The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Six

'Why are you asking me all these questions about Harriet Gow?'

'Idle curiosity.'

'I know you better than that, Henry.'

'The lady fascinates me.'

'She fascinates every man with red blood in his veins,' said Killigrew, twitching a lecherous eyebrow, 'but that doesn't make them interrogate me like this.'

Henry Redmayne dispensed his most charming smile. 'I ask purely in the spirit of friendship, Tom.'

'Friendship with me - or with Harriet?'

'Both, my dear fellow.'

'You're an accomplished liar, I'll give you that.'

'Then we have something in common.'

Thomas Killigrew laughed. He was too old and too experienced to be easily taken in. Now in his mid-fifties, he was a man of medium height, running to fat and showing candid signs of a lifetime of sustained dissipation. Viewing the puffy face with its watery eyes and drooping moustache, Henry found it difficult to believe that he was looking at the same man as the one who had been painted almost thirty years earlier by no less an artist than Van Dyck, the premier choice of Charles I, the most single-minded connoisseur of portraiture in Europe. Thomas Killigrew had moved in high circles. As a Page to the King and Groom of the Bedchamber, he was entitled to call upon the artistry of a true master. Anthony Van Dyck's brush had been precise.

Henry had seen the painting at Killigrew's house on a number of occasions. It showed a pale, slim, desolate young man in mourning over the death of his wife, Cecilia Crofts, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. A bare eighteen months of marriage had ended in tragedy. Attached to the sleeve of the bereaved man was a gold and silver cross engraved with the intertwined initials of his dead wife. Around Killigrew's other wrist was a black band from which Cecilia's wedding ring dangled dolefully. The widower's expression was a study in dignified suffering. It was impossible to look at the portrait without being moved. Even someone as cynical and indifferent as Henry Redmayne had been profoundly touched when he first laid eyes upon it.

Van Dyck would paint a vastly different picture now. Tom Killigrew had lost his good looks in a steady flow of drink and debauchery. There had been hardship along the way. An unrepentant Royalist, he endured arrest, imprisonment and exile during the Civil War but he also contrived to find a second wife for himself, a rich lady whose wealth he enjoyed to the full and whose tolerance he stretched to the limit. The Restoration was the making of him, a chance to establish his primacy as a theatre manager, profiting, as he did, from his cordial relationship with the King and from his ability to judge the mood of his public in order to satisfy it time and again. Only one serious rival existed and Tom Killigrew had all but eclipsed him.

They were in the manager's room at The King's Theatre. One eye closed, Killigrew scrutinised his visitor through the other and stroked his moustache like a favourite cat. There was a mocking note in his voice.

'Do you wish to try again, Henry?' he said.

'Try what?'

'This foolish game of deception.'

Henry mimed indignation. 'Would I deceive you, Tom?'

'If you could get away with it.'

'I simply brought you what I felt was an important message.'

'Balderdash!'

'Mrs Harriet Gow is unable to appear on stage at the moment. I felt that you should know that at once. I must say that your reaction has been singularly uncharacteristic.'

'In what way?'

'Any other man in receipt of such intelligence would be frothing at the mouth. To lose any of your actresses would be a sorry blow. When the missing lady is Harriet Gow, there is a whiff of disaster in the air.'

'I've grown rather used to disaster,' said the other wearily.

'Aren't you at least disturbed?'

'Of course. Highly disturbed. Harriet was to have performed once more in The Maid's Tragedy tomorrow afternoon. I'll now be forced to rehearse someone else in her place.'

'How can you be so calm about it?' asked Henry.

'It's the calm after the storm, my friend. Had you been here an hour ago, you'd have caught me in mid-tempest.'

'Why?'

'That was when I first heard the news.'

'You knew already? But how?'

'By reading Harriet's letter.'

Henry gulped. 'She wrote to you?'

'That's what people usually do when they wish to send a letter. Hers was short but unequivocal. Sickness is forcing her to withdraw from London for a brief time.'

'Sickness?'

'No details were given.'

'And the letter arrived an hour ago?'

'Yes. Here at the theatre.'

'Who brought it?'

'I've no idea. It was left at the stage door for me.'

'Are you sure that it was written by Harriet Gow?' pressed Henry. 'Could it not have been a clever forgery? Did you recognise her hand?'

'Of course. It's unmistakable.'

'Was there nothing else in the letter? No hint?'

'Of what?'

'No entreaty?'

'None.'

'No second message between the lines?'

'Why should there be?'

'Oh, I just wondered, Tom.' Henry's tone was offhand but his mind was racing. A new piece of evidence had suddenly come to light. 'I don't suppose that you have the missive here, by any chance?'

'As it happens, I do.'

'Where?'

'It's in my pocket.'

'Ah.'

