The King’s Evil. Andrew Taylor

him that will cause C particular pain. H could write a letter, saying he’d heard tavern talk about it.

      She left the note unsigned. She folded the paper, torn from her notebook, and wrote Brennan’s name on the outside. She had nothing to seal the paper with. She wondered if it would do any good, even if it reached Brennan: he would have to persuade Hakesby to take it seriously – no easy task – and Hakesby would have to warn Lord Clarendon. It might be better if he went instead to Mr Milcote. She hesitated, wondering whether to unfold the letter and add a postscript. Then she frowned. There was unfinished business with Milcote; wiser not to involve him.

      There was a hammering on the door downstairs. She put the letter in her pocket and went down to the kitchen. The carrier was showing Mangot a packet of newly printed chapbooks, sermons and pamphlets. He looked up as she entered, revealing a wall eye, and appraised her swiftly, before turning back to the farmer.

      While the men were talking, she wiped the table and set out the wooden platters and cups. She stirred the soup, willing it to heat up more quickly. Mangot bought a pamphlet about a Papist plot to murder the King with a poisoned dagger as he was going to his devotions in Whitehall.

      When the carrier was packing up his stock, Cat asked him if he would take a letter to London for her. He agreed to deliver it to Henrietta Street in the morning. He charged her two shillings for the service, which they both knew was an extortionate price.

      ‘I want you to put it in the hands of a particular man, not a servant or anyone,’ she said. ‘He works for Mr Hakesby, at the sign of the Rose, and his name’s Brennan, and he has a thin face and ginger hair. He’s Mr Mangot’s nephew.’

      The carrier smiled at her, revealing a toothless mouth, and spat into the fire, narrowly missing the pot with the soup. ‘Then that’ll be an extra shilling.’

      She paid him reluctantly. As the carrier turned to go, the back door opened. A current of cold air swept into the kitchen, followed by the tall figure of Israel Halmore.

      A rabbit dangled from his right hand. It was already skinned and gutted. He tossed it on to the table, where it lay, lolling, in a parody of ease. ‘For the pot, master.’

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      AFTER I LEFT Whitehall, I went home. Margaret served my supper. I stabbed and slashed at the boiled mutton. I agreed with Chiffinch about one thing at least: Alderley had been murdered. How could he have reached the basement of the pavilion without someone’s help? Who had removed the cover from the well? Moreover, his naked sword had been lying on the floor. It had been perfectly dry. So had the ribbons around its hilt. The sheath, on the other hand, had been as wet as its owner and had clearly gone down the well with him.

      Which suggested that Alderley had drawn his sword before he had fallen, or been thrown, down the well. And why would a man draw his sword if not to defend himself or to attack someone?

      When I had eaten, I lit more candles and took the canvas bag that George Milcote had given me from my pocket. I laid out the contents of Alderley’s pockets: the two keys, the money, which was in a flat gambler’s purse lined with silk, and the bundle of wet papers. The papers were less saturated than I expected – the heavy wool of Alderley’s coat must have given them some protection from the water. They consisted of perhaps five or six sheets of no great size, folded once and held together with a ribbon. The outer sheet was blank.

      I cut the ribbon and tried to separate the papers. One of them instantly tore. I gathered them up and took them down to the kitchen, where Margaret was clearing away the supper things and setting the room straight for the night. She glanced warily at me as I entered, for I had snapped at her earlier.

      ‘How hot’s the oven?’ I said.

      ‘It’s not – I haven’t used it since this morning.’ She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm. ‘I’ve banked up the fire, master. Do you want me to break it open?’

      The oven was set in the wall within the fireplace, on the left-hand side. I leaned over the fire and put my hand inside. The bricks that lined the recess were dry and slightly warm to the touch.

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Leave it as it is. These papers are damp. I’ll put them here overnight.’

      ‘What shall I do with them in the morning?’

      ‘Take them carefully out before you open up the fire. Put them somewhere safe.’ I glanced about the shadowy room. ‘In that bowl on the dresser.’

      I wished her goodnight and went back to the parlour, where I spent a few minutes examining the silver key by the light of the candles.

      Judging by its size and the quality of the workmanship, it had been designed for the lock of a small box or perhaps for the door of a cupboard set in a piece of furniture. I had seen nothing of that sort at Alderley’s lodgings, but then I had not searched his crowded apartments thoroughly enough to inspect all his possessions. I peered at the monogram again, but still could not come to any conclusion: the entwined letters were so twisted and ornamented that they could have been almost anything. Was that an ‘S’? Or a ‘P’?

      I went to bed. But the events of the day came between me and sleep. Threaded among these were troubling thoughts of Olivia, Lady Quincy. I lay on my back in the darkness of the curtained bed and tried to remember her features. I could not. But I remembered those of her African page perfectly, and the way he had stared so intently at me as if memorizing my face.

      The following morning, I was awoken at dawn by a scream downstairs.

      This was immediately followed by the sound of Margaret shouting. When she paused to draw breath, I heard the deeper tones of Sam’s voice. I swore, got out of bed and went out on to the landing in my shirt.