The King's Evil (36 page)

Penelope
Northcott knew that he would try again. George Strype was far too conceited a
man to accept rejection lightly. The social consequences would be extremely
painful to him. Stung by her rebuff, he would do everything in his power to
make her reverse her decision before it became public knowledge. To keep him at
bay, she gave instructions that he was not to be admitted to the Westminster
house on any pretext. In the event, he did not even turn up and she began to
feel even safer.

Penelope
felt able one day to venture into the city. She was taken completely by
surprise when she left Mr Creech's office and found her discarded fiancée
waiting for her outside in Lombard Street.

'George!'
she exclaimed.

'You
still deign to talk to me?' he said with a tentative smile.

'Only
to wish you well.'

'Do
I deserve no more from you than that?'

'I
am busy,' she said. 'You will have to excuse me.'

He
was insistent. 'Listen to me, Penelope. I followed you here and I waited for an
hour in the street for you to come out. I am not to be shaken off now.' He
indicated her coach. 'Why do we not continue this conversation in some
privacy?'

'No,
George.'

'Are
we to stand out here like haggling tradesmen?'

'You
may but I will not,' she said. 'Goodbye.'

'Wait!'

'We
have said all that we need to say to each other.'

'Will
you not at least let me apologise properly to you?' he pleaded. 'I spoke out of
turn at your house. It was ungentlemanly. Your censure was justly deserved and
I make no complaint about it. But,' he said earnestly, 'was my behaviour really
so bad as to justify a complete rift? I love you, Penelope. I want to spend the
rest of my life with you. Think of all those plans we made together, all those
ambitions we had. What a terrible waste for you to throw it all away now.'

'I
am not the person who threw it away, George.'

'All
I ask for is a second chance.'

'It
is too late,' she said, opening the door of her coach. He touched her arm.
'Please take your hand off me.'

'Not
until you hear me out.'

'Supposing
I refuse?'

'Penelope!'

'What
will you do - set those ruffians on to me as well?'

'So
that lies behind all this, does it?' he sneered, releasing her arm and stepping
back. 'Redmayne has been telling tales. Well, let me tell you something about
him. Did you know that he has been here to this office to pester the clerk for
details of your father's transactions? He had no right to do that. It is intolerable.
Do you want Sir Ambrose's private affairs to be scrutinised by an interfering
architect?'

'I
have every faith in Mr Redmayne.' 'Is that what you told him when you saw him?'

'He
knew it already,' she said, getting into the coach.

'Next
time you meet him, give him a message from me.'

'I
am not your courier, George.'

'Warn
him, Penelope!' he snarled. 'And take a last look at that pretty face of his
before I redesign his features.'

'How
many bullies will you pay this time?'

'One
person will be enough. Me.'

The
coach rolled off and left him smouldering with rage.

Molly
Mandrake was in her counting house, seated at her desk as she assessed the
takings from the night before. Business had been brisk and money rolled in with
encouraging ease. Every payment was entered in her ledger. Only a small
percentage of the income would go to the girls whose bodies had helped to earn
it. They understood that. In taking them into her service, Molly was their
benefactress. She had rescued them from cruder establishments where disease
and violence could bring an early end to their careers, and she introduced them
to clients from the very pinnacle of society. In her opinion, they should be
paying her for the privileges she had bestowed on them.

There
was a tap on the door and she broke off from her work.

'Come
in!'

The
door opened and the black manservant entered with a letter.

'This
has just arrived for you, Mrs Mandrake,' he said.

'Who
sent it?'

'Henry
Redmayne. The messenger is awaiting your reply.'

'Why?'

When
she read the letter, she understood. Letting out a cry of joy, she reached for
some writing paper.

'Give
this to the messenger at once,' she said, scribbling away with excitement.
'When you have done that, send Damarosa to me.' 'Damarosa?'

'Tell
her that I have some wonderful news for her.'

Sarah
Bale could usually discern the cause of her husband's long silences but this
time she was baffled. As he put on his coat, Jonathan was tense and
preoccupied. She tried once again to initiate a conversation.

'I
will be sorry to see them go,' she said. 'We could have had far worse
neighbours than the Thorpe family, even with his ranting. It is disgraceful
when God-fearing people like them are forced to emigrate.' She clicked her
tongue. 'New England! All that way when they have no idea what they will find
when they get there. It is frightening, Jonathan. I could never face a journey
like that.'

'I
could,' he muttered.

'What
did you say?'

'Nothing.'

