The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Ten

After a long and largely sleepless night, Harriet Gow dozed off in the chair, still agonising over her decision to condone her maidservant's bold escape bid. Her slumbers were soon interrupted. The door was unlocked and unbolted then flung open to allow the man and the woman to come bustling in. They wasted no time on a greeting. Harriet was grabbed and lifted bodily from her chair before being dragged out. As they hustled her up the steps, she found her voice again.

'Where are you taking me?' she bleated.

'Be quiet!' grunted the man.

'Who are you?'

'Never you mind.'

'You're hurting my arm.'

'Be glad that I don't do worse.'

'What's going on?' she cried.

'You'll be told in time.'

'Where's Mary?'

'Forget about her.'

'Tell me!'

The man ignored her. Harriet tried hard to assert herself.

'You can't do this to me!' she protested with as much dignity as she could muster. 'Do you know who I am? What I am?'

'Oh, yes,' said the man with a throaty chuckle. 'We know.'

The dialogue took her up the staircase and along the landing. They were marching her back to her room. The change of accommodation was welcome but her relief was tinged with apprehension. Mary Hibbert's fate took precedence over her own immediate comfort. Harriet continued to ask about her until the door of the bedchamber was opened and she was pushed into it. Turning to continue her pleas, she found the door shut firmly in her face. At least she had been rescued from the cellar. What had prompted that? She could not believe that her captors had taken pity on her. Both of them - the man and the woman - had been consistently brusque with her. They spoke only to give her commands and they had no compunction about laying violent hands on her.

Evidently, they were acting on orders - but who was giving them? Was there someone else in the house, supervising her imprisonment and controlling any punishment she needed to suffer? Her two captors wore masks to avoid being recognised. Did that mean she had seen them before, or were they merely concealing their identity as a precaution against being picked out by her at a later date? And what of their master? Why did he not put in an appearance, if only to taunt her? What made him keep so carefully out of the way?

Harriet asked the same burning questions over and over again until she at last noticed something. Changes had been made to the room. Strips of wood had been nailed across the window, obscuring some of the light and making it impossible to open. Most of the furniture had been removed, leaving her with no option but to use the bed or the floor if she wished to sit down. Her comforts had been dramatically reduced. It was the sight of the bed that really harrowed her. Not only had it been stripped of all its linen to ensure that she could create no makeshift rope for another escape attempt, it had acquired a tiny object that glinted in the early morning light.

She was transfixed. The brooch that lay in the middle of the bed was the keepsake she had given to Mary Hibbert just before the girl had lowered herself into the garden. It was more than a reward for her bravery. It was a sign of her mistress's affection and gratitude. To have it brought back could mean only one thing: Mary had been caught. She would have no need of the brooch now. Rushing to the bed, Harriet snatched it up and held it to her bosom then she swung round to run across to the door. Beating on it with both fists, she yelled as loudly as she could and without any fear of the consequences.

'What have you done with Mary? Where is she?'

Christopher Redmayne was up at daybreak, refusing the breakfast that Jacob had prepared for him and ignoring his servant's admonitions as he headed for the stable. Cocks were still crowing with competitive zeal as he rode off down Fetter Lane. Henry's condition was his primary concern and he made for the house in Bedford Street at a canter, swerving his horse through the oncoming carts, waggons and pedestrians who were already streaming towards the city's markets. In the year since the Great Fire had devastated the capital, London had regained much of its old zest and character. There was a communal sense of resilience in the air.

When he reached his destination, Christopher found that his brother was now sleeping soundly after a disturbed night. He tiptoed into the bedchamber to look at Henry but forbore to wake him. Pleased to hear that the physician was due to call again that morning, he promised to return later himself then set off for the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the- Fields. The short ride brought him to a scene of almost ear- splitting activity. Picks, shovels and other implements were being used with force, more building materials were arriving to be unloaded and stacked, horses were neighing, a dog was barking as it darted playfully between the piles of bricks and timber, workmen were cursing each other roundly and Lodowick Corrigan was in the middle of it all, bellowing above the tumult and pointing a peremptory finger.

Christopher took careful stock of what had so far been done. Even in a day, they had made perceptible progress, marking out the perimeter of the house and digging most of the foundations. He waited until the builder ambled across to him.

'I thought we'd seen the last of you, sir,' said Corrigan tartly.

'No, I'll be here from time to time.'

