The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Eleven

Jonathan Bale was a methodical man who liked to do things in correct sequence and at a steady pace. Punctual by nature, he was disconcerted to arrive at Ludgate precisely at noon and see no sign of Christopher Redmayne. Since he had abided by the exact time and place of their agreed meeting, he simply could not understand why the architect was not there as well. It was almost half an hour before the latter appeared on horseback to shower him with profuse apologies. Jonathan waved them away.

'I've no time to waste, standing around for you to come, sir. I could have been off elsewhere, doing something useful.'

'I know, I know, Mr Bale,' said Christopher, dismounting. 'But I got so engrossed in what Abigail Saunders was telling me - she's the actress who has replaced Mrs Gow - that I lost all purchase on time. I've so much to tell you about my visit to the theatre but I want to hear your news first. Where have you been?'

'My day began in Cornhill Ward, talking to Peter Hibbert.'

'Poor lad! How did he take it?'

'Not well, sir.'

Jonathan explained in detail how he had spent the morning. His attempt at tracing Bartholomew Gow had failed, but it had led him to an interesting discovery. It was one which the constable felt a little awkward about passing on. He lowered his voice.

'I knew that there was something odd about that house, sir,' he said darkly. 'The woman who answered the door to me was very evasive. She claimed that there was nobody in the house when that coach was ambushed right on her doorstep, but there's been somebody there the twice I've been to the lane. He's watched me from the upper room.'

'Bartholomew Gow, by any chance?'

'I don't think so. The landlady said that he didn't lodge there any longer but I'm wondering if he ever did live under her roof.'

'That innkeeper told you he did.'

'Only because Mr Gow called into the Red Lion from time to time. But that doesn't prove he was lodging in the lane.'

'I don't understand.'

'Neither did I until I watched the place, sir,' said Jonathan heavily. 'I kept out of sight in a doorway farther up the lane and just waited. A couple of hours, all told.'

'That is devotion to duty.'

'I wanted to be sure.'

'Of what?'

'My suspicions. It was the way that woman behaved. I could see that the last person she wanted outside her door was a constable. She hurried me quickly on my way.'

'But you lingered.'

'It was worth the wait, Mr Redmayne.'

'Why?'

'I saw a number of coaches stop there in all. A woman got out of the first and slipped into the house. A man soon followed her in the second vehicle. He left almost an hour later on his own. Soon after that, a third coach arrived with a man and a woman in it. They were let into the house as well.' He pursed his lips in disapproval. 'And so it went on.'

'What did?' said Christopher innocently. 'The landlady had a series of visitors, that's all. What's so unusual about that?'

'The way they took care not to be seen, sir. Those coaches stopped right outside the house so that the occupants could step straight in through the front door. I was only twenty yards away but I didn't get a proper look at any of them. They made sure of that.'

Christopher understood. 'I begin to see your reasoning, Mr Bale.'

'Mr Gow may never have lodged there.'

'Except for short intervals, that is.' 'Exactly, sir,' said Jonathan, ridding himself of a discovery that obviously disgusted him. 'The house is a place for covert assignations. Tucked away in that lane, it's very private, allowing people to come and go without being seen. It's an address of convenience. In my view, that's why Mr Gow used the premises occasionally. I think he had a rendezvous with a lady.'

'Not his own wife, surely?'

'That's not for me to say.'

'It would explain what her coach was doing in that lane.'

'Mr Trigg refused to comment on that.'

'He was only trying to save Mrs Gow's blushes, I fancy. On the other hand,' he remembered, 'he was very hostile towards her husband. Trigg more or less accused him of being behind this whole business. It seems unlikely that he'd deliver her into his arms like that.'

'Perhaps he didn't know who was waiting for her inside the house. Mrs Gow never told him. I shouldn't imagine a woman like that confides in her coachman, especially one such as Mr Trigg.'

'Well done, Mr Bale!' congratulated Christopher. 'I think you've stumbled on some valuable evidence. If that coach really was taking her to a tryst with her husband - bizarre as that seems - Mr Gow has to be implicated in the ambush.'

'All we have to do is to find him.'

'I managed to take a big step in that direction. That was why my talk with Abigail Saunders was so useful. She saw Bartholomew Gow less than a week ago.'

'Where?'

'At Locket's ordinary. Do you know the place?'

'Only from the outside, Mr Redmayne. I can't afford to eat there.'

'Mr Gow can. He was dining with his lawyer, apparently. That may be our best way to find him - through his lawyer.'

'Did you get the man's name, sir?'

