The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Thirteen

While their visitor was in the house, Sarah Bale made no comment on the rumpled condition in which her husband returned home. As soon as Christopher Redmayne left, however, she was able to take a closer look at Jonathan. She clicked her tongue in mock disapproval.

'Look at the state of you!' she chided.

'What do you mean, Sarah?'

'Your coat's dirty, your sleeve's torn, there's a bruise on your cheek and - yes,' she said, inspecting a stain on his shoulder, 'this looks like blood to me.'

'It's not mine, I assure you.'

'Where've you been, Jonathan?'

'Making an arrest.'

'Well, that sleeve will have to be mended before I can send you out again. And I'll want to brush some of that filth off. What will the neighbours say if you're seen abroad like that?' Anxiety took over. 'Do you have any other bruises?'

'One or two on my arms, that's all.'

'Do be careful, Jonathan.'

'I always am.'

'I want my husband coming back to me in one piece.'

'The man resisted arrest: I had to subdue him. He's in a far worse condition than me, Sarah.' He took off his coat. 'But I was going to change in any case. I have to go out again.'

'So soon?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'What about the children? I'm just going to put them to bed.'

'I'll read to them before I go.'

'Good,' she said, taking his coat and bustling off.

Jonathan went upstairs to his sons' bedchamber and took out the old clothes that he wore when he worked as a shipwright. They still fitted. He smiled as pleasant memories of his earlier life flooded back. He had loved his trade. It brought him happy times and good friends. It also gave him the muscles and the stamina which made him such a formidable opponent in a brawl. He slipped a dagger into his belt and made sure that it could not be seen. When he went into the next room, Oliver and Richard were already tucked up together in bed, delighted that their father would be reading to them. Oliver stared at his bruise.

'What've you done to your face?' he asked.

'I bumped into something, Oliver.'

'Does it hurt?' said Richard, intrigued by the injury.

'Not any more.'

'What did you bump into, Father?'

'Never you mind, Richard.' Jonathan picked up the family Bible, the one book in the house. 'Now, what shall I read this evening?'

'Could we have some more about Samson?' said Richard.

'Yes,' agreed Oliver. 'He was a big, strong man. Mr Redmayne told us about him. He said that Samson was betrayed by a woman.'

'She cut off his hair.'

'Mother would never betray you, would she?' said the older boy. 'She'd never cut off your hair or you'd look funny.'

The two boys giggled. Jonathan quietened them down then read them a passage from the Book of Judges. They listened carefully. When he had finished, he said prayers with them, gave each a kiss on the forehead then stole out of the room. Sarah was already using a needle and thread expertly on the torn sleeve of his coat. She looked at his apparel and smiled.

'Just like the old days.'

'Not quite, Sarah.'

'Will you be late back?'

'I don't know.'

'Whenever it is, I'll wait up for you.'

'Thank you, my love.'

After giving her a valedictory kiss, he left the house and trudged off in the direction of Thames Street. It was early evening and still light. He walked parallel to the river, inhaling the familiar smells that drifted up from the waterfront and listening to the familiar sounds. The street was busy and he collected a number of waves or greetings while he was still in Baynard's Castle Ward. Once he moved into Queenhithe Ward, he was outside his own territory and took on a welcome anonymity. Passers-by hardly gave him a second look.

The Hope and Anchor was at the far end of Thames Street, well beyond London Bridge. It looked smaller than he remembered it and had acquired an almost ramshackle appearance. The one thing Jonathan had prised out of his attacker had been the man's name. Smeek would be at home in the Hope and Anchor, he decided. It was his natural habitat. The man bore all the marks of a sailor. Smeek was a tough, gritty, uncouth, fearless man who could look after himself in the roughest company and that was what the tavern offered him.

It was echoing with noise and bursting with bodies when Jonathan let himself in. A group of drunken sailors was singing a coarse song at one of the tables. Others were yelling threats at each other. Prostitutes mingled with potential customers, distributing the occasional kiss by way of blandishment. There was a stink of tobacco smoke and a thick fug had settled on the room. As he looked around, Jonathan could not suppress a smile at the thought of Christopher Redmayne visiting the tavern. He would be as completely and ridiculously out of place as the constable would be in a box at The Theatre Royal.

Jonathan bought a drink, shouldered his way to a corner and bided his time. It was important to blend into his surroundings. To accost the innkeeper at once and pepper him with questions would only arouse the man's suspicion. The constable had to be more casual in his enquiries. He fell in with a couple of sailors whose ship had just arrived from Holland. They were full of boasts about their exploits among Dutch women. Jonathan forced himself to listen. When he saw that the innkeeper was on his own, he offered to buy his companions some ale and squeezed his way to the counter.

