The Parliament House

    'Someone tried to kill Sir Julius.'

    He explained what had happened. Bale was reassured to hear that Sir Julius Cheever had escaped with only a minor injury. Like his friend, however, he feared that a third attempt might be made to shoot him.

    'Will he take more care in future?' he asked.

    'He has a bodyguard with him at all times,' said Christopher, 'and he'll remain vigilant. His daughters only consented to let him out of the house if he took precautions.'

    'Good.'

    'But what about you, Jonathan? Did you get my letter?'

    'Yes. I called on Lewis Bircroft in Coleman Street.'

    'An apposite address for him for a Puritan.'

    'At first, he refused to accept that his beating had any political connection but I sensed that he was lying. I pressed him hard.'

'And?'

    'I eventually squeezed some of the truth out of him,' said Bale, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Mr Bircroft told me that it was to do with a political pamphlet. Here,' he went on, handing the paper to Christopher. 'I asked him to write down the title because there was no way that I could remember it.'

    Christopher read it out. 'Observations on the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England. I've heard of this before. There were references to it in the newspapers.'

    'It caused a scandal, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I know. I remember a huge outcry against the pamphlet. It was published anonymously, wasn't it?'

    'Nobody would dare to put his name to it. A reward of £200 was offered for information that would lead to the arrest of the author.' 'And did Mr Bircroft tell you who that was?'

    'No,' said Bale, sadly, 'but he did admit that many people thought it was his work. He's been an assiduous pamphleteer in the past and is very critical of the government.'

    'So that's why he was attacked.'

    'They tried to beat a confession out of him with cudgels. Though he swore that he was not the author, they refused to believe him. It took him months to get over his injuries and he now uses a walking stick.'

    'The pamphlet must have been very seditious.'

    'Yet it was not written by Lewis Bircroft.'

    'Who was responsible for it, Jonathan?'

    'He could not tell me. However, one thing he did know.'

    'Go on.'

    'Suspicion has now moved to Sir Julius Cheever. Some people are convinced that he wrote that pamphlet. They are so enraged,' said Bale, 'they they've taken the law into their own hands. They want him executed for what he did.'

    'Sir Julius has said nothing to me about the pamphlet.'

    'Then he may not be its author.'

    'The title certainly bears his stamp,' said Christopher, 'but he is not a man to hide behind anonymity. Also, of course - if the pamphlet really had been his - he would not have told me in case I tried to collect that reward.'

    'You'd never have done that, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I know that. Sir Julius, perhaps, may have doubts about me.'

    'Even though you've done your best to protect him?'

    'Even then.' Christopher put the paper aside. 'You've done well, Jonathan. We finally have a motive. Sir Julius may be wrongly accused but that will not make his enemies stay their hand. A pamphlet that somebody else wrote may bring about his downfall.'

    'That's unfair, sir.'

    'Granted, but it's the situation with which we have to deal. Before he can strike again, we simply must catch the killer between us.'

    'We may have some assistance.' 'From where?'

    'The Saracen's Head. Mrs McCoy drew a picture of the man who rented a room there. She says it's a good likeness. Her son cannot wait to go in search of the man. For some reason,' he explained, 'Patrick wants to be a constable like me. He's determined to find Mr Field for us.'

       They set out even earlier than usual. Bridget McCoy was not optimistic.

    'He'll not be there,' she said, gloomily.

    'He may be, Mother. You never know.'

    'He was not at the market when you went there yesterday.'

    'He might have been,' said Patrick, lumbering along beside her. 'I could easily have missed him in the crowd. That's why it needs two of us to catch Mr Field.'

    'That's not his name, Patrick.'

    'How do you know?'

    'Because I've been thinking about it,' she said. 'If a man was about to commit a terrible murder, would he give his real name to me? No, it would be foolish of him. A name can be used to hunt someone down.'

    Patrick was bewildered. 'If his name is not Mr Field,' he said with a frown, 'then what is it?'

    'We may never know.'

    'We will if we catch him today. I'll make him tell us the truth.'

    'No, Patrick.'

    'He lied to you, Mother. That was wrong.'

    'Yes,' she agreed, 'and he deserves to be punished but it's not for us to touch him. That's Mr Bale's job. I made that mistake the first time. When I saw him in the market, I ran after Mr Field - or whatever his name was - and he must have seen me coming. I scared him off.'

    'I can run faster than you.'

    'He may have a weapon.'

    Patrick held up his fists. 'I have two.'

    'They're no use against a dagger or a pistol,' she said. 'Save them for rowdy customers at the tavern. This is a job for a constable.'

    'That's what I'll be one day, Mother.'

    'One day - perhaps.'

    They walked on in silence. Bridget felt it would be too unkind to dampen his enthusiasm by reminding him of some of the other aspects of a parish constable's occupation. All that Patrick thought about was the pursuit and arrest of criminals. On the previous day, he had returned in a state of exhilaration because he had watched a prisoner being locked in the pillory by two constables. It was a task that he relished doing himself. It simply required brute force. When it came to giving evidence in court, or to interrogating a suspect, it was a very different matter. Patrick would flounder badly. He would be a figure of fun once again.

    'I could have brought a cudgel,' said Patrick, bravely. 'I took one off that man I had to throw out last Saturday. He tried to hit me with it. With a cudgel in my hand, I could take on anybody.'

    'You'd only get hurt.'

    'Not if I get in the first blow.'

    Bridget was firm. 'No, Patrick. All that we can do is to find him. We have to leave it to Mr Bale and Mr Warburton to arrest him.'

    'We can't let him get away.'

    'No, we'll follow him. We'll find out where he lives and then report it to the constables.' Her despondency returned. 'If we ever catch sight of him, that is, and I don't believe we will. He's gone forever. That lousy, scurvy, villainous son of a pox-ridden whore may not even be in London.'

    They walked on. While his mother was unhopeful, Patrick was full of confidence. He felt certain that they would see the man this time. He straightened his shoulders and marched along with pride. It was almost as if he were on patrol as a parish constable. The market was already busy by the time they reached Leadenhall Street and all four courtyards were swarming with people. In such a heaving multitude, it would not be easy to pick out one person.

    Beginning with the courtyard where the man had been seen before, they walked slowly through the crowd. Bridget wished that she were taller so that she could see over the heads of the people all around her. Unable to retain a mental picture of the suspect for long, Patrick kept taking out one of the pictures that his mother had drawn in order to refresh his memory. When he looked up again, his eyes searched for a broken nose and a mole. As they moved from one courtyard to another, he saw both frequently but they were never on the same person. Having taken the crumpled drawing from his pocket for the tenth time, Patrick resolved to rely on his mother. Bridget had seen and talked to the man. She would know him.