'You should stay all day, Mr Redmayne. If you did that, you might learn something.'

'About what?'

'How a house gets built.'

'But I already know,' said Christopher, icily pleasant. 'You find a talented architect to design it and an agreeable builder to put it up. All that they have to do is to trust each other.'

'That's what it comes down to in the end. Trust.'

'What do you trust in, Mr Corrigan?'

'My long experience.'

'Of disobeying the instructions of an architect?'

'When I started in this trade,' sneered the other, 'there weren't quite so many of your profession, sir. Master-builders were the order of the day - men like my father who did everything themselves. My father could design, construct and decorate a property entirely on his own.'

'Those days have gone.'

'They're sorely missed.'

Christopher did not rise to the bait of his implication. Instead, he tried to make use of the other's much vaunted experience. After discussing what would be done on site that day, he surprised his companion by resorting to some mild flattery.

'You know your trade, Mr Corrigan,' he said. 'I took the trouble to look at some of the houses you've put up in the city. Soundly built, every one of them. They're a credit to you.'

'Why, thank you, Mr Redmayne.'

'And a credit to the architect who designed them, of course.'

'They were all amenable men,' said Corrigan.

'Amenable?'

'To my suggestions.'

'Nobody is more amenable than I. Any suggestion of yours is always welcome. The problem is that I've not heard one yet that I thought worth taking seriously.'

'That's because your head's still in the clouds, sir.'

'Oh?' 'You're a true artist. All that concerns you is your reputation.'

'Naturally.'

'Other architects had a sharper eye for the possibilities.'

'Of what, Mr Corrigan?'

'Profit. Gain. Advancement,' said the builder slyly. 'Take your insistence on the use of Caen stone. It'll be expensive to buy and difficult to transport. The quarry in which I have a stake could provide stone that's similar in type and colour but costs half the price. Mr Hartwell doesn't know that, of course. Persuade him to change his mind about the portico and you could pocket the difference between the Caen stone and the kind I supply.'

'What's in it for you?'

'The pleasure of teaching a young man the ways of the world.'

'The ways of your world, Mr Corrigan. Mine is very different. It includes quaint concepts like honesty, fair dealing and mutual confidence. Proffer any more lessons in cheating a client,' he warned, 'and I'll be forced to report the conversation to Mr Hartwell.' The builder's smirk vanished at once. 'Now, give me some advice that I can use.'

'I don't follow,' said the other resentfully.

'Have you ever built a house in the vicinity of St James's Palace?'

'Two in Berry Street and one in Piccadilly.'

'What interests me are some properties in Rider Street.'

'Why?'

'I'd like to know who built them. I understand that there's only a small row of houses there at present, but they're well designed and neatly constructed. How could I find out who put them up?'

'By asking the man who owns them.'

'They're leased out, then?'

'If it's the houses I'm thinking of, yes.'

'Do you happen to know who the landlord is?'

'It used to be Crown land, Mr Redmayne,' said the other with a knowing grin. 'So the King must be getting an income from them. If you want to live in one of those houses, you'll have to kiss His Majesty's arse.' A crude cackle. 'Watch out for those royal farts, sir, won't you?'

Jonathan Bale's day also began at dawn. After breakfast with his wife and children, he went off to acquaint Peter Hibbert with the sudden death of his sister. He was not looking forward to the assignment but someone had to undertake it and his link with the family made him the obvious choice. That was why he had volunteered so assertively in front of William Chiffinch. Horrified by Mary's death, Jonathan hoped that he might in some small way alleviate the distress that the tidings were bound to create. Peter was not the most robust character and his uncle was still very sick. Both would need to be helped to absorb the shock that lay in wait for them.

The boy was apprenticed to a tailor in Cornhill Ward and it was there that the constable first presented himself. Peter Hibbert was already at work, cutting some cloth from a bolt. After an explanatory word with his master, Jonathan took the boy aside and broke the news as gently as he could. Peter burst into tears. It was minutes before the boy was able to press for details.

'When was this, Mr Bale?' he whimpered.

'Some time yesterday.'

'Where did it happen?'

'Her body was found in Drury Lane. It seems that she was struck by a coach as it careered along out of control. Mary had no chance. It was all over in seconds.'

'What was my sister doing in Drury Lane?'

'I don't know.'

'I thought she and Mrs Gow had left London.'