'Why
are they leaving? Is there no way to persuade them to stay? Hail-Mary Thorpe is
not a robust woman. How will she survive the long voyage? And think of those
poor children of theirs.' She shook her head. 'They must be desperate to take
such a course as this.' He reached for his hat. 'Do you have no opinion at all
to offer?'

'Not
tonight, Sarah.'

'Why?
What ails you?'

'I
have to go.'

'Where?
Not back into the river, I hope.'

'No.'

'Then
where?'

He
gave her a token kiss. 'I will tell you on my return.'

'Is
it such a big secret? Surely, you can tell me.' She followed him to the door.
'Jonathan, what is going on? You have hardly said a word to me all evening. I
am your wife. What have I done to upset you?'

'Nothing,
Sarah.'

'Then
why are you so morose? Anybody would think that you were walking off to your
own execution. Are you looking forward so little to your duties tonight?'

He
opened the door then turned to look back at her.

'Yes,'
he confessed. 'I am.'

Henry
Redmayne was in his element. He had always wanted to ride in a coach with the
King of England. Wearing his periwig and accoutred in his finery, Henry went
over the arrangements once again.

'I
chose Damarosa for you, Your Majesty,' he said. 'Not simply because she is my
favourite. A voluptuous creature in every particular, I do assure you.
Breathtakingly so. No, the main reason that I specified Damarosa in my letter
was that she has a room on the ground floor. When we enter by the side door,
you can slip into her bedchamber without being seen by anyone else.' He emitted
a high laugh. 'Not that anyone would recognise you because your disguise is too
cunning. I am not sharing a coach with King Charles at all but with Old
Rowley.'

'Quite
so,' said the other.

His
companion used a thumb and forefinger to smooth down his black moustache. A
black periwig hung to his shoulders and obscured much of his swarthy face. Flamboyant
attire had been sacrificed for more homely garments yet there was still a
touch of distinction about him.

'Tell
me about this room again, Henry.'

'As
you wish, Your Majesty.'

'Old
Rowley,' corrected the other.

'How
could I forget?'

Henry
babbled on happily until the coach drew up outside the house in Lincoln's Inn
Fields. When the coachman opened the door for him, Henry alighted and went
across to the house with a swagger. He did not see Jonathan Bale lurking
uncomfortably in the shadows. Knocking at the side door, he waited until Molly
Mandrake herself opened it.

'Is
everything in readiness, Moll?'

'Everything,'
she said, beaming. 'Exactly as you asked.'

'Where
is Damarosa?'

'Waiting
in her room.'

'I
will fetch ...' He checked himself. 'Old Rowley is in the coach.'

Molly's
grin broadened as she watched Henry helping the other passenger out of the
coach. When they went past her, she mumbled a welcome and dropped a curtsey.
The King rewarded her with a gentle squeeze on her arm before he was led down a
corridor by his guide. Henry paused outside a door, knocked sharply and
received a summons to enter from a female voice. He opened the door to usher
his companion in then closed it gently behind him, strolling back to Molly
Mandrake who was watching excitedly from the end of the corridor.

'Let
us leave them to it, Moll.'

'Did
he really ask for Damarosa?'

'At
my suggestion.'

'Why
did you not let
me
entertain him?'

Henry
ogled her. 'Because I save the best for myself.'

Damarosa
was seated in profile on a chair in front of a large mirror, using the glow
from the candles to artful effect. She was a full-figured young woman in a blue
gown which was cut low in the front and which, as the mirror was revealing,
plunged almost to the waist at the back. Still in her early twenties, she
suggested a blend of youth and experience which was titillating. She had a
Mediterranean complexion and cast of feature. Large brown lascivious eyes
sparkled with uncompromising zest. Dark hair hung in ringlets. Diamond earrings
and a magnificent diamond necklace glittered in the candlelight.

When
her guest entered, she rose to curtsey but he waved her back to her seat. He
wanted no acknowledgement of his royalty. Sweeping off his hat, he instead
gave her a complimentary bow.

'Old
Rowley at your service, ma'am.'

'Will
you take wine with me, sir?' she said, indicating the seat opposite her. 'I
think you will find it palatable.'

'I
am sure I shall,' he said, closing one eye and letting the other rove
admiringly over her. 'Damarosa, is that your name?'

'Yes.'

'It
becomes you, my dear.'

