depressions and potholes would make Bernard Everett's last journey a very undignified one.
Heading north up King Street, they were all lost in thought. Inside the coach, Hester Polegate and her children were consumed with grief while Sir Julius Cheever searched for words to console them. In the light of what he had been told, Christopher wondered what sort of woman had managed to attract a choleric old knight who had seemed so entrenched in his bachelor existence. He hoped that he would have the opportunity of meeting the lady in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, using his artistic skills, Christopher drew a series of conjectural portraits of her in his mind. None sat easily beside the image of Sir Julius Cheever.
So diverted was he by the exercise of bringing Dorothy Kitson to life that he did not realize that they were being followed. The, lone rider stayed well back, knowing the route that they would have to take and biding his time. It was simply a question of choosing his moment.
----
Chapter Six
After driving Bridget McCoy and her son back to their tavern, Jonathan Bale returned the horse and cart to the blacksmith from whom he had borrowed it. He then strode to his house on Addle Hill.
'I'm glad that you're home,' said his wife as he came through the door. 'There's a letter for you from Mr Redmayne.'
'When did it arrive?'
'Half an hour ago, at least. I expected you earlier.'
'I had to go to Leadenhall Market.'
'Whatever for?'
'I'll tell you later,' said Bale, looking around. 'Where's the letter?'
'On the kitchen table.'
He went into the kitchen and snatched up the missive, breaking open the seal to read it. Sarah saw the consternation in his face and hoped that it was not bad news. As she had discovered years ago, the problem with being a parish constable was that good tidings were few and far between. Reports of murder, theft and assault were far more likely to be brought to the door. Bale was also frequently called upon to intervene in disputes between neighbours or - as if he did not have enough crime to occupy him - to rescue pet animals from the precarious situations into which they had got themselves. Whatever else the letter contained, Sarah mused, it was not another plea to haul an injured dog from a stinking quagmire.
'Well?' she asked as he put the letter aside.
'Mr Redmayne's gone to Cambridge for the funeral,' he explained. 'He wants me to talk to someone while he's away.'
'Who is it?'
'A man called Lewis Bircrofit. He's a Member of Parliament.'
She was impressed. 'A politician? Does that mean you'll have to go to the Parliament House?'
'In the first instance. I'll also need to find out where this man lives when he's staying in London.'
'Why must you speak to him, Jonathan?' 'He's a friend of Sir Julius Cheever,' said her husband, concealing from her the information that Bircroft had been savagely beaten in an alleyway in Covent Garden. 'He may be able to tell us something that throws a light on this present case.'
'I see.' She recalled his earlier remark. 'But what's this about going to Leadenhall Market?'
'Oh, that was Mrs McCoy's doing.'
'Bridget McCoy from the Saracen's Head?'
Bale nodded. Lowering himself on to one of the wooden chairs that he had made himself, he told her about their search for the man who had been seen at the market earlier. While she listened, Sarah started to prepare dinner, reaching for some bread to cut into thick slices. Like her husband, she was sorry that the trail had gone cold. She was interested to hear that Patrick McCoy had been involved.
'That lad is so unlike his father,' she noted.
'I disagree, Sarah. He's the image of him.'
'He may look like him but that's as far as he goes. Patrick, his father, was such a quick-witted man and so amiable.
Heading north up King Street, they were all lost in thought. Inside the coach, Hester Polegate and her children were consumed with grief while Sir Julius Cheever searched for words to console them. In the light of what he had been told, Christopher wondered what sort of woman had managed to attract a choleric old knight who had seemed so entrenched in his bachelor existence. He hoped that he would have the opportunity of meeting the lady in the fullness of time. Meanwhile, using his artistic skills, Christopher drew a series of conjectural portraits of her in his mind. None sat easily beside the image of Sir Julius Cheever.
So diverted was he by the exercise of bringing Dorothy Kitson to life that he did not realize that they were being followed. The, lone rider stayed well back, knowing the route that they would have to take and biding his time. It was simply a question of choosing his moment.
----
Chapter Six
After driving Bridget McCoy and her son back to their tavern, Jonathan Bale returned the horse and cart to the blacksmith from whom he had borrowed it. He then strode to his house on Addle Hill.
'I'm glad that you're home,' said his wife as he came through the door. 'There's a letter for you from Mr Redmayne.'
'When did it arrive?'
'Half an hour ago, at least. I expected you earlier.'
'I had to go to Leadenhall Market.'
'Whatever for?'
'I'll tell you later,' said Bale, looking around. 'Where's the letter?'
'On the kitchen table.'
He went into the kitchen and snatched up the missive, breaking open the seal to read it. Sarah saw the consternation in his face and hoped that it was not bad news. As she had discovered years ago, the problem with being a parish constable was that good tidings were few and far between. Reports of murder, theft and assault were far more likely to be brought to the door. Bale was also frequently called upon to intervene in disputes between neighbours or - as if he did not have enough crime to occupy him - to rescue pet animals from the precarious situations into which they had got themselves. Whatever else the letter contained, Sarah mused, it was not another plea to haul an injured dog from a stinking quagmire.
'Well?' she asked as he put the letter aside.
'Mr Redmayne's gone to Cambridge for the funeral,' he explained. 'He wants me to talk to someone while he's away.'
'Who is it?'
'A man called Lewis Bircrofit. He's a Member of Parliament.'
She was impressed. 'A politician? Does that mean you'll have to go to the Parliament House?'
'In the first instance. I'll also need to find out where this man lives when he's staying in London.'
'Why must you speak to him, Jonathan?' 'He's a friend of Sir Julius Cheever,' said her husband, concealing from her the information that Bircroft had been savagely beaten in an alleyway in Covent Garden. 'He may be able to tell us something that throws a light on this present case.'
'I see.' She recalled his earlier remark. 'But what's this about going to Leadenhall Market?'
'Oh, that was Mrs McCoy's doing.'
'Bridget McCoy from the Saracen's Head?'
Bale nodded. Lowering himself on to one of the wooden chairs that he had made himself, he told her about their search for the man who had been seen at the market earlier. While she listened, Sarah started to prepare dinner, reaching for some bread to cut into thick slices. Like her husband, she was sorry that the trail had gone cold. She was interested to hear that Patrick McCoy had been involved.
'That lad is so unlike his father,' she noted.
'I disagree, Sarah. He's the image of him.'
'He may look like him but that's as far as he goes. Patrick, his father, was such a quick-witted man and so amiable.
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