The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Twelve

As he made his way home on foot from Clerkenwell, Jonathan Bale reflected on the caprices of Fate. Bartholomew Gow had been a man of comfortable means, living in a fine house with a beautiful young wife and looking towards a future of uninterrupted happiness. Everything had changed dramatically. He was now embittered, short of money, living in a dingy abode with nothing more than a freakish servant for company and facing a bleak and lonely future. Jonathan could still not understand exactly how it had happened, but he did feel sorry for the man. The story had come out in fits and starts and it was only now that the constable was able to piece it together properly.

In his own estimation, Gow was a casualty of his wife's ruthless ambition. Since so much of it was activated by self- pity, Jonathan did not believe all that he had heard from the man. What interested him was Bartholomew Gow's ambivalent attitude towards his wife. Angry at her for the way she had treated him, he was genuinely concerned at the news of her abduction and fearful that she might be hurt in some way. Yet that concern was itself tempered by the feeling that justice may somehow have been done, that Harriet Gow was getting no more than she deserved for the way she had behaved. At one point, an almost complacent smile had touched Gow's lips.

Jonathan was baffled. His insight into a turbulent marriage upset him. He could not comprehend how two people who came together out of love and who took sacred vows at the altar could part with such enmity. Harriet Gow should certainly not take all of the blame herself. As he listened to the husband's meandering account of events, Jonathan saw the man's defects revealing themselves. Gow was spiteful, envious of his wife's talents, boastful about himself, mean- spirited, capable of bursts of temper and quite unable to accept that he had in any way been in the wrong. Though his visitor came to see how an outwardly personable man like Gow could have attracted an inexperienced girl to marry him, he also noted some of the shortcomings in the husband that must in time have irritated his spouse beyond measure.

When he turned into Addle Hill, he felt a surge of love for his own wife, a deep gratitude that he and Sarah had not bickered and battled with each other in the way that Bartholomew Gow and his wife clearly had. Jonathan and Sarah Bale had a different kind of partnership. It might lack the luxuries and the excitements that the other marriage had enjoyed at the start but it had endured. It was the core of Jonathan's life, the immoveable base from which he set out each day and to which he could return with the confident expectation of a warm smile and a loving welcome. A long conversation in Clerkenwell made him count his own blessings. He was not given to impulsive gestures as a rule, but when he let himself into the house and found Sarah in the kitchen, he wrapped her in his arms and gave her a resounding kiss.

'What have I done to deserve that?' she said, laughing.

'You're here, Sarah.'

'Well, of course I'm here. I've sheets to wash and clothes to mend and a dozen other chores to get through. I can't stir from the house until all that's done.'

'That wasn't what I meant, my love.'

'Then what did you mean?'

'Nothing,' he said.

The second kiss was brief but tender. Sarah busied herself with getting a meal for him. Eating times were irregular in the Bale household because she never knew when his duties would allow him to slip back to the house. She never carped about the fact. Though she might tease him at times, she rarely chided him about anything. What she had married was a good, honest, loving man who worked as a shipwright in their early years together. Her commitment was total. Sarah did not question his decision to become a constable even though it meant that less money would come into the house and that he would be exposing himself to constant physical danger. She was content to support him in whatever he chose to do.

'I hoped you might be back earlier,' she said, putting the food on the table. 'Where have you been?'

'Far afield.'

'Oh?'

'What about you, my love?'

'I've been far afield myself,' she joked. 'I went into the parlour, back into the kitchen, upstairs to clean the rooms, down again to start the washing in here then out to the garden to peg it on the line. You're not the only person who's travelled today, Jonathan Bale.'

He munched his slice of ham and smiled. She knew instinctively that he was engaged in a serious investigation but she did not press for details. Sarah would be told what was going on when her husband was ready to confide in her and not before. As she babbled on about the customers who had called at the house that morning, Jonathan felt sorry that he had to keep her in ignorance, but the case required absolute secrecy and there were some elements in it that he could never divulge. From the speed with which he gobbled his meal, Sarah could see how anxious he was to get back to his work. Collecting a kiss of thanks, she saw him to the door.

'When will you be back?' she asked.

'I've no idea, my love.'

'In time to read to the children?'

'I hope so.'

'They like to hear their father read,' she said. 'Though they did enjoy listening to Mr Redmayne, too. Oliver loved that story about Samson. Do tell that to Mr Redmayne, if you chance to see him again.'

'We may have other things to discuss,' Jonathan murmured.