'Shann. That's what Miss Saunders said and you may be sure she got the name right. Actresses have excellent memories - it's part of their stock-in-trade. The lawyer was called Mr Shann.'

'Let me chase him down,' volunteered Jonathan. 'I visit the courts all the time and I've many friends there. One of them is bound to have heard of a lawyer called Shann. It's not a common name.'

'I embrace your offer,' said Christopher gratefully. 'While you're doing that, I'll get on the trail of Martin Eldridge.'

'Who, sir?'

'A close friend of Mrs Gow's. And an intimate one, according to Mr Killigrew. Nobody in the company knew her as well as Martin Eldridge. He could prove a most helpful witness.'

'Do you have an address for him, sir?'

'Old Street.'

'Then I may be able to help there as well,' said Jonathan, pleased that his contacts were proving so useful. 'I know one of the constables in Shoreditch. Talk to him and he might save your legs a lot of walking. If there's a Mr Eldridge living in Old Street, the chances are that Jeremy Vye will come across him.'

'Thank you. I'll speak to Constable Vye this very afternoon, when I've paid another visit to my brother.'

'How is Mr Redmayne?'

'Still in some pain, I daresay. Several ribs were cracked.'

'Your brother was lucky. I saw what they did to Mary Hibbert.'

'Henry doesn't know about her yet,' said Christopher sombrely. 'I'm not sure that he should; it would only agitate him. He's already made his contribution to this enquiry. Henry deserves a rest.'

The physician held the vessel carefully to his lips and made sure that he drank all of the potion. Henry grimaced at the bitter taste. He mouthed a protest then sank back on the pillow. The old man turned to the servant who was hovering at the bedside.

'He's taking a turn for the worse,' he said softly.

'Yes, sir.'

'See that he has another draught of the medicine this evening.'

'Yes, sir.'

'What he most needs is rest.'

'We'll make sure that Mr Redmayne gets it.'

'Don't rouse him. Let him wake in his own time.'

'Yes, sir.'

'If he seems to dwindle, call me back at once.'

The servant nodded and showed the visitor out. Henry Redmayne heard nothing of their exchange. The potion had been unpleasant to swallow but its effect was immediate. His eyes closed, his body sagged, his mind emptied. He slid gently back into a deep and restorative sleep.

Sitting astride his horse, the man remained hidden under the trees, anxious to watch the departure but equally anxious that there was no chance of his being seen by Harriet Gow. The possibility was remote. When she was brought out of the house by Arthur Oscott and his wife, Harriet was blindfolded and her wrists were tied together. She had to be guided into the waiting coach. While his wife remained inside with the prisoner, Oscott climbed up into the driving seat. The man was satisfied. Everything had gone smoothly. When the coach drew away, he followed it at a safe distance. Harriet Gow was being transferred to some alternative accommodation. Tied up and unable to see, she would be increasingly anxious during the trip. The man escorting the coach had no sympathy for her. He wanted her to suffer. It was all part of his revenge.

Instead of pursuing his investigations in Shoreditch at once, Christopher Redmayne elected to return to Fetter Lane to snatch his first meal of the day, give instructions to Jacob then ride on to Bedford Street to check on his brother's condition. Going home was a serious mistake. Within minutes of his arrival, he had the first of three unexpected and unwanted visitors. Jasper Hartwell was in a frenzy of despair.

Clad in blue and gold, he leaped out of his coach with his ginger periwig swaying so wilfully that it all but parted company with the broad-brimmed hat that was balanced atop it. Christopher caught a glimpse of him through the window, gaining a few vital seconds to prepare his alibi. When Hartwell was conducted into the parlour by Jacob, therefore, the architect was bent studiously over the drawings he had just laid out on the table with such speed. He looked up nonchalantly.

'Why, Mr Hartwell,' he greeted. 'Good day to you, sir.'

'So this is where you are skulking,' complained the other.

'Not skulking, sir. Working on my designs, as you observe. Putting the last few finishing touches to your house.'

'I went to the site but you were nowhere to be seen. Mr Corrigan was deeply upset. There are a number of issues he needs to raise with you, Mr Redmayne.'

'He had an opportunity to do so earlier on,' said Christopher, 'when I rode over to the site to inspect progress not long after dawn. From what I saw, Mr Corrigan can manage very well without me.'

'Your place is in St Martin's.'

'That's exactly where I am, sir. In my mind's eye.'

Jacob suddenly came out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine. Without the slightest hint of gratitude, Hartwell took one of them, drank it down in a series of noisy gulps then handed the glass back to the servant. Jacob withdrew once more. The drink only seemed to intensify the visitor's apprehensions.

