The King's Evil (16 page)

'Where
are you going, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.

'Oh,'
he said, turning. 'I thought that I was perhaps intruding.'

'You
were leaving?'

'It
seemed advisable.'

'But
I must speak to you.'

It
was Penelope Northcott who had come down the stairs and not her mother. Though
her face was still white and her eyes swollen by a bout of tears, she was now
much more controlled and her voice was calm. She took him by the arm and led
him back into the Great Hall.

'I
must apologise,' she said earnestly. 'It was unmannerly of us to leave you
alone for so long but we needed
to ...'
Her voice tailed off. She needed
a deep breath before she could speak again. 'Anyway, I am glad that I came down
in time to stop you going before I could add my personal thanks. I do
appreciate your taking the trouble to ride all the way to Priestfield Place.'

'It
was no trouble, I assure you. I felt it my bounden duty.'

'Duty?'

'Your
father was very kind to me, Miss Northcott.'

'Ah,
yes,' she said distantly. 'The house. You designed it.' 'My first commission.'
He felt the need to soothe her. 'Your father obviously planned to surprise you
with it when the house was finally built. Sir Ambrose clearly had an interest
in architecture. How could he not, living in such a magnificent property as
this? Yes,' he said without any real conviction. 'That must have been it. The
London house was destined to be a gift to your mother. Or perhaps even to you
and your future husband. It would have made a perfect wedding present.'

'Yes,'
she said.

But
they both knew that the notion was wildly improbable.

'Were
you a close friend of my father's?' she asked.

'Not
at all. I was just one of many people whom he employed. Sir Ambrose always kept
his distance. To tell you the truth, he was a rather mysterious figure to me.'

'Yes,'
she murmured.

'The
one person who did know him was my brother, Henry.'

'Your
brother?'

'Yes,'
said Christopher. 'It was Henry who showed some of my drawings to your father
and encouraged him to meet me. From my point of view, it was the most wonderful
stroke of fortune. Until now.'

Penelope
indicated a chair, waited until he was seated then sat next to him. He caught a
faint whiff of her perfume. Now that she was alone and much closer to him, he
became more conscious of her beauty. Mild excitement stirred inside him. She
raised a quizzical eyebrow.

'Why
did you bring the news, Mr Redmayne?'

'I
felt that you had a right to be informed as soon as possible.'

'But
it was not your place to act as the messenger.'

'I
believe that it was.'

'Why?'

'Because
I was the person who actually found the body,' he said, 'and because the
hideous crime took place in a property which I designed for your father.' 'That
still does not make it your duty,' she replied. 'Especially as you did not
really know my father very well. His lawyer should have brought the news or
sent someone in his stead. We are very used to receiving messages from Mr
Creech. Father often made contact with us through him.'

'Solomon
Creech would not take on the responsibility.'

'But
it fell to him.'

'He
was shaken by news of the murder. When I told him, he became very agitated. He
more or less refused to send word to you so I took on the office. Nobody else
seemed willing to do so, including my brother, Henry. To be honest, Miss
Northcott...' The scent of perfume drifted into his nostrils again and he
paused momentarily to enjoy it. 'To be honest,' he added, leaning a little
closer, 'I was grateful for the opportunity. I hoped that it would enable me to
learn much more about Sir Ambrose.'

'Why
should you want to do that, Mr Redmayne?'

'Because
I intend to find the man who killed him.'

'Oh!'
she said, blinking in astonishment. 'But surely it is not your task to do so.
You are an architect.'

'I
was
an architect. Until yesterday.'

'Must
you now turn into an avenging angel?'

'There
will be nothing angelic about my vengeance.'

'But
think of the danger. The murderer is a ruthless man.'

'I
am all too aware of that,' said Christopher. 'I witnessed his handiwork. He
must be called to account and I will do everything in my power to catch him.
You have my word.'

The
turquoise eyes roamed freely over his face, ignited by a mixture of admiration
and apprehension. He basked in her frank curiosity. It was oddly exhilarating.

'Take
care, sir,' she said at length.

'I
will, Miss Northcott.'

'Do
you have any clues as to the identity of the killer?'

'None
as yet.'

'Were
you expecting to find some at Priestfield Place?'

'As
a matter of fact, I was.'

'How?'

