Andrew Taylor - The King’s Evil

The carpenter came into the doorway and examined the paper I showed him.

‘That is the King’s signature,’ I said, pointing. ‘And that is his private seal.’

He squinted at the warrant and said, in a slightly uncertain voice: ‘It doesn’t say you can come into my house, does it?’

I lowered my voice, because there was nothing to be gained from shaming the man in front of his inferiors, and said, ‘It’s not your house. It’s Mr Alderley’s. I can come back with a magistrate and a couple of constables if you’d prefer, and I’ll also see you in court for obstructing the King’s justice. Or you can save yourself some trouble and show me where Alderley’s door is.’

He licked his lips. ‘Did you say you’ve got a key?’

‘Of course.’ I showed him the keyring with Alderley’s two keys. ‘And the warrant allows me to use it.’

‘All right. Hal – look sharp, take the gentleman round to Mr Alderley’s door.’

‘One moment. What’s your name?’

‘Thomas Bearwood.’

‘When did you last see Mr Alderley?’

‘I don’t know. Last week sometime? The wife might know.’ The small boy came out to join us, wiping the snot from his nostrils with the back of his sleeve. His father cuffed him. ‘I said look sharp.’

The boy let out a howl as a matter of form, though he seemed unharmed. He led me to a passage at the side of the shop that led to the main house. Behind us, the sawing resumed. Without a word, the lad indicated a door with his hand.

I pushed the larger key into the lock and twisted. The wards turned. The boy stared up at me, and I knew he was trying to get a better look at the scarring that the fire had left on my face. He caught my eye and ran off the way he had come. I glanced up and down the passage. No one was in sight. I opened the door and went inside.

There was a tiny lobby with a flight of stairs going up from it.

I shut and bolted the door. I climbed the stairs. They were steep and narrow and let out a creak at every step. At the top was a landing, with three closed doors. The air smelled powerfully of stale urine, which was unremarkable in a house so close to a tannery.

The nearest door led to a chamber almost entirely filled by a finely carved bedstead. The curtains were drawn back and the bed was unmade. Beyond it was a closet full of clothing, either hanging from pegs on the wall or spilling from a large press. I saw at a glance that these were a rich man’s clothes, a man who liked lace and ribbons and satin. Some showed signs of wear and dirt. But others were new. I touched the sleeve of a velvet suit and wondered how much it had cost Alderley.

One of the other doors from the landing led to another, much larger closet, this one stuffed with household goods, probably salvaged from Barnabas Place: rolls of tapestries, curtains and carpets; chairs and tables stacked one upon the other; and an iron-bound chest secured with two padlocks and three internal locks. Four swords hung from a wood peg which had been hammered into a crack in the wall – why would any man need more than one? Everything in this room was covered with a layer of dust.

The third door opened into a large square room at the back of the building, though it seemed smaller because it contained so much. The walls were panelled and hung with many pictures. Alderley had obviously used the chamber as his parlour or sitting room. On the table were the remains of a meal and two empty wine bottles.

I searched the place as well as I could among such a confusion of objects. What made it more difficult was that I had no idea what I was looking for, other than something that might explain why Alderley’s body had been discovered in the well of Lord Clarendon’s half-built pavilion. I kept my eyes open for boxes and cabinets and the like, but I found nothing with a lock that matched Alderley’s small silver key.

I paid particular attention to a large desk set in an alcove. The drawers were stuffed with papers – bills, notes of gambling debts and letters. Some of the letters were in a hand I took to be Alderley’s, for several memoranda of debts were in the same writing. These letters were drafts and copies, most of which concerned attempts to raise money by one means or the other. But, on the pile in the right-hand drawer, there was a note in a clerkly hand that stood out from the rest by its neatness. It was dated last Monday, exactly a week ago.

Sir

The deeds of your property in Fallow Street are ready for collection from my chambers at any reasonable hour convenient to both parties.

J. Turner

No. 5, Barnard’s Inn

Milcote had said the property was mortgaged. But this letter suggested the mortgage had been redeemed. I had no idea of the size of the loan that a house like this might command, but it might well be substantial; since the Fire, all the remaining property in London had increased in value. I made a note of Turner’s name and address and returned the letter to where I had found it.

I knew by the light outside that the afternoon was sliding towards evening. Nothing I had found in these overcrowded apartments hinted at a previous connection between Clarendon House and Alderley. Nor had I found any mention of Milcote. The only oddity was the unexpected signs of recent affluence – the new clothes, for example, and the letter from J. Turner of Barnard’s Inn.

As I was closing the drawer, a picture hanging on the wall above the desk snagged my attention like a rock in the current of a stream. I stopped and stared at it. I felt a momentary chill.

The painting was a small portrait of the head and shoulders of a gentlewoman in a plain but heavy frame. The woman was Catherine Lovett.

Except, of course, it wasn’t Cat at all. This woman belonged to another time, at least twenty or even thirty years ago. She wore a dark green gown with puffed sleeves and a necklace of pearls. Her hair tumbled in ringlets to her white neck.

In the background of the painting was a house whose outlines were familiar to me. It was called Coldridge, and I had visited it last year. It had once belonged to the family of Cat’s mother, and she had lived there with an aunt for several years when she was a child. It should have been hers but her uncle and Edward Alderley had cheated her out of it.

There was something wrong with the picture. I drew closer and stooped towards it. The eyes in the portrait were unnaturally large and blank. Then I saw why. Someone had gouged out the pupils of both eyes, probably with the point of a dagger.

A series of thunderous knocks sounded below.

I went back downstairs. ‘Who is it?’ I said.

‘Mistress Bearwood. Open up.’

I unbolted the door. The carpenter’s wife barely came up to my elbow but what she lacked in inches she more than made up with force of character. She pushed past me into Alderley’s lobby. She glared at me, her hands on her hips. To all intents and purposes, she felt herself mistress of the situation.

‘And who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing, poking around where you’ve no reason to be? Is there any reason I shouldn’t call the constable?’

I showed her my warrant, which she read attentively.

‘It doesn’t say in black and white that you can come into my house,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Not in so many words. But I suppose it’s all right. You’d think Bearwood was born yesterday. He’s as innocent as a newborn baby, and just as stupid. I’m sorry, master, but you could have been anyone.’

‘No bones broken, Mistress Bearwood.’

But she wouldn’t let it go. ‘I could have found you stripping the house bare, and him and the boy none the wiser. (Takes after his father, Hal does, more’s the pity.) He can’t even read properly, so your warrant made no more sense to him than Sunday’s sermon.’ She looked me up and down with an unflattering lack of interest, and then shifted her ground slightly to get a better view of the damage that the fire had done to my face. ‘And you don’t exactly look like a courtier, neither.’