'Where is she?' he gasped.

'Who?' asked Christopher.

'Harriet, of course. My future wife.'

'According to report, the lady is unwell.'

'It's a lie, Mr Redmayne. I've spoken twice about her to Tom Killigrew and he didn't give me a satisfactory answer on either occasion. The truth is that he doesn't know where Harriet is. Neither does anyone else in the company. Think on that,' he said with a scandalised yelp. 'Harriet disappears and her own manager has no idea where she is or what drove her to be there. I fear skulduggery.'

'Never, Mr Hartwell.'

'I do. I felt it in my water.'

'An illusion.'

'Something untoward has happened to my beloved.'

'Surely not,' said Christopher, rising to his feet. 'Who could want to hurt such a beautiful woman as Mrs Gow? It's inconceivable.'

'Is it?' countered Hartwell. 'Who would want to hurt such an amiable fellow as your brother? Yet I gather from Killigrew that he was viciously assaulted yesterday outside the theatre. Beauty and affability are no protection against naked villainy. If a harmless man like Henry Redmayne can be picked on by bullies, then Harriet, too, may be marked out as a victim.'

'At whose behest, sir?'

'She has her share of enemies.'

'Do you know who they are?'

'They're too numerous to list, Mr Redmayne. Envy breeds many foes. My worry is that it may not be her enemies who are at work here but mine.' Hartwell plopped down into a chair. 'Sensing that I'm determined to make her my wife, someone has lashed out at me from sheer spite. It could be that husband of hers, of course, or it may just be a rival for her hand, consumed with chagrin because I've made her mine.'

'But you haven't, sir,' Christopher reminded him, delicately.

'How can I when she's vanished?'

'Mrs Gow has merely withdrawn. To recuperate.'

'From what?'

'That will become clear in time.'

'But she was a picture of health when I last saw her,' argued the other. 'At the start of the week, Harriet was singing her heart out for me on stage. Where is my nightingale now?'

'Resting, sir. Leave her be.'

'I must find her, Mr Redmayne.'

He went on at length, expressing his love for the missing actress and working himself up into a state of wild-eyed hysteria. Christopher was alive to the paradox. Having been engaged by the King to rescue Harriet Gow, he was now forced to pretend that she was not in any danger. Instead of continuing his search, he was being held back by the swirling infatuation of his client. Jasper Hartwell was luxuriating in his distress. Christopher wondered if the visit might yet have some practical value for him.

'Henry tells me that you're a connoisseur of the theatre,' he interrupted.

'It's my second home,' Jasper agreed.

'Then you'll know all the members of the company.'

'Both at The King's House and at The Duke's Playhouse,' he said proudly.

'I'm only interested in Mr Killigrew's company.'

'So am I since Harriet joined it,' said Hartwell wistfully. 'I can recall the very moment when she first stepped on to that stage. And as for that voice! Heaven has never fashioned such an instrument before.'

'What of the actors around her?'

'I never notice any of them when she is there.'

'Oh, come, sir. You cannot fail to notice men like Michael Mohun or Charles Hart. They're masters of their trade.'

'True. They lend quality and experience to the company.'

'What of Martin Eldridge?'

'A more slender talent,' said Hartwell dismissively. 'He relies too much on his good looks and not enough on his skill as an actor. Eldridge is able but no more than that.'

'Have you ever met him?'

'Of course. Most of them have supped with me at my expense. Actors are hungry people, Mr Redmayne, and they rarely earn enough to be able to turn down a free meal. Actresses, too, of course,' he added with a sigh, 'though Harriet has never accepted my invitation, alas. She is always spirited away from the theatre by someone else.'

'His Majesty?'

'When the mood takes him.'

'Who else?'

'Don't ask me to dwell on her other admirers, Mr Redmayne,' said Hartwell peevishly. 'I'm the only one who loves her properly and wants to take her away from that corrupt, dangerous, silly, shallow world.' He slapped the table. 'I do so hate it when I see them pounding on the door of her dressing room and demanding her favours.'

'Who?'

'The whole merry gang. Heartless rakes, one and all.'

'Lord Rochester, you mean? Sir Charles Sedley?'

'And the rest of them - Buckhurst, Armadale, Ogle. Yes, if ever a man was well named, it is Sir Thomas Ogle, for that's what he does. Well, he'll not ogle Harriet any longer. I'll rescue her forever from him and his drunken cronies. She's too good for any of them except me.'