'I
thought that your mother might at least be able to give me some guidance,' he
admitted. 'Lady Northcott would know the names of her husband's enemies and
details of any bitter arguments in which Sir Ambrose was engaged. Possibly your
father's life has even been threatened in the recent past.'

'If
it had been,' she said softly, 'he would not have confided in Mother. Still
less in me. The truth is that Father was very rarely here long enough to tell
us anything.' She gave a shrug. 'We have not seen him for months.'

'But
he was away from London for almost three weeks.'

'Did
he tell you that he was coming home?'

'No,'
said Christopher, 'but that is what I assumed.'

'We
have all made too many assumptions about my father.'

She
lowered her head and became lost in her thoughts. Penelope was torn between
sorrow at her father's death and regret that she knew so little about the man
who had been cruelly murdered at a new house of whose existence she was quite
unaware. It was embarrassing to make such a confession to a complete stranger.
When she looked up, she tried to mumble an apology but Christopher waved it
away.

'Say
nothing now,' he advised. 'It was wrong of me to expect any help when you and
your mother were still reeling from this dreadful shock. I will trespass on
your feelings no longer,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Let me just add this,
Miss Northcott. If - in due course - either of you does recall something about
Sir Ambrose which might be helpful to me, please send word. A message can reach
me in London.'

'Where?'

'Fetter
Lane. Number seven.'

'Fetter
Lane.'

'Will
you remember that address?'

'Yes,
Mr Redmayne, but I hold out no promises.'

'Any
detail, however minor, could be useful. I need to know about any disputes Sir
Ambrose may have had. Problems with tenants, things of that nature. But not
now. Forget me until... until you are ready.'

'I
will not forget you,' she said, rising to her feet. 'You have been so
considerate to us, sir. And now you tell me that you are trying to solve this
murder on our behalf even if it means putting your own life at risk. I am
profoundly touched and Mother will feel the same when I tell her. You are very
brave, Mr Redmayne.'

'I
am very determined, that is all.'

'Find
him, please.'

'I
will.'

'Find
the man who killed my father.'

'He
will not escape, Miss Northcott.'

She
reached out to squeeze both of his hands in a gesture of gratitude and
Christopher felt another thrill of excitement. Even in her distress, Penelope
Northcott was an entrancing young lady and he had to remind himself that his
interest was wholly misplaced. He was there for one purpose alone. It was time
to go yet somehow he could not move away from her and the wonder of it was that
she seemed to share his reluctance at their parting. He stood there, gazing at
her, searching for words of farewell which simply would not come. Christopher
felt that such a tender moment justified all the effort of riding down to Kent.
The tenderness did not last long.

The
door suddenly opened and a young man came striding in.

'Penelope!'
he said, descending on her. 'I have just heard the news from Lady Northcott.'

'George!'

'You
poor thing!' He enfolded her in his arms. 'What an appalling crime! Someone
will be made to pay for this, mark my words!'

The
arrival of her fiancée unnerved Penelope and she lost her control for a short
while, sobbing into his shoulder. George Strype made soothing sounds and patted
her gently on the back. He was a tall man with long dark hair which fell in
curls to the shoulders of his coat. Though he was moderately handsome, his
costly attire failed to hide the fact that he was running to fat. Christopher
noticed the podgy hands and the nascent double chin. He also experienced a
surge of envy at a man who was entitled to embrace Penelope Northcott so
freely.

George
Strype flung an inhospitable glance at Christopher.

'Who
are you, sir?' he said coldly.

'My
name is Christopher Redmayne.'

'The
messenger, I presume?'

'Oh,
Mr Redmayne is much more than that,' said Penelope.

'Indeed?'
said Strype.

'Yes,
George.'

She
introduced the two men properly then spoke so warmly about the visitor that
Strype interrupted her. Keeping a proprietary arm around her shoulder, he sized
the other man up then gave a contemptuous snort.

'So
you intend to solve a murder, do you?'

Christopher
held his gaze. 'Yes, Mr Strype.'

'How
do you propose to do that?'

'This
is neither the time nor place to discuss it.'

'In
other words, you have no earthly notion where to start.'

'In
other words,' said Christopher, 'this is an occasion of intense sadness for
Miss Northcott and I would not dare to distress her further by talking at
length about her father's murder. It would be unseemly.'