She
poured the wine and handed him a glass, raising hers to him in a silent toast
before taking a small sip. He tasted his own wine before setting the glass down
on the table and taking a swift look around the room. It was exactly as it had
been described to him, large, plush, well appointed and possessing a second door.
The four-poster took precedence but the decorated screen also made an arresting
feature. It stood in the far corner, close to the other door. Old Rowley was
very satisfied with his inventory. The only thing which he had not been warned
about was the bewitching perfume which filled the air. Damarosa was fragrance
itself.

'Your
reputation runs before you,' he said.

'Does
it?'

'Oh,
yes, Damarosa. You were highly recommended.'

'I
am flattered.'

'Nothing
less than you would suffice for me.'

'Good,'
she said, smiling over the top of her glass. 'I am delighted to see you here at
last. It is an honour.'

'From
what I hear, it is I who have the honour.'

She
gave a playful giggle. He watched the dimple in her cheek. Damarosa was
slightly nervous and he detected a slight tremble in her hand. He could not
decide if she was in awe of his perceived status or if something else was
making her tense. Picking up his glass, he tried to put her at ease.

'You
will have to teach me, Damarosa.'

'Teach
you?'

'I
am a new pupil on my first visit here,' he said with boyish candour. 'I do not
know what to do and what to say. Tell me, Damarosa. What do the others say?'

'The
others?'

'Guests
who have been fortunate to make your acquaintance already. When you bring them
in here, of what do they speak?'

Another
giggle. 'Themselves.'

'Wild
boasts and foolish promises?'

'Yes,'
she said. 'Most of them like to talk about their work so that I know how
important they are. They want me to know how privileged I am. That is
beforehand, anyway.'

'And
afterwards?'

'It
is very different.'

'In
what way?'

'They
say the nicest things imaginable.'

'I
will remember that.' He pondered. 'Damarosa.'

'Yes?'

'I
do not like the sound of beforehand.'

'Oh?'

'It
is such a waste of time,' he said, reaching out to stroke her hair. 'And I am
certainly not ready for afterwards yet. Why do you not show me what happens in
between the two?'

She
nodded eagerly. After taking a long sip of her wine, she kissed the fingers of
one hand then touched his lips with them before flitting off behind the screen.
He rose from his seat and turned his back, watching in the mirror out of the
corner of his eye and noticing that she opened the other door to slip silently
out. He put his glass down and adjusted his periwig, when he heard a sound
behind him, he realised that his earlier inventory had been incomplete. It had
omitted the third person who had remained in the room with them throughout.

The
man came slowly out from behind the screen and crept towards him with a long
scarf held between his hands. He got within a yard of the King, intending to
slip the scarf around his neck in order to throttle him. But his quarry was
prepared this time. The assassin was not dealing with an unsuspecting companion
in a dark cellar or with a puny lawyer aboard a ship. Before he could slip the
scarf into position, the man was struck by such a powerful blow that he was
knocked off balance and fell to the floor. His victim then flung himself on top
of him and tore the scarf from his grasp. They wrestled furiously. The disguise
could now be abandoned.

Christopher
Redmayne could be himself now, strong, supple and determined. As he straddled
the man's chest, he held him by the wrists and looked down at a livid white
mask.

'I
have been waiting for you to come, my friend,' he said.

'I'll
kill you!' roared the other.

'Who
is paying you this time? Monsieur Bastiat?'

The
man tried to throw him off but Christopher had too firm a purchase on him. His
assailant twisted, turned, bucked and kicked in order to get free, his head
flailing so violently that it beat out a rhythm on the carpet. There was a
snapping sound and the mask suddenly went rolling across the floor, exposing a
face so hideous that Christopher froze momentarily in disgust. It was red, raw
and oozing with malignancy. Skin was peeling readily and he was reminded of the
tiny white flakes he saw near the dead body of Sir Ambrose. It was the final
confirmation of guilt.

The
royal assassin was afflicted with the King's Evil.

Christopher's
pause was a mistake. Taking full advantage of it, the man threw him off, leapt
to his feet and dived behind the screen to grab his walking stick. With a
flash, he had extracted the sword that was concealed inside it. Christopher
acted with speed himself, clambering up and snatching the wine decanter to
throw its contents over the other's face. It produced a cry of fury.
Temporarily blinded, the man lashed out viciously with the sword but
Christopher stepped out of range. When he was able to see properly again, the
assassin was not facing an unarmed King who was completely off guard. He was up
against a resourceful young man who had pulled out a dagger from inside his
boot and who was crouched in readiness.