Christopher encouraged him to talk about his endless visits to the theatre and pertinent information tumbled out time and again, much of it supplementing what his listener had already heard from his brother or from Killigrew, but some of it quite original. As Hartwell burbled on, one of the names he referred to kept coming back into his host's mind.

'You mentioned Armadale,' he noted.

'That's right. Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

Christopher was puzzled. He did not recognise the name and yet it sounded vaguely familiar. He had a strong feeling that he had heard it before and that it might be important to remember where.

Moving with his usual measured tread, Jonathan Bale nevertheless went far in a relatively short time. Enquiries among court officials soon gave him the address he needed. He presented himself at the building in Threadneedle Street and asked to speak to Obadiah Shann. Jonathan was allowed through into the lawyer's office. Niceties were brief. Shann barely looked up from the document he was perusing.

'What can I do for you, Constable Bale?'

'I wanted some advice about a client of yours,' said Jonathan.

'Then you seek it in vain. I never release confidential information about the people I represent.'

'I merely seek an address.'

'Of whom?'

'Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

'Why?'

'It's a private matter, sir.'

'Do you know Mr Gow?'

'No, Mr Shann, but I'm anxious to make his acquaintance.'

'How did you find out that I was his lawyer?'

'You were seen dining with him at Locket's ordinary.'

'Ah,' said the lawyer, taking offence. 'We're being spied on, are we?'

'Not at all, sir.'

Obadiah Shann eyed him with a blend of caution and dislike. Gaunt, grey-haired and wearing a pair of spectacles, he was a tall man whose back had been arched by many years of bending over a desk. Jonathan noticed the blue veins standing out on the backs of his hands and caught the distinctive whiff of tobacco in the room.

'I'm sorry that I can't help you, Constable,' said the lawyer.

'Then you may be compelled to, sir.'

Controlled anger. 'You dare threaten me with compulsion?'

'No, Mr Shann.'

'I think it best if you leave, sir.'

'Not until I know Mr Gow's whereabouts.'

'I have a right to protect my client's interests. Tell me what this is all about and I may be able to help you. Otherwise, depart in peace and let me get on with my work.'

'I need that address,' said Jonathan doggedly.

'For what purpose?'

'A most serious one.'

'You have a warrant for his arrest?'

'No,' admitted the other.

'You're here on legal business of some kind?'

'Please tell me where he is.'

'I'm not sure that I should, Mr Bale.' 'You're withholding crucial information, Mr Shann.'

'I don't answer to a mere constable,' said the lawyer, removing his spectacles to glare at his visitor. 'Who do you think you are, coming in here like this and issuing demands? Goodbye to you, sir! It seems to me that you've overstayed your welcome.'

Jonathan moved to the door. 'I have, sir,' he conceded freely. 'I may be a mere constable but I speak for a higher authority. Far higher than even an exalted lawyer like yourself. I can see that I'll have to get a warrant to force you to help me.' He gave a warning smile. 'Don't be surprised if it bears the name of the Attorney-General.'

'One moment,' said Shann, caught between alarm and disbelief. 'We're being too hasty here. I've no wish to be obstructive, I simply reserve the right to protect a client's confidentiality. Why are you so desperate to find Bartholomew Gow that you wave the Attorney-General at me? Surely you can give me some hint of what is in the wind.'

'A matter of some gravity.'

'Involving what?'

'Murder,' said Jonathan flatly.

'Murder?' echoed the other, jaw dropping.

'Among other things.'

'But Mr Gow is the most law-abiding man you could meet.'

'Then he has nothing to fear from me, sir, does he?'

Obadiah Shann hovered between surprise and suspicion. He wondered if Jonathan really did have the power of a senior law officer behind him. His visitor tried to nudge him along.

'Does he, for instance, live in Greer Lane?' he said.

'Where?'

'Greer Lane. It runs between Tavistock Street and the Strand.'

'No, Constable. Bartholomew Gow doesn't live anywhere near there and, to my certain knowledge, he never has.'

'Then where does he live?'

Jonathan eschewed politeness. The lawyer was needlessly delaying him. Searching for the killer of Mary Hibbert, the constable was in no mood for the prevarications of Obadiah Shann. His eyes glinted.

'Do I have to come back with a warrant, sir?' he said.

