The King's Evil (31 page)

Molly
Mandrake was more than just a notorious whore. She was an excellent
businesswoman who ran her establishment efficiently and profitably. Attention
to detail was her guiding principle. Before any of her guests arrived that evening,
she made a tour of the house to inspect every room and to issue instructions.
None of the whores was allowed to meet any clients until Molly had scrutinised
each woman and made slight adjustments to her hair or her attire. Cosmetics and
perfume had to be used with great subtlety before she would approve.

When
the first coach arrived, Molly Mandrake stood at the door to welcome the two
gentlemen who sauntered in and to collect their fulsome compliments about her
own appearance. She was a shapely woman of medium height with a vitality which
shone out of her like sunlight. Her silk gown was emerald green in colour, its
close-fitting boned bodice dipping to a deep point in front to suggest a
slimmer waist than she actually possessed. The neckline was low cut in a
rounded shape which encircled the
decolletage
and bared her shoulders. Huge
breasts all but escaped their moorings, the left one bearing a beauty spot
which matched another high on her left cheek. The handsome face consisted of
one big smile, the teeth white, the lips sensuous, the nose attractively
upturned and the brown eyes awash with roguish delight. She favoured a
coiffure a la ninon
with hair pushed back from the face and bunched
curls on each side of her head, falling in ringlets to her shoulders.

'Why,
Mr Redmayne!' she said with a warm grin. 'How agreeable to see you once again,
sir! And who have you brought along with you?'

'This
is my brother, Molly.'

'Two
Redmaynes in one night. We are honoured. Your name, sir?'

'Christopher,'
he said with a polite smile. 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs
Mandrake. Henry has told me much about you.'

'I
wish that he had mentioned you before now,' she said, running a practised eye
over him. 'You are a proper man, young sir. Do come in.'

She
took Christopher's arm as he passed and gave it a meaningful squeeze. Dressed
in his most fashionable apparel, he did his best to appear relaxed and
sophisticated but there was an immediacy about Molly Mandrake's charms which
was almost overwhelming. She took the two of them through into a large room
with a round table at its centre. Set out on the table were decanters of wine
and goblets made of Venetian glass. A selection of salted meats was carefully
displayed on a series of oval dishes. A black manservant was in attendance,
wearing dark blue livery with gold buttons. He bowed to the newcomers and
handed them goblets of wine. Their hostess ushered them across to some
upholstered chairs in a corner and chatted for a few minutes until the sound of
the doorbell drew her away.

Christopher
sipped his wine and looked around the room. A few other guests were present,
seated against the far wall and vying for the attention of a tall, stately
young woman with fair hair which brushed her alabaster shoulders. Henry identified
her with an obscene comment which his brother chose to ignore. The room was
elegant and well-appointed but what Christopher admired was the clever
positioning of the candelabra. Subdued light created a feeling of intimacy. He
watched the fair-haired woman opposite. Like trained actresses, both she and
Molly Mandrake knew exactly where to stand in relation to the flames in order
to show themselves off to best advantage.

The
wine was rich and Henry's glass was soon empty. Without waiting for it to be refilled,
he went off to intercept a buxom woman who had just sailed into the room
wearing Egyptian costume. Christopher was not left alone for long. Having
guided the newcomers to the table, Mrs Mandrake beckoned someone from the
shadows then led her by the hand towards Christopher. He rose politely from his
chair.

'I
would like you to meet Sweet Ellen,' she said with a knowing smile. 'She is
worth five guineas of any man's money.'

The
doorbell rang again and she wafted out of the room. Sweet Ellen eased Christopher
back into his seat and nestled beside him. Her manner was at once familiar and
reserved. Christopher could see why she had been chosen for him. Sweet Ellen
was younger and more slender than any of the women he had so far seen. There
was nothing gross or threatening about her. Framed in auburn hair, her face had
a kind of demure beauty. Christopher was fleetingly reminded of Marie Louise
Oilier. While his companion interrogated him gently, Christopher saw the
manservant pour more wine liberally into his goblet. Sweet Ellen probed on.
When she learned Christopher's name, she giggled and cast an affectionate
glance across at his brother.

'Why
have we not seen you here before?' she asked.

'It
was a terrible oversight on my part.'

'I
hope that you will visit us again often.'

'I
have every intention of doing so,' he lied.

'Are
you enjoying our company?'

'Very
much.'

'Do
you work at the Navy Office with your brother?'

'No,
Ellen.'

'What
is your profession?'

'I
am an architect.'

'Ah!'
She was impressed. 'You design houses and churches?'

'Whatever
I am commissioned to do.'

'Then
you have an eye for fine buildings,' she said, putting a hand on his wrist.
'What do you think of this house, Mr Redmayne?'

