Edward Marston - The Parliament House

'Up there.'

Sir Julius pointed to the upstairs window of the tavern on the opposite side of the street. It was wide open but there was no sign of the killer. Christopher needed only a glance to see that Bernard Everett was dead. Curiosity was bringing more people out of their dwellings. They began to converge on the shop.

'Take him inside,' advised Christopher. 'I'll fetch a constable.'

Before doing so, however, he hoped that he might be able to apprehend the murderer. Dashing across the road, Christopher pushed through the knot of customers around the door and entered the tavern. He went into the taproom and saw the staircase against the far wall. He darted past bemused drinkers before going up the stairs to the first floor, running along a narrow passageway until he came to the last door on the right. Christopher flung it open, only to find that the room was now completely empty. Drizzle was blowing in through the open window. He went quickly across to it and gazed down at the scene below. The corpse was now being carried into the shop, away from the prying eyes of the neighbours. Hester Polegate was patently in great distress at the death of her brother. Susan Cheever had an arm around her as she helped the grieving woman inside.

Christopher went back into the passageway and saw that there was another staircase nearby. It corkscrewed its way to the floor below. Pounding down it, he came into a kitchen where an old woman was stirring something in a pot over the fire. When he popped up in front of her without warning, she turned to him with open-mouthed wonder.

'Did anyone else come through here?' he demanded.

'Yes, sir,' she croaked. 'A gentleman rushed in.'

'When?'

'Not a minute ago.'

'Which way did he leave?'

She pointed a stubby finger. 'That way, sir.'

Christopher opened a door and found himself looking at a row of stables on the other side of a cobbled yard. Nobody was there. One of the stable doors had been left ajar. He ran through a stone archway and into the street beyond, arriving just in time to hear the distant clatter of hooves as a horse galloped down Bennet's Hill towards Thames Street. Christopher caught the merest glimpse of the rider before he turned a corner and vanished from sight. Pursuit was out of the question. The killer had been calculating. He had planned his escape in advance.

Jonathan Bale had just returned home after patrolling the streets of Baynard's Castle Ward and his wife helped him off with his sodden coat. When she hung it on the back of the door, it began to drip on to the kitchen flagstones. Sarah was sympathetic.

'You must be soaked to the skin,' she said.

'A spot of rain never hurt anybody.'

'It was more than a spot, Jonathan. The storm lasted for hours.'

'We hardly noticed it,' said Bale with a shrug. 'One good thing about weather like this – it keeps villains off the streets.'

'It ought to keep you off the streets as well.'

'Don't fret, Sarah.'

He gave her an affectionate squeeze. Bale was a hefty man in his late thirties with a facial ugliness that his loving wife had somehow failed to notice. As one of the constables in the ward, he guarded his territory with paternal care as if its entire population belonged to his own family. His wife, Sarah, was shorter, stouter and had a bustling energy that never seemed to flag. She wished that her husband's devotion to duty were tempered with more caution. Sarah thought him too fearless for his own good. Bale lowered himself heavily on to a chair. Before he could give her an account of his day, however, there was a loud knock at the front door. He started to rise.

'Stay there,' she said, touching his shoulder. 'I'll see who it is.' When she opened the door, Sarah was pleasantly surprised. 'Why, Mr Redmayne!' she cried. 'Whatever are you doing here?'

'I'm hoping to find your husband at home,' said Christopher.

'Yes, I'm here,' called Bale, getting to his feet and coming to the door. 'What can I do for you, Mr Redmayne?'

'At least step in out of the rain,' urged Sarah.

'This is not a social visit, I fear,' explained Christopher. 'I've come to report a serious crime.' He turned to Bale. 'A murder has just been committed in Knightrider Street. You must come at once, Jonathan. I'll give you the details on the way.'

Bale did not hesitate. Going back into the kitchen, he grabbed his coat and put it on again. He thrust his hat on his head then promptly left the house. As he and Christopher walked briskly up Addle Hill, his companion told him what had happened. Bale was alarmed by the news. He and Christopher were old friends. Thrown together in an earlier murder investigation, they had solved more than one crime together and had the highest respect for each other. They were unlikely soul mates. While the architect was a man of Cavalier inclinations, the constable was a dour and implacable Puritan, who firmly believed that the restoration of the monarchy was a grotesque mistake. In the normal course of events, their paths would never even have crossed. Yet whenever they worked together, their essential differences somehow vanished.

Bale listened with interest to all that he was told.

'And you went into the tavern?' he asked.

'Yes, Jonathan. I thought that the man might still be there. But the bird had flown. He obviously had a horse, saddled and waiting.'

'Did you speak to Mrs McCoy?'

'Who?'

'Bridget McCoy. She owns the Saracen's Head.'

'I didn't have time for conversation,' said Christopher. 'As soon as I saw that the killer had fled, I came running to you.'

'I'm glad that I lived so close.'

'So am I. It meant that I knew where to find you.'

They turned into Knightrider Street and saw that a crowd was lingering outside the shop. Bale recognised a number of them. Calling him by name, he sent a boy to summon another constable. He and Christopher then went into the shop. Bernard Everett had been carried into the warehouse at the rear of the building and was laid out on a table. The women had gone upstairs but Sir Julius Cheever and Francis Polegate were standing beside the corpse, still shaken by the incident. An hour before, Everett had been a welcome guest in the house, a happy man on the brink of entering parliament. He was now a murder victim.

There was no need to introduce Bale to Sir Julius. They had met before in similar circumstances when the constable had been involved in the search for another killer, the man responsible for the death of Gabriel Cheever, the estranged son of Sir Julius. They had soon discovered a bond between them. Like Sir Julius – or, for that matter, the deceased – Jonathan Bale had borne arms at the battle of Worcester. Unlike the unfortunate Bernard Everett, he had come through it all unscathed.

'Good to see you again, Bale,' said Sir Julius, gruffly. 'We need your help. This is Mr Polegate,' he added, indicating the vintner. 'The victim is his brother-in-law.'

'So I hear,' said Bale.

'This is an appalling crime,' said Polegate, wringing his hands. 'My wife is distraught. Bernard was her only brother.' He shook his head.

'Perhaps you could describe exactly what occurred, sir.'

'I'm the best witness,' insisted Sir Julius. 'I was standing beside him when he was shot down. I actually saw the rogue at the window.'

'What else did you see?'

Sir Julius went on to give a highly emotional account of the crime and it was supplemented by a few comments from Polegate. Bale weighed all the facts at his disposal before speaking.

'You say that the weapon was a musket, Sir Julius?'

'True,' confirmed the other.

'Did you actually see it?'

'No – it all happened so quickly.'

'Then how can you be certain it was a musket?'

'By the sound, of course,' said Sir Julius, testily. 'I know the difference between a pistol shot and musket fire. I hear the latter far too often on my estate,' he grumbled. 'I'm plagued by poachers.'