The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Eight

Jonathan Bale made up for lost time. Having committed himself to the search for the missing women, he began early next day by calling on the house in Carter Lane, ostensibly to reassure Mary Hibbert's relatives that she was safe but also to find out how much they knew about her life and movements. Having gleaned some interesting new details, he left the city by Ludgate and began the long walk towards St James's Palace. It gave him time to marshal his thoughts. Impelled by a desire to rescue Mary Hibbert, he was troubled by memories of the earlier meeting with her when, he now felt, his principles had got the better of his civility. Sarah Bale's comment had been apt: the girl was still young. Jonathan should have made more allowance for the fact.

He was also assailed by guilt about his attitude towards Harriet Gow. Personal interest had drawn him into the investigation but it was as important to find the actress he had never met as the maidservant he had known for years. Both lives were threatened. Both women deserved help. Jonathan chided himself for letting his conscience get in the way of his compassion. While he was worrying about his moral standards, a gifted actress was being held to ransom by brutal men. It had taken the kidnap of Mary Hibbert to bring him to his senses and he was keen to make amends. His stride lengthened purposefully.

St James's Square was still at a very early stage of its growth. Situated in fields to the north-east of St James's Palace, it was taking shape on land which had been leased by the King to one of his most trusted friends, Henry Jermyn, the enterprising Earl of St Albans, who, among other services to the nation, was credited with negotiating the marriage of Charles II. Plots of land around the square were let on building leases and snapped up by astute speculators. Large, well-appointed houses began to rise on all sides, their value increased by their proximity to St James's Palace. It was an area of high profit and aristocratic tone, the sort of suburban development that was anathema to a Puritan constable still shackled by notions of integrity and nostalgia for the Commonwealth.

When he finally reached his destination, therefore, he winced at the sight of the exclusive houses of the rich and titled, at the leafy parkland that surrounded it and at the extraordinary sense of space. Even since it was rebuilt, Baynard's Castle Ward was still a warren of cluttered streets and modest dwellings. St James's Square was a world apart, a frank display of wealth, a haven of Royalist sympathy, a dazzling manifestation of the true spirit of the Restoration. Jonathan fervently hoped that his business would not detain him too long in such an uncongenial part of the capital.

Harriet Gow's abode was at the end of a row of neat houses near the west end of the square. Smaller than most of the new residences that were being erected, they nevertheless rose to three storeys, had matching facades and boasted long walled gardens to the rear. Jonathan rang the front doorbell but got no response. Hearing a banging noise at the back of the property, he went under the archway that separated it from its neighbour and strolled down to the stable. Roland Trigg was inside, coat off and sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms. Using a hammer with the skill of a blacksmith, he was trying to beat a strip of iron back into shape on an anvil.

Jonathan sized him up quickly then stepped into his field of vision. The hammer immediately stopped swinging. Trigg straightened up and greeted the visitor with a defensive stare, wondering why a constable had come calling on him. The heavy implement dangled from his hand.

'Do you want someone?' he asked levelly.

'Are you Mr Roland Trigg, sir?'

'I could be.'

'Coachman to Mrs Gow?'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Jonathan Bale. I've been asked to help Mr Redmayne in a case of abduction. He's authorised me to talk to you.'

'Yes, yes, of course,' said Trigg, setting the hammer aside and relaxing slightly. 'I've said I'll help all I can, Mr Bale. Is there any news? Have you picked up the trail?'

'Not as yet, I'm afraid.'

'They want hanging for what they did!'

'Their days may well end on the gallows,' said Jonathan evenly. He looked down at the strip of metal. 'Doing some repairs?'

'The coach got damaged during the ambush when it was forced against the wall of a house. I want it as good as new by the time Mrs Gow comes back.' He hesitated. 'She is coming back, isn't she?'

'We've every reason to believe so. Now, Mr Trigg,' said Jonathan, taking a step closer. 'I'd like you to tell me exactly what happened.'

'But I've already been through it twice.'

'So Mr Redmayne said, but he also remarked on the differences between the two versions. When you spoke to him at the Palace, it seems you were still suffering from the effects of the beating.'