He walked up Addle Hill towards Carter Lane, intending to resume his task by following up some of the lines of enquiry suggested to him by Bartholomew Gow. Since the husband could now be excluded from the list of suspects, attention had to centre on someone else. Jonathan did not get far before he realised that he was being followed. The man must have been lurking not far from his home, waiting for the constable to emerge before trailing him. Jonathan did not look round for fear of frightening the stalker away. If someone had a reason to dog his steps, he wanted to know what it was, regardless of the hazards that might be involved.

The pursuit was relentless. Though he led the man on a twisting route, he could not shake him off. Jonathan eventually walked into Ave Maria Lane, part of the area around St Paul's Cathedral that had been stricken by the Great Fire and rebuilt in accordance with the new specifications. The lane had been widened to eighteen feet and some of its character had been lost in the process but the change had been necessary. Having helped to fight the fire himself in the previous year, Jonathan recalled how destructive and undiscriminating it had been. Not even the towering magnificence of St Paul's had been spared. He had taken a close interest in the reconstruction and had an intimate knowledge of every inch of the district. That knowledge was now put to practical use.

Swinging right into Paternoster Row, he headed for a narrow passage that led off to a tavern. It would be an ideal place for an attack. If his shadow were waiting for his opportunity, this is where he would take it. Jonathan was ready for him. Ambling along with apparent unconcern, he turned calmly into the passage then flattened himself immediately into the first doorway. Footsteps quickened and a stocky man came running around the corner with a cudgel in his hand, ready to strike. With no quarry in sight, he came to a halt and gazed around in astonishment, unaware that the constable was directly behind him. Relaxing his grip on the weapon, he let it dangle by his side.

Jonathan was on him at once. Leaping out of his hiding place, he threw one arm around the man's neck and used the other hand to grab the wrist that held the cudgel. The man struggled fiercely and it was all that Jonathan could do to hold him. He managed to twist the cudgel from the man's grasp and it fell to the ground but his adversary was wily as well as strong. Unable to dislodge the constable, he gave a sudden heave backwards and slammed him against the wall of a house. The impact made Jonathan release his grip and the man wrenched himself free. He retrieved his cudgel and raised it to hit out but Jonathan parried the blow before it gained any real force.

They grappled, punched and lurched violently to and fro. Jonathan had to take a couple more painful blows from the cudgel but he was not deterred. The man in his arms was most probably one of the assailants who had beaten a coachman, assaulted Henry Redmayne and, worst of all, helped to murder a defenceless girl. The thought of Mary Hibbert lying on a slab put extra strength and urgency into the constable. Bringing a knee up sharply into the man's groin, he made him double up with agony. Jonathan seized him by the neck and swung him headfirst against the nearest wall, splitting open his skull and depriving him of all interest in continuing the brawl.

It was Jonathan's turn to hold the cudgel now. He hauled the man upright, pinned him roughly against the wall and held the weapon at both ends so that he could press it against his adversary's throat. Dazed and bleeding, the man spluttered helplessly. His eyes began to bulge. Jonathan applied more pressure on his windpipe.

'Who sent you?' he demanded.

The arrival of his father clouded his mind and robbed him of valuable time. Christopher Redmayne had distractions enough without having to cope with the Dean of Gloucester. Much as he loved his father, he could not imagine a more untimely moment for the old man to descend on him. Paradoxically, the unexpected appearance of Algernon Redmayne might work to the advantage of his elder son. Swathed in linen and covered with bruises, Henry was able to draw heavily on his father's compassion. Had the visitor caught him in his more usual guise as a sybarite, the wounded man would have attracted abuse rather than sympathy.

Christopher rode towards Shoreditch at a steady canter. Henry's condition had been a help to his brother as well. Anxious about the state of his elder son, the Dean had sent for the physician and insisted on remaining at the bedside until he came. Christopher was released to continue with work which, his father assumed, would take him to the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields. Instead, the architect was heading in the opposite direction.

Jonathan Bale's advice was sound. It did not take Christopher long to find one of the local constables. Jeremy Vye was as unlike Jonathan as it was possible to be. A short, stumpy, jovial man in his forties with a red nose and bloodshot eyes, he was drinking ale in a tavern when the visitor tracked him down. Vye was keen to help.

'So, then,' he said cheerily, 'Jonathan Bale sent you?'

'Yes, Mr Vye.'

'Give him my compliments.'

'He sends his to you,' said Christopher. 'He also assured me that you would know almost everyone who lived in Old Street.'

'Know them and love them, Mr Redmayne. I was born and brought up in Shoreditch. Never been more than a few miles away from the place. Old Street? I can tell you the names of every man, woman and child,' he bragged. 'I can even tell you what they call their cats and dogs.'

'I'm not after a pet, Mr Vye.'

'Then who are you after?'

