The Parliament House (21 page)

    'Henry does not have improper thoughts.'

    'Judging by those paintings, he never has any other kind.'

    'His father is the dean of Gloucester Cathedral.'

    'I discerned no ecclesiastical leanings in his elder son.'

    'Lancelot,' she said, stamping a foot, 'I cannot help you if you will not be helped. Knowing the right people is everything.'

    'My suspicion is that Henry Redmayne knows all the wrong ones.'

    Brilliana gasped. 'What has possessed you?'

    'I'm sorry, my dear. I know that you mean well but I think that there are other ways to fulfil my ambitions. Dangling the person I love as tempting bait in front of another man is not one of them, especially when the man in question is Mr Henry Redmayne.'

    She stared at him with a mixture of annoyance and admiration, piqued that he should deny her a role in his political advancement yet stirred by the boldness with which he had spoken. Brilliana did not know how to respond. The need to do so was removed by the arrival of Susan.

    'Ah, there you are,' she said. 'Am I interrupting anything?'

    'Yes,' replied Serle.

    'No,' overruled his wife, putting a hand on his knee. 'Lancelot and I were engaged in idle gossip, nothing more. Do join us, Susan.' Her sister held her straw hat as she ducked under the arbour. 'You look as if you've brought news.'

    'I have,' said Susan, taking a seat beside her. 'A message has come from Father. He's called on Mrs Kitson again.'

    'I thought that he went straight to the Parliament House.'

    'He could not resist going to Covent Garden first, even though it took him right out of his way. His message is simple. We are to expect Mrs Kitson this evening.'

    'Splendid!' said Brilliana, clapping her hands.

    'And it seems that her brother will be coming as well.'

    'Her brother?'

    'Mr Golland. He's a justice of the peace.'

    'I've always wanted to sit on the bench,' said Serle, alerted by the news. 'I look forward to meeting him.'

    'We must not let Father down,' warned Brilliana. 'We must be on our best behaviour. Her brother as well, you say? It sounds as if it will be quite a party. Listen, Susan,' she said, artlessly, 'perhaps you should invite Christopher to join us.'

    'I think not,' said Susan, 'this is a family affair.'

    'Well, he is practically one of the family.'

    'Not yet, Brilliana.'

    'But he's such a presentable young man and would add some interest for Mrs Kitson. And I have an even better idea,' she continued. 'Since we are enlarging our number, why not add one more and include Christopher's brother as well? I should like to meet Henry again.'

    Henry Redmayne could not get her out of his mind. Though he appeared to be working at the Navy Office that morning, his thoughts were with Brilliana Serle and that bewitching smile she had given him as they parted. She had come into his life at an opportune moment. Spurned by one wife, he had met the ideal replacement. She was womanhood in all its glory and he coveted her madly. There was the small problem of her husband but Henry had had great experience in circumventing spouses. No obstacle would be allowed to stand in the way that led to paradise.

    Bent over his desk, he was lost in contemplation of Brilliana Serle when a voice broke into his reverie. Henry looked up at Maurice Farwell.

    'Mr Farwell,' he said, leaping obediently to his feet. 'Good day to you, sir. This is an unexpected pleasure. It's not often that you stray this far from parliament.'

    'I've come for ammunition, Mr Redmayne.'

    'We do not keep any cannonballs here.'

    'I know,' said Farwell with a quiet smile. 'That's not the kind of ammunition I had in mind. We are to debate naval procurements this afternoon, and I need to have the relevant details at my fingertips. I'm told that you could provide them.'

    'Why, yes,' said Henry, burrowing among the papers that littered his desk. 'I have everything you need here. You've been such a friend to us in the past that you can always count on our help.' His hand closed on some documents. 'This is what you require, I believe.'

    Farwell took the documents. 'Thank you,' he said, perusing them.

    'You may borrow them, if you wish.'

    'There's no need, Mr Redmayne. I have an excellent memory and it always impresses the house if one can speak without notes. Yes,' he went on, nodding in appreciation as he read on. 'These facts and figures are quite unanswerable.' He turned to the second page and scanned it with a sharp eye. When he had read the last page, he was content. 'With these at my disposal, I'll be able to bring Sir Julius crashing down.'

    'Sir Julius Cheever?'

    'That's the fellow - though I fancy that he prefers to see himself as another Julius Caesar. He's a stubborn Roundhead yet he has strangely imperial ambitions.' Farwell gave the documents back to him. 'Someone should remind him what happened to Caesar.'

    'Do you see much of Sir Julius in parliament?'

    'Far too much. I do not mind lively debate - it's the essence of our democracy - but I do draw the line at personal invective. Respect for one's political opponents is important, I feel. When the business of the day is done, we should be able to shake hands and act as gentlemen.'

    'I cannot imagine Sir Julius shaking hands with a government minister,' said Henry. 'He would sooner amputate his whole arm.'

    'It makes for so much unnecessary hostility.'

    Henry did not know him well but he had followed Farwell's career with interest. The man's rise had been swift and sure. Unlike most successful politicians, he seemed to have held himself aloof from the cabals and conspiracies that animated the Parliament House. Maurice Farwell was above such things. Henry had never once heard his name connected with skullduggery or corruption.

    'In some ways,' admitted Farwell, 'I admire him. We need men of Sir Julius's calibre. He has a simple integrity that shines like a candle in the darkness. But he does not, alas, treat us with any regard,' he said. 'Full-throated abuse is all that we hear. And there is such a ring of defiance about him. He still seems to think that the Lord Protector will walk into the chamber at any moment.'

    'Cromwell is dead - thank goodness! Those dark days are over.'