Trigg glowered. 'My pride was hurt the most.'

'Understandably.'

'Mrs Gow counted on me.'

'Did she?'

'I was her bodyguard.'

'Let's go back to the ambush,' said Jonathan.

'Again?'

'I appreciate how painful it must be for you to recount the facts once more. It can't be avoided, however. Mr Redmayne is a clever young man but he's not as used to gathering evidence from people as I am. I listen to witnesses all day long. I know what to ask, when to press for details, how to spot when someone is holding information back.'

'I held nothing back!' said the other belligerently.

'Nobody's accusing you of doing so.'

'They'd better not.'

'Mr Redmayne made a point of saying how helpful you've been.'

Trigg was appeased. 'I want them caught, Mr Bale,' he said. 'More to the point, I want to be there when it happens. I've got a stake in this, remember.' He pointed to his face. 'I didn't get these bruises by walking into some cobwebs.'

'How did you get them, Mr Trigg?'

'Now you're asking!'

'Tell me in your own words.'

The coachman perched on the anvil and spat into the sawdust. After looking his visitor up and down, he launched into a long account of the ambush, interspersing it with speculation about who his attackers might be and adding a description of his later return to the house.

'I knew it,' he emphasised. 'I knew they took Mary Hibbert as well.'

'That's not what you said to her brother.'

Trigg was checked. 'Who?'

'Peter Hibbert. He called here twice yesterday. Seeing the door wide open the first time, he became alarmed and ran to relatives in Carter Lane, hoping that he might find his sister there. But Mary was nowhere to be found. Peter hurried all the way back here and bumped into you. Or so he says.'

'It's true.'

'The boy had no reason to lie.'

'How did you find out about it?'

'The Hibbert family once lived in my ward, sir. I knew them well. That's why Peter turned to me when he felt his sister was in trouble.'

'He was very upset when he came back here.'

'Yet you did nothing to reassure him.'

'What could I do? Tell him that Mary had been took along with Mrs Gow? How would that have helped?' Trigg hunched his shoulders. 'I thought the best thing was to say as little as possible. So I pretended they'd both gone out of London for a few days.'

'Peter wasn't sure if he should believe you.'

'I wanted to get the lad off my back!'

'You might have done it more gently.'

'He was pestering me.'

'Returning to the ambush,' said Jonathan patiently, 'you've told me the exact point in the lane where you were set upon but you haven't explained what you were doing there in the first place.'

'Making my way to the Strand.'

'Down such a narrow thoroughfare? Surely there are easier ways to travel. And why go to the Strand? Mr Redmayne is firmly under the impression that you were heading for the Palace of Westminster.'

'Then he's quite wrong.'

'You had another destination?'

'We weren't going to the Palace that day.'

'Yet you ended up there.'

'Only because I was sent for, Mr Bale. The ransom note had arrived by then. They knew there'd been an ambush. I was hauled down there to explain what had happened.'

'So Mrs Gow was actually visiting someone in the Strand?'

'I didn't say that.'

'Do you dispute the fact?'

'I've no need.'

'What do you mean?'

'My job is to take Mrs Gow wherever she wishes me to take her. She has a lot of friends so I drive all over London. Well beyond it at times. I never know who she's going to see and I don't care. I simply do what I'm paid for, Mr Bale. That's all I'm saying.'

'Even though you could be hiding evidence?'

'Of what?'

'The motive behind the kidnap.'

'I've told you everything.'

'Except your destination yesterday. Don't you see how important it is for us to know it, Mr Trigg? The person she was on her way to see might be able to help us. Perhaps someone had a grudge against him and used Mrs Gow as a means of revenge. One thing is certain, sir.'

'What's that?'

'You were expected. That ambush was laid in the ideal place.'

'So?'

'You mightn't have known exactly where you were going but someone else did. They knew the time of day you'd be driving down that lane and they knew just how many men it would take to overpower a strapping coachman and abduct a lady. Now,' he said, squaring up to Trigg, 'where were you taking Mrs Gow?'

'To see a friend.'

'Does he have a name?'

'She didn't say.'

'What about an address?'