'They must've returned without warning. My guess is that Mary was on her way to The Theatre Royal.'

'Where's the body now?'

'Lying in a morgue,' said Jonathan. 'I saw it late last night and identified it. This was the earliest I could make contact with you.' He saw the boy about to topple and gave him a hug. 'Bear up, Peter. This is a terrible blow, I know. Mary was a good sister to you.'

'She was everything, Mr Bale.'

'For her sake, try to be strong.'

'How can I?'

'Try, Peter. Mary is with the angels now, where she belongs.'

'That's true,' mumbled the boy.

Informed of the circumstances, the tailor gave permission for his apprentice to take the day off and Jonathan accompanied him to Carter Street, where he had to mix fact with deception again. The uncle was numbed into silence by the news but his wife let out a shriek, sobbing loudly and bemoaning the loss of her niece. She laid responsibility for the death squarely on Mary Hibbert's involvement in the tawdry world of the theatre. Jonathan was able to agree with her heartily on that score but he did not labour the point, preferring to soothe rather than allot blame, and anxious to leave Peter in the reassuring company of his relatives. Uncle and aunt soon rallied. Grateful to the constable for telling them the news, they willingly accepted his offer to speak to the parish priest in order to make arrangements for the funeral.

'Will you come back, Mr Bale?' asked Peter meekly.

'In time.'

'I'd like that.'

Jonathan gave him a sad smile. It was outside that very house that he had last seen Mary Hibbert and he was still prodded by uncomfortable memories of their conversation. He was determined to be more helpful and less censorious towards her brother. Peter had now lost a mother, a father and only sister in the space of two short years. He needed all the friendship and support he could get.

Jonathan's next visit was to the vicar, a white-haired old man who had lost count of the number of funeral services he had conducted. Mary Hibbert no longer lived in the parish but the fact that she was born there gave her the right to be buried in the already overcrowded churchyard. After discussing details with his visitor, the priest went scurrying off to Carter Lane to offer his own condolences to the bereaved. Jonathan felt guilty at having to give them only an attenuated version of the truth but he was relieved that he had not confronted them with the full horror of the situation. Peter Hibbert, in particular, would not have been able to cope. It was a kindness to spare him.

Having discharged his duties regarding Mary Hibbert, the constable could now begin the pursuit of those who murdered her. He left the city through Ludgate, walked along Fleet Street then quickened his pace when he reached the Strand, the broad thoroughfare that was fringed on his left by the palatial residences of the great, the good and the ostentatiously wealthy. Jonathan was too caught up in his thoughts to accord the houses his usual hostile glare. He came to a halt at the place where the ambush had taken place, wondering yet again why that route had been taken by the coachman. Walking to the top of the lane, he found the landlord of the Red Lion supervising the unloading of barrels from a cart.

'Good morning to you,' said Jonathan.

'Good morning, sir.'

'There's no room for anything to get past while this cart is here.'

'They'll have to wait,' said the other cheerily. 'We must have our beer or I'll lose custom. I daresay you don't have lanes as narrow as this in your ward. Not since the fire, that is.'

'Every street, lane and alley that was rebuilt had to be wider, sir, by order of Parliament. It's a sensible precaution. Fire spreads easily when properties are huddled so closely together.'

'Then keep it away from us.'

The innkeeper was a short, stout, red-faced man with a bald head that was encircled by a tonsure of matted grey hair. There was nothing monastic, however, in his coarse appearance and rough voice.

'So what brings you back to the Red Lion?' he said.

'Something you told me yesterday.'

'I think I told you quite a lot, sir.'

'You gave me a list of people who live in the lane.'

'That I did, Mr Bale.'

Jonathan was surprised. 'You remember my name, then?'

'A good memory is an asset in my trade, sir. People like to be recognised. It makes them feel welcome. I always remember names.'

'The one that interests me is Bartholomew Gow.'

'Ah, yes. He wasn't a regular patron of my inn but he did come in often enough for me to get to know him a little.'

'How would you describe him?'

'Pleasant enough, sir. Kept himself to himself. He always moved on if things became a bit rowdy. Mr Gow was too much of a gentleman to put up with that.'

'What age would you put him at?'

'Well below thirty still, I'd say,' replied the man, exploring a hirsute ear with his little finger. 'Handsome fellow. The tavern wenches were all keen to serve Mr Gow. He had a way with him, see. My wife remarked on it a few times.' He gave an understanding chuckle. 'She wouldn't admit it to me, of course, but I think she misses him.'

