Edward Marston - The Parliament House

'The shot seems to have been very accurate,' noted Bale, glancing down at the wound in Everett's forehead. 'To hit his target from that distance, he must have been something of a marksman.'

'A trained soldier, perhaps?' Christopher wondered.

'A hired killer with a black heart,' said Sir Julius.

'But why should he have shot Mr Everett?' asked Bale, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 'And something else puzzles me. How could he be certain that the gentleman would be here?'

'I can answer that,' said Polegate. 'It was no secret that the shop was to open for business today. There's been a sign in the window for weeks. We had a party to celebrate.'

'But how did the killer know that Mr Everett would be present?'

'He's my brother-in-law. Bernard was going to stay with us.'

'That information was private,' argued Christopher. 'Nobody outside the family could possibly have been aware of it.'

'Someone was.'

'Yes,' agreed Sir Julius, 'and he lay in wait at that window until Bernard finally made his appearance. Speak to the landlord, Bale. He'll be able to tell you who rented that room.'

'The Saracen's Head is run by a woman,' said Bale, 'and I'll talk to Mrs McCoy in due course. But I'd like to establish a motive first. Can you think of anyone with a grudge against Mr Everett?'

'No,' replied Polegate. 'Bernard had no enemies that I know of.'

'What about you, Mr Polegate?'

'Me?'

'Do you have any serious rivals?'

'Naturally. I face the heaviest competition in my trade.'

'Would any of your competitors stoop to this kind of thing?' asked Bale. 'It does seem an odd coincidence that it happened on the day that you opened your new premises. What better way to hamper your business than to leave a dead body on your doorstep? It's a bad omen.'

'I never thought of it that way,' confessed Polegate.

'The notion is certainly worth considering,' said Christopher.

Sir Julius was impatient. 'It's a mere distraction,' he asserted. 'I know why Bernard Everett was shot, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with the opening of the shop. Bernard was a man of strong convictions and he was about to bring them to bear on the Parliament House. The moment one enters politics – as I learned myself – one makes a host of vicious, merciless, unseen enemies. That's why a decent man was murdered in the street today. He was a victim of political intrigue.'

There was a tap on the door and Tom Warburton, the constable who had been sent for, entered with his dog trotting at his heels. Tall, stringy and weasel-faced, he was much older than Bale but had nothing of his authority. Whisking off his hat, he nodded to everyone present then stared wide-eyed at the corpse.

'Who's that, Jonathan?' he said.

'Mr Everett,' returned the other. 'We need to take him to the coroner, then we must seek a grant of hue and cry. A heinous crime has been committed under our noses, Tom, and we must solve it quickly.'

'There'll be a reward if you do that,' volunteered Polegate.

'I'll double it,' promised Sir Julius. 'As for the body, it can be conveyed in my coach. But, first, disperse that collection of ghouls outside. Respect for the dead is the least that we can ask.'

Christopher watched while the constables did as they were told. He then helped to carry the body out and lay it gently on the floor of the coach. Before clambering into the vehicle himself, Sir Julius ordered his coachman to drive very slowly to their destination. Bale and Warburton plodded side by side in its wake but the dog scampered irreverently between the wheels, blithely unconcerned with the solemnity of the procession. The rain had finally stopped. It was scant consolation.

Anxious to see Susan again, Christopher reasoned that she would be preoccupied with comforting Hester Polegate over the loss of her brother. It would be wrong to intrude. In any case, Christopher wanted to assist the murder inquiry and he could think of one obvious way that he might do that. Retrieving his horse, he hauled himself up into the saddle and trotted away. The crime had cast a dark shadow over the house he had designed. Until it was solved, he would never be able to look at the building with real satisfaction again.

Henry Redmayne was in a bad mood. His superior at the Navy Office had chastised him at length that morning. His physician had told him to drink far less and exercise far more. His tailor had failed to deliver his new suit on time. And – compounding his misery – the young lady whom Henry had been courting so sedulously for weeks had succumbed to an attack of marital fidelity, spurning his advances in the most hurtful way before returning to the arms of her undeserving husband. Henry was thoroughly piqued. The servants at his house in Bedford Street had the sense to keep well out of his way.

He was still nursing his wounds when his brother arrived. Draped across a couch, Henry did not even get up when Christopher was shown into the room. A sigh of discontent was all that he could rise to by way of a welcome. Christopher identified the telltale signs at once.

'Who is the lady this time, Henry?' he asked, wearily.

'I would not soil my tongue by naming her.'

'Yet you pursued her with your usual tenacity, I daresay.'

'Sheer folly on my part,' said Henry. 'I should have known better than to choose such an unworthy creature. She was utterly beneath me. And since she refuses to be beneath me in a bedchamber, I am liberated from an attachment that could only have tarnished my reputation.'

'It's tarnished enough already by now.'

Henry sat up. 'I expect sympathy from my brother, not mockery.'

'Then leave off this show of self-pity,' said Christopher.

'Is that all you have to say to me?'

'No, I've come in search of a favour.'

'Then search elsewhere!'

Arms folded, the elder brother turned petulantly away. Only a few years separated them but Henry looked much older. Dissipation had added untold years to his age, hollowing his cheeks and leaving dark pouches beneath his eyes. His face had a deathly pallor and, since he had cast his periwig aside, his balding pate completed the destruction of what had once been handsome features. Ostentatious by nature, Henry could still cut a dash when dressed in his finery and puffed up with an aristocratic arrogance. Now, however, he looked like a rag doll cast aside by an indifferent child. Christopher sat beside him and gave him a compassionate pat on the knee. All that he got in return was a glare of hostility.

'Come now, Henry,' he encouraged. 'Whatever your tribulations, you must rise above them. Display the true Redmayne spirit.'

'I've forgotten what that is, Christopher.'

'Perseverance is our watchword.'

'Bah!'

'Imagine what our father would do in the same circumstances.'

Henry let out a wild laugh. 'Our father?' he exclaimed. 'I don't think that the old gentleman could ever have been in such a position as I find myself. The Church of England would be rocked to its foundations if it learned that one of its holiest prelates had been pursuing a married woman with the ardour that I've shown this past month. The kind of impassioned language that I've been using to her would not be found in the Book of Common Prayer, I assure you. Father is a saint. He would never dare to stray from the strait and narrow. I – thank heaven – have never been in the slightest danger of finding it.'

'Perhaps the time has come for you to mend your ways.'

'Unthinkable!'

Henry was defiant. Blessed with a sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed a handsome allowance from their father. The pious dean of Gloucester cathedral, a man of private wealth and high moral principle, did not realise that he was supporting an existence that was freely dedicated to every vice in the city. Christopher Redmayne was a conscientious architect, striving to make his mark. Henry, by contrast, was a confirmed rake. Yet he could sometimes be useful to his younger brother. Moving in court circles, and befriended by those sharing his decadent tastes, Henry knew almost everyone of consequence in London.