The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Three

Jacob Vout was the ideal servant, always at hand if needed, wholly invisible if not. He moved around the house in Fetter Lane with quiet efficiency and kept the place spotless. Christopher Redmayne could find no fault in him. Jacob was a benign presence, fiercely loyal to his master, honest, trustworthy, kind, conscientious, attentive without being intrusive and obedient without being servile. Now in his sixties, he had learned everything and forgotten nothing about his chosen occupation. Christopher treated him like a friend who happened to work for him.

'Jacob!' he called.

'Yes, sir?' said the old man, materialising at his elbow like a spirit.

'Do we have any drink in the house?'

'A little, sir.'

'Give me a more precise inventory.'

'One bottle of brandy and six bottles of wine.'

'Is the wine of good quality?'

'I think so, sir,' said Jacob defensively, 'but your brother decided otherwise. I fear that Mr Redmayne's tastes are rather exotic. On his last visit here, he made disparaging comments about your cellar, but that did not stop him from consuming a whole bottle of the wine on his own.'

'Only one? Henry must have been on his best behaviour.'

'Mr Redmayne is given to excess.'

Christopher grinned. 'It comes from being the son of a senior churchman,' he said. 'Forget my brother. Fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar and set out three glasses. A celebration is in order.'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Yes, Jacob. My design has been approved by my client and he is bringing the builder here this morning to meet me. This is an important moment in my career. I have finally reached the stage where a house of mine will see the light of day and be paid for in full.'

'That is cheering news, sir.'

'Look upon those bare shelves in the cellar for the last time. They will mock us no longer with their emptiness. We may at last be able to afford to fill them once again, if not with a vintage to Henry's taste, then at least with a tolerable wine.'

Jacob nodded then scuttled out of the parlour. Christopher looked down at the drawings laid out on the table in front of him. He had laboured long and hard to turn Jasper Hartwell's requirements into bricks and mortar, and he was pleased with the result. His fears about his client's unacceptable demands had been largely illusory. The exterior of Hartwell's new home would not, after all, reflect its owner's fantastical appearance in any way. He had been as willing to take instruction as to give it, resting gratefully on Christopher's superior knowledge of line and form, and eschewing any extravagance or vulgarity. The architect had been given the freedom to express himself without too much interference.

Christopher's visit to The Theatre Royal had borne rich fruit. Not only had he acquired a wealthy and indulgent client, he had been able to marvel at the art of Harriet Gow, an actress at the very height of her powers. It had been a memorable experience. The melancholy song from The Maid's Tragedy still haunted him and he hummed the tune aloud as he envisaged her singing the lament once again. Jacob showed less fondness for the sound. Returning from the cellar with a bottle of red wine in his grasp, he clicked his tongue at his master.

'You are doing it again, sir,' he commented.

'Doing what?'

'Humming that dirge.'

'It is no dirge, Jacob, but the most bewitching song I ever heard.'

'Then someone else must have been singing it.'

'Indeed, she was.'

'She?'

'A nightingale among women.'

'I've no time for birds who keep me awake after dark,' said the other, eyes twinkling beneath their bushy brows. 'Especially when they are so mournful. I prefer to hear happy songs in daylight.' He set the bottle on the table. 'Three glasses, sir?'

'Yes, please.'

'Your brother will not be joining us, then?'

'Henry will not even be up at this time of the morning, Jacob. His barber does not call until eleven. Besides, he has already played his part in this business. The rest is up to me.'

'Yes, sir.' Jacob took the wine into the kitchen, returning empty-handed to peer over Christopher's shoulder at the drawings. Scratching his bald pate, he let out a wheeze of admiration through his surviving teeth. 'Will there be anything else, sir?'

'Not for the moment. Though I should perhaps warn you.'

'About what, sir?'

'My client's appearance.'

'His appearance?'

'It is rather overwhelming.'

'I'm not easily overwhelmed, sir.'

'That is what I thought until I encountered Mr Jasper Hartwell. Suffice it to say that ostentation is his middle name. Prepare yourself, Jacob. When you open the front door, you will be met by a blaze of colour such as you have never witnessed before.'

'I'll bear that in mind, sir.'

He disappeared from the room and Christopher was left to examine his handiwork once more. Aspatia's song soon returned to his lips. He wondered if Harriet Gow really would attend a banquet at the house he had designed. It gave the commission additional lustre. His mind toyed with memories of the visit to the theatre and time drifted steadily by. The arrival of a coach brought him out of his reverie. Jacob opened the front door before the guests even had time to ring the bell. True to his boast, he was impervious to the vivid plumage before him. After conducting the two men into the parlour, the servant vanished into the kitchen to await the summons concerning the wine.