'I've forgotten it.'

'So you were told?'

'I can't remember.'

Jonathan could not make out if he was dealing with sheer bloody-mindedness or with fierce loyalty to an employer. Either way, the result was the same. Willing to furnish any other information, the coachman was strangely reluctant to disclose the destination of his coach. It was time to try another tack with him.

'You mentioned the name of a suspect, I hear.'

'I mentioned several.'

'This one came as an afterthought. Mr Redmayne paid particular attention to it. He said I was to ask you about Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

Trigg nodded. 'He's tied up in this somewhere.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because of the way things are between him and his wife.'

'But they don't even live together.'

'Exactly, Mr Bale,' said the other with a faint flicker of lechery. 'How would you feel if a lady like that turned you out of her bed?'

'I'd never have got into it in the first place, I promise you!'

'Then you've never seen Mrs Gow. She's more than beautiful, I can tell you. It's a pleasure to be anywhere near a woman of her type. Mr Gow can't do that any more. He's been deprived. The last time he came to the house, she refused even to see him.'

'Oh?'

'He was very persistent. I had to move him on his way.'

'Is that one of the things you're paid to do, Mr Trigg?'

'Sometimes.'

'Moving her husband on his way?'

'Getting rid of undesirables,' said the coachman with a smirk. 'They buzz around her like flies. Swatting them is my job. But Mr Gow is the main problem. He's sworn to get even with her.'

'Was it a serious threat?'

'Mary Hibbert thought so.'

'What about his wife?'

'I think she'd gone past listening to him.'

'Why did Mr Gow bother her?'

'Ask him.'

'What was he after?'

'His wife.'

'But she turned him away and that made him angry.'

'Vicious, more like.'

'Wasn't she worried by his threats?'

'Not really, Mr Bale.'

'Why not?'

'I told you,' said the other complacently. 'She's got me.'

'Yes,' agreed Jonathan, annoyed by his manner. 'I'm sure that you protected her well - until you drove down that lane towards the Strand. Even your strong arm was not enough then, was it? They were waiting.' He leaned forward. 'Now who could possibly have known that you'd be taking that exact route?'

'I'm a very busy man, Mr Redmayne. I can only give you a little time.'

'Yes, Sir William.'

'I leave for the theatre within the hour.'

'Then I'll not beat about the bush,' said Christopher. 'I just wondered what you could tell me about Miss Abigail Saunders.'

'Abigail?'

'I understand that she was once a member of your company.'

'Briefly.'

'Why did she leave?'

'By common consent.'

'Miss Saunders is with The King's Men now.'

'That's of no concern to me,' said the other smoothly.

After studying the list provided by his brother, Christopher Redmayne elected to begin with the name at the bottom. Sir William D'Avenant was an eminent man with a lifetime of literary achievement behind him. Yet his career had been even more chequered than that of his rival, Thomas Killigrew. The godson of William Shakespeare, he was rumoured to be the playwright's illegitimate offspring and there were those who had hailed him as Shakespeare's natural heir. Civil war interrupted his promising work as a dramatist. A committed Royalist, he was captured twice but escaped both times. When the Queen sent him to Virginia, his ship was intercepted and D'Avenant was arrested once more. Held in the Tower, he was at least allowed to write and publish poetry. It enabled him to keep his talent in good repair.

Christopher called on him at Rutland House, his sumptuous home in Aldersgate, a place where he could not only enjoy the fruits of his success but where, on occasion, he had staged some of his theatrical events. D'Avenant was in his early sixties but looked at least a decade older. The vestigial nose, unfit to support spectacles, bore testimony to the goatish instincts of younger days and there were other indications in the gaunt face with its ugly blotches on leathery skin of an acquaintance with syphilis. Christopher found it hard to believe that such an elderly lecher could enjoy the favours of an attractive young woman.

'What is your estimate of Miss Saunders?' he asked.

'As an actress or as a person?'

'Both.'

'Abigail can decorate a stage nicely,' said the other, flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve, 'but she will never be more than a diverting piece of scenery.'

'Mr Killigrew disagrees with you, Sir William.'

'That goes without saying.'