'Mr Martin Eldridge.'

The constable blinked. 'Eldridge? That name is new to me.'

'This man is an actor.'

'We have a few of them in Shoreditch, sir. Out of work, mostly.' He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. 'But this Mr Eldridge of yours must be a stranger to the area or I'd have met him.

My guess is that he lodges at the far end of the street, sir. Mrs Lingard took in a lodger recently - her dog is called Blackie, by the way - and there's a gentleman who's just taken a room with Mrs Passmore. Oldish fellow with a squint.'

'Then he's not the man I want. Martin Eldridge is still relatively young and handsome. He'd bear himself well.'

'Then he has to be Mrs Lingard's lodger. Be careful of that dog of hers when you call there, sir. Blackie can give you a nasty bite.'

He led Christopher out of the tavern and gave him directions. After riding to the address he had been given, Christopher dismounted and knocked on the door of a neat house of medium size, owned by someone who evidently took a pride in it. When he knocked, he heard a dog bark. The landlady soon answered the summons. Mrs Lingard was a pleasant woman of middle years and ample girth. Keeping her dog under control with an affectionate kick, she listened to her visitor's request before inviting him in.

'Mr Eldridge has a lot of visitors,' she explained, leading the way up the stairs. 'I can see why. He's a most charming gentleman.' She tapped lightly on a door and called, 'There's someone to see you, Mr Eldridge. A Mr Redmayne.'

After a short delay, the door opened and Martin Eldridge came into view. Christopher recognised him at once as the actor who had played Lysippus, brother to the King in The Maid's Tragedy, a comparatively small yet telling role and one which allowed him the final cautionary lines. Mrs Lingard was hovering. Eldridge dismissed her with a smile.

'Thank you, Mrs Lingard.' He stood back from the door. 'You'd better come in, Mr Redmayne.'

Christopher went into a room that was large and well appointed. The actor was a man who liked his comforts. Bottles of wine stood on a table beside the script of a play. Eldridge was excessively courteous. He motioned his visitor to a chair then spoke in a rich, cultured voice.

'You don't look like a man of the theatre,' he observed.

'Nor am I, Mr Eldridge.'

'I won't pretend that I'm not disappointed. You see before you a man who is, I regret to say, temporarily separated from his art. I await the call, Mr Redmayne. I hoped that you might have brought it.'

'No, sir,' said Christopher. 'As it happens, it was Mr Killigrew who drew my attention to you, but not because he wished to engage you again.'

'Killigrew is a money-grubbing old lecher!'

'Yet not without a perceptive eye for talent. In a performance of The Maid's Tragedy, I saw an actor give a most excellent account of the role of Lysippus. My congratulations, sir.'

'Why, thank you,' said the other, warming to him. 'I flatter myself that I acted to the limit of my ability in that play. Not that anyone would have noticed with Harriet Gow alongside me. She dwarfed us all.'

His tone was affectionate and quite free of envy. Given his cue, Christopher took it at once. He sat forward earnestly in his chair.

'It is about Mrs Gow that I've come,' he said.

'Why?'

'I was wondering if you knew where I could find her.'

'At her home, I daresay.'

'She does not seem to be there, Mr Eldridge.'

'Then you'd better ask Tom Killigrew where she is.'

'Mr Killigrew is as puzzled as I am, sir. The lady has disappeared.'

'Harriet would never do that,' argued the other. 'Not without due warning, in any case. She's wedded to her art. It's always come first with her. If you've seen her act and heard her sing, you'll know how gloriously she blossoms on a stage.'

'Oh, yes,' agreed Christopher. 'She was captivating.'

'Yet you say she's disappeared?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Since when?'

Christopher gave him a shortened version of events, leaving out any mention of the King, the ransom note and the murder of Mary Hibbert. The more he heard, the more alarmed Martin Eldridge grew. Christopher watched him carefully to see if the alarm was sincere and not simply called up by the skill of a trained actor. There was something about Eldridge that was faintly troubling. The man was too plausible, too ready with his responses, too expressive with his emotions. Christopher had the strong feeling that he was hiding something from him.

'When did you last see Mrs Gow?' he asked.

'Not for some time, Mr Redmayne. As Tom Killigrew must have told you, I'm no longer a member of the company. He dismissed me.'

'Mr Killigrew said that you were a good friend of Mrs Gow's.'

'I was and still am,' replied Eldridge with feeling. 'When she first joined the company, she turned to me for advice and I was able to help her a little. At that time, of course, she was still married to Bartholomew.'

'Did you ever meet her husband?'

'Regularly. He came to the theatre to collect her.'