The innkeeper was a rotund man in his fifties with an ugly face made even more unsightly by a broken nose and a half- closed eye. As the man filled three tankards for Jonathan, the latter leaned in close.

'I was hoping to see some old friends in here,' he said.

'Oh?' replied the other. 'And who might they be?'

'One's called Smeek. We sailed together years ago. He told me that they came in here sometimes. Is that true?'

'It might be.'

'He and Ben were always together. Boon companions.'

'How well do you know them?' asked the innkeeper warily.

'Haven't seen either for a long time. That's why I thought I'd drop in at the Hope and Anchor - in case they'd been around lately. It's the kind of place they'd like, especially Ben. Nice and lively.' He paid for the drinks and bought one for the innkeeper himself. 'Have you seen any sign of either of them?'

'They were in here yesterday, as it happens.'

'Oh?'

'Throwing a bit of money around.'

'That sounds like them,' said Jonathan with a chuckle.

'Smeek might come back,' explained the other, deciding to take his customer on trust, 'but you won't see Ben Froggatt in here for a while, that's for sure.'

'Why not?'

'He came off worst in a fight. Right outside my back door.'

'Ben Froggatt? He could handle himself in a brawl. I'd like to see the man who could get the better of him.' Jonathan took a sip of his ale. 'Was Ben hurt very badly?'

'He must be. I'm told he's taken to his bed.'

'Poor old Ben,' said Jonathan, expressing a sympathy that was masking a deep hatred. 'I must call on him and try to cheer him up. Do you know where he lodges?'

'No,' said the innkeeper. 'But I think that Lucy might.'

'Lucy?'

The man nodded in the direction of a tall, angular woman with a heavily powdered face and a loud giggle. Sharing a drink with a grey-haired man, she fondled his arm with an easy familiarity.

The innkeeper gave a lop-sided grin of appreciation.

'Ben has taste,' he grunted. 'Lucy's his favourite.'

'I haven't the slightest clue where you could find Martin Eldridge.'

'Where would he go if he wanted to lie low?' asked Christopher.

'Who cares?'

'Please, Mr Killigrew. I need your help.'

'The only person I'm interested in finding is Harriet Gow,' said the manager, banging on the table. 'Harriet is the one you should be after, not a damnable actor who's too lazy to learn his craft properly.'

'Martin Eldridge might lead me to Mrs Gow.'

'What gave you that idea?'

'He's involved in some way,' said Christopher firmly. 'I know it. He was so evasive when I talked to him. He was hiding something.'

'Well, it wasn't his talent because he doesn't have any.'

Hoping for good news from his visitor, Thomas Killigrew was downcast when Christopher admitted that they still had no clear idea where the missing actress could be. The enquiry about Martin Eldridge only served to enrage the irascible manager.

'You shouldn't have let him trick you like that, Mr Redmayne.'

'I know.'

'He's a cunning devil, Martin. I wouldn't trust him for a second.'

'But some people do. His landlady told me how many friends he has. They are always calling at his lodging in Shoreditch. What I want from you is the name of those friends,' explained Christopher. 'My guess is that he'll stay with one of them in order to hide from me.'

'Then you'll never find him.'

'Why not?'

'Because it would take you weeks to get round all of Martin's friends. There are scores of them. Mostly women, of course, because a man with that silvery tongue and those good looks is bound to make the best of them. Martin Eldridge could charm the clothes off a countess. Yes,' he said enviously, 'and he could probably charm some money out of her into the bargain. That would be typical of him. He gives all his best performances in the bedchamber. If only he could act that well on stage!'

'I thought he was well cast as Lysippus.'

'He did rouse himself for The Maid's Tragedy,' confessed Killigrew, 'but only because Harriet Gow was in the play. For her sake, Martin always made an effort. When she was not in a cast, he'd simply walk through his part. Forget him, Mr Redmayne. He's not your man.'

'Then why did he take to his heels?'

'Perhaps you said something to upset him.'

'I'm serious, Mr Killigrew.'

'And so am I, sir,' retorted the manager. 'Harriet's been gone for days now. The company is getting nervous. My patrons are starting to turn nasty. They disrupted the performance this afternoon. That lean-witted booby Jasper Hartwell even had the audacity to storm in here and threaten to sue me unless I brought her back instantly. He said he wanted to hear his nightingale sing again.'

'Mr Hartwell has an obsession, I'm afraid.'