'He's chosen Miss Saunders to take over a role vacated by Mrs Harriet Gow.' D'Avenant sat up with interest. 'She'll be seen this afternoon as Aspatia in The Maid's Tragedy.'

'Indeed?'

'Mr Killigrew has the highest hopes of her.'

'More fool him!'

'His judgement is usually sound.'

'Abigail has been promoted beyond her mean abilities.'

'That's not what my brother says,' said Christopher. 'He was at the theatre this morning and saw Miss Saunders in rehearsal. She left a profound impression on Henry. He could talk of nothing else when we met at a coffee-house a little while ago.'

'And you say that Harriet Gow vacated the role?'

'She is indisposed.'

'Do you know why, Mr Redmayne?'

'Sickness was mentioned.'

'Then it can be ruled out immediately,' said the other sagely. 'No actress would yield up as telling a role as Aspatia unless she were on the point of expiry. There's more behind this. Harriet Gow would never let an ambitious creature like Abigail supplant her, even for one afternoon, if it could possibly be avoided.'

'I take it that you admire the lady's work, Sir William?'

'Harriet? She is to Abigail as gold is to base metal. Let me be quite candid. Harriet Gow is the one member of Killigrew's company I'd happily lure away to join The Duke's Men.'

'Not Michael Mohun or Charles Hart?'

'I have their equal in Better ton and Harris.'

'What about Miss Saunders?'

'Tom Killigrew is welcome to the lady. She causes more trouble than she's worth. In short, her aspirations greatly outrun her talents and that cruel fact never improves the temperament of an actress.'

'You sound bitter, Sir William.'

'Wise after the event, Mr Redmayne, that's all.'

The visit had established one thing to Christopher's satisfaction. Sir William D'Avenant was so patently surprised at the news about Harriet Gow that he could not in any way be involved in her abduction. Nor was he working with Abigail Saunders to further the career of a young woman who had, according to Henry Redmayne, been the old man's mistress. Whatever their true relationship had been in the past, it had left the theatre manager with harsh memories.

D'Avenant scratched at the remnants of his nose and regarded his visitor with growing suspicion. He flung a sudden question at him.

'What's your game, sir?' he demanded.

'My game?'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne. Why are you here?'

'I came to see you, Sir William.'

'To exchange tittle-tattle about actresses? No,' said the other with a cynical laugh. 'I think not. There's a darker purpose behind this visit, isn't there? Who sent you?'

'Nobody.'

'Tom Killigrew?'

'I came on my own account.'

'For what purpose?'

'The pleasure of meeting you, Sir William.'

'Pah!'

'It's the truth.'

'Don't talk to me of truth!' snarled the other, hauling himself to his feet. 'I'm old enough to remember a time when it hardly existed. When one thing was said but another meant. When we were all engaged in bare-faced lies of some sort in order to save our own skin.' He loomed over Christopher. 'I only agreed to see you because I know your brother, Henry, a disreputable character, to be sure, but he has a certain louche charm and he patronises my theatre without trying to tear it apart as some of those drunken gallants do. His name got you in through my door but I've yet to hear a reason why I shouldn't turn you straight out again.'

'Then perhaps I should declare my hand,' said Christopher, smiling apologetically as he groped in his mind for an excuse to cover his arrival. 'You're far too perceptive to be misled, Sir William. The fact is that my visit here is connected with my profession.'

'That of a spy, perhaps?'

'Not exactly, though a certain amount of listening, watching and gathering intelligence is required so I have something of the spy about me. I'm an architect, Sir William. I live by my talents.'

'Why trouble me with your company?'

'Because I heard a whisper that you plan to build a new theatre.'

'You've sharp ears, Mr Redmayne.'

'In my profession, I need them,' said Christopher. 'I've a particular fascination with theatre architecture and came to offer my services.'

'I'd look for more experience than you have to offer.'

'Enthusiasm can sometimes outweigh experience.'

'Sometimes,' conceded the other, looking at him with curiosity. 'An architect, you say? What have you designed, Mr Redmayne?'

'Domestic buildings, for the most part.'

'For whom?'