    'You would not think so to listen to Sir Julius.'

    'He has supporters, I hear.'

    'A ragbag of hangers-on. Nobody of any standing follows him. Though he could have counted on Bernard Everett,' he conceded. 'Now,
he
would have been a much more formidable opponent. His death was untimely. By repute, he was a master of debate. I would have enjoyed locking horns with Mr Everett.'

    'My brother is involved in the pursuit of his killer.'

    'Indeed? More power to his elbow.'

    'Christopher was the architect who designed Sir Julius's house.'

    'Then he earned his fee,' said Farwell, approvingly. 'I've seen the place. It's a fine piece of architecture.' He lowered his voice. 'I trust that your brother does not share his client's political opinions?'

    'He finds them repellent.'

    'Too strong a word - Sir Julius is misguided, that is all.'

    'Christopher tells me that he has mellowed slightly of late.'

    'We saw no sign of it in parliament yesterday. He was as bellicose as ever. A debate is always another battlefield to him. However,' he added with a chuckle, 'I do believe that there's been something of a change in his private life and I, unwittingly, was the cause of it.'

    'Are you referring to Mrs Kitson?'

    'You've heard about the attachment?'

    'One of his daughters told me about it. I was thunderstruck. It's hard to think of a more eccentric liaison.'

    'My wife more or less prophesied it,' said Farwell, proudly. 'Adele warned me some time ago that Dorothy Kitson was ready to consider marriage once more and - lo and behold - along comes Sir Julius.'

    'I pity the poor lady.'

    'There's obviously a mutual attraction of some kind.'

    'Sir Julius has the appeal of a gargoyle.'

    'I disagree. Some might consider him to have a rugged charm. And I'm told that he has two very beautiful daughters.'

    Henry pounced on his cue. 'No, Mr Farwell,' he said, beaming, 'I dispute that. One is beautiful but the other is quite exquisite.'

    'Clearly, you know them both.'

    'Not as well as I would wish.'

    'Do they take after their father?'

    'Happily - no.'

    'It looks as if they may soon acquire a stepmother,' said Farwell, 'and I give my wholehearted blessing to the match. Dorothy Kitson is a delightful person. If anyone can tame Sir Julius, then it is she. He might yet be redeemed by the love of a good woman.'

    Jonathan Bale was an indifferent horseman and the ride was a trial for him. Conscious of his friends discomfort, Christopher Redmayne took them along at a steady trot. A canter would have troubled the constable. A hell-for-leather gallop would have hurled him from the saddle of the borrowed animal. After speaking with Bridget McCoy at the Saracens Head, the two men were on their way to Smithfield. Both she and her son were ready to go with them but Christopher declined the offer. Patrick needed rest and the sight of his mother would only put their quarry to flight again. With the drawing of the killer in his pocket, and with the certainty that the man worked as a Smithfield porter, Christopher felt that they had enough information to run him to ground themselves.

    'You are handling the mare well, Jonathan,' he said.

    'I'd rather not handle her at all.'

    'It's the quickest way to get to Smithfield.'

    'I'd sooner crawl there on my hands and knees,' said Bale, holding on to the reins as if his life depended on it. 'It feels so unsafe up here.'

    'You'll get used to it.'

    Covering over ten acres, Smithfield had been the city's largest meat market for centuries. It was famed for its turbulence and as the site of many executions. Smithfield was the home of the annual Bartholomew Fair, an occasion for unbridled rowdiness and debauchery. So notorious was it as a place of fighting and duelling that it was known as Ruffians Hall. In an attempt to impose a degree of order, the area had been paved and provided with sewers and railings, but old habits died hard. It was still pulsing with danger.

    Christopher and Bale became aware of it long before it came into view. Slaughtermen had been working in earnest and the stink of blood and offal was carried on the light breeze. It made them both retch. The noise, too, came out to meet them. Crazed cattle, sheep and pigs set up a constant din as they scuttled here and there in a vain attempt to avoid their grisly fate. When the riders got to Smithfield itself, the stench was indescribable. Everywhere they looked, axes were being swung and doomed animals were sending their last cries of protest up to heaven.

    It was no place for the faint-hearted or for the unwary. As soon as they dismounted, the first thing that Christopher did was to employ a young boy to look after their horses, promising to pay him when they returned so that they could guarantee he would still be there. A ghastly scene confronted them. Blood-soaked men were loading meat into carts. A fresh supply of cattle was just arriving. A barking dog was chasing some sheep. A mischievous drover, much the worse for drink, let loose a large bull and it rampaged around the market, scattering all and sundry, before disappearing into one of the shops to cause even more havoc. It was a typical day at Smithfield.

    They talked to anyone who hired porters. A description was given, the drawing was shown and Christopher hinted at a reward for any help. Their efforts brought little result at first. People either did not recognise the man or protected him out of a false loyalty. It took them an hour before they finally found someone willing to assist them. He was a squat individual with a porcine face and thick forearms. After staring at Bridget McCoy’s art for some time, he gave a nod.

    'Yes, I know him,' he said. 'Dan Crothers.'

    'Are you certain of that?' asked Bale.

    'I should be. He works for me.'

    'Is he here now?'

    'No,' said the man. 'He disappeared. Dan's like that.'

    'Could he have been in Leadenhall Market earlier on?'

    'That's where I sent him with the cart. He had meat to deliver. Dan brought the cart back then vanished.'

    'Has he always worked here?' said Christopher.

    'On and off.'

    'Was he ever in the army?'

    'Yes, sir. Eight years, he served.'

    'So he'd be used to handling weapons?'

    'Sword, dagger, pistol, musket - Dan knows them all.'