'How did you get on with him, Mr Eldridge?'

'Tolerably well,' said the other. 'We all did at first. Then things began to turn sour between them and we saw the results. Bartholomew was spiky and resentful. He came to the theatre less and less.'

'Was he a vengeful man?'

'I think that he could be.'

'On what evidence?'

'I can't rightly say, Mr Redmayne. But any man who lost a wife like Harriet Gow would be entitled to feel vengeful. Bartholomew always claimed that she slowly emptied his purse then cast him aside because he could no longer afford to keep her in such style.'

'Have you seen the house where she lives?'

'Once or twice.'

'I take it that Mrs Gow neither owns nor rents it.'

'No,' said the other smoothly, 'and it's none of my business who does. Acting is a precarious profession, Mr Redmayne.

We all of us have to make concessions or reach compromises to stay afloat. Harriet Gow has earned everything she has, believe me. I admire her for it.'

'Some of her colleagues at the theatre do not.'

'Mindless envy.'

'Would you describe Abigail Saunders as envious?'

'I'm a gentleman, Mr Redmayne,' said the other pointedly, 'which means that I lack a vocabulary coarse enough to describe Abigail to you. We first acted together at The Duke's Playhouse and I took her to be my friend then. I gave her a lot of support but she chose to forget that in time. The kindest thing I can say about Abigail Saunders is that she is a pretty little bloodsucker.'

'Would she be capable of sucking Mrs Gow's blood?'

'To the last drop!'

'You have a low opinion of the lady.'

'The woman,' corrected the other. 'Harriet Gow is a lady; Abigail is the inferior version that we call a woman. But why sit here talking to me when you should be out trying to find Harriet?' he said with sudden desperation. 'What have you learned? Who have you talked to? Do you have no clues at all, Mr Redmayne?'

'Several, sir.'

'Then act on them. Harriet must be found!'

'I appreciate your anxiety, Mr Eldridge, but I have the feeling that you may be able to help me rather more than you've so far been willing to do.' Christopher fixed him with a stare. 'I suspect that you and Mrs Gow were extremely close friends. She confided in you: that means you know things that are germane to this investigation, facts that might help to guide our footsteps.'

'What more can I tell you?'

'To begin with, you can be more precise about the date when you last saw Mrs Gow. A man as fond of a lady as you patently are would not be parted from her for too long. I think you know the day and the hour when the two of you last met.' An inquisitive smile. 'Don't you?'

Martin Eldridge seemed relaxed to the point of nonchalance but his mind was working busily. He appraised Christopher for some time, noting his visitor's strong build and air of determination. He also eyed the sword and dagger that Christopher wore. The architect would not easily be sent on his way. Other measures needed to be adopted.

'You're right, Mr Redmayne,' he admitted sadly. 'There are things that I've held back. From the best of motives, as you will see. Let me show you a letter from Harriet. It may explain a lot.' He moved to the door. 'Wait here a moment while I fetch it.'

'Very well.'

Eldridge went out of the room and left his guest to examine it with more care. It told him much about the character and habits of the actor. When he crossed to the table to pick up the printed text, he saw that the play was Shakespeare's Othello. Was Martin Eldridge planning a return to The Duke's Men? Only the company run by Sir William D'Avenant had the right to stage revivals of Shakespeare's plays. The sound of the front door opening alerted Christopher. Setting the play aside, he went swiftly over to the window and was just in time to see Martin Eldridge darting up Old Street before vanishing around a corner. Instead of going to fetch a letter, the actor had bolted.

Christopher was furious with himself for being so easily duped. He hurried to the door, flung it open and descended the stairs at speed but he was not permitted to leave Mrs Lingard's house. Blocking his way and barking fiercely at him was a large, black, angry dog with its eyes ablaze and its fangs bared.

'He doesn't like strangers,' explained the landlady helpfully.

The physician completed his examination and stood up from the bed.

'His condition is stable,' he announced.

'Can you not be more specific, sir?' asked Algernon Redmayne.

'Your son is neither better nor worse than when I was here earlier. Rest is the only true physician. He took a fearful beating and has several cracked ribs. They will take time to heal. As for the bruises,' said the old man, 'they will vanish more quickly. Give him a week and you may recognise your son once again.'

'Unhappily, I'm not able to remain at his bedside for a week,' said the Dean of Gloucester, 'though I would willingly do so if it would be of any practical help to him. I'm just grateful that his dear mother never lived to see him in such dire straits. It would have broken her heart.' He addressed the physician with lofty condescension. 'When will Henry's mind clear enough for him to tell me the full details of the assault?'

'Your guess is as good as mine, sir.'

'A day? Two?'

