Edward Marston - The Kings Evil (Restoration Mysteries #1)

The Kings Evil

Edward Marston

Copyright 1999 Edward Marston

The right of Edward Marston to beidentified as the Author of

the Work has been asserted by himin accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and PatentsAct 1988.

First published in hardback in1999 by

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

First published in paperback in2000 by

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

10 9876543

All rights reserved. No part ofthis publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted,

in any form or by any meanswithout the prior written

permission of the publisher, norbe otherwise circulated

in any form of binding or coverother than that in which

it is published and without asimilar condition being

imposed on the subsequentpurchaser.

All characters in thispublication are fictitious

and any resemblance to realpersons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 6255 1

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O!lay that hand upon me

AdoredCaesar! and my faith is such,

Ishall be heal'd, if that my KING but touch.

TheEvill is not yours: my sorrow sings,

Mineis the Evill, but the cure, the KINGS.

Robert Herrick

Iwas yesterday in many meetings of the principal

Cittizens,whose houses are laid in ashes, who instead of

complaining,discoursed almost of nothing, but of a

surveyof London, and a dessein for rebuilding.

HenryOldenburg's letter to Robert Boyle 10 September, 1666

ToLouis Silverstein and

MontyMontee of Phoenix, Arizona.

Goodfriends and bibliophiles supreme.

Table ofContents

September, 1666.

Themonth of September had scarcely begun when a new disaster struck an alreadybeleaguered city. London had been savaged without mercy by the Great Plague,frozen to the marrow by a cold winter then blistered in a hot, dry, unrelentingsummer which bred drought, discontent and fresh outbreaks of virulent disease.Even the oldest inhabitants of the capital could not recall a more intenseperiod of suffering but they consoled themselves - between weary curses at amalign Fate - with the thought that they had now endured misery enough and thattheir situation could only improve.

Thencame the fire.

Itbrought Jonathan Bale awake in the middle of the night. He sat bolt upright fora few seconds then clambered unwillingly out of bed.

'Whatails you?' asked his wife, stirring in the dark.

'Nothing,Sarah,' he said.

'Thenwhy have you got up?'

'Goback to sleep. I did not mean to wake you.'

'Areyou unwell, Jonathan?'

'No,'he said, putting a reassuring hand on her arm. 'I am in good health - thank God- though it is as much your doing as the Almighty's. I am blessed in a wife whocooks and cares for me so wondrously well. You have earned your rest, Sarah.Take it. Sleep on.'

'Howcan I when you are so disturbed?'

'Iam not disturbed.'

'Thenwhy did you wake up with such a start?'

'Imust have had a bad dream.'

'Younever have dreams of any kind,' she said, sitting up in bed and stifling ayawn. 'I am the dreamer in the family. Every night is filled with them. But notyou. Your mind seems to have no fancies. Now tell me what is going on.'

'Nothingthat need upset you,' he soothed.

'Tellme.'

'Inthe morning, perhaps. Not now.'

'Stoptrying to fob me off.'

'Sarah'

'AndI'll not be Sarah'd into silence,' she warned with a tired smile. 'I have notbeen married to you all these years without learning your ways and your moods.You are a man who sleeps soundly in his bed. Much too soundly at times for Ihave had to rouse you more than once of a morning. Only something very unusualcould have made you wake up of a sudden like that. What was it?'

'Ido not know,' he said with a shrug, 'and that is the truth of it, Sarah. Isimply do not know.'

JonathanBale was a big, solid, serious man whose frame seemed to fill the smallbedchamber. Now in his late thirties, he still retained the muscles which hehad developed during his years as a shipwright and, despite the excellence ofhis wife's cooking, there was not a superfluous ounce of fat on his body. Thesame could not be said of Sarah. Motherhood had rounded her hips and filled outher thighs, buttocks and breasts. A good appetite helped to complete thetransformation of a slim, attractive young woman into a plump but still comelymatron. Jonathan had marked no change in her. To his loving eye, she was stillthe same Sarah Teague whom he had met and married nine years earlier.

Hesat on the bed and slipped a comforting arm around her.

'Thereis no point in the two of us losing sleep,' he said.

'Neitherof us need lose it. Come back to bed.' 'No, Sarah. Not yet. You lie downagain.'

'Notuntil you tell me what this is all about.'

'Ihave told you. I honestly do not know.'

'Whenyou came awake, you let out a little yell.'

'DidI?'

'Whatprovoked it?'

'Ihave no idea.'

'Wasit fear? Pain? Foreboding?'

'Iwish I knew,' he sighed. 'It was almost as if someone shook me awake. There wasa sense of alarm. I felt that I was being summoned.'

'Youare not on duty now, Jonathan.'

'Aconstable is always on duty.'

'Evenin the middle of the night?'

'Ifhe is called, Sarah.'

'Butwhat on earth has called you?'

'Thatis what I intend to find out.'

Hekissed her gently on the forehead then eased her back down on the pillow beforecrossing to the window. Opening the shutters, he looked out into the unrelievedblackness of Addle Hill. Familiar smells assaulted his nostrils and the opensewer which ran down the lane was especially pungent on a warm night. Dogsroamed and foraged, cats fought a distant battle over territory. Footstepsdragged laboriously as a drunken reveller tried to stagger home. But there wasnothing to be seen beyond the vague outlines of the buildings opposite. All wasexactly as he would have expected to find it at such an hour yet Jonathan Baleremained quietly perturbed. Instinct told him that something was amiss. Ittroubled him that he could not detect what it was. He stayed at the windowuntil his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness and allowed him to take afuller inventory of the lane. He could even pick out the inn sign of the WhiteSwan now and the massive bulk of Baynard's Castle emerged from the gloom like acliff face.

Butnothing untoward came into view. The city was peaceful.

Sarahwas torn between fatigue and impatience.

'Well?'she asked.

'Nothing,'he said, closing the shutters. 'I was mistaken.'

'Good.'

'Itmust have been a dream, after all.'

'Justcome back to bed.'

'Iwill.' He climbed in beside her and pulled the bedsheet over him. 'I am sorrythat I woke you,' he said, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek. 'Goodnight, Sarah.'

'Goodnight.'

Nestlinginto him, she was asleep within minutes but her husband remained wide awake. Hehad an overwhelming sense of being needed to fight some undisclosed emergency.It made him fretful. London, his birthplace and home, the sovereign city whichhe loved so much and helped to patrol so conscientiously, was in grave dangeryet he was unable to go to its aid. His frustration steadily grew until he hadto fight to contain it. London was imperilled. While his wife surrendered oncemore to the sweetness of her dreams, Jonathan Bale's fevered mind wasrestlessly pacing the streets of the capital in search of the latest terror.