'So do I, Mr Redmayne. And my obsession is more immediate than his. Not to put too fine a point on it, Harriet Gow is my bread and butter. She sets food on my table. Without her, my takings will plummet.'

'Then help me to find her.'

'You'll not do that by means of Martin Eldridge. He adored Harriet. She's probably the only woman he ever really cared for. What would he stand to gain by her abduction?'

'I don't know.'

'Nothing!'

'I wonder.'

'Look elsewhere, sir.'

'Such as?'

'At her husband, for a start. Bartholomew Gow.'

'He's already been cleared of involvement.'

'Then I can do the same for Martin. Painful as it is to do him a favour, I can give you my assurance that he's not the villain here.'

'I reserve my judgement on that.'

Christopher would not be deflected from his purpose. He wanted to speak to the actor again. Unable to get assistance from one theatre manager, he decided to turn to another. He bade farewell and headed for the door. Killigrew had a rush of sympathy and called out to detain him.

'How is your brother?'

'Recovering very slowly.'

'I'll try to make time to call on him.'

'Thank you, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher, fearing an encounter between his father and the disreputable manager. 'Not for a day or two, please. Henry can receive no visitors at present. His physician has forbidden it.'

'Tell him I asked after him.'

'I will.'

'What of the men who cudgelled him?'

'There's brighter news on that front. One is already in custody and the other may soon join him. In fact,' he recalled, 'a colleague of mine is attending to that matter right now.'

Ben Froggatt was in constant pain. His broken arm was in a splint, his eyes blackened, his head covered in lumps and crisscrossed with deep gashes. His hair was matted with dried blood. Every part of his body seemed to ache. Propped up on a mattress in the dingy, airless room, he swigged from a stone bottle and vowed to get his revenge. A mouse came out of its hole and ran across to search for crumbs on the platter beside him. Froggatt spat at the creature to send it on its way. There was a tap on the door. He tensed at once. Putting the bottle aside, he used his free hand to reach for the cudgel under the sheets.

'Who is it?' he growled.

'Lucy,' she answered.

'What kept you?'

'I've brought a friend of yours, Ben.'

She opened the door to lead in Jonathan Bale. His friendly manner vanished at once. He dashed across to the wounded man, caught his wrist as the cudgel was lifted and twisted the weapon out of his hand. Froggatt howled with rage at Lucy, who backed against the wall in alarm. Jonathan showed no compassion for the man's injuries. He was standing over someone who had sent Mary Hibbert to an agonising death. When his prisoner tried to punch him, Jonathan dodged the blow and took the dagger from his belt. The point was held at Ben Froggatt's throat.

'Smeek sent me,' he said.

'He'd never do that. He's a friend.'

'Not any more. Since we locked him up in gaol, he doesn't feel quite so loyal towards you any more. Smeek says that you murdered that girl all on your own.'

'That's a lie! He was there as well.'

'But you did the damage.'

When the dagger pricked his throat, Froggatt drew back. 'Who are you?' he hissed.

'I'm the man who arrested Smeek,' said Jonathan. 'I think it's high time that you joined him, don't you?'

The pangs of hunger were too strong to resist. Henry Redmayne was famished. Having feigned sleep in the hope that his father would leave, he realised that he could not dislodge the Dean of Gloucester so easily. There was something intimidating about the old man's presence. It was not merely the odour of sanctity which he gave off, nor even the sort of oppressive piety with which he filled the room.

Algernon Redmayne was sitting in judgement, poised to pass sentence on his wayward son. It was unnerving. Henry had no right of appeal.

Relations with his father had always been strained. Less than dutiful, Henry was also more than disloyal at times. His epicurean life was a brash denial of all the values that his father had inculcated in him. Though he had a comfortable income from his sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed an allowance from the Dean, a man of private wealth and generous disposition. Henry had abused that generosity so many times that he was in danger of seeing it withdrawn. It was a fate too hideous to contemplate. Living beyond his income, Henry needed the money from the parental purse to fund his reckless expenditure.

The pain in his stomach gradually overcoming his fear of the bedside judge, Henry opened his eyes, blinked and pretended to be confused.

'Where am I?' he asked.

'Back with us again, my son,' said his father. 'How do you feel?'

'Hungry.'

'That can only be a good sign.'

'I haven't eaten a thing since the assault.'

'You remember the incident?'

'Vaguely.'

'Good, good. I long to hear the details.'

'They seem very hazy at present, Father.' He looked around the bedchamber. 'Where's Christopher?'

'He's returned to his work on that new house. It's comforting to know that I have one son who has gainful employment.'

'So do I, sir. I have a position at the Navy Office.'