'I've known cases where memory has been affected much longer,' explained the physician. 'We are not talking about a happy experience here but one that brought untold pain. The mind is a strange organ. It sometimes blocks out unpleasant recollections in order to spare a victim having to relive the agony. Be patient with him.'

'I am patient, man! I'm his father.'

'Don't expect too much too soon.'

'What are you telling me?' asked the other sharply.

'Mr Redmayne must not be harried. It will only add to his distress and may even delay recovery. The simple truth is,' he concluded, 'that your son may never fully regain his memories of the assault.'

Pretending to be asleep, Henry Redmayne heard every word and he could not stop himself responding to the physician's welcome words. His eyes remained firmly shut but his face gave him away. The Dean of Gloucester stared down at it with mild exasperation.

'Good heavens!' he declared. 'He's grinning at us!'

Smeek was sullen and uncooperative. Taken before a magistrate by Jonathan Bale, he was charged with felonious assault on a constable and held in custody, pending further charges that might well include kidnap and murder. Jonathan waited until they reached the gaol before he resumed his interrogation. Two hefty turnkeys went into the gloomy cell with the constable but Smeek was not intimidated. His years at sea had toughened him against all eventualities.

'Who hired you?' demanded Jonathan.

'I don't know.'

'Someone paid your wages.'

'Did they?' asked Smeek with a defiant smirk.

'What was his name?'

'I don't know.'

'Why did he set you on to me?'

'Nobody set me on to you.'

'Then why did you attack me?'

'Because I didn't like the look of you.'

The prisoner gave another smirk. Bleeding had been stemmed from the wound on his skull but his coat was still stained with blood. Smeek's temples were pounding. He vowed to be as obstructive as he could when questioned by the man who had given him the headache.

'Do you know what will happen to you?' said Jonathan.

'Who cares?'

'You should. Gaol can break most men.'

'I've never found one that broke me,' boasted the other.

'You'll only be held here until the trial. Kidnap is a more serious offence than assault. Doesn't that worry you?'

'No.'

'It should.'

'Nothing worries me, Mr Bale.'

'Not even the thought that you'll be tried for murder?'

'Murder?' There was a first note of alarm in his voice.

'A girl called Mary Hibbert was beaten to death,' said Jonathan. 'I viewed the body so I know exactly the kind of monsters they were. Mary Hibbert was a friend of mine and I have a personal interest in bringing these monsters to justice. The men who killed her will hang.'

'I wasn't involved.' 'Are you sure?'

'I swear it!'

'Yes,' said the other with heavy sarcasm, 'and you'll swear that you didn't attack a man called Roland Trigg. Nor one called Henry Redmayne, to say nothing of myself. It wasn't you, was it? Your cudgel has a life of its own. It did all that damage by itself.'

'I did not kill the girl!' protested Smeek.

'We'll prove that you did.'

'No! I'll answer for what I did, but not for someone else's crime.'

'You were involved. That's enough for me.'

'Not in the murder, Mr Bale. You must believe me. I went after the girl, I admit,' he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, 'but only to track her down. That was our orders: to catch Mary Hibbert and take her back to the house. But she fought agin us. That upset Ben. He tried to quieten her down.'

'I saw how she was quietened down,' said Jonathan grimly.

'Not by me!' insisted the other. 'I hardly touched her.'

'Then who did?'

Smeek clammed up. He sensed that he had already said too much.

'Who did?' repeated Jonathan, stepping right up to him. 'You called him Ben, didn't you? Ben who? Tell me the name of the man who beat Mary Hibbert to death. Ben who?'

The prisoner regained some of his bravado. He folded his arms and leaned his back against the wall of the cell. He taunted Jonathan.

'Don't ask me, Mr Bale,' he said innocently. 'I swear that I don't know anyone by that name. Do you, sir?'

The house was smaller than the first one in which she had been confined. Harriet Gow wondered why they had transferred her. The new prison was also situated in open countryside. When she peered through the cracks in the shutters of the bedchamber, she could see nothing but a herd of sheep grazing in the fields. Her two guards were marginally kinder to her. The man and the woman still wore masks and still refused to answer her queries but they were less brusque with her. Harriet was handled with a little more respect. It was as if they had been reprimanded and told to treat her differently. She could see that they resented the order.

Mary Hibbert's fate still dominated her mind. Fearing the worst, she found it impossible to rest, still less to sleep. She kept thinking about her maidservant, remembering how willing and dependable she was, how proud to work for a renowned actress. Those days seemed to have gone for ever. Harriet knew in her heart that Mary Hibbert would never serve her again. Guilt stirred once more. It was only because of her that the girl had been thrown into jeopardy in the first place. Had she remained in her former employment, she would be alive and well.

