Edward Marston - The Parliament House

'What's this about help, Christopher?' he asked. 'If you've come in search of money, I've none to lend you. As a matter of fact, I'd like to borrow some from you – just enough to keep penury at bay.'

'You've not repaid the last loan I gave you.'

'Brothers are brothers. Let's have no talk of "loans". We share and share alike. My purse is ever open to you.'

'Only so that I can fill it yet again,' said Christopher, wryly. 'But enough of that – I'm here on more serious business. A foul murder occurred earlier on. I was there at the time.'

As he listened to the description of events in Knightrider Street, Henry was torn between interest and derision. When the name of Sir Julius Cheever was mentioned, he curled his lip.

'Sir Julius!' he said with a sneer. 'The fellow is nothing but an ignorant farmer who got his knighthood from that vile monster, Oliver Cromwell. If it were left to me, such freaks would be stripped of their titles forthwith. They were illegally bestowed.'

Christopher did not rise to the argument. There was no point in antagonising Henry by challenging his opinions. To get any assistance from him, his brother had to be wooed, and that meant showing tolerance in the face of his many prejudices. Christopher was patient.

'How is Sir Julius viewed in the Parliament House?' he asked.

'With appropriate disgust.'

'I'm told that he is a forceful speaker.'

'Empty vessels make the most noise.'

'What of Bernard Everett?'

'The name is new to me,' said Henry, disdainfully, 'but, if he is another renegade from Cambridgeshire, I'll not shed a tear for him. We've had trouble enough from that part of England.'

'Others in the Parliament House might think the same.'

'They'd not have welcomed a friend of Sir Julius Cheever.'

'Why not?'

'Because he'd have shared the same damnable republican views. Parliament is a jungle,' said Henry, warming to his theme. 'It's full of conniving groups, factions, clubs and temporary alliances. There's a party that supports the King, another that favours his brother, the Duke of York, and a third from the country that opposes both with equal vehemence.'

'Sir Julius will belong to the country party, then.'

'It is not as simple as that, Christopher. Within each party are many smaller groups whose loyalties are constantly shifting. Look what happened to our once-revered Chancellor,' he went on. 'The Earl of Clarendon wielded enormous power until the Members of Parliament joined together in a ravenous wolf pack and tore him to shreds. By God – he's the Duke of York's father- in-law but even that did not save him.'

'I know,' said Christopher. 'Clarendon was not only impeached, he was exiled from the kingdom. His fall from grace was absolute.'

'Sir Julius Cheever was one of the wolves who brought it about.'

'He could never admire such a staunch Royalist.'

'There are still plenty of those to be found,' affirmed Henry, moved by patriotic impulse, 'and I am one of them. So, I trust, are you.'

'Of course,' said Christopher, readily. 'At the Restoration, I threw my hat as high in the air as anyone. I owe full obedience to the Crown.'

'Then why do you consort with those who would overthrow it?'

'Oh, I think that Sir Julius is reconciled to the idea of monarchy.'

'That's not what I hear.'

'Indeed?'

'He and his confederates are plotting rebellion.'

'Surely not.'

'Sir Julius has gathered other firebrands around him.'

'Bernard Everett was no firebrand – I met him, Henry. I took him to be a most amenable gentleman.'

'What you met was his public face, the one he wore to beguile and deceive. In private, I venture to suggest,' said Henry, raising a finger, 'he was a fellow of a very different stripe. Everett was another skulking Roundhead and it cost him his life. Look no further for an explanation of his murder, Christopher. I can tell you exactly why he was killed.'

'Can you?'

'He had been recruited by Sir Julius Cheever to depose the King.'

Jonathan Bale was familiar with all the taverns and ordinaries in his ward. Much of the petty crime with which he had to deal came from such places. Peaceful citizens turned into roaring demons when too much drink was taken. Law-abiding men could be seized with the desire to wreak havoc. Bale had lost count of the number of tavern brawls he had broken up over the years, or the number of violent drunkards, male and female, he had arrested. The Saracen's Head in Knightrider Street caused less trouble than most. It permitted none of the games of chance that bedevilled other establishments, and prostitutes were not allowed to ply their trade there.

Bridget McCoy kept a very watchful eye on her premises.

'When did he arrive here, Mrs McCoy?'

'This morning.'

'What did he say?' asked Bale.

'He wanted a room for one night that overlooked the street.'

'Knightrider Street, you mean?'

'Yes, Mr Bale, even though our best room is on Bennet's Hill.'

'Did you tell him that?'

'Of course.'

'But he still chose the other room. Did he say why?'

'I didn't ask,' said Bridget. 'When someone wishes to lodge here, I try to give them what they want. It's a small room but I keep it very clean. He said that it would be ideal for him and he paid me there and then.' She bit her lip. 'I hate to think that I was helping him to commit a murder. He seemed such a quiet man.'

Bridget McCoy had been outraged that her tavern had been used as a vantage point by a ruthless killer. There were occasional scuffles among her customers and pickpockets had been known to drift in from time to time, but the Saracen's Head had never been tainted by a serious crime before. It upset her. She was a short, compact Irishwoman with a surging bosom that made her seem much bigger than she really was, and a tongue sharp enough to cut through timber. Talking to the constable, she had a soft, melodious, Irish lilt. Raised in anger, however, the voice of Bridget McCoy, hardened by years in the trade and seasoned with the ripest language, could quell any affray.

'Did he tell you his name, Mrs McCoy?'

'Field. His name was Mr Field.'

'No Christian name?'

'He gave none.'

'How would you describe him?'

'He was a big man, Mr Bale, with something of your build. Older than you, I'd say, and with a broken nose. But it was a pleasant face,' she added, 'or so I thought. And I spend every day looking into the faces of strangers. Mr Field had a kind smile.'

'He showed his victim no kindness,' remarked Bale, sharply.

'How much did you see of him?'

'Very little. Once I showed him to his room, he stayed there.'

'Biding his time.'

'How was I to know that?' she said, defensively. 'If I'd understood what business he was about – God help me – I'd never have let him set foot over the threshold. The Saracen's Head has high standards.'

'You were not to blame, Mrs McCoy.'

'I feel that I was.'

'How?'

'By letting that devil take a room here.'

'That's your livelihood. Customers rent accommodation. Once they hire a room, you are not responsible for what they do in it.'

'I am, if they break the law,' she said with a grimace. 'I should have sensed that something was amiss, Mr Bale. I should have sounded him out a little more. My dear husband would have smelled a rat.'

'Patrick, alas, is no longer with us.'

'Mores the pity. He'd have been first to join the hue and cry.'

'You are still a valuable witness,' Bale told her. 'You met the man face to face. You weighed him up.'

'Not well enough, it seems.'

'Did anyone else here set eyes on him?'

'Only Nan, my cook. He ran past her in the kitchen when he made his escape. It gave her quite a start.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Bale. 'We may need to call on both of you at a later stage to help to identify him. Do you think that you'd be able to recognise Mr Field again?'