'Your brother is forging a career, you merely occupy space. At least, that is what I suspect. Christopher caused me many anxieties, I'll admit, but he does seem finally to have found his true path in life. All the money I invested in his education is paying off.' He bent over his elder son like a swan about to peck an errant cygnet. 'But what of you, Henry? Oh dear, sir. What of you?'

'I need some food, Father.'

'I'm talking about spiritual nourishment,' said the other sternly. 'This house seems singularly devoid of it. There is the unmistakable whiff of sin in the air. You have strayed, Henry.'

'Once or twice perhaps.'

'Dissipation is writ large upon this building. It is the house of a voluptuary, sir. A hedonist. An unashamed sensualist.'

'Oh, I writhe with shame, Father. I assure you.'

'This is not a suitable environment for a son of the Dean of Gloucester. Too many temptations lie at hand for an idle man. Illicit pleasures beckon. I shudder at the thought that I might actually be paying for some of them.'

'No, no, that's not true at all.'

'Then where does that allowance go?' pressed the old man. 'On gaudy clothes and expensive periwigs? On wine and brandy? On some of those irreligious paintings I see hanging on your wall?'

Algernon Redmayne hit his stride. As his father's rebuke turned into a stinging homily, Henry could do nothing but lie there defenceless. In mind as well as body, he was suffering. He resorted to the only thing left to him. Against all hope, his prayer was answered. After knocking on the door, a servant entered with a potion for him.

'The physician said that you were to take this sleeping draught, Mr Redmayne.'

'Yes, yes!' agreed Henry willingly.

'But I wish to talk to you,' said his father testily. 'I want to hear the full story of your assault.'

'The physician was most insistent,' argued the servant.

'There's no hurry for the medicine.'

'There is, Father,' said Henry, making a mental note to reward his servant for his kind intervention. 'We must obey his wishes.'

He took the tiny vessel from the man and lifted it to his mouth. Within seconds, his eyes began to close and his body to sag. The Dean of Gloucester finally gave up. Leaving instructions with the servant, he gave his son one last look of disappointment then left the room. Henry came awake at once. Spitting out the potion into a cup beside the bed, he panted with relief then issued a command.

'Bring me food at once!' he urged. 'And some wine!'

William D'Avenant stood in the middle of the pit at The Duke's Playhouse and surveyed the stage like a triumphant general looking proudly out across conquered land. He was a striking figure in dark attire, a wrinkled wizard of the theatre, a living link between the world of Shakespeare, his godfather, if not his actual parent, and the witty, vibrant, stylish and often shocking fare of the Restoration. Seeing the manager in his natural milieu, Christopher Redmayne could not fail to be impressed. D'Avenant was less impressed with his unannounced visitor. He spun round to confront the newcomer with a frown of disapproval.

'What are you doing here, Mr Redmayne?' he demanded.

'I came to see you, Sir William. Since you've barred me from your home, your playhouse was the only place I could try.'

'A pointless journey. Our debate on theatre architecture is at an end. I've nothing to add on that or on any other subject.'

'I wanted to talk about a play.'

'The performance was over hours ago.'

'There's only one actor I'm interested in,' said Christopher, 'and I'm sure he's known to you. Mr Martin Eldridge.'

'Eldridge?' repeated the other, covering his surprise well. 'What dealings do you hope to have with him?'

'That's a matter between the two of us. I understand that he was once a member of your company.'

'Not any more.'

'I suspect he has ambitions of rejoining the fold.'

'Does he?'

'Yes, Sir William. When I was at his lodging earlier, I happened to notice a copy of Shakespeare's Othello on his table. That's the play I'm here to talk about. Why would an actor read it unless to work up some speeches from the drama? And why do that if not to win his way back into your favour?'

'You're a perceptive man, Mr Redmayne.'

'Mr Eldridge's hopes must centre on this playhouse because you have a monopoly on the work of Shakespeare.'

'I adapt it with distinction to suit the tastes of the day.'

'Will you take on a new actor for the performance of Othello?'

'Possibly. Possibly not.'

'You doubt his ability?'

'No,' said D'Avenant. 'Martin is an able actor. At least, he was when I was shaping his career. Who knows what damage that blundering fool, Tom Killigrew, has done to his talent? Martin's art may be beyond repair.' He studied Christopher shrewdly for a full minute before offering an unexpected concession. 'Linger a while and you may judge for yourself.'

'Why?'

'Because, as luck will have it, he is on his way here this evening. It's the only time when the playhouse is empty enough for me to hear him, and I no longer care to turn my home into a theatre. That's why you see all these candles lit, Mr Redmayne,' he said with an expansive gesture. 'They are here to shed light on the talent of Martin Eldridge.'