When the door was unlocked, the woman brought in some food on a tray. Her husband remained in the doorway to make sure that the prisoner did not make a run for the exit. Harriet crossed over to the man.

'How long will I be kept here?' she asked.

'Until the ransom is paid,' he said coldly.

'And what if it isn't?'

He waited until his wife left the room before he answered.

'Then you won't leave here alive, Mrs Gow.'

Christopher Redmayne was forced to cool his heels at the house in Addle Street before Jonathan Bale returned. The constable was pleased to see him for once and grateful that it was far too early for him to have taken over the daily reading from the Bible to the two boys. When Sarah had taken them out of the parlour, Jonathan was left alone to exchange news with his guest. The constable came as near to expressing real excitement as he could manage.

'I caught him, Mr Redmayne,' he said with pride.

'Who?'

'One of the villains who wielded a cudgel. He tried to use it on me but I got the better of him near Paternoster Row. The fellow is in custody and will not trouble us again.'

'Tell me all,' urged Christopher.

He was thrilled to hear of the arrest, though his great delight was lessened by the fact that the prisoner had failed to confess or provide them with the names of his accomplices.

'One thing I know,' boomed Jonathan, recalling his visit to Clerkenwell. 'Those accomplices did not include Bartholomew Gow.'

'You found him?'

'Eventually.'

'And?'

'It was rather a sad tale, Mr Redmayne.'

Christopher listened to the comprehensive recital of facts, admiring Jonathan's methodical approach but wishing that he could be more succinct. At length, one suspect was eliminated from their enquiries.

'How odd!' he commented. 'The landlord of that inn was so certain that Mr Gow lived in Greer Lane.'

'So was the woman at that house,' said Jonathan. 'She assured me that he'd lodged there until quite recently. I still believe that he only used her premises on occasion but the fact remains that he denied even knowing where Greer Lane was.'

'Did you believe him, Mr Bale?'

'Implicitly.'

'Then I trust your judgement.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Jonathan, settling back into his chair. 'What of your own investigations in Shoreditch? Have you made progress?'

'Unhappily, no.'

'Why not?'

'I was badly hampered,' said Christopher. 'Before I could leave my house, I was cornered by Mr Hartwell, my client, a man with a legitimate claim on my time. And as he left, Mr Trigg arrived to ask how we were getting on and to pass on some rather startling news. And then, worst of all, when I was least ready for him, my father chose that moment to arrive from Gloucester to pay a call on me.'

'You mentioned startling news.'

'Yes, from the coachman.'

'What did he say?'

'You were not the only one to meet a man with a cudgel.'

Christopher's account was swift and concise. Jonathan's eyebrows lifted with interest when he heard that the other probable killer of Mary Hibbert had been brought out into the open.

'Why didn't Mr Trigg get help to arrest the villain?'

'He was more interested in revenge.'

'The man he assaulted must have been the accomplice to the rogue who attacked me. I'll wager he answers to the name of Ben. What was the tavern where this happened?'

'The Hope and Anchor.'

'Then we may be in luck, Mr Redmayne.'

'Why?'

'I know it well from my days as a shipwright. The place is not unused to brawls but it's not often that someone is beaten senseless on its doorstep. Someone will know who the victim was. I'll ask around.'

'Let me come with you,' volunteered Christopher.

'I'd rather go alone, sir. No disrespect,' he said, looking at his visitor's smart apparel, 'but you would not exactly blend in with the patrons of the Hope and Anchor. Seafaring men can be suspicious of outsiders and that's what you are. I'll go myself tonight, though not in the office of a constable. I'll find out what I can about the beating that Mr Trigg claims that he handed out.'

'I'm sure that he wasn't lying. He was so gleeful.'

'I don't see any occasion for glee.'

'Nor do I,' admitted Christopher. 'My visit to Shoreditch was not as productive as your sojourn in Clerkenwell.'

'Did you meet Jeremy Vye?'

'Yes, and your friend was most helpful. He picked out the right house for me and even warned me about Blackie.' 'Blackie?'

'Mrs Lingard's dog.'

Christopher launched into a second attenuated account. The details of his adventures in Old Street kept his host entranced. Christopher did not spare himself from blame.

'I was a fool,' he confessed. 'Martin Eldridge tricked me. While I was waiting for him to fetch that letter, he was legging it down the street. Blackie made sure that I couldn't pursue him immediately.'

'What do you conclude, Mr Redmayne?'

'That the slippery actor is embroiled somehow in this affair.'