'Misses him?'

'He hasn't been in to see us for weeks.'

'Why not?'

'Who knows? Maybe he found somewhere more to his taste, sir. The Red Lion can get a bit lively when drink has flowed. Mr Gow was never at ease when that happened.'

'Where exactly does he live?' said Jonathan, glancing back down the lane. 'Do you know which house?'

'No, sir, but it's towards the bottom. That's where the best lodgings are to be found and I told you he was a gentleman.'

'Lodgings? He doesn't own the house, then?'

'Oh, no. He had a room, that's all.'

Jonathan squeezed every detail he could out of the man before thanking him for his help and moving off. When he got to the lower end of the lane, he began knocking on doors systematically in his search for Bartholomew Gow. The fourth house was owned by a big, fleshy woman in her thirties with a prominent bosom taking attention away from a podgy face that was pitted by smallpox. She opened the door with reluctance and was clearly displeased to see a constable standing there.

'Good morning,' said Jonathan politely.

She was wary. 'What can I do for you, sir?'

'I'm looking for a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

'Then you've come too late. He moved out.'

'When?'

'Week or so ago.'

'But he did lodge here?'

'Yes.'

'What sort of man was he?'

'The kind that pays his rent. That's all I cared about.' She gave him a basilisk stare then tried to close the front door.

'Wait,' he said, putting out a hand to stop her. 'I need to ask you something. A couple of days ago, there was an incident right outside your door involving a coach. It scraped along the front of your house.' He pointed to the marks in the brickwork. 'Were you in the house at the time?'

'No, sir.'

'Was anyone else here? Anyone who might have heard the noise and rushed out to see what was going on?'

'Nobody, sir.'

'What of your neighbours? Did they see anything?'

'I don't think so or they'd have told me.'

'There must have been some witnesses.'

'I wouldn't know,' she said sourly.

Jonathan became aware that he was being watched from the upper room. It was the second time he had been under surveillance from that standpoint. When he stepped back to look up, he saw a figure move smartly away from the window.

'Did Mr Gow have the room at the front?' he wondered.

'Yes, sir.'

'Who lodges there now?'

'Another gentleman.'

And she closed the door this time before he could stop her.

'You've saved me a journey, Mr Redmayne. I was just about to come calling at your house in order to see you.'

'Why?'

'Because I wish to get to the bottom of this once and for all.'

'What do you mean, Mr Killigrew?'

'Something is afoot, sir,' said the manager waspishly. 'A worrying turn of events has occurred. First of all, I get a letter from Harriet Gow to say that she's temporarily indisposed. Then your brother, Henry, barges in here with the same news and does his best to pump me about the members of my company. Word somehow leaks out about her absence and I'm harried to death by her admirers, that moonstruck idiot, Jasper Hartwell, among them. Next minute, I find your brother peering over my shoulder while I'm taking a rehearsal then he springs the biggest surprise of all by turning up at my theatre, covered in blood.'

'It was good of you to convey him back to his home, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher. 'That's one of the main reasons I called. To thank you for coming to Henry's aid and to give you a report on his condition.'

'How is he?'

'Weak but slowly recovering from his ordeal.'

'I thought we'd lost him when he was carried in here. Let me be brutally honest, sir. There've been times in my life when I could willingly have taken a cudgel to your brother myself. Henry can irritate so. But I repented my urge when I saw him lying there,' he said, recalling the gruesome image. 'No man deserves to be battered to a pulp like that.'

Thomas Killigrew was in a peppery mood when Christopher met him at the theatre. His visitor noted the disparity between this manager and the one with whom he had competed so strenuously for years. Killigrew had none of the easy charm of Sir William D'Avenant, the putative son of a humble Oxford innkeeper, who had risen to the status of a courtier and effortlessly acquired all the skills that went with it. The puffy Killigrew might have prior claim on the King's friendship but he lacked the studied grace of the older man.

'Let's not waste words, Mr Redmayne,' said the manager. 'I want to know exactly what's going on.'

'You have every right to do so, Mr Killigrew.'

'Then please explain.'

'First, let me offer an apology,' said Christopher. 'I feel that an unguarded remark of mine might have led Mr Hartwell to hound you here yesterday. He's developed a rare passion for Harriet Gow.'