Jasper Hartwell was at his most flamboyant. Dressed in a suit of blue velvet adorned with gold thread, he doffed his hat, displayed the ginger wig to full effect, gave a token bow and offered a crooked smile.

'Forgive the delay, Mr Redmayne,' he said earnestly. 'Mr Corrigan arrived at my lodgings on time but we were held up in Holborn by the traffic. I've never seen so many carts and carriages fighting over so little space. It was quite unbearable. Something should be done about it. I may need to raise the matter in Parliament. Oh,' he added, extending a gloved hand towards his companion, 'let me introduce the man who will construct my wonderful new house - Mr Lodowick Corrigan, builder supreme.'

Christopher exchanged a greeting with the newcomer then waved both men to chairs. Several weeks had passed since their initial meeting and he had become habituated to his client's mode of address. Jasper Hartwell lived in a world of superlatives. Any architect he employed had, by definition, to be at the pinnacle of his profession; any builder was, by extension, unrivalled in his craft. While Hartwell burbled on excitedly about the project, Christopher sized up the man charged with the responsibility of turning a bold vision into reality.

Notwithstanding his client's fulsome praise, Lodowick Corrigan did not inspire confidence. He was a tall, wiry man in his forties, dressed like a gentleman but with more than a hint of incongruity. Rough hands suggested hard work and his weathered complexion was the legacy of long hours outdoors. Greying hair was divided by a centre parting and fell either side of a mean, narrow face. High cheekbones and a lantern jaw destroyed any sense of proportion and the obsequious grin was unsettling. Corrigan said nothing but his dark eyes were loquacious: they spoke of envy. Christopher sensed trouble ahead.

It was time to call for the wine.

It was no occasion for social niceties. Summoned to the inn by one of the watchmen, Jonathan Bale took in the situation at a glance. A big, beefy man with a red face had drunk too much too fast and become violent. Here was no ordinary tavern brawl. Patient entreaty only fed the man's aggression. Having knocked one customer unconscious, he beat the head of a second against a table then hurled a bench at a third. When the innkeeper tried to remonstrate with him, he was kicked in the stomach. The drunkard then went on the rampage, overturning tables, heaving a huge settle to the floor and generally terrorising everyone in the taproom. Watchmen were sent for but they arrived at the moment when the man chose to discharge a pistol into the ceiling, creating an impromptu snowstorm of plaster and extracting yells of rage from the couple engaged in strenuous fornication in the bedchamber above.

Jonathan marched in on a scene of chaos. Sword drawn, the man was stumbling around the room, swearing wildly, demanding a woman to take the edge off his lust and swishing his weapon in all directions. The sight of the constable only turned his tongue to even fouler language. Jonathan remained calm and waited for his chance. It soon came. The man staggered unsteadily towards him and tried to decapitate him with a vicious swipe of the sword. It was his last act of defiance. Ducking beneath the blade, Jonathan flung himself hard at his assailant, hitting him in the midriff and knocking every ounce of breath and resistance from him. The man was toppled like a tree. There was a resounding thud as the back of his head met the solid oaken floorboard then he plunged into oblivion.

A grateful silence followed. It was broken by a gulping sound as the drunkard began to vomit convulsively. Still nursing his stomach, the innkeeper walked across to Jonathan.

'Thank you, Mr Bale,' he said with feeling. 'He went berserk.'

'Do you know the fellow?'

'No, he's a stranger. And he won't cross the threshold of the Brazen Serpent again, that I can tell you.' '

'If he does,' advised one of the watchmen, 'call me. Had it not been for the pistol, I'd have tackled the rogue myself.'

'Then he was lucky that he only had me to deal with, Abraham,' said Jonathan with an affectionate smile. 'You and Luke Peach here would have torn him to pieces between you and fed the scraps to the dogs. You are doughty watchmen.'

Abraham Datchett and Luke Peach did not hear the gentle irony in his voice. The two old men were dutiful officers but age and infirmity limited their effectiveness as agents of the law. They showed great bravery after the event but erred on the side of discretion whenever a crisis occurred. Fond of them both, Jonathan excused their obvious shortcomings and only ever assigned them tasks within their compass.

'Get him out of here,' he ordered. 'He has an urgent appointment with the magistrate. Lug him away so that this mess can be cleared up. I'll take statements from all witnesses then overhaul you.'

'Yes, Mr Bale,' said Abraham, pleased to be called into action. He bent over the supine figure. 'Grab his other arm, Luke. When I give the word, haul him upright.'