They
circled each other warily, looking for an opening.

'Who
are
you?' hissed the man.

'A
friend of Sir Ambrose. I have much to thank him for.'

'So
have we,' said the other with a harsh laugh. 'He made it all possible. Sir
Ambrose was a fool. Every man can be led by the pizzle if you find the right
woman and we chose the ideal one for him.'

'Marie
Louise. I met her.'

'She
had him eating out of her hand.'

He
jabbed at Christopher but the thrust was expertly parried.

'Was
it her idea to make him convert?' said Christopher.

'That
was another ruse to buy time. Marie Louise told him that she would never share
his bed until he became a Roman Catholic. Only then would she consent to be his
mistress.'

'Mistress.
Was there no talk of marriage?'

'She
already has a husband.'

'A
husband
?'

'She
is Marie Louise Charentin.'

Christopher
was taken aback. The man saw his chance and jabbed with his sword again.
Christopher stepped to the right but he was too slow this time and his left arm
was caught by the blade. It cut through his coat and opened up a gash. The pain
revitalised him and he went on the attack, stabbing at his adversary with his
dagger and fending off the answering thrusts of the sword. Blood was now
gushing down his left arm but he still had enough strength in it to snatch off
his periwig and hurl it into the man's face. The assassin stumbled backwards,
his sword flailing. Christopher ducked beneath it to strike at the man's
sword-arm with his dagger. As his flesh was pierced to the bone, the man gave a
yell of rage and dropped the weapon.

Kicking
it out of reach, Christopher used the handle of his dagger to club the man to
the floor then dropped on top of him to pound away with his fist. The flaking
skin was soon dripping with blood. Though he fought hard, the man had nothing
like Christopher's manic strength and willpower. A final punch knocked him
senseless and his head lolled. Christopher moved swiftly to bind his hands with
the scarf; he used the bed hangings to secure his prisoner to the four-poster.
It was only then that he slipped off his coat to attend to his wound, stemming the
flow of blood by winding a handkerchief around his arm. Putting on his coat
again, he replaced his periwig, adjusted it in the mirror and stepped out
through the door with regal dignity.

Two
figures watched furtively from the end of the corridor. Molly Mandrake and her
companion were dismayed when they saw the King emerge, apparently unscathed.
The man with Molly was a stranger but Christopher guessed his identity at once.
Henry's description of the Frenchman had been very accurate.

'Monsieur
Charentin?' challenged Christopher.

Gripped
by panic, the man took flight, pushing Molly Mandrake unceremoniously aside and
darting for the side door. He unlocked it and rushed out only to find that he
had gone straight into the arms of Jonathan Bale. There was the briefest of
struggles before the constable overpowered him and held him tight. Christopher
stood in the doorway.

'Well
done, Mr Bale!'

Jonathan
recognised his voice and gaped at him.

'Is
that you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Who
did you think it was?' said Christopher with a grin. 'Be of good cheer, my
friend. You did not have to act as a royal bodyguard, after all. I know that
office would have ruffled your Roundhead feathers.'

'Why
did you not tell me?'

'I
just did, Mr Bale. Hold on to Monsieur Charentin. His accomplice is trussed up
inside. Unmasked at last.'

'You
have caught him?'

'The
murders are finally solved.'

An
agitated Henry came trotting up behind his brother.

'Is
everything in hand, Your Majesty?' he asked deferentially.

'It
is now, Henry.'

'You
should have called me, if you needed help.'

'I
never need help in a lady's bedchamber.'

'Word
somehow leaked out of your presence here,' said Henry, who had clearly been
unable to resist boasting about it. 'Everyone wanted to know how I persuaded
Your Majesty to come here. I was just explaining to Mr Strype the blandishments
I used.'

'Mr
George Strype?'

'The
same.'

Christopher
eased him aside and went straight to the parlour. The black manservant stood
dutifully beside the table, serving food and drink. An ancient guest was being
pampered by a young prostitute. Two other men were bartering for the favours of
a second woman. George Strype was talking airily to Sweet Ellen, guzzling his
wine and boasting loudly about his prowess as a lover. When he saw the stately
figure enter, he at once became subservient. He gave Christopher a deep bow.

'This
is a pleasure, Your Majesty.'

The
uppercut caught him on the chin and sent him sprawling.

'So
was that,' said the other cheerfully.

Strype
rubbed his jaw and looked up in utter bafflement.

'Your
Majesty?'

'Christopher
Redmayne sends his compliments.'