'The last was for Lord Staines. The project on which I'm currently employed is a house I've designed for Mr Jasper Hartwell.'

'Hartwell? That lunatic fop in the ginger wig?'

'He's a good client, sir.'

'And a rich fool into the bargain. That's the best kind of client you can have. Well, you must have earned your spurs if someone like Lord Staines sees fit to offer you a commission, and Jasper Hartwell would never live in a cheap house. You have definite credit, Mr Redmayne.'

'Enough to interest you, Sir William?'

'Tell me what you know about the design of a theatre.'

'I've visited Mr Killigrew's playhouse and your own, of course, in Portugal Street where you converted Lisle's Tennis Court into a theatre.'

'Successfully, do you think?'

'Yes, Sir William. You showed great invention. Your use of scenery was quite brilliant. That's what forced Mr Killigrew to build his new theatre near Drury Lane. His own converted tennis court in Vere Street could never match The Duke's Playhouse.'

Christopher expatiated on the architectural merits of all three buildings but he had criticism as well as praise. He took care to mention that he had seen several plays performed in France and learned much from their presentation. Convinced that his visitor's interest was real, D'Avenant was soon caught up in a heady discussion of his own plans, showing a deep knowledge of theatrical practicalities and a commendable grasp of architectural principles. In the course of their debate, he also introduced a fund of anecdotes about actors and actresses with whom he had worked in his long career. Christopher was entranced. Valuable new facts were emerging every minute.

'I am known as a master of adaptation,' said D'Avenant proudly. 'For one thing, I have the right to adapt the plays of my godfather, the revered William Shakespeare, a name that will always live on our stages. But, in a sense, Mr Redmayne, my whole life has been one interminable act of adaptation. Circumstances forced me to change time and again. I had to adapt or perish. Take the Commonwealth,' he went on, resuming his seat. 'Theatres were closed down, actors thrown out of work. But I found a way around the rules. Plays might be forbidden but there was no decree against opera. Adaptation came to my aid once again. I took a play called The Siege of Rhodes and, by the addition of music and song, turned it into an opera. Since I had no theatre, I adapted this very house for performance.'

'Your name is a by-word for ingenuity, Sir William.'

'So it should be. It's what sets me apart from that grubbing little charlatan, Tom Killigrew. That and the fact that I write plays of true wit whereas he can only manage comedies so scurrilous that even the most degenerate minds are offended by them. Enough of him!' he said derisively. 'The point is this, Mr Redmayne. After all those years of adaptation, I wish to create something wholly original, a theatre that is neither a converted tennis court nor a riding school, but an auditorium conceived solely and exclusively for dramatic entertainment, embodying all that I have learned about that elusive art.'

'Have you chosen a site?'

'It will be in Dorset Garden.'

'What about an architect?'

'You see him before you.'

'Someone will have to execute the designs on your behalf.'

'He's already engaged.'

'Does he require an assistant?' said Christopher hopefully, now fired with a desire to be somehow involved. 'I learn quickly.'

'Restrict yourself to grand houses, Mr Redmayne. That's where profit lies for an architect. My new theatre may take years to build and I have to confront one hideous truth.'

'What's that, Sir William?'

'I may not even live to see it open.'

He rose slowly to his feet and Christopher followed suit. Moving sluggishly, his host conducted him across the room. Christopher opened the door then turned to face him again.

'Thank you so much for suffering my company, Sir William.'

'You've a lively mind. That's always welcome.'

'I enjoyed hearing about your new theatre.'

'You had useful ideas of your own on the subject.'

'It was a privilege to share your vision.'

'Yet that's not why you came.'

Christopher was caught unawares. His expression betrayed him.

'I'll trespass on your time no longer,' he murmured.

'Give the lady my warmest regards.'

'Lady?'

'Harriet Gow. That's who you really came to talk about, isn't it? I could see it in your eyes.' His face crinkled into a tired smile. 'Stick to architecture, my friend. You're too honest to be a spy.'

Christopher was lost for words. A servant appeared in the hall.

'Please show Mr Redmayne out,' ordered D'Avenant crisply.

'Yes, Sir William,' said the man.