Jonathan helped them to lift the miscreant to his feet. Getting a firm hold on him, the two watchmen dragged him unceremoniously through the door, setting off a communal sigh of relief. The constable was brisk in his work. After taking statements from all who had been present during the outburst, he took possession of the discarded pistol and sword, refused the innkeeper's offer of a free tankard of ale and walked quickly after the others. The dazed offender was soon being charged by the local magistrate.

It was the third incident to which Jonathan had been called that morning and he knew that it would not be the last.

Baynard's Castle Ward, which he patrolled so sedulously, was an area rife with crime and disorder. The Great Fire had temporarily burned out some of its worst offenders but they were starting to trickle back now that rebuilding was under way in earnest and fresh pickings were available. If the streets were to be kept safe, Jonathan had to remain vigilant.

As he strode along Carter Lane with the sun on his back, he saw a figure emerge from a house ahead of him. The sight of the young woman aroused ambivalent feelings in him. Unsure whether she was a friend or a discarded acquaintance, he opted for a muted greeting, tipping his hat solemnly and rising to a noncommittal grunt.

'Good morning, Miss Hibbert.'

Mary Hibbert's pretty face lit up with unfeigned pleasure.

'Good morning, Mr Bale,' she said pleasantly. 'How nice to see you again! I hope that I find you well?'

'Very well, thank you.'

'How is Mrs Bale?'

'Extremely well.'

'I'm pleased to hear it.'

'You have just been visiting your uncle, I see,' observed Jonathan with a nod at the house. 'He has been ailing these past few weeks.'

'Alas, yes,' said the other sadly. 'My aunt sent me a note, imploring me to call. This is the first opportunity I've had to do so. My life has changed so much since I moved away from this ward. I am so busy these days - I have almost no free time. It means that some of my relatives have been rather neglected.' She gave a shrug. 'There is no help for it, I fear. I live in a different world now, Mr Bale.'

'So I understand.'

'I think that you criticise me for it.'

'It is not my place to pass judgement on you, Miss Hibbert.'

'Yet I can hear the disapproval in your voice.'

'It has no right to be there,' he apologised. 'Forgive me.'

Jonathan had always liked the Hibbert family. Daniel Hibbert was a skilful tailor, a small, anxious man who worked hard to support his wife and two children. The constable was sad to lose them when they moved from Carter Lane and distressed to hear that Daniel and his wife had been two of the first victims of the Great Plague. Mary, their elder child, had been in domestic service at the time. She was a kind, polite, obedient girl with attractive features. Jonathan recalled how hurt he had been to learn that she was now in the employ of Harriet Gow, an actress of such notorious reputation that even a God-fearing constable had heard of her. Looking at her now, he realised that he should not blame Mary herself. That would be quite unfair. She was one more victim of the Great Plague. Lacking the parents to guide her, she had gone astray.

Mary Hibbert seemed to read his thoughts. She shrugged again.

'It is only to be expected, I suppose,' she said.

'What is?'

'Your attitude, Mr Bale. My aunt is the same, except that she is more outspoken. She told me to my face that I had made a terrible mistake. But a girl has to take the chances that fall to her,' she added with spirit, 'and I do not regret having chosen the path that lay before me. It has opened my eyes to amazing new wonders.'

'I'm sure that it has,' said Jonathan evenly, 'though I suspect that your aunt and I might not describe them as wonders. That is not to condemn you. It is only natural that a young woman such as yourself is impressed by being able to wear fine clothes and travel in a carriage, but what price do you have to pay for such an experience?'

'What price?'

'Yes. What losses are involved? What dangers threaten?'

'Oh, there's no danger, Mr Bale, I do assure you. Our coachman takes great care of us. He is our protector. And nobody, in any case, would dare to hurt Miss Gow. When I am with her, I am completely safe. Have no fears for me, sir.'

'It is not physical danger that I speak of, Miss Hibbert.'

'Then what?'

'Moral danger.'

She gave a smile. 'You sound like my aunt.'

'Someone has to look out for you,' he said with concern. 'Since your parents died, that role falls to your relatives and to your friends.'

'But I can look out for myself.'

'That's a matter of opinion.'

'I respect yours, Mr Bale, but I'm afraid that I may have gone beyond the point when it has any relevance to me. My aunt told me bluntly that I have sold my soul to the devil when all I have done is to become maidservant to a talented actress.'

'Your aunt shares my distrust of the theatre.'

'Have you ever seen a play, Mr Bale?'

'Heaven forbid!'

'Have you been inside a playhouse?'