'You may be disappointed, Sir William.'

'More than likely.'

'No,' explained Christopher, 'not in the quality of his performance, because you're unlikely to see it. Mr Eldridge will not even turn up.'

'We made an appointment. It must be honoured.'

'He's on the run and has most likely gone to ground.'

'On the run? From whom?'

'Me, Sir William.'

'What's his offence?'

'I'm not sure until I can question him.'

D'Avenant was peremptory. 'Well, you'll not do that until

I've heard him give his account of Iago,' he insisted, tossing his white hair with a flick of his head. 'Interrupt that and I'll have you thrown out.'

'There's no need. He won't even come.'

'Mr Redmayne, let me tell you about actors. When there is the faintest chance of employment, they'll take it. Be they on the run from you, from the law, from their wives, their families or creditors, they will attend their auditions.' He turned back to the stage. 'He'll be here.'

Christopher was unsure what to do. Direction soon came.

'Mr Redmayne,' snapped the old man over his shoulder.

'Yes, Sir William?'

'Stay out of sight.'

Hovering between deference and resentment, Arthur Oscott led him into the drawing room. Oscott's wife stayed listening outside the door. The newcomer slapped his whip down on a table.

'Is she secure?' he asked.

'Completely, sir,' said Oscott.

'No more escape attempts?'

'None.'

'Good.'

'Mrs Gow doesn't have the heart for it, not since we caught her maidservant. She's very low.'

'I hope you've treated her well, Arthur. I'll not have her abused by anyone. Do you understand that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Does your wife understand it? Harriet Gow is a very precious commodity to us. We have to guard her with care. It's not long now. We'll soon be able to divide the takings and celebrate.'

'Will we?' asked Oscott sceptically. 'There's no sign of the ransom money yet. I'm beginning to wonder if it'll ever come.'

'Of course it will, man!' returned the other vehemently. 'They'll have to pay now. My second ransom note left them with no option. We'll have the money by dusk tomorrow.'

'I'll believe it when I see it.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I don't wish to question your judgement, sir, but you said that the money would be paid immediately. All we had to do was to kidnap Mrs Gow and hold her for a short time.' He looked straight into his employer's eyes. 'What went wrong?'

'Nothing.'

'You boasted they'd never dare try to find her.'

'I know, but they've paid for their impudence. Henry Redmayne was soundly beaten and Mary Hibbert's body was sent to them. Not that I authorised her murder,' he said rancorously, 'but it was an effective way of getting a message through to the Palace.'

'It wasn't that effective,' said Oscott sourly. 'It hasn't stopped them from trying to hunt us down. They're still on our tail.'

'They won't be after today. Smeek will see to that.'

'Smeek is under lock and key in Newgate, sir.'

The other man was stunned. 'Who put him there?'

'Jonathan Bale - that constable you sent him to attack. He wasn't such an easy target as Henry Redmayne, sir. In other words,' he said meaningfully, 'Mr Bale is still trying to pick up our scent. I don't like it. Neither does my wife. She wonders if we should cut and run.'

'Cut and run!' roared his companion. 'We'll do nothing of the kind. All we have to do is to sit tight until the money is paid. If they want to see Mrs Gow alive again, they must and will pay the ransom.'

'Unless we're tracked down first.'

'How can we be?'

'Smeek may talk. And if they've got him, they'll soon take Ben Froggatt into custody as well. Tongues can be loosened in Newgate.'

'So what? Smeek and Froggatt know nothing.'

'They know that I hired them.'

'Forget them.'

'They know where we took Mrs Gow the first time.'

'But they have no idea where she is now, do they? You're getting soft, Arthur,' he warned, snatching up his whip. 'That's dangerous. I need people around me I can trust - not cowards who start to shiver at the first setback.'

'I'm no coward!' asserted Oscott, hurt by the charge.

'Then stop sweating, man. We hold all the cards.'

'Do we?'

'Yes, Godammit!' snarled the other, striking the table with his whip. 'And we'll play this game through to the bitter end so that we can collect our winnings. Hear that, Arthur? Our winnings. Nothing can stop us. They'll pay up, mark my words. They have to.'

Martin Eldridge failed before he even started. Desperate to give of his best, he did quite the opposite. His mind was distracted. Instead of concentrating on Iago's lines, he was thinking about a missing friend. His timing was off, his gestures uncertain, his grasp of the role poor. He stumbled over every speech that he attempted. Standing in the pit, Sir William D'Avenant kept inviting him to try again. Eldridge took it as a sign of kindness at first then realised that the manager was deliberately prolonging his ordeal, enjoying the humiliation of an actor he never seriously meant to employ in the first place. When he forgot the opening lines of Iago's most famous speech, Eldridge did not wait for a comment. He ran off the stage and stalked out of the theatre.