It took Christopher an hour to calm down Jasper Hartwell and convince him that Harriet Gow was not in jeopardy, a considerable feat in view of the reality of the situation. Wanting to call on his brother again before resuming his search, Christopher accepted the necessity of soothing his visitor. Hartwell was, after all, paying him a lot of money to design the new house and that bought him the architect's indulgence as well as his artistic skills. There was another salient point. Ridiculous as Hartwell's romantic ambitions were, they were easily understood. It was at a performance of The Maid's Tragedy that Christopher first met him and first came under the spell of Harriet Gow himself. Though he had never succumbed to any fantasies about marrying her, he had spent more than an idle hour savouring her beauty and singing her melancholy song.

No sooner had he dispatched one unwelcome visitor than a second came banging on his door. Jacob answered the summons and a heated exchange followed. Guessing who had called, Christopher interrupted the argument and detached his servant from the doorstep but he had no intention of inviting Roland Trigg across it. The coachman touched his cap in a courteous gesture and took the aggression out of his voice.

'Is there any news of Mrs Gow, sir?' he asked eagerly.

'None to raise any optimism,' confessed the other.

'But you're still searching for her?'

'Oh, yes. In the light of recent events, with more vigour than ever.'

'Recent events?'

'They know that we are after them, Mr Trigg. So they did their best to dissuade us from continuing our work. First of all, my brother Henry was attacked by two men in Drury Lane.'

'Never!' exclaimed Trigg. 'Why pick on him?'

'Because he was helping me in my search.'

'Was he badly hurt, Mr Redmayne?'

'Very badly,' said Christopher. 'I suspect that the men who gave you a beating also administered one to my brother. I don't need to tell you how proficient they are with their cudgels.'

'No, sir,' said the coachman ruefully. A grin formed. 'But I got my revenge on one of them. I chanced upon the rogue in a tavern and gave him a taste of his own medicine. He deserved it, too,' he added, pointing to his wounds. 'He was the man who really set about me. So I showed him that I can handle a cudgel as well.'

'Where is he now?'

'Nursing his broken bones, probably.'

'You let the villain go?'

'I had to, sir.'

'Why ever didn't you capture him?' said Christopher irritably. 'If he was involved in the kidnap, he should be arrested and held for trial. More to the point, he could have been interrogated about Mrs Gow's whereabouts. It was madness to release him.'

'They gave me no choice, sir.'

'Who?'

'The sailors who came out of the tavern. Half-a-dozen of them. When they saw what I'd done, they gave me no time to explain. They came at me to tear me to pieces so I took to my heels.' Angling for praise, he gave another grin. 'I paid him back, sir. He won't be assaulting me, your brother or anyone else for a very long time. Did I do well?'

'By your own standards,' said Christopher drily, 'I suppose that you did. But I'm annoyed that you let the man slip through your fingers like that. He should have been apprehended. Why didn't you go for help?'

'There wasn't time. He was leaving the tavern.'

'Which one?'

'The Hope and Anchor, sir.'

'Is that down by the river somewhere?'

'Thames Street.'

'What took you there, Mr Trigg?'

'It was only one of a number of places I went,' explained the other. 'That's where their sort go, sir - the men who ambushed us. Hired villains with a taste for violence. I had a feeling I might just stumble on one of them in a tavern along the waterfront or, if not there, in the stews of Southwark. I was working my way through them when I came to the Hope and Anchor and had some luck at last.' A growl of a laugh. 'My good luck was his misfortune.'

'Thank you for coming to tell me this, Mr Trigg,' said Christopher, keen to move him on his way. 'I'm relieved to hear that there is one less villain on the loose, though I would have preferred to see him behind bars where we could get some facts out of him. I hope that my own hunt is as successful as yours. When I've been to see my brother, I'll get back to it.'

'Let me come with you,' urged the other.

'I work more effectively on my own, Mr Trigg.'

'But you need protection, sir. Look what happened to me and to your brother. These men will stop short of nothing.'

'Not even murder.'

'What do you mean?'

'There's something I haven't told you,' said Christopher sadly, 'because we need to keep the details secret for the time being. But, given your position in Mrs Gow's household, I think that you have a right to know. Mary Hibbert has been killed.'

'Mary!' His face turned purple with rage. 'They killed that young girl? I can't believe it.'

'It's true, I'm afraid. I've seen the body myself.'

'How did they do it?'

'That's immaterial.'

'Not to me, Mr Redmayne, I want to know. I liked Mary Hibbert. She was always kind to me. How, sir? Was she stabbed, strangled or poisoned? Did they put a bullet in her head?'

'The girl was beaten to death.'

Trigg almost foamed at the mouth. 'I should've finished him off when I had the chance,' he said vehemently. 'I should've done for him.'

'That would only have led to your own arrest for murder.'

