in me that you could never elicit.'

    'Such as?'

    'The fact that Sir Julius Cheever's camp has already been under attack. Does the name of Arthur Manville sound familiar?' 'No, Henry. Who is he?'

    'Another troublesome Member of Parliament with revolutionary notions. Last year, he and Sir Julius were hand in glove. Then the assault occurred.'

    'Assault?'

    'One dark night, Manville had his nose slit open.'

    'By whom?'

    'He has no idea,' said Henry, 'but it did force him to moderate his political opinions. He's no longer the raging dissident that he once was. And Manville was not the only loss that Sir Julius sustained.'

    'No?'

    'Lewis Bircroft also fell away from the group.'

    'Bircroft,' said Christopher, thoughtfully. 'Now where have I heard that name before?'

    'You probably read it in a newspaper. There was a report of the incident. It happened in Covent Garden a few months ago, when Mr Bircroft was unwise enough to take a stroll down an alleyway on his own. Bullies set upon him with cudgels. They not only cracked several bones,' said Henry, 'they broke his spirit as well. Like Mr Manville, he has not been agitating quite so enthusiastically for the removal of the monarchy.'

    'Were the two attacks the work of political opponents?'

    'What else could they be?'

    'All sorts of things,' said Christopher. 'Mr Manville could have been the victim of a private quarrel, and Mr Bircoft would not be the only man to fall foul of ruffians who lurk in Covent Garden.'

    'I prefer to trust Ninian Teale's opinion.'

    'Which is?'

    'That dire warnings are being sent to Sir Julius.'

    'He's far too stubborn to heed them.'

    'Then someone needs to counsel him before it is too late,' said Henry with a meaningful look at his brother. 'There's a pattern here that he cannot ignore. Arthur Manville has his nose slit, Lewis Bircroft has his bones broken, then Bernard Everett, the latest of Sir Julius's parliamentary creatures, is shot dead in the street.' 'Each time the punishment is more severe.'

    'Point that out to the counterfeit knight.'

    'Sir Julius is no counterfeit,' said Christopher, stoutly. 'He earned the title by his outstanding service to the Commonwealth.'

    Henry Redmayne was harsh. 'The only outstanding service he could render now,' he observed, tartly, 'is to get himself killed for voicing his incendiary views in the House of Commons. If he persists, that will surely happen and I, for one, will be delighted to see him go.'

      'Are you quite sure that it was him, Mrs McCoy?' asked Jonathan Bale.

    'I'd take my oath on the Bible,' she replied.

    'How far away from you was he?'

    'Ten or fifteen yards.'

    'It would be easy to make a mistake at that distance.'

    'Not if your eyes are as sharp as mine,' said Bridget McCoy. 'His face was only there for a second but I knew it at once, didn't I, Patrick? I saw that broken nose of his.'

    'She did, Mr Bale,' confirmed Patrick. 'Mother saw him.'

    The constable had met them in Knightrider Street on their way back from market. Bridget was still holding the pair of rabbits that had been thrashed against the side of the cart, and her son was carrying two large baskets brimming with provender. Only someone with Patrick's strength could have borne such a heavy load so far. Now that they had paused to talk to Bale, it never occurred to the lad that he could put the baskets on the ground to give his arms a rest.

    'What was he wearing, Mrs McCoy?' said Bale.

    'I only saw his face.'

    'What about a hat?'

    'He was wearing a cap.'

    'Was it the same one he had on at the Saracen's Head?'

    'No,' said Bridget, 'that was very different. The cap was much smaller so I had a good look at the whole of his face.'

    'For an instant.'

    'That's all it takes, Mr Bale. If you run a tavern, you have to keep your wits about you. Patrick - my husband, that is - taught me that. You must be able to weigh people up at a glance. Most of the time, I can do that. But I failed badly with Mr Field,' she confessed, 'and that hurt my pride. It rankled with me. Patrick - my son, that is - will tell you how quick I am to pick out a troublemaker at the Saracen's Head, yet I was deceived by a ruthless killer.'

    Bale took her through the story again, trying to establish the exact point where the man had been sighted in Leadenhall Market. If he was a regular customer there, one of the meat traders might know his name. The constable had a rough description but it would not enable him to identify the wanted man with any degree of confidence. When he went to the market, Bale would have to take Bridget McCoy with him.

    'Thank you for telling me,' he said to her. 'This could turn out to be very valuable.'

    'Only if you catch the devil, Mr Bale.'

    'We'll catch him eventually. Handbills have been printed with the description that you gave me of Field. A large reward has been offered for information leading to an arrest. That usually brings in results.'

    'I'd like to break that ugly nose of his all over again!'

    Patrick had been staring at Bale with a mixture of envy and veneration. A smile spread slowly across his unprepossessing features.

    'I want to be a constable one day,' he announced.

    'There's always a place for new men, Patrick,' said Bale.

    'Well, my son is not going to be one of them,' affirmed Bridget. 'He'll be too busy helping his mother to run the tavern.'

    'I'd be a good constable,' boasted the youth.

    'Put that nonsense out of your head.'

    'But I want to be like Mr Bale.'

    'You don't have the brains for it, Patrick.'

    'I can learn, Mother,' insisted the youth. 'Can't I, Mr Bale?'

    'Yes, lad,' said Jonathan, kindly.

    'Don't encourage him,' warned Bridget. 'Patrick is spoken for.

    Besides, what use is a constable who can neither read nor write nor even remember what day it is half the time?' She used her free hand to give her son an affectionate pat. 'You're
my
constable, Patrick. Your job is to look after the Saracen's Head.'

    Patrick was determined. 'I want to work with Mr Bale.'

    'One day, perhaps,' said the constable, knowing that it would never happen. 'One day, Patrick.'

    One surprise succeeded another. No sooner had Christopher Redmayne bade farewell to his brother than he had a second unexpected visitor at his house. Spurning both safety and convention, Susan Cheever had ridden unaccompanied to Fetter Lane, an address to which she normally travelled by coach. While his master took her into the parlour, Jacob once again acted as an ostler, leading her horse to the stables at the rear of the premises.