'Show me a man who hasn't.'

'She's a remarkable woman. I count that performance of hers in The Maid's Tragedy as the most moving I've ever seen from an actress.'

'Abigail Saunders ran her close.'

'I'll come to Miss Saunders in moment.'

'Your brother was showing an interest in her.'

'Henry is not in a position to show an interest in any woman at the moment,' said Christopher sadly. 'It's all my fault for employing him to do a job that I was engaged to do myself.'

'And what job was that?'

Christopher saw no point in trying to deceive someone as worldly as the manager any longer. The disappearance of Harriet Gow had a direct effect on his takings at the theatre. It was in his interests to have her back on stage as soon as possible so that audiences would flock there again. That could be best achieved, Christopher judged, by taking the manager into his confidence. It would gain far more cooperation from Killigrew than Henry Redmayne had been able to secure by his more roundabout means. Swearing him to secrecy, Christopher gave a terse account of the situation. Killigrew was shaken to hear that his leading actress had been abducted and horrified to learn of the death of Mary Hibbert. When he fitted the attacks on Henry Redmayne and Roland Trigg into the picture, he saw how serious the predicament was.

One thing puzzled the manager. He frowned in wonderment.

'You're conducting this search on your own, Mr Redmayne?'

'No, I'm working in harness with Jonathan Bale, a constable.'

'An architect and a mere constable?'

'We were able to be of service to His Majesty in the past,' said Christopher modestly. 'That's why he sent for us. But the principal reason for using two men in this investigation instead of two hundred is that we will not arouse attention. At least, that's what I thought until Henry was assaulted. The ransom note insisted that no attempt be made to rescue Harriet Gow. Because we disobeyed, Mary Hibbert was killed by way of reprisal.'

'Doesn't that frighten you and this constable off?'

'Quite the opposite, Mr Killigrew. I feel guilty that anything I may have done somehow led to the girl's death and Mr Bale is not the kind of man who's ever scared away. He knew Mary Hibbert as a friend and neighbour. Nothing will stop him tracking down her killers.'

'How can I help?'

'In many ways.'

'Teach me what they are.'

'The main one is to tell us more about Mrs Gow's private life. You must have had some insight into it. Henry made a start for me. He managed to compile a list of people who were either close to her or who might be suspect in some way.'

'Do you have that list with you?'

'Of course,' said Christopher, producing it from his pocket to give it to him. 'Please disregard the last name.'

'If only I could!' said Killigrew, looking at it with disgust.

'I interviewed Sir William D'Avenant myself. He's not implicated.'

'He'd do all he could to seduce Harriet away from me.'

'Would he condone violence and murder?'

'He'd roast his grandmother on a spit in the middle of a stage if he thought it would increase his income at the theatre.

But no,' conceded the manager, 'not murder. I think the old crow would stop short of that.'

'What of the other names?'

'Henry has worked hard. He's got most of Harriet's close friends down here - and her enemies. In fact, there's only one person he hasn't put down and that's Martin Eldridge.'

'A friend or an enemy, sir?'

'Oh, a friend. No shadow of a doubt about that. Indeed, I have my suspicions that Martin Eldridge may have been elevated beyond the level of friendship by Harriet. She was deeply upset when I had to terminate his contract,' Killigrew said, lovingly caressing his moustache. 'She more or less pleaded with me to give Martin a second chance.'

'Second chance?'

'That's what Harriet called it. By my reckoning, it would have been more like a sixth or seventh chance.'

'Was he a member of the company here?'

'Yes. Martin was a clever actor - he might even have been a great one if he'd had the sense to apply himself, but he was too lazy. Too easily distracted. I'm a tolerant man, Mr Redmayne,' Killigrew announced with an intolerant scowl, 'but I'll not stand for wayward behaviour. I expect my actors to work at their craft. Martin Eldridge failed to do that.'

'What is he doing now?'

'What all unemployed actors do. Either look for work elsewhere, which means submitting themselves to that noseless monster who stalks The Duke's Theatre, or sponge off rich women.'

'How would I find him?'

'Talk to Abigail Saunders. She may be able to help you.'

'I was going to ask your permission to speak to the lady, in any case,' said Christopher. 'It crossed Henry's mind that she might somehow be involved in the abduction of Harriet Gow.'

'Abigail?' Killigrew shook his head. 'She'd never sink to that.'

'Miss Saunders is the main beneficiary of her absence.'