'But he's a close friend of Mrs Gow's. You said yourself that he spoke very warmly of her. Why should he want to harm a lady he obviously cared for, Mr Redmayne?'

'Why should he take to his heels and run?'

'That still doesn't make him party to a kidnap.'

'No,' agreed Christopher, 'but it does put him on the list of people I'd like to question. Only next time, I'll have the sense to stand between him and the door.' A self-deprecating smile. 'And to take a bone with me for Blackie.'

'It's been a day of exchanges,' mused Jonathan.

'Exchanges?'

'Yes, sir. We lost one suspect - Mr Gow - and gained another in the person of Mr Eldridge. We lost one villain - this man called Ben - and traded him for an accomplice who made the mistake of attacking me.'

'But why, Mr Bale?'

'I've been wondering about that.'

'How did they know who you were and where you lived?' said Christopher, running a hand through his hair. 'My brother Henry was more visible. He was seen making enquiries at the theatre. But you've been far more discreet. How did they know you were working with me?'

'I'll ask this fellow, Ben, when I catch up with him.'

'It's almost as if someone is watching us.'

'Mr Eldridge, perhaps?' 'No, someone else. It unsettles me.'

'What next, sir?'

'You pay a visit to the Hope and Anchor while I try to find a missing actor. I won't let him slip away again, I promise you.' Christopher rose to his feet then paused. 'I've just had a curious thought.'

'What is it, Mr Redmayne?'

'Why was the ransom note sent to His Majesty?'

'The King is not unknown to Mrs Gow,' said Jonathan with evident distaste. 'And who else could command that amount of money?'

'Oh, there are gentlemen in her life with wealth enough to pay such a demand. Yet they, as far as we know, were not approached. The kidnap was arranged with the express purpose of embarrassing His Majesty.'

'So?'

'Three separate intentions may lie behind the abduction.'

'What are they?'

'First and foremost, to secure the ransom money.'

'They'll obviously kill to get that,' said Jonathan ruefully. 'Five thousand pounds is a vast figure. It could set someone up for life.'

'Let's move on to the second intention,' advised Christopher as he cogitated. 'Someone wishes to strike directly at His Majesty, to hurt his feelings and to wound his pride by seizing his favourite companion from right under his nose.'

'If only it was simply the royal nose she was under!'

'Now, now, Mr Bale.'

'Truth will out, sir.'

'Ours is not to pass moral judgements.'

'Perhaps not. What is the third intention, Mr Redmayne?'

'The most intriguing in some ways.'

'Why?'

'Because it doesn't concern money at all. Perhaps not even revenge. It turns on one avowed purpose. To bring a decisive end to the friendship between His Majesty and Harriet Gow.'

'An end?'

'The lady will hardly wish to continue a relationship which has brought her such suffering. And I suspect that His Majesty will wish to disentangle himself as well. What I believe,' said Christopher, 'is that we're looking for a man with a passion for Mrs Gow that's been over-shadowed by her involvement with the King. The obvious candidate was the embittered husband.'

'Bartholomew Gow can be acquitted. I'm certain of it.'

'That leaves us with another man who's enjoyed her favours but who, since His Majesty's interest was sparked off, has been pushed completely into oblivion.'

'What's his name?'

'I've already told you,' said Christopher. 'Martin Eldridge.'

Roland Trigg was in conciliatory mood for once. Confronted by an angry visitor at the house in Rider Street, he did his best to pacify the man. They were in the stable at the rear of the property. The coachman had been grooming the horses when he was interrupted.

'Calm down, Mr Eldridge,' he soothed. 'Calm down, sir.'

'How can I be calm at a time like this?'

'I know how you feel, sir.'

'Who's behind this kidnap?' demanded Martin Eldridge, shaking with fury. 'Tell me, Mr Trigg.'

'If only I could. I'd like his name so that I can get my own back for this,' he said, pointing to his injuries. 'I managed to take some revenge, though. One of the men who attacked me was given a sound beating of his own. He'll be more careful around Roland Trigg from now on.'

'One of the kidnappers?'

'Yes, I recognised him.'

'Has he been apprehended?'

The coachman told him the story that he had already related to Christopher Redmayne and the actor's expression changed from hope to disappointment. Eldridge was no nearer finding out who the real culprit was for the abduction of Harriet Gow. He became more agitated.

'Why did you bring me that message?' he asked.

'Because I was told to, sir.'

'By Harriet herself?'

'Who else? I take orders from nobody but Mrs Gow.'

'Why should she wish to cancel the arrangement?'

'She didn't say.'

'And why not send me a letter?'