'Oh, and Gregory…'

The servant paused. 'Sir William?'

'Make sure that you don't let him into the house again.'

Jonathan Bale soon found the exact spot. The brickwork of the house had been deeply scored where the coach had scraped against it. The hasp that Trigg had been repairing was only one of the casualties on the vehicle. Jonathan ran a finger along the shallow grooves that had been gouged out of the brick. The impact must have been hard. He looked up and down the narrow lane, wondering yet again why such a route had been taken and seeing how perfect a place it had been for an ambush. Standing in the middle of the little thoroughfare, he tried to reconstruct in his mind exactly how it happened but his cogitations were interrupted by a sound from above. He glanced up quickly. The figure darted swiftly away from the upper window but not before the constable had caught sight of the man. Jonathan was being watched. He sensed that it was a hostile surveillance.

'There must be something we can do, Mrs Gow,' said Mary Hibbert.

'If only there were!' sighed her mistress.

'Have you tried to reason with them?'

'How can I when I'm not even allowed to speak?'

'What have they said to you?'

'Very little, Mary. When I asked a question, the man warned me to hold my tongue. I didn't argue with that raised fist of his. When the woman brings my food, she never says a single word.'

Mary was alerted. 'There's a woman here as well?'

'Yes, she's been keeping an eye on me.'

'All I've seen is one man. He wears a mask.'

'So does the woman. Her face is completely covered.'

'How many other people are here?'

'None, as far as I know.'

'Then we may have a chance.'

Mary crossed to the window. They were still alone together in the bedchamber. Reunited with Harriet Gow, Mary had recovered some of her willpower and all of her obligation to serve her mistress. She looked down at the garden below. It was empty. Open fields stretched beyond it to the horizon. The other woman joined her.

'It's too long a drop, Mary,' she said.

'There may be a way around that.'

'No, it's far too dangerous.'

'It's no more dangerous than staying here, Mrs Gow. They locked me in a dark cellar. It was horrifying. I'm not going to spend another night in there. I could hear a rat scampering about.'

'At least I've been spared that.'

'You're the person they need to look after,' argued Mary. 'That's why you have a proper bed and a woman to see to your needs. I'm glad of that. But I'm only a servant. They don't need to bother with me.' She stared through the window again. 'I've got nothing to lose.'

'What if they catch you?' 'I'll take that chance.'

'But what will you do, Mary?'

'Run as fast as I can to fetch help.'

'But we could be miles from anywhere.'

'Anything is better than staying here, Mrs Gow. I'm not asking you to come with me. You're safe enough here. They're treating you quite well because they know they have to. My case is different.'

'I'd much rather you stayed. You're such a comfort.'

'How long will they let us be together?'

Harriet Gow pondered. A woman of independent spirit, she found it galling to be deprived of her liberty. She was desperate to escape but she had grave doubts about the plan suggested by her maidservant. Getting down into the garden involved sufficient danger in itself. The chances of discovery seemed high. Even if Mary did get clear, she would be pursued as soon as her absence was noted. Harriet shuddered when she thought of the possible repercussions. She reached out to enfold her companion in protective arms, but Mary Hibbert was decisive.

'I'm going to try, Mrs Gow. It's our only hope.'

'But you could get hurt.'

'I'm not afraid.'

But Mary was trembling with fear and excitement. Feeling obscurely responsible for the predicament in which they found themselves, she wanted to do all that she could to get them out of it. She was young, fit and resolute. All she needed was a modicum of good fortune.

'It will work,' she promised.

'Will it?'

'It has to, Mrs Gow. Or we've no hope.'

'Somebody may come for us.'

'Who? Nobody even knows where we are.'

Harriet Gow nodded sadly. It was true. Her kidnappers had been swift, efficient and merciless. They would have covered their tracks.

Mary Hibbert held out her hands to her.

'Give me your blessing,' she said. 'Please, Mrs Gow.'

'I'll give you more than that,' replied the other, taking the brooch from her dress to hand it over. 'Have this as a keepsake, Mary. It may bring you luck.'

She kissed the girl impulsively. Mary pinned the brooch to her own dress. The two of them were soon knotting the bedsheets together.