'But she isn't.'

'Then who is?'

'That rotting old lecher, Sir William D'Avenant. Can you believe that Abigail once granted him her favours? Well, yes,' he said with an oily grin, 'if you've the slightest knowledge of actresses, you can believe anything of them, I daresay. I certainly do. What a peculiar breed they are! Warrior queens with the faces of harmless cherubs.'

'Is Miss Saunders a warrior queen?'

'Decide for yourself, Mr Redmayne. Abigail should be here any minute for another rehearsal. She saved the day yesterday afternoon. And in view of what you've told me,' he sighed, 'she may have to come to our rescue for quite some time.'

The man rode hard along the deserted road. By the time he reached the house, his temper was up and his horse was lathered with sweat. The woman greeted him with a token curtsey at the door. She had removed her mask to reveal plain features lit by a pair of gimlet eyes. Storming past her, the visitor went straight into the drawing room where the other guard was waiting for him, his own mask now discarded. The newcomer was inches shorter and far slimmer in build but he was not intimidated by the burly figure of Arthur Oscott before him. Snapping his whip hard against his thigh, he glared accusingly at the man.

'Why did you let it happen?' he demanded.

'I was only following orders, sir.'

'Your orders were to keep both of them under lock and key.'

'The girl escaped,' Oscott said. 'We couldn't let her get away or she'd have raised the alarm. She had to be stopped.'

'Stopped and brought back here. Not beaten to death.'

'They got carried away, sir.'

'Carried away!' fumed his employer.

'When they caught up with the girl, she screamed and fought back. Smeek said they had to shut her up.'

'So they did - permanently.'

'I'd blame Froggatt, sir. Too eager with that cudgel. Ben Froggatt doesn't know his own strength. He's the one who done her in. When they came back, I gave him the sharp side of my tongue, I can tell you.'

'If I'd been here, he'd have had the point of my sword. Reckless fool! He could have ruined the whole plan.' He pointed the whip. 'And whose idea was it to deliver the body to the Palace?'

'Mine,' admitted Oscott. 'You told me I was to use my initiative.'

'That was when I thought you had a brain.'

'We had to frighten them, you said. Force them into paying the ransom. What better way to show them we weren't to be trifled with than by sending a message like that?' Oscott was unrepentant. 'I was trying to turn the situation to our advantage, sir. Thanks to Froggatt, we suddenly had a dead body on our hands. We could hardly keep it here. Smeek has his boat so I got him and Froggatt to row downriver to the Palace under cover of darkness.'

'Are you sure they weren't seen?'

'They swear it.'

'Where did they leave her?'

'By the steps.'

'And they got away safely?'

'Yes, sir. They're well versed in their trade.'

'I was told that you were as well,' snarled the other, 'but you let me down, Oscott. How on earth did that maidservant escape when two of you were guarding her all day long?'

'Knotted bed linen. She lowered herself into the garden.'

'Then the girl showed more initiative than you've managed.'

'It may all turn out for the best, sir,' argued the other.

'Mrs Gow was not to be harmed. I stressed that.'

'I know.'

'And I didn't just mean physical harm, you dolt! Think how she'll feel when she finds out what's happened to this Mary Hibbert. She'll be distraught. Keeping her locked up here is punishment enough in itself. There was no need to kill her maid.' 'It wasn't my fault,' said Oscott, thrown on the defensive.

'Of course it was! You hired Smeek and Froggatt - and that other bully boy who helped us in the ambush. Choose reliable men, that was my instruction. Not imbeciles.' He walked around the room to calm himself down, tapping the end of his whip into the palm of his hand. 'Well, let's hope we can retrieve the situation. Who knows? It might even serve our ends. It might just scare the money out of His Majesty's purse.' He came to a sudden halt. 'Where is Mrs Gow?'

'Sealed up in the bedchamber, sir.'

'Safely?'

'There's no way she can get out. The door is locked and the window has been boarded up. I saw to it myself.'

'Closing the stable door after the horse had bolted.'

'Mrs Gow is still here. She's the important one, isn't she?'

'Yes,' agreed the other. 'Mrs Gow is the only important one. As long as we have her, we can put pressure on them to hand over the money.' He looked upwards. 'What have you told her about Mary Hibbert?'

Oscott looked uneasy. 'Nothing, sir.'

'Are you sure?'

