The Parliament House

    'Where did this encounter take place?'

    'Outside his house.'

    'And inside, Brilliana,' said Serle, determined to make a clean breast of it. 'We went to Bedford Street to look at his house from outside when Mr Redmayne came riding home.'

    'It was a happy accident,' said Brilliana.

    'I call it bare-faced audacity,' cried Susan, looking across the table at her sister. 'Whatever possessed you to go near Henry's house?'

    'We were only acting on your account.'

    'I did so with great reluctance,' said Serle.

    'Keep out of this, Lancelot,' advised his wife in a tone of voice that suggested he would be severely reprimanded later on. 'You've already said too much.'

    'I'm glad that Lancelot spoke,' Susan continued, her anger rising. 'It's bad enough that you should do such a thing. Hiding your treachery from me only makes it worse.'

    'No treachery was involved, Susan.'

    'You went there behind my back.'

    'Only because you'd never have sanctioned a visit.'

    'I'd have resisted the notion with every breath in my body.'

    'When you spoke about Henry Redmayne,' said Brilliana, 'I felt that you were hiding something and I wanted to know what it was. A first step was to look at the house where he lived.'

    Serle nodded. 'We were doing that when the gentleman rode up.' He caught another glare from his wife. 'You tell it, Brilliana.'

    'As it was,' continued his wife, 'Mr Redmayne - Henry - was kind enough to invite us in so that we could see the inside of the house. In fact, we stayed there for some time.'

    'Talking about me, I suppose?' said Susan, clearly upset.

    'Your name did come into the conversation.'

    'Brilliana, this is quite unforgivable! How dare you intrude into my private life? Even by your standards, this is shameful behaviour.'

    'My standards have always been impeccably high.' 'Well, they sank to the depths yesterday.'

    'I was acting on your behalf, Susan. Don't you understand that? If we are to be more closely allied to the Redmayne family, it behoves me to find out more about it.'

    'And where is your next port of call?' asked her sister with biting sarcasm. 'Do you intend to bang on the doors of Gloucester cathedral and demand to see the dean?'

    'No. Henry is much more entertaining company.'

    'Though I deplore his taste in art,' Serle put in.

    'I found it rather diverting.'

    'Brilliana, how can you say such a thing?' He turned to Susan. 'The first thing you see as you enter the hall is a depiction of a Roman orgy, and there's hardly a room where naked females do not adorn the walls. They are painted with great cunning, I grant you, but are they suitable for public exhibition?'

    'You are too narrow-minded, Lancelot.'

    'Would you hang such obscenities in our home?'

    'That's neither here nor there,' said Susan, irritably. 'The simple fact is that you should never have gone anywhere near Bedford Street. As for being invited into the house so that you could discuss my private affairs, that was unpardonable.'

    'But we learned something of importance about Father.'

    'It was the reason why I had to speak out,' said Serle. 'Since you actually share the house with Sir Julius, it would be wholly unfair to keep it from you a moment longer. The wonder is that you did not hear it from Christopher.'

    'Hear what?' asked Susan.

    'Henry Redmayne has been advising his brother with regard to the murder investigation.'

    'Yes,' said Brilliana, admiringly. 'Henry is remarkable. He knows everyone in London who is worth knowing, from His Majesty downwards. After the tragedy in Knightrider Street, he had a visit from his brother. Christopher asked him about any enemies that Bernard Everett might have in parliament.'

    'Mr Everett had not even taken his seat.'

    'Exactly - that was why Christopher was so puzzled by the murder. His worst suspicions were confirmed by Henry and by

    Members of Parliament introduced to him by his brother.'

    Susan was perplexed. 'Christopher told me of no suspicions.'

    'Well, he certainly entertained them,' said Brilliana, 'and with justification. Henry confirmed what his younger brother feared. Bernard Everett was mistaken for someone else and died in his place. There's not a shadow of doubt about it. That man was hired to kill Father.'

Chapter Eight

    Patrick McCoy was single-minded. Having decided that he would one day be an officer of the law, he thought about nothing else. Jonathan Bale may have taken the final crude portrait but there were half-a-dozen others that Bridget McCoy had drawn and her son had kept all of them. After careful study of each one, he felt that he had a good idea of what Field had looked like. Even though the Saracens Head would need no more provisions for days, Patrick decided to go to Leadenhall Market that morning. In his pocket were the sketches of the killer and he referred to them constantly.

    It was a long walk and he was still well short of the market when he was distracted by a commotion. Jeering and laughing, a small crowd was walking along the street. When he saw what they were carrying, Patrick soon understood why they were so excited. At the heart of the crowd, a man was being dragged along to the pillory by two constables. What the onlookers were waiting for was the chance to pelt the prisoner with the various missiles they had collected on the way. Rotten fruit was preferred by most of them but some had stones or pieces of wood, and there was even a dead cat being held in readiness.

    The prisoner was a scrawny man in his twenties, protesting his innocence and begging for mercy. The constables ignored his pleas. When they reached the pillory, one of them unlocked it and lifted up the top half so that the man's head and hands could be thrust into the rough shapes carved out of the wood. Because he was so short, the prisoner had to stand on tiptoe to reach the pillory and he was obviously in great discomfort. No sympathy was shown. The top half was slammed down and locked, securing him immovably in a position that would gradually become more and more agonising.

    One of the constables read out the charge but it went unheard beneath the baying of the mob. No sooner had the officers stood back than the real punishment began. Missiles of all kinds were flung at him from close range. A ripe tomato splattered across the prisoner's nose and a piece of brick took the skin off the knuckles of one hand. When he yelled for mercy, he was hit full in the face by the putrid cat. Unable to defend himself, he was exposed to the ridicule and cruelty of the crowd. Sticks, stones, fruit, vegetables, and even a live frog were hurled at him.

    Patrick watched it all with absent-minded interest. When he was younger, he had helped to bait such malefactors and take his turn at throwing anything that came to hand at a hapless target. The treatment meted out was brutal. Those trapped in the pillory could be cut, bruised, blinded, deprived of teeth or, in some cases, killed by the ferocity of the attack. They were fair game to any passing citizen and the ordeal might last all day. Patrick decided that this particular man was getting off quite lightly. He sidled across to one of the constables, a sturdy man in his forties with a thick brown beard.

    'What's his offence, sir?' asked Patrick.

    'Sedition,' replied the other.

    'What's that?'

    'Speaking against the King and his government.'

    'Is that what he did?'

    'Yes,' said the constable. 'In the presence of witnesses, this villain swore that His Majesty was a creeping Roman Catholic, that he went to Mass six times a day and that he and his bloodsucking ministers were in the pay of the Pope. That was sedition.'