Coming out into Portugal Street, he walked quickly past Lincoln's Inn Fields in the direction of Holborn. He was soon overtaken by a horseman who reined in his mount to block his path. Before Eldridge could complain, he had Christopher Redmayne's rapier at his throat.

'Don't run away from me this time, Mr Eldridge.'

'I can explain that.'

'That's what I'm hoping. And by the way,' he said, nodding towards the theatre. 'I'm sorry if my presence hampered your performance just now. I did my best to stay out of sight.'

Eldridge was horrified. 'You saw that travesty of acting?'

'Lysippus was a far more suitable role for you.' Christopher dismounted and sheathed his sword. 'Where shall we talk?'

'In the nearest tavern. I need some wine.'

'Lead the way.'

Christopher had no fear that he would bolt again. The disastrous visit to The Duke's Playhouse had taken all the spirit out of him. Eldridge said nothing until they were sitting at a table in the White Rose. Two glasses of wine were bought at Christopher's expense. The actor sipped his gratefully.

'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' he said.

'Supposing that you tell me the truth?' suggested Christopher.

'I might say the same about you.'

'Me?'

'When you called at my lodging, you made no mention of the fact that Mary Hibbert has been murdered. I was shocked when I heard.'

'And how did you do that?'

'By talking to Roland Trigg.'

'So that's where you went when you raced off.' Christopher tasted his own wine before he continued. 'Yes, I did conceal certain details from you because I thought it best to do so. But if you know about the girl, you'll realise the predicament that Mrs Gow is in. Unless we can find her very quickly, she may end up on a slab next to Mary Hibbert.'

'Don't say that!' exclaimed the actor.

'I simply want you to understand that time is not on our side. Don't waste any more of it, Mr Eldridge. I think I know what you have to say. Watching you on that stage this evening, it slowly dawned on me.'

'Go on.'

'You were the man in Greer Lane, weren't you?'

'Was I?'

'He went by the name of Bartholomew Gow but he was far too handsome to be Mrs Gow's real husband. When the lady went for an assignation in Greer Lane, she was coming to meet Martin Eldridge.' He put his face close. 'Am I right, sir?'

'You might be,' conceded the actor.

'In other words, on the day that she was abducted outside that house you used, Mrs Gow was on her way to meet you.'

'But she wasn't, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then what was her coach doing there?'

'I've no idea. She called off the rendezvous with me.'

'Called it off?'

'Her coachman brought word early that same morning. It wasn't the first time we'd had to change the arrangements,' he said, staring into his wine. 'Harriet was often in demand elsewhere. I accepted that. What I didn't know was that a kidnap was being set up in Greer Lane.'

'You mentioned arrangements, Mr Eldridge.'

The actor looked up at him before spilling out the truth in a continuous stream. Christopher had no qualms about his sincerity.

'Harriet and I have been close for some time,' he admitted. 'I loved her dearly, that's why she trusted me. I couldn't give her the things that her rich admirers could: Harriet knew that. What I could offer her was tenderness and understanding. She told me that it was in short supply elsewhere. Naturally,' he emphasised, 'we had to be extremely discreet. She could not be seen having assignations with a lowly actor. To cover my tracks, I used a false name.'

'Bartholomew Gow.'

'It seemed appropriate in the circumstances.'

'While you were playing the part of her husband, you mean?'

'I've told you, Mr Redmayne. I loved her. And I believe that she loved me. Why else would she take the risk on such a regular basis? We met twice a month in Greer Lane at specific times. It may not sound much to you but it meant everything to me. And to Harriet. She insisted on paying for the room in that house.'

'Who else knew about this arrangement?'

'Nobody apart from her coachman. And he was discreet.'

Christopher was less certain about that but he said nothing.

'Why did you run out on me at your lodging?' he asked.

'Because of the situation,' said the actor. 'I didn't want to admit that we had assignations - and I'm relying on you to say nothing of them to anyone else. Please, Mr Redmayne. I beg of you.' Christopher gave an affirmative nod. 'Thank you. I shouldn't have bolted like that but I was in a panic, afraid that I was somehow responsible for the kidnap because I wasn't in Greer Lane when I should have been.'

'You were told not to go there.'

'I begin to see why now.' He took a longer sip of his wine. 'I was different from the others, you see. That's what Harriet liked about me. I wasn't just another part of her collection.'