'We just let her know that the girl had been caught.'

'And how did you do that?'

'Mary Hibbert was wearing a brooch. We left it on Mrs Gow's bed.'

'Why didn't you leave the dead body while you were at it!' roared the other, charging back to him. 'You've as good as told her that the girl will have no need for the brooch again. Was this another example of your famous initiative?'

'It was my wife's idea.'

'Oh, was it now?'

'She thought we should punish Mrs Gow.'

'Whatever for?'

'Helping her maid to escape.'

'Your wife's every bit as stupid as her husband.'

'We've done what we're paid for,' reasoned Oscott. 'We set up the ambush and brought Mrs Gow here. That's what you wanted.'

'Granted,' said the visitor. 'What I didn't want was the taint of murder on our hands. It was so unnecessary. Where are those two madmen now, Smeek and Froggatt?'

'Gone back to London.'

'Can they be trusted?'

'Yes, sir. They know how to keep their mouths shut.'

'I don't want any of this leading back to me.'

'Smeek and Froggatt don't even know your name, sir,' Oscott reminded him. 'No more do I. That was your stipulation. You're safe, sir. None of this can be connected with you.'

'It could if the trail led to this house.'

'Only the four of us know where it is.'

'That's two too many,' decided the other, rubbing his chin with the end of his whip. 'Smeek and Froggatt are liabilities. To be on the safe side, I think we'll move Mrs Gow.'

'Where to, sir?'

'Another hiding place.'

'But why?'

'They worry me, Oscott, those two friends of yours with the over-zealous cudgels. If they don't know where Mrs Gow is being kept, they won't be able to tell anyone where it is.'

'But they wouldn't do that, anyway,' insisted Oscott loyally. 'Smeek served in the Navy, sir. The man's as hard as teak and twice as reliable. Ben Froggatt's just such another. He knows how to earn his money. Have no fears about Smeek and Froggatt,' he said airily. 'They won't let you down.'

The Hope and Anchor was one of the many inns along the river that catered for sailors. With so many ships moored nearby, it was doing brisk business and its taproom was full. Smeek and Froggatt pushed their way through the crowd until they found a corner where they could raise their tankards in celebration. Short but powerful, Smeek had the weather- beaten complexion of a seafaring man. Froggatt was bigger, broader and even more rugged in appearance.

'We done well,' he said, drinking deep.

'Arthur Oscott didn't think so, Ben.'

'We shut the girl up for good. Pity we didn't have time to get some fun out of her before we did it, though. Pretty thing. I got a good feel of her body when we kidnapped her. I'd have enjoyed riding that little filly.'

'So would I,' said Smeek. 'One thing, anyway.'

'What's that?'

'She got us to the Palace. Never thought I'd set foot there.'

'Well, we did,' said Froggatt, jingling coins in his hand. 'And we got our reward from Arthur for doing it. He was pleased with us in the end. Leaving that body there would be another warning, he said.'

Smeek looked down at the money in his friend's huge palm.

'How long will it take us to drink through that, Ben?'

'Let's see.'

They shared a laugh, bought more ale then joined in the general revelry. The raucous atmosphere was home to them. Drinking heavily, they were quite unaware that someone was spying on them from the doorway. It was Froggatt who peeled off first to relieve himself. He made an obscene gesture to his companion then lurched out of the inn and around to the alleyway at the rear. Undoing his breeches, he broke wind violently then urinated against the wall.

The first blow was across the back of his neck. It made him double up in agony. Before he could turn, other blows from a heavy object rained down on his head. Froggatt flailed around madly, trying to grab his attacker, but his legs began to buckle. A final relay of blows from the cudgel sent him dropping to the ground in a pool of blood and urine.

Roland Trigg used a foot to turn the twitching carcass over.

'Hello, Ben,' he said with a grin. 'Remember me?'

Abigail Saunders was circumspect. Pleased to be introduced by Killigrew to a handsome young man, she balked slightly when she realised that he was Henry Redmayne's brother. The manager left the two of them alone in her dressing room so that Christopher could try to talk his way past her obvious reservations.

'I heard what happened to your brother,' she said with a degree of concern. 'It was dreadful. How is Henry?'

'On the mend, Miss Saunders.'

'Good.'

'I'm sure he doesn't regret it.'

'Regret what?'

'Coming here yesterday afternoon,' said Christopher. 'Even if it cost him a beating, he wouldn't have missed your performance as Aspatia.'