'Justified revenge. An eye for an eye.'

'I take a different reading from the Bible. "Thou shalt not kill".'

While the coachman struggled to master his anger, Christopher was left to question his wisdom in releasing the news about Mary Hibbert. He was glad when the man's fury seemed to abate. Roland Trigg held out his hands to plead.

'I beg you, Mr Redmayne. Take me with you.'

'That won't be possible.'

'But you can't do it all on your own, sir.'

'I have Constable Bale to help me.'

'It's not enough. You need a bodyguard. I'm your man.'

Trigg straightened his shoulders and thrust out his chest. His strength could not be doubted. The coachman had been assaulted by the same men who had put Henry Redmayne into his bed for a week, yet he had already recovered enough to mete out his own crude form of justice. Roland Trigg was resilient and, by his own boast, seasoned in violence. Christopher could see his value as a bodyguard to Harriet Gow but it was her predecessor who popped into his mind. He suddenly recalled where he had heard a certain name before.

'You served Sir Godfrey Armadale, didn't you?' he said.

'Yes, sir.'

'How long were you with him?'

'Some years, Mr Redmayne.'

'Sir Godfrey is something of a rake, I believe.'

'He enjoyed life,' conceded the other, 'but he was a good master. He gave me no cause for complaint. On the other hand, I was glad to be taken on by Mrs Gow - until the ambush, that is. In one way, it was just as well.'

'Why?'

'Because I like to be in London, sir. My roots are here, and all my friends. I couldn't take to anywhere else so I'd have had to leave Sir Godfrey Armadale in any case.'

'I don't follow.'

'He's moved away, Mr Redmayne.'

'Oh?'

'Quite recently, they tell me.'

'Where has he gone?'

'Back to where he was born, in the West Country. That's where Sir Godfrey hails from - down in Devon.' He swept the subject of his former master aside to make a final offer. 'I could warn you, Mr Redmayne. I know what those rogues look like. They're bound to try to strike again.'

'Then I'll be ready for them.'

Christopher did not have to waste any more time trying to get rid of his second visitor because Trigg was immediately supplanted by a third. A coach drew up outside the house and a stately figure in clerical garb alighted. Christopher's stomach lurched. Jasper Hartwell and Roland Trigg were unwanted callers, but each had nevertheless been able to impart useful information to him. The newcomer would not. In fact, his presence threatened to hamper the search altogether.

Christopher forced a smile and put false joy into his voice.

'Father!' he said, spreading his arms. 'How wonderful to see you!'

Clerkenwell's reputation had slowly changed over the years. Notorious for its brothels during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it had been improved and developed by her successors, containing, for example, London's first piped water supply and attracting several aristocrats to build fine houses there. As the Court moved westwards under Charles II, many of the grand residences were abandoned to prosperous merchants or to skilled craftsmen who turned the area into a thriving centre for certain specialised trades. When he reached Clerkenwell after his long walk, Jonathan Bale was struck by the clear evidence of wealth. There were still abundant houses of resort in some of the darker corners, but the district was no longer as blatantly dedicated to sinfulness as in former times.

He eventually found the address with which Obadiah Shann had been reluctantly forced to part. It was a modest dwelling, smaller and far less impressive than the one in Greer Lane where, he had been led to believe, Bartholomew Gow actually lived. The place was neglected. As Jonathan looked at the perished brickwork and the cracks in the tiles, he understood why the man might arrange any assignations elsewhere. The grubby little house in the more insalubrious part of Clerkenwell was not a love-nest to tempt a discerning lady. A coach would be incongruous in the mean and filthy street.

Knocking on the door, he did not have long to wait for a reply. The servant who appeared before him was virtually a homunculus, a tiny man of uncertain years with a harassed look about him. The sight of the constable made him shrink back defensively.

'Yes, sir?' he whispered.

'My name is Jonathan Bale,' introduced the other, 'and I've come in search of a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

'What makes you think that he lives here, sir?'

'I was given this address by Mr Shann.'

'The lawyer?'

'Yes. I've come straight from his office in Threadneedle Street.'

The diminutive figure retreated another step as he tried to weigh up his visitor. His scrutiny was intense, even slightly eerie, but Jonathan tolerated it with patience. The man eventually regained his voice.

'Wait here a moment, please,' he said.

'Is Mr Gow in the house?'

'I'll have to see, sir.'