'There was no time, Mr Eldridge. It was a decision taken at the last minute. That's why I arrived in Shoreditch so early in the day. Believe me, sir,' said Trigg fervently, 'I'm as eager as you are to have this mystery explained. Not only because of the beating I took. There's the business of Mary Hibbert.'

'Mary?'

'They killed her.'

'Surely not!' exclaimed Eldridge.

'No question about it. They wanted us to know how serious they were in their threats. We're left in no doubt now.'

'Why did Mr Redmayne make no mention of this?'

'I've no idea.'

'He only told me about the abduction and the beatings.'

'Strange!'

'I'm glad I know the truth,' said Eldridge, looking around uneasily. 'It shows how precarious Harriet's position is. Tell me all you know, Mr Trigg. I've the feeling that Mr Redmayne held a number of things back.'

'I can't add anything,' said the other cautiously. 'I'm only a victim of the kidnap. Mr Redmayne is the man to speak to, sir.'

'He was asking too many uncomfortable questions.'

'Someone has to.'

'But why him? What's his interest in Harriet Gow? He's only an architect. I know that his brother was cudgelled outside the theatre but is that really enough to make him abandon his work to take up this case?' Eldridge was baffled. 'Who is Christopher Redmayne?'

'He could be our salvation, sir.'

'In what way?'

'Mr Redmayne is a dedicated man. Whatever his reasons for getting involved, I admire him. He's our only hope,' Trigg stressed, clenching his teeth. 'Christopher Redmayne is the one person who may get to Mrs Gow in time to save her.'

His second meeting of the day with Jonathan Bale had been productive and reassuring. One man was in custody and a second might be found by means of enquiries at the Hope and Anchor. Christopher was still smarting at the way he had let Martin Eldridge escape his clutches and he was determined to make amends for his error. Finding the fugitive actor was his main priority but he first decided to return home in case any important messages had been left for him. He rode into Fetter Lane with some trepidation, fearing that he might be caught again by an irate client, a truculent coachman or an inconvenient parent but there were no coaches outside his house. He allowed himself to relax until he noticed Jacob emerging from the front door.

'I saw you through the window,' explained the servant. 'Thank goodness you've come back!'

'Why?'

'Your visitor has been waiting the best part of an hour.'

'It's not Mr Hartwell again?'

'No, Mr Redmayne. Nor that foul-mouthed Mr Trigg.'

'My father, then?' said Christopher, bracing himself against what might turn out to be the worst of the three. 'Who is it, Jacob?'

'The gentleman wouldn't give his name.'

'Yet you let him into my house?'

'He has an air of such authority about him, sir.'

'We'll see about that,' said Christopher, dropping from the saddle and handing the reins to Jacob. 'Tether him. I'll be leaving again soon.'

He went purposefully into the house to confront his anonymous guest but stopped dead when he saw who it was.

'Mr Chiffinch!'

William Chiffinch rose from his chair and gave a faint nod.

'I'm glad you've come back at last,' he said.

'It's only a brief visit. We have picked up the scent this time.'

'Then you should have had the grace to send us a report to that effect. His Majesty is in a state of continuous anguish. Tell me something that can at least allay his anxiety.'

'I'll try, Mr Chiffinch.'

Christopher told him in outline what had transpired since their last encounter. Chiffinch showed a flicker of approval when he heard of the arrest of Jonathan Bale's attacker, but the flight of Martin Eldridge only gained a look of scorn. He seemed faintly disappointed by the vindication of Bartholomew Gow.

'So the husband may be cleared of involvement?'

'According to Mr Bale.'

'It seems that the worthy constable has been appreciably more successful than you in his work,' said Chiffinch, letting his eyebrow issue a muted reprimand. 'What do you intend to do about it, Mr Redmayne?'

'Redeem myself by finding Mrs Gow.'

'That's not an option that will remain open for long, I fear.'

'Why not?'

'I come here with grim tidings. His Majesty was most insistent that you heard the news at once. That's why I took the unusual step of arriving on your doorstep in person.'

'I guessed that your mission must be important.'

'Very important, Mr Redmayne.' Taking a letter from inside his coat, he handed it over. 'That came to the Palace this afternoon.'

'From the kidnappers?'

'Read it for yourself.'

When Christopher did, he blenched. An already fraught situation had taken on a new and more menacing turn. He held up the letter.

'They may be trying to bluff us, Mr Chiffinch.'

'Was the murder of Mary Hibbert an act of bluff? No, sir. We have to take them at their word. You have less than twenty-four hours to unmask and capture the villains. They could not have put it more bluntly,' Chiffinch said, taking the missive back. 'If the ransom is not paid by sunset tomorrow, Harriet Gow will be executed.'