'I would not demean myself by doing so.'

'On what evidence, then, do you pour scorn on the theatre?'

'I have seen those who frequent such places, Miss Hibbert, and that is enough for me. During the Commonwealth, theatres were closed by law and the city was the better for it. There were standards of public behaviour. But now! All that is past. The drunken and the debauched flock to such places of resort. Women of the street parade their wares shamefully. Theatres are in a state of constant affray. They are sinks of iniquity and it pains me that you are associated with them.'

'It has done me no harm, I promise you.'

'It is bound to take its toll. However,' he said, making a conscious effort to sound more positive, 'the decision has been made and it is not for me to take you to task. I wish you well, Miss Hibbert. You deserve whatever success comes your way. To ride in a fine coach is a measure of success, I have to admit that. When you waved to us in Drury Lane some weeks ago, it crossed my mind that you had come a long way since your days of' living here. Many would account you very fortunate.'

'I do so myself, Mr Bale.'

'Then let us hope that good fortune continues,' he said, putting aside his reservations about her employer. 'Your aunt has a sharp tongue but she loves you dearly. Words spoken to wound you are well meant. Remember that. Mrs Hibbert has your best interests at heart.'

'What she conceives of to be my best interests.'

'Exactly.'

Jonathan managed a first smile. It was wrong to criticise Mary Hibbert for things over which she had no control. The corrupt theatrical world into which she had wandered seemed to have caused her little visible damage. To his eye, she still had the same friendly manner, the same unforced honesty and the same fresh-faced eagerness. Jonathan felt guilty at some of the doubts he harboured about her. Her parents would have been proud of Mary Hibbert.

'Goodbye,' he said, offering a friendly palm.

She shook his hand. 'Goodbye, Mr Bale.'

They parted company and he headed for home, ready for the meal which his wife, Sarah, would be preparing for him and having lots of gossip to pass on to her. Sarah would be interested to hear about the meeting with Mary Hibbert. As he plodded along the street, he rehearsed what he was going to say, noting with pleasure that his fondness for the girl had gradually subdued his apprehensions about her. Mary Hibbert's essential goodness would be proof against the temptation all around her. Jonathan was glad that the chance encounter had taken place.

It never occurred to him that he might not see her alive again.

Wine did nothing to improve Lodowick Corrigan. He sipped the contents of his glass slowly and deliberately, studying his companions through narrowed lids and nodding his agreement with all that they proposed or suggested. Jasper Hartwell drank freely, giggled incessantly and became ever more flamboyant in his gestures. Christopher, too, enjoyed the wine but he was very conscious that it was only making the builder more deferential. What worried him was that the deference was only on the surface. Corrigan's body might fawn obligingly and his tongue might release the odd word of ingratiation but his eyes were cold and watchful. When their employer was not present, Christopher suspected, then a very different Lodowick Corrigan might emerge.

Christopher tried to coax him out of hiding.

'What is your view of the site, Mr Corrigan?' he asked.

'It is well chosen, sir,' replied the builder.

'The best that money could buy,' added Hartwell, tapping his purse. 'Nothing less than perfection will satisfy me.'

'Why does the site recommend itself to you, Mr Corrigan?' said Christopher, pressing him for an answer. 'Give us a comment from the builder's point of view.'

'The builder merely obeys orders, Mr Redmayne. In this case, the orders are remarkably easy to obey because Mr Hartwell has chosen a prime site on which to set his house. It will be a privilege to work with him and, of course, with a rising young architect like yourself.'

Hartwell beamed. 'I knew that you would get on with each other,' he said, draining his glass. 'I sensed it in my bones.'

Christopher's bones were delivering a contradictory message. He was finding the builder both irritating and evasive. Behind his show of agreement, he caught worrying indications of the man's quiet conviction that, as the oldest and most experienced person involved in the project, he would have the power of decision. Far from obeying employer and architect, Lodowick Corrigan was lurking in readiness to frustrate and subvert them. He had firm ideas about how a house should be built.

Just before they departed, the builder finally showed his hand.

'There is only one thing that concerns me, Mr Redmayne,' he said casually. 'With respect to your position as the architect, I felt that I must raise the matter at this early stage.'

'And what matter is that?' wondered Christopher.

'The use of Caen stone.'

'It's what I recommend for the portico.'

'I know that, Mr Redmayne, but you were ignorant of the problems of supply when you made such a suggestion.'

'It's no suggestion, Mr Corrigan. It's a specification.'

'You might have to change your mind about that, sir.'

'Why?' said Hartwell. 'I liked the notion of Caen stone.'