'Thank
you, Mr Redmayne,' she said.

'He
does not deserve your thanks, Penelope.'

'Yes,
he does, George.'

'Why?'

'For
showing such tact.'

'What
use is tact?'

'And
for displaying such courage.'

'There
is nothing courageous in a foolish boast.' 'Mr Redmayne did not boast.'

'He
is raising false hopes, Penelope, and that is a cruelty.'

'Nothing
on earth would induce me to be cruel to your fiancée, sir,' said Christopher
courteously. 'I am sorry that my plans meet with such disapproval from you,
especially as you might be in a position to render me some assistance.
Evidently, I would be misguided if I looked for help from your direction. When
the killer is caught - as he will be - you may yet have the grace to admit that
you were too hasty in your assessment of my character. You may, Mr Strype,
though I suspect that you will not.' He turned to Penelope. 'Please excuse me,
Miss Northcott. I have stayed far too long as it is.'

'No,
Mr Redmayne.'

'Let
him go,' grunted Strype.

'But
the least we can do is to offer our guest refreshment.'

'He
can find that at the nearest inn, Penelope.'

'George!'

'He
is not a guest, Penelope. Merely a messenger.'

'That
is very unkind,' she chided.

'We
need to be alone.'

'I
could not agree with Mr Strype more,' said Christopher, moving to the door. 'I
have discharged my duty as a mere messenger and I must away. It is a long and
tedious ride back to London. Please give my regards to Lady Northcott and tell
her that I hope to meet her in less painful circumstances next time.'

'There
is no need for you to meet her at all,' said Strype.

'You
are probably right.'

'Goodbye,
sir!'

'Goodbye.'

'Wait!'
called Penelope as he turned to go.

Christopher
hesitated but whatever she had meant to say went unspoken. George Strype exuded
such a sense of displeasure that she was visibly cowed and took refuge in his
shoulder once more. Her fiancée enjoyed his minor triumph, stroking her hair
and placing a kiss on the top of her head. He was lavish in his affection. When
he looked up to give himself the satisfaction of dismissing the visitor, he saw
that he was too late. Christopher had already slipped out of the house.

As
he strolled towards the stables, Christopher asked himself why such a lovely
young lady should allow herself to become engaged to such a disagreeable man.
Strype looked ten years older than his fiancée and clearly set in his
attitudes. He had the arrogant manner of someone whose authority was never
challenged. Christopher felt even more pity for Penelope Northcott. At a time
when she most needed sympathy, she was in the hands of George Strype. The man's
arrival did have one advantage. It robbed Christopher himself of all vain interest
in Penelope. She was spoken for and that was that. His mind was liberated to
concentrate on the important task of tracking down the man who killed her
father.

The
stables were at the side of the house but curiosity got the better of him.
Instead of retrieving his horse, he went on to take a look at the garden which
now stretched out before him. It was breathtaking in its sense of order. Neat
rectangular lawns were fringed with colourful borders and dotted with circular
flowerbeds. Trees and shrubs grew in serried ranks. Paths criss-crossed with
geometrical precision and water met the eye in every direction. Gauging the
amount of work which must have gone into its creation and maintenence, he could
only marvel.

Its
most startling feature was sitting on a bench. She blended so perfectly with
her surroundings that at first Christopher did not see her. Lady Frances
Northcott was resting in the shade of an arbour as she looked across to the
willows edging the lake. Where she might have been tense and doleful, she
seemed at that distance to be surprisingly at ease. Christopher could not
resist getting a little closer to make sure that it really was the widow of Sir
Ambrose Northcott. She had borne the news of his murder with extraordinary
composure and Christopher fully expected her to return to him once she had
escorted her daughter to her bedchamber. In the event, it was Penelope who came
back, giving the impression that it was her mother who was so consumed by grief
that she could not face the visitor again.

Lady
Northcott was not consumed with grief now. Christopher crept across a lawn
until he was only ten yards or so away. Concealing himself behind some rhododendrons,
he watched her with fascination for a few minutes. When her head turned briefly
in his direction, giving him a clear view of her face, he was shocked. Instead
of mourning the death of her husband, Lady Frances Northcott had a smile of
contentment on her lips.