'Most
elegant. I would love to see more of it.'

'Then
you shall, sir.'

With
a little laugh, she got to her feet and led him across the room, collecting an
approving nod from Molly Mandrake, who was arm in arm with the latest arrival.
Sweet Ellen flitted along on her toes and showed Christopher all the rooms on
the ground floor with the exception of the kitchen. She paused at the bottom of
the staircase and simpered.

'Would
you like to see where I sleep?'

'Very
much.'

'Then
I will show you.'

As
she took him upstairs, she squeezed his hand and rubbed her naked shoulder
softly against him. He took a long sip of his wine.

'How
long have you been in the house, Ellen?'

'Long
enough, sir.'

She
simpered again and guided him along the landing. Some of the bedchambers were
clearly occupied and telltale noises came through the doors. Raucous laughter
from inside one was followed by urgent grunts from inside the next. Sweet Ellen
turned down a corridor then opened the door at the end of it. Christopher was
swept into a small, neat room which was dominated by a four-poster and lit by a
candelabrum. A heady perfume invaded his nostrils. When the door was shut
behind them, he heard the key turned in the lock.

'Do
you like my little apartment, sir?' she asked coyly.

'It
is perfect.'

'Are
you glad that your brother brought you here tonight?'

'Yes,'
he said, 'but it was a friend who recommended the house.'

'A
friend?'

'Monsieur
Charentin. Do you know Jean-Paul?'

'Oh,
yes, of course. I always enjoy it when he visits us. Jean-Paul is a most
generous man. But tell me more about yourself, Mr Redmayne,' she said, easing
him down on a chair. 'You are an architect, you say. A house in London is
always expensive to build. You must work for some very wealthy men.'

'When
I have the opportunity.'

'Where
do you meet them?'

'Chiefly
in the coffee houses.'

'And
at Court, perhaps?' she enquired.

'Naturally,'
he said. 'Henry takes me there.'

Her
face ignited. 'Have you ever met His Majesty?'

'Well,
yes. In a manner of speaking.'

'Tell
me about him.'

Sweet
Ellen seemed inordinately interested in the King and his circle and her
questions poured out. Christopher obliged her with ready answers, giving the
impression that he was a seasoned courtier with access to the royal ear. He
also took care to find out as much as he could about the running of the establishment.
As they talked, Sweet Ellen slipped behind a screen in the corner of the room
and spoke from behind it. Christopher was so caught up in their conversation
that he did not realise what she was doing. When she reappeared wearing nothing
but a petticoat, he almost choked on the wine he had just drunk.

She
rushed forward solicitously to pat him on the back.

'Oh,
you poor man!' she soothed. 'Are you all right, sir?'

'No,'
he said, seeing the polite way to escape. 'I am unwell.'

'Let
me nurse you. Come and lie on the bed.'

'Not
now, Ellen. I fear I shall disgrace myself.'

He
clutched his stomach with both hands and went off into such a frenzy of
coughing that she backed away from him. Taking some coins from his purse, he
tossed them on the bed, gestured his apologies then unlocked the door to leave.
When he got downstairs, he made his way to the side door so that he could slip
away unobtrusively. Christopher was glad that he had come on foot. A bracing
walk would help to clear his head and allow him to assimilate all that he had
learned from Sweet Ellen. She had been a most helpful tutor but there was a
critical point beyond which he could not allow her lesson to go. He tried to
work out why she had reminded him of Marie Louise Oilier.

A
busy mind and a long stride combined to get him back to Fetter Lane before he
realised it and he was astonished when his house came into sight. He got no
closer to it. Two figures suddenly emerged from the shadows to attack him with
cudgels. Before he could defend himself, he was felled by a blow to the head
then beaten and kicked by both men. Curling into a ball, he brought his arms up
over his head to ward off the worst of the attack but it ceased as abruptly as
it had started. Someone came running over the cobbles to hurl one man aside and
to deprive the second of his cudgel. Before he could inflict injury on them, a
peremptory voice came out of the darkness.

'Leave
him be! We have taught him a lesson!'

The
two attackers ran gratefully from the scene and their master went after them on
his horse. Jonathan Bale watched them go then reached down to help Christopher
up from the ground.

'Are
you hurt badly, sir?'

'No,'
said Christopher, still slightly dazed. 'But my pride is.'

'I
warned you that you needed a bodyguard. It is just as well that I followed you
from Lincoln's Inn Fields or you might be lying dead.'

'No,
Mr Bale. They were not paid to kill me.'

'How
do you know?'

'I
recognised the voice which gave the order.'

'Who
was it?'

'A
man with a score to settle. George Strype.'