'And before you ask,' said Killigrew, anticipating his request, 'you may not view my private correspondence. Anything that passes between Harriet Gow and me is our business and nobody else's. Be assured of that. What you can do, Henry,' he continued, impaling his visitor with a piercing stare, 'is to tell me what brought you here in the first place. No lies, no evasions, no feeble excuses. What, in God's name, is going on? Why these questions? Why this subterfuge? Why come charging over to my theatre in order to apprise me of something I already knew?' He stood inches away from his visitor and barked at him. 'Well?'

Henry shifted his feet. His mouth felt painfully dry.

'Is that a flagon of wine I see on the table?' he murmured.

Christopher Redmayne was in a quandary. The lonely ride back to Fetter Lane gave him the opportunity to review its full extent. Clucked from a lucrative commission to supervise the building of the house he had designed, he was asked to track down and safely retrieve an actress who had been kidnapped in violent circumstances and who might already be a long distance away from London by now. What little information he had at his disposal had come from a coachman who had been beaten senseless and who was still stunned by the assault. Christopher's only assistant was his brother, Henry, erratic at the best of times, nothing short of chaotic at the worst. Jonathan Bale, the constable selected by the King to aid him in his search, had refused even to take a serious interest in the case because of its moral implications. It was lowering. To all intents and purposes, Christopher was on his own.

In an instant, the summons from the Palace had altered the whole perspective of his life. Instead of being engaged on site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields, he would have to begin the following day either by delaying work on the foundations or by yielding up control to Lodowick Corrigan. Neither course of action recommended itself. What excuses could he make? How would his absence be viewed? He blenched as he thought what sort of an impression his enforced disappearance would make on Jasper Hartwell. His client embodied a further complication. Here was a man, hopelessly in love with the very woman who had been abducted. What if Hartwell somehow caught wind of the kidnap? He would hardly thank Christopher for keeping such vital intelligence from him. It might sour their friendship beyond repair, perhaps even lose him the priceless commission to design the Hartwell residence.

Wherever he looked, Christopher saw potential hazards. His search for the royal nightingale could be the ruination of him. With so little in the way of clues, it was an intimidating task. He was groping in the dark. His one hope lay in a speedy solution of the crime but that seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. Without the resourceful Jonathan Bale at his elbow, he was fatally-handicapped. It was an open question whether Henry would actually help, hinder or unwittingly subvert his enquiries.

He was still wrestling with his problems as he turned into Fetter Lane at the lower end and nudged his horse into a trot. Gloom was slowly descending on the city now, wrapping up its buildings and its thoroughfares in a first soft layer of darkness. When he got closer to his own house, however, there was still enough light for him to pick out the shape of the coach that was standing there. His ears soon caught the sound of a loud altercation in which Jacob seemed to be involved. Christopher dropped from the saddle and ran to investigate.

His arrival was timely. Jacob was trying to explain to his visitor that his master was not at home but the man became aggressive and started to hurl threats at the old servant, waving a fist and accusing him, in the ripest of language, of wilful obstruction. Unabashed, Jacob gave tongue to such stinging obscenities that his companion was momentarily silenced. Christopher leaped into the gap between expletives.

'What on earth is going on here?' he demanded.

'There you are!' said Roland Trigg, swinging around to confront him. 'I need to speak to you, sir, but this idiot of a servant is trying to send me packing.'

'I'll send you packing if you can't speak more civilly, Mr Trigg. Anybody who abuses my servant must answer to me. Jacob is not an idiot. He's the most trustworthy man I know and he is waiting patiently for an apology from you.'

Trigg glowered at Jacob who responded with a gap-toothed smile. The coachman used Christopher as his court of appeal.

'But I've something important to tell you, sir.'

'It can wait until you've apologised to Jacob.'

'I came straight here when I found out about it.'

Christopher held his ground. Hands on his hips, he waited with tight-lipped disdain while Trigg argued, whinged, pleaded and blustered. In the end, the coachman realised that the servant had to be appeased before the master would listen to him. A reluctant apology tumbled out, stinging his swollen lip in the process.

'Thank you, Mr Trigg,' said Christopher evenly. 'Now that we've got that out of the way, perhaps you should step into my house. Stable my horse, please, Jacob. I'll not be going out again tonight.'

'Very good, sir,' said the other.

While his servant took charge of his horse, Christopher led his guest into the parlour. Trigg removed his hat to reveal the bandage. By the flickering light of the candles, he looked even more gruesome. Taking off his own hat, Christopher lowered himself into a chair and kept the coachman standing.

'What is it that you wish to say to me?' he asked brusquely.

'There's been more trouble, sir.'

'Trouble?'

'I didn't know who to turn to. Mr Chiffinch said I wasn't to bother him but I wasn't to talk to anyone else either. Apart from you, that is. He gave me this address so I come here.'

'And picked a fight with my servant.'

'I thought he was lying to me.'

'Jacob never lies, Mr Trigg. As you saw, I was not on the premises when you called. Well, come on,' he prompted