'So do I,' insisted Christopher. 'I spent several weeks in Canterbury earlier in the year. Caen stone is used in abundance there, both in the ecclesiastical buildings and elsewhere. It is a clean, clear, well-defined stone. I noticed how easy it could be worked with chisel and hammer.'

'Other stone is even easier to work,' argued Corrigan. 'And it is more readily available here in London. I have shares in a stone quarry so I speak with authority here. If it were left to me…'

'But it is not.'

'Yet if it were…'

'If it were,' echoed Christopher, 'there would be no argument. You would have the stone of your choice and that would be an end to it. But that is not the case, Mr Corrigan, is it?' He paused meaningfully. 'As it happens, Mr Hartwell appreciates the virtues of Caen stone. On my advice, he wishes to have it incorporated into the facade of the house. I am confident that we will find a more than adequate supply of the material. Indeed, while I was there, I seized the opportunity to speak to one of the stonemasons in Canterbury to make sure that there were no difficulties with regard to delivery.'

Corrigan fumed in silence. He had lost the first of what would be many battles with the architect. With his employer present, he did not risk a second engagement but Christopher knew further hostilities would transpire in due course. The man wanted his revenge. Emptying his glass in one peremptory gulp, he glared at Christopher.

'How many houses have you designed? he asked pointedly.

'Several.'

'I'm not familiar with your work.'

'Nor I with yours, Mr Corrigan.'

'Walk down any of the major thoroughfares of London and you will see the work of Lodowick Corrigan. I am in great demand.'

'That is why I sought you out,' said Hartwell, adjusting his wig in a mirror. 'I wanted a builder without compare. Matched with an architect whose name will dance down the ages.'

Corrigan was sour. 'An architect is only as good as his builder.'

'Granted,' said Christopher. 'By the same token, a builder is only as good as his architect. If he is able to take direction, that is.'

'Oh, Mr Corrigan will take direction,' Hartwell assured him. 'They tell me he's the most obliging fellow in Creation. You'll have no cause for complaint, Mr Redmayne.'

'I'm pleased to hear it.'

'Lodowick Corrigan will hang on your every word.'

'Will he?'

It was a rhetorical question but the builder nevertheless answered it. The face which had for so long worn an obsequious smirk now became one large black scowl. The mouth hardened, the teeth clenched and the eyes smouldered like hot coals. Christopher Redmayne had been looking forward to the building of the house for Jasper Hartwell. It had seemed a wonderful assignment in every way. Until now. Much of the pleasure had suddenly drained out of the enterprise. In choosing Lodowick Corrigan as his builder, Hartwell had unwittingly confronted his architect with a major and perhaps insurmountable problem. The two men were natural enemies. As he looked into the angry face of his visitor, Christopher was left to wonder how much of the house he had designed would actually make its way from the drawing to the site on which it was to be built.

It was the worst possible time to interrupt him. Henry Redmayne was enduring the morning ritual with his barber when the servant burst into the room. Henry sat up in surprise, the razor slipped and blood spurted from a cut in his cheek. Henry's shriek was worthy of an amputated limb. It sent the barber into retreat.

'You're supposed to shave me,' he howled. 'Not execute me!'

'I'm sorry, sir,' mumbled the barber.

'It was your fault,' said Henry, turning upon the servant who had charged into the bedchamber. 'What on earth possessed you to come racing in here like that? Have you taken leave of your senses, man?'

'No, sir,' muttered the other.

'Then what other explanation is there?'

'An urgent message has come for you, sir.'

'Nothing is so urgent that it cannot wait until I have been shaved. Heavens!' he said, applying a fingertip to the wounded area to test the flow of blood. 'I might have had my throat cut. Look, man.' He displayed a reddened forefinger. 'I am bleeding to death here. Your master is close to extinction - and all that you can talk about is an urgent message. Damn and blast you! Take your hideous visage away from me.'

The servant held his ground. 'The messenger awaits a reply.'

'Let the villain wait.'

'But he is bidden to return to the Palace at once, sir.'

'The Palace?' Henry's self-pity gave way to alarm. 'The message has come from the Palace? Why did you not say that, you dolt?'

He snatched the missive from the servant's hands and broke the royal seal. It took him only a second to read the message. Jumping from his seat, he issued a stream of instructions before permitting the barber to stem the flow of blood from the cut on his face. Ten minutes later, he was mounting the horse which had been saddled for him and riding at a steady canter towards the Palace of Westminster. A royal summons demanded an immediate response. It swept everything else aside. Henry Redmayne was needed by his King. That was all that mattered.