Shutting the door gently in his face, the servant vanished from sight. Jonathan waited for several minutes. Tiring of the delay, he reached out to bang on the door with more authority but it swung obligingly open. Bartholomew Gow regarded him warily. He was a tallish man in his early thirties with apparel that was starting to fade and hair that was beginning to recede. Jonathan wondered why the innkeeper at the Red Lion had described as handsome a face that would have been pleasant at best even without the scowl on it.

Unhappy at being found in circumstances that caused him obvious embarrassment, Gow could rise to nothing more than brisk courtesy.

'Good day to you, Constable Bale. You wanted me?'

'Are you Mr Gow, sir?'

'At your service.'

'I hope that may be the case. May I suggest that we step inside, please?' said the visitor. 'I've come on business that should not be discussed in the street.'

Bartholomew Gow was unhappy to invite him in, mumbling an apology as he did so and ushering him into a small, low room with only a few pieces of furniture to hide its bare boards. Anxious not to detain Jonathan any longer than he had to, he did not offer him a seat.

'Well, Mr Bale?' he said with bruised dignity. 'What do you want?'

'I've come about your wife, sir.'

'Did Harriet send you?'

'Not exactly, Mr Gow. When did you last see her?'

'Some time ago. Why?'

'So you haven't been in touch recently?'

'No,' said the other. 'If you've spoken to my lawyer, you'll know that my wife and I live apart and have done so for a little while. That situation is unlikely to alter. I've no cause to seek her out and my wife certainly has no desire to get in touch with me.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Gow.'

'Are you?'

'I have a great respect for the institution of marriage.'

'Then your experience of it must have differed from mine.' He became almost testy. 'You've no business to come here to discuss my personal affairs. What's going on?'

'I wondered if you might tell me that, sir.' 'Me?'

'You're not easy to track down.' He glanced around the room. 'I hadn't realised that you lived in Clerkenwell.'

'This is only a temporary address until I can find something better.'

'Of course, sir,' said Jonathan, sensing the hurt pride that lay behind the lie. 'I was looking for you in Greer Lane.'

'Where?' Gow seemed baffled. 'Greer Lane?'

'It's just off the Strand.'

'Then it's well beyond the reach of my purse.'

'I was told that you lodged there, sir, but my guess is that you only use the premises on an occasional basis. A couple of days ago,' said Jonathan, deciding to confront him with the truth in order to gauge his reaction, 'an ambush took place in Greer Lane. Mrs Gow was abducted.'

'Harriet?' said her husband, mouth agape. 'Abducted?'

'I'm afraid so, sir. My job is to help in the search for her.'

'But who kidnapped her, man? And why?'

'I can only answer the second question, Mr Gow. Your wife is being held for ransom. To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to throw more light on the circumstances of the abduction.'

'How can I?'

'It took place outside the house you visit in Greer Lane.'

'But I've never been near the place.'

'That's not what the landlady says,' argued Jonathan. 'Nor the innkeeper at the Red Lion. Do you deny you patronised the tavern?'

'In the strongest possible terms!' retorted Gow, going on the attack. 'Do you have the gall to tell me that you thought I was responsible for the kidnap? On what evidence? My wife and I may be estranged, Mr Bale, but I'd never wish her any harm.'

'Did you and she ever meet in Greer Lane?'

'No! How could we? I don't even know where it is.'

Jonathan felt suddenly ill at ease. Thinking that he would unravel the mystery when he cornered Bartholomew Gow, he realised that it had instead become more complex. The ousted husband was plainly telling the truth. He had nothing whatsoever to do with the crime.

The dream made Henry Redmayne squirm and groan in his bed. He was sitting alone in a pew in Gloucester Cathedral, shorn of his finery and wearing sackcloth and ashes in its stead. Occupying the pulpit and gazing down at his elder son like a disgruntled prophet, was his father, the venerable Dean, pointing a finger of doom at him and accusing him of sinful behaviour and moral turpitude. What made Henry break out in a guilty sweat was the fact that his father was listing his peccadilloes with terrifying accuracy. It was as if every act of indiscretion, every visit to a gaming house, every night of inebriation and every lustful hour in the arms of a whore had been watched from a few feet away by the pious author of his being. It was mortifying. Henry came out of his nightmare with a cry of pain only to find that he had not escaped at all.

The Dean of Gloucester glared down from a bedside pulpit.

'What is the matter, Henry?' he asked solicitously.

'Is that you, Father?'

'Yes, my son. And it seems I came at just the right time to offer you solace. I was shocked when I saw you. Christopher and I have been praying beside your bed for almost half an hour.'

