The King's Evil by Edward Marston

Henry.'
    'What
was your impression?'
    'A
most favourable one.'
    'I
am pleased to hear it.'
    'Your
brother has remarkable talent.'
    'He
does,' said Henry, basking in the praise. 'Christopher is a born artist. He has
a most cultured hand. It has ever been so. I once saw him draw a perfect circle
with a crayon.'
    'Does
this talent run in the family?'
    'Unhappily,
no. And even if it did, I would not waste it on a piece of paper. The only
perfect circles I would draw would be those I traced with a fingertip around
the nipples of a fair lady.'
    Northcott
laughed. 'Love has its own architecture.'
    'With
building regulations that are far more appealing!'
    They
exchanged a polite snigger. Northcott sat back in his chair.
    'Tell
me more about this brother of yours,' he said.
    'That
is precisely why I am here.'
    'Is
he a coming man?'
    Henry
needed no more invitation. After ordering fresh coffee, he launched into an
eulogy which owed far more to fact than to fiction, glad that he was not
obliged to lie too much about his brother. Christopher really did possess
creative gifts which set him apart from most of his potential rivals and those
gifts were allied to a capacity for hard work and a willingness to learn. As he
held forth about his brother, Henry came to see just how rich and varied his
education had been and how he merely needed something which would concentrate
his mind in order for all that study to bear fruit. Delighted with what he
heard, Northcott listened intently but he was far too cautious to be rushed to
judgement.
    'Your
brother is very young to have achieved so much, Henry.'
    'He
is twice the man I was at his age, Sir Ambrose.'
    'Yet
somewhat lacking in practical experience of design.'
    'What
could be more practical than the drawings of his that I showed you? A reputable
builder could turn any of them into a reality.'
    'Some
builders still prefer to design their own work.'
    'Those
days are fast disappearing,' said Henry expansively. 'An architect is
indispensable if you wish for the highest standards. Master-builders had their
value but they are in decline. Well, Sir Ambrose,' he continued, risking a
familiar pat on the man's shoulder, 'can you imagine Christopher Wren working
as a mason on St Paul's Cathedral or Hugh May mixing lime mortar for one of
those exquisite houses he designs? It is unthinkable. Such men belong to a new
and honourable elite - the profession of architect. I am proud to number my
brother in their ranks.'
    Cups
of coffee arrived and Northcott pondered while he tasted his. A large amount of
money would be expended on his London abode and a degree of emotional capital
would be invested in it as well. It was vital to select the right person to
design it.
    'What
of his character?' he asked.
    'His
character?'
    'Yes,
Henry. You have told me much about his history and his ambition. But what
manner of man is Christopher Redmayne?'
    'Dedicated
to his work.'
    'That
might make him narrow-minded and possessive.'
    'Far
from it!'
    'Is
he amenable?'
    'Completely,
Sir Ambrose.'
    'He
can take orders? Accept criticism?'
    'Christopher
is yours to command.'
    'What
of his discretion?' said the other, lowering his voice. 'I do not want some
wagging tongue to voice my business abroad. I require a man who does what he is
paid for without asking any unnecessary questions. I need a politic man,
willing but prudent. Conscientious and close. Not to put too fine a point on
it, I am looking for total obedience.'
    'You
have just described my brother to perfection!'
    'We
shall see,' said Northcott with a contemplative nod. 'We shall see. If this
paragon really does exist, then I will seriously consider him.'
    'Thank
you, Sir Ambrose.'
    'Arrange
a meeting.'
    'You
will not regret this, I do assure you.'
    'Let
me see the fellow for myself.'
    'How
soon?'
    'At
the earliest possible opportunity.'
    Henry's
smile broadened and he made an eloquent gesture.
    'What
a pleasing coincidence!' he said without a trace of irony. 'As luck would