The King’s Evil. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.

      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.