'That was very kind of you,' said Henry, closing his eyes in the hope of bringing the nightmare to an abrupt end before opening them again to find the Reverend Algernon Redmayne still bending over him. 'I know the value of prayer.'

'It has brought you back to us.'

Algernon Redmayne was a dignified man in his sixties with white hair curling to his shoulders and a large, curved, glistening forehead. Accounted a handsome man in his youth, he had features that were more akin to those of his younger son but their pleasing aspect had been subdued beneath years of sustained religiosity. Anything that was even marginally inappropriate in a devout churchman had been ruthlessly suppressed. The Dean of Gloucester was so completely defined by his rank and ministry that it was difficult to imagine his ever having been anything else. It was certainly impossible to believe that this tall, pale, solemn pillar of holy marble had actually fathered two children, thereby indulging in an act of procreation that indicated - against all the visible evidence - that he had, on two separate occasions at least, been a prey to fleshly desires that had no place in the cathedral precincts.

'How are you, Father?' asked Henry weakly.

'How are you, dear boy?' returned the other anxiously.

'I'm rallying, I think.'

'Brave man!'

'Have you come from Gloucester?'

'Yes, the Bishop and I have business here in London.'

'How is Bishop Nicholson?'

Henry did not have the slightest interest in the man but he wanted to keep his father talking while he assembled his own thoughts. The old man unnerved him at the best of times. Lying in pain in his bed, he felt as if he were locked in the pillory, utterly at his father's mercy. The Dean chose the moment to deliver a sonorous sermon.

'Bishop Nicholson is very much perplexed at the many impudent coventicles that have grown up in every part of our county. Not only do these Dissenters openly appear at their places of worship, they justify their meetings unashamedly to the Bishop's face. It is disgraceful,' said the Dean, letting his voice swell for effect. 'We have made complaints to the Justices in the Peace but they are dilatory in enforcing the law. When we have proceeded against the malefactors in the church courts, we have met with the most disrespectful behaviour.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, Father.'

'We are to take the matter up with Archbishop Sheldon. It is one of the reasons we are here.' He clasped his hands together. 'Let us put that aside for a moment, Henry.

Your condition disturbs me. Tell me, my son. What exactly happened to you?'

Entreating rescue, Henry looked across at his brother.

'I've told Father very little,' said Christopher, spelling out the potential for deception. 'Nobody has any idea how you came by your injuries because you've been unconscious until today. I daresay that you're still dazed by the experience,' he prompted. 'Aren't you, Henry?'

'Yes,' said his brother. 'I can only remember bits of it.'

'Tell us what they are,' encouraged the Dean.

'It was the last place I would have expected an attack, Father.'

'What was?'

'The church.'

Astonishment registered. 'You were in a church?'

'I visit it every day.'

'Which one?'

'That's the strange thing,' said Henry, manufacturing his story as he went along. 'I don't know. All that I can recall is that I was kneeling in prayer when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I thought it was probably the churchwarden, wanting a quiet word with me, so I followed him down the nave. Suddenly, I felt something strike me across the back of the head and I pitched forward. The blows came thick and fast after that.' There was a shrug in his voice. 'My purse was taken and so were my rings. That's what the villains were after. But to have it happen on consecrated ground!' he concluded, with a passable stab at indignation. 'It was sacrilege!'

The Dean of Gloucester's face was impassive. When he leaned in close to his elder son, however, his eyes gleamed knowingly.

'The injuries have patently affected your memory,' he said quietly. 'Wherever else you received them, it was not in a church. I have had time to look around your house and note the inordinate amount of wine and brandy in your cellars. I also took the liberty of inspecting your wardrobe. Nothing I saw even hinted at a man of religious conviction. Indeed, if you dared to wear any of that garish apparel in Gloucester Cathedral, Bishop Nicholson would call the verger and have you ejected for mockery.'

'Henry looks tired, Father,' interrupted Christopher, coming to his brother's aid. 'Perhaps we should leave him to rest.'

'Of course,' agreed the other. 'Let me just say one last thing to him. Listen very carefully, Henry.'

'I will, Father,' croaked the patient.

'Make use of this dreadful experience. Reflect on your life and wonder whether these injuries were not inflicted on you by way of just deserts. I am deeply sympathetic,' he emphasised. 'As your father, I am also upset to see you in such a condition. But your ordeal may yet have a curative effect. When you have recovered your strength and regained your memory, you may be ready to own that your tale about the church was a pretty fable devised to invite my approval. Next time I ask you what really happened,' he said firmly, 'I would like the truth.'

Henry Redmayne quivered and took refuge once more in sleep.