'Collection?'

'All those wealthy admirers. Harriet enjoyed collecting them like pieces of porcelain. She's a wonderful lady, Mr Redmayne,' he said fondly, 'but she has her weaknesses as well. Harriet was so proud when she added the most illustrious admirer of all to her collection. Even then, she would still meet me for an hour in Greer Lane.'

'Didn't you mind sharing her with someone else?'

'Why should I? A tiny piece of Harriet Gow is worth far more than the whole of another woman. I never aspired to own her like the others,' he explained. 'That was something she could never be. The exclusive property of one man.'

'Tell me more about this collection of hers.'

'It was rather extensive.'

'We've already found that out.'

'Besides, I'm not the person to ask, Mr Redmayne. There's someone who knows far more about it because he had to stand by and watch his wife putting her collection carefully together. That's the Bartholomew Gow you ought to speak to. The real one,' he said with a twinkle in his eye. 'Not the impostor.'

Jonathan Bale was simmering with quiet excitement when he left Newgate Gaol. He was so eager to pass on what he had discovered that he all but broke into a run. When he reached Fetter Lane, however, he found that Christopher Redmayne was not there. Jacob suggested an alternative address.

'He said that he would go back to his brother's house, Mr Bale.'

'That's in Bedford Street, isn't it?'

'Number seventeen,' confirmed the servant. 'That was the message he left for you. Mr Redmayne was worried about his brother's condition. You're to meet him there.'

'Oh, I see.'

Jonathan's step had lost its spring by the time he reached the larger and more imposing abode of Henry Redmayne. He hesitated before knocking, wishing that he could speak with Christopher at the latter's home but necessity compelled him to swallow his feelings of social awkwardness. Since he was still in his shipwright's attire, he was looked at askance by the servant who answered the door. Loath to admit him, the servant was amazed when Jonathan's name was sent upstairs and brought Christopher tripping down them. Delighted to see the constable, he escorted him into the house and up to his brother's bedchamber.

Henry Redmayne was sitting up in his capacious fourposter.

'Goodness!' he protested as the visitor was brought in. 'Am I some kind of peepshow that you bring people in off the street to stare at me?'

'Mr Bale is entitled to be here,' said his brother. 'He's the brave man who captured one of your attackers and, I hope to hear, has tracked the other to his lair. Is that correct?'

'More or less, Mr Redmayne.' Hat in hand, Jonathan managed a polite enquiry of the patient. 'How are you now, sir?'

'All the better for the news of your bravery,' said Henry. 'Who are the villains? And why did they have to pick on me when I was wearing one of my best coats? It was sodden with blood afterwards.'

'They're both in custody now, sir.'

'Excellent,' congratulated Christopher, patting him on the arm. 'Tell us the full details. Did you go to the Hope and Anchor?'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

Still slightly embarrassed by the situation, Jonathan gave a much shorter account of his movements than he might otherwise have done. Christopher was delighted and Henry, restored by a solid meal and two glasses of wine, was pleased to hear that the wheels of justice had rolled over the two men who had assaulted him.

'Where are the devils now?' he wondered.

'In Newgate, sir,' said Jonathan. 'I could get nothing out of Smeek when I questioned him, but Froggatt was more talkative. I hit on the idea of putting them in the same cell, knowing that they'd each accuse the other of committing the murder. It was a wise move,' he said modestly. 'They yelled at each other and gave away information without even realising they were doing it. When they came to blows, we had to pull them apart. Even with one arm in a splint, Ben Froggatt's a violent man.'

'Did they say who put them up to it?' asked Christopher.

'They don't know, Mr Redmayne, that's the pity of it. I got the name of the man who hired them - Arthur Oscott - but he didn't organise the abduction. That was someone else's doing.'

'How can we find this character Oscott?'

'By going to the house where Mrs Gow is held.'

'You know where it is?' said Christopher, tingling all over.

'Not exactly,' confessed Jonathan, 'but I managed to get some details out of them. They were responsible for taking her there. The house is in Richmond, just off the main road. Ben Froggatt said that it wasn't too far from the Palace.'

'We'll find it!'

'Richmond,' mused Henry. 'Who has a house in Richmond?'

'Anyone on that list of names you gave me?' said his brother.

'Nobody that I can think of, Christopher. And there must be several houses not far from the Palace. It could take you an age to get round them all. Wait a minute,' he said, hauling himself up gingerly. 'Yes, he used to have a property in Richmond, if memory serves.'

'Who?'

'That scurvy member of the merry gang.'

'Give us a name, Henry.'

'Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

'I never agreed to be party to murder, Sir Godfrey!' protested his irate visitor. 'You swore it would never come to that.'

'I never expected that it would.'

'Mary Hibbert was a harmless young girl.'

'She escaped from the house. She could have raised the alarm.'

'Does that mean she had to be beaten to death?'

'No, of course not. My orders were to bring her back.'

'What went wrong, Sir Godfrey?'

'Smeek and Froggatt lost their heads.'

'Ben Froggatt, in particular, I daresay. As I know to my cost.'

Days after the assault, Roland Trigg still bore vivid mementoes of his beating. He had travelled to the house in a state of towering anger, still stricken by the news about Mary Hibbert and worried about the consequences for himself. Sir Godfrey Armadale let him rant on until the sting of his fury had been drawn then he asserted his authority. He was a slim, elegant man in his late thirties, fashionably dressed and wearing a brown wig that matched the colour of his curling moustache. His face had surrendered its once handsome features to long nights of revelry and indulgence. Deep lines had been gouged, pouches had formed beneath the eyes and the skin had taken on a sallow hue.

'Have you quite finished, Trigg?' he said at length.

'They should have stuck to the plan, Sir Godfrey.'

'You were the idiot who didn't do that,' accused the other bitterly. 'Your orders were simple enough yet you couldn't obey them, could you? Why on earth did you have to attack Froggatt like that?'

'To get my own back.'

'And lose me one valuable man.'

'Ben Froggatt was a bad choice from the start.'

'Not according to Arthur Oscott.'

'I warned him against Ben but he wouldn't listen. They were supposed to ambush the coach and shake me up a little. That was the plan, Sir Godfrey. Instead of which,' he complained, 'Ben Froggatt sets about me with his cudgel as if he wants to kill me. I'm not standing for that from anybody.'

'So you throw the whole scheme into jeopardy.'

'No!'

'Yes, you did!'

'Ben had to be dealt with, Sir Godfrey.'

'Then why, in God's name, couldn't you wait until this business was over before you did so? You could have carved him up for dinner then, for all I cared. But no, you couldn't wait, could you? Thanks to you,' he said with withering scorn, 'Smeek was taken and Froggatt is rotting beside him in Newgate.'

Trigg was alarmed. 'They've been captured?'

'Yes,' said Armadale, regarding him with disgust. 'Because of your hot blood, I had to send Smeek to do a job that Froggatt would have done properly. Smeek blundered and was arrested by that constable.'

'Jonathan Bale?'

'We underestimated him.'

'You should have sent me to deal with Mr Bale.'

'After the way you've behaved so far, I wouldn't trust you to do anything. If you'd done as you were told, none of this would have happened. The whole thing would've been over and done with and nobody would have been any the wiser.'

'I did my share,' bleated the coachman. 'I kept an eye on Mr Redmayne and that constable. Yes, and who was it who told you about Mr Redmayne's brother making those enquiries?' 'You did,' conceded the other.

'I worked hard, Sir Godfrey.'

'You were very helpful at first. Until you lost your temper.'

'Ben Froggatt was the one who lost his temper. Battering to death an innocent girl like that. If I'd known about it when I gave him his own beating, he'd never have got up again, I swear it.'

'That's enough!' decreed Armadale, stamping a foot. 'Stop this ridiculous boasting. What's done is done and there's no use worrying about it. There's certainly no point in allotting blame all over the place. If we hold steady, the plan might still work.'

'Might?'

'It will work. Without doubt.'

'It hasn't worked so far.'

'No more impudence!' yelled Armadale, rounding on him with such rage that the coachman backed away and cowered. 'Don't you dare say another word, you miserable cur. It's not your place to criticise me. Remember who you are, Trigg, and what you were when I first took you on. You owe everything to me.'

'It's true, Sir Godfrey.'

'Then follow your orders and keep your mouth shut.' Trigg gave a penitent nod. 'That's all you have to do, is that clear?'

'Yes, Sir Godfrey.'

'Leave the decisions to me,' insisted Armadale. 'I spent months planning this kidnap and it's cost me a lot of money. Four men were hired, not to mention Oscott's wife. And there were many other items of expenditure. I'm not going to have all my careful work ruined by a hot-headed coachman who has to settle a grudge.'

There was a long pause. Trigg stood with his head down.

'Sir Godfrey?' he asked meekly.

'What now, man?'

'They will pay the ransom, won't they?'

'Of course!' said the other with confidence.

'But if they don't… what will you do to Mrs Gow?'

Sir Godfrey Armadale took up his stance in front of the fireplace.

'Get my revenge another way,' he said quietly.