'Thank you,' she said, melting slightly.

'Everyone tells me that you were superb.'

'You'll have to judge for yourself, Mr Redmayne.'

'Will there be a chance for me to do so?'

'Possibly,' she said, turning her head to let him see her in profile. 'The play is very popular with audiences. Mr Killigrew is talking of staging it again next week.'

'What if Mrs Gow has returned by then?'

'There's no sign that she will. Harriet has vanished into thin air.'

'Have you any idea where she might be?'

'None at all.'

She turned back to look him full in the eye, almost challenging him to question her more closely on the subject. Christopher held back. Like Henry, he sensed that she knew more than she would ever divulge but, unlike his brother, he did not want to antagonise her with a thoughtless remark. He studied her face then gave a smile of approval.

'Henry was right,' he said gallantly. 'You're very beautiful, Miss Saunders.'

She blossomed. 'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said happily. 'No disrespect to your brother but I find your praise more acceptable than his. Henry is too glib and well rehearsed. As an actress, I appreciate a capacity for rehearsal,' she continued, starting to relax. 'As a woman, however, I prefer a spontaneous compliment to a prepared one.' 'You must have plenty of both, Miss Saunders.'

'A woman can never have too many compliments.'

There was a teasing note in her voice. He did not respond to it.

'I believe that you're a friend of Martin Eldridge,' he said.

'Martin? Why, yes. We have a history.'

'History?'

'Not of that kind,' she reprimanded with a mock frown. 'Martin Eldridge and I could never be that close. But we did start out together in the theatre. We had our first parts in a play for The Duke's Men.'

'Is he a good actor?'

'I think so. And he was a staunch supporter of me.'

'Why did he leave the company?'

'Because he fell out with Mr Killigrew.' She looked towards the door. 'That's not too difficult to do, I'm afraid. He's a volatile character at the best of times. Martin upset him and his contract was not renewed.'

'Where might I find him?'

'Why should you want to do so?'

'A personal reason. His name was passed on to me.'

'I've no idea where he lodges presently but he's stayed with friends in Shoreditch before now. Somewhere in Old Street, I think.'

'I don't suppose you'd know the name of those friends?'

'No, Mr Redmayne. Martin has so many.'

'So I'm told. According to Mr Killigrew, he was close to Mrs Gow.'

'Too close, in my view!'

'Why?'

'Harriet did tend to gather young men around her, I'm afraid. We all like to do that to some extent, of course, but she took it to extremes. Martin was one of her attendants, always running errands for her. It was demeaning,' she said irritably. 'I told him so but he wouldn't listen.'

'What other young men did she have in her train?'

'I'm past caring.'

'So you did care at one point?'

'Mr Redmayne,' she retorted, 'I've a life of my own to lead and it gives me little time to pry into the affairs of others. Especially when one of them is Harriet Gow. I'd simply never be able to keep track of all her admirers. Harriet has changed,' she said ruefully. 'She's changed so much. I remember her when she first came into this cruel profession. Harriet was a nice, quiet, friendly girl with a husband she adored. Bartholomew went everywhere with her in those days - until she found him an inconvenience.'

'You sound as if you're sorry for him.'

'No husband should be treated like that. Somehow, he's managed to survive. Indeed, parting from Harriet may turn out to be a blessed release. When I saw him recently, he looked almost happy again.'

His ears pricked up. 'You saw Mr Gow?'

'Less than a week ago.'

'Do you remember where?'

'Of course. At Locket's ordinary in Charing Cross. I was dining there with a friend. Bartholomew Gow was sitting at the next table with his lawyer - a Mr Shann, as I recall. Bartholomew did introduce me. We only exchanged a brief word,' she said, 'but one of his comments made me burn with curiosity. Especially as his prediction turned out to be absolutely true.'

'Prediction?'

'Bartholomew told me that opportunity was at hand, and urged me to be ready for it. Harriet would soon be indisposed, he said, and I'd be asked to replace her if I'd studied her roles.'

'Were those his exact words?'

'More or less.'

'Did he say why his wife would be unavailable?'

'I didn't care,' she said coldly. 'Chances come along so rarely in this profession that you have to seize them with both hands. I'm very grateful to Bartholomew Gow.' She gave a dazzling smile, and added: 'He told me that his wife might be unable to appear on stage again for quite some time.'