Christopher Redmayne found time in a busy day to ride back to the site in order to assess progress. Neither Jasper Hartwell nor Lodowick Corrigan was there, though the bustling commitment with which the men were working suggested that the vigilant builder was not too far away. Satisfied that all was well, Christopher continued his round of calls before ending up in Fleet Street. It was early evening and he had arranged to meet up with Jonathan Bale outside the Lamb and Flag. A clock chimed, a distant bell boomed and the constable walked into view, arriving exactly on time.

Christopher dismounted from his horse to trade a greeting.

'What sort of a day have you had, Mr Bale?'

'Tiring.'

'Yet productive, I hope?'

'To some degree. What of you, sir?'

'Oh, I think I can claim to have made some headway. I've been looking more closely at some of the names on my brother's list. Sir William D'Avenant was the first.'

'Is he implicated in any way?'

'No, no, Mr Bale, I'm certain of that. But he taught me things about the theatrical way of life that shed much new light. It was well worth passing the time of day with him.'

He told the constable about his visit to D'Avenant's home, Rutland House, and his subsequent calls on some of the actors identified by his brother as possible sources of information. Jonathan was a good listener, absorbing salient detail and requesting clarification from time to time. He could see how assiduous Christopher had been and that pleased him.

When he finally paused, the architect pursed his lips in concentration.

'I still believe we must look to the theatre,' he said at length. 'That was Harriet Gow's world and that's where the clues that may save her will probably lie.'

'Then you must uncover them without me, sir,' warned the other. 'I'd be lost in that swamp. You and your brother must wade through it.'

'That's what Henry's doing at this precise moment. Watching a performance at The Theatre Royal.'

'The theatre!'

'Yes, Mr Bale.'

'I'm shocked to hear it.'

'Why?'

'Attending a play at a time like this!'

'It's not only for the purposes of recreation,' Christopher pointed out. 'Henry can do valuable work simply by keeping his ears open. Each to his own. My brother wallows in his swamp, I interview some of the possible suspects and you pursue your own lines of enquiry.'

'I try to, Mr Redmayne.'

'What did you find out?'

'That a certain coachman will never win prizes for civility.'

'Ah, you met the redoubtable Mr Trigg, I see.'

'He was a quarrelsome man, sir. I had to press him hard to get anything of value out of him. But it paid off eventually.'

'What did he tell you?'

Jonathan described the encounter and passed on the detailed account he had been given of the ambush. Christopher listened intently, noting slight variations from the earlier versions given by the coachman.

'Would you employ a brute like that?' he asked.

'No, sir.'

'Why not?'

'Because I wouldn't trust him.'

'Mrs Gow appears to do so.'

'He seemed to glory in that fact.' 'Where was he taking her when the coach was attacked?'

'That was the one thing even I couldn't prise out of him, sir. Not for want of trying. It was like talking to a brick wall. What Mr Trigg did insist on was that they'd not been heading for the Palace of Westminster.'

'I wonder.'

'What do you mean?'

'I had a second look at that map of mine, Mr Bale. It does seem odd that the coach would come into the Strand if it were going towards King Street, but there are other ways of reaching the Palace than by the obvious route.'

'I don't follow, sir.'

'The river. What better way to slip unnoticed into the royal apartments than by arriving in a boat? A woman could easily be smuggled inside to meet His Majesty.'

'It still doesn't answer our objection, Mr Bale. Had the coachman been driving towards one of the wharves, he'd most likely have come into the Strand from Charing Cross.'

'Not necessarily.'

'I took a close look at that lane, sir. I found the exact spot where the ambush occurred. There's barely room for a coach to get through. Mr Trigg must have had a very good reason to choose that route.'

'Do you have any idea what it might be?'

'I could hazard a guess.'

'Well?'

'We're searching for a destination that doesn't exist, sir, whether it be the Palace or somewhere in the Strand. Put yourself in the position of the coachman. Only one thing could take you down that lane.'

'What is it?'

'Think hard.'

Christopher snapped his fingers. 'The need to call at one of the houses there.'

'Exactly.'

'That's where Mrs Gow must have been going for her rendezvous. Instead of passing through the lane, they were planning to stop there. That raises the question of whom she was going to see.' Christopher thought hard.

'Impossible to be sure.'

'Quite so,' Christopher agreed.

'But I did my best to find out,' said Jonathan, reaching into his pocket to take out a grubby piece of paper. 'I didn't want to draw attention to myself by knocking on doors so I went into the tavern at the top end of the lane - the Red Lion. The innkeeper was a talkative man. He gave me the names of some of the local people who frequent his tavern.' He handed the list to Christopher. 'I think you'll find the one at the top the most interesting.'

'Why?'

'See for yourself, Mr Redmayne.'

Christopher looked at the shaky handwriting then gaped.

'Bartholomew Gow!'

Henry Redmayne stayed at the theatre long after the performance of The Maid's Tragedy ended. It had been only a qualified success. Incensed at the absence of Harriet Gow, some of the more obstreperous elements in the audience had stamped their feet in protest and barracked the actors. A few scuffles had broken out and Aspatia's first entrance went almost unnoticed. Abigail Saunders did not lose heart and her perseverance slowly won over the bulk of the spectators even though her tender pleas had to be delivered in a strident voice in order to be heard above the din. Much of the essence of the play survived and the company was given a rousing ovation at its conclusion.

After carousing with his friends, Henry had to remind himself that he was there on serious business; he made his way to the dressing room bearing the gift he had already bought from a flower girl. He was one of a number of admirers who jostled their way towards Abigail Saunders but persistence and combative elbows soon got him close to the actress. He presented the basket of flowers to her with a flourish and was rewarded with a proffered hand. Henry lingered over his kiss.

'You were divine, Miss Saunders!' he cooed.

'Thank you, Mr Redmayne.'

'The whole audience was enraptured.'

'I fought hard to earn their attention, sir.'

'You had mine from the moment you set foot on the stage. I could sing your praises all night, Miss Saunders. Sup with me and I will.'

'Unhappily, I already have an engagement.'

'Will you dine with me tomorrow, then?'

'I have another rehearsal to attend, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then I'll batter at your defences until they crumble,' he said with a broad grin. 'Crumble, they must. I'm resolved on it.'

A brittle laugh. 'I admire tenacity in a man.'

'And I admire quality in a woman,' he countered. 'It was on display out there on stage and it made me swoon with wonder. The pity of it is that your mentor was not there to appreciate it as well.'

'My mentor?'

'The man who inspired you.'

'And who might that be?' she asked.

'Why, Sir William D'Avenant.'

It was not the most tactful remark to make to the actress at such a moment. Her smile froze, her teeth clenched and his basket of flowers was tossed uncaringly aside. Abigail Saunders gave him a withering stare before turning her back on him.

'Goodbye, Mr Redmayne.'

Henry gabbled his apologies but the damage was irreparable. Ignoring him, she lapped up the flattery of all the other men who had crowded into her dressing room. Henry found himself slowly edged out of the room altogether. His attempt at befriending the actress had been hopelessly bungled. He would never get close enough to question her indirectly about Harriet Gow's disappearance now. Nor could he expect any kind of dalliance by way of compensation. Abigail Saunders had effectively rejected him on the spot.

There was worse to come. Rolling out of the theatre, Henry followed a group of playgoers who were tottering towards a nearby tavern. He needed some revelry to atone for his disappointment. A vision of his brother came before his eyes. Christopher would be angry that he had thrown away all chance of wheedling information out of the woman who stood to gain most from Harriet Gow's indisposition. Henry needed more alcohol before he could face his brother's censure. Licking his lips, he hastened after the others.

He did not get very far. As he walked past a sidestreet, two brawny men came out to grab him by the arms. Henry was given no time to call for help, still less to offer any resistance. Dragged into a doorway in the sidestreet, he was cudgelled viciously to the ground then kicked hard in the ribs by his two attackers. They were swift and proficient. When their work was done, they flitted nimbly away into the shadows, leaving Henry Redmayne in a groaning heap on the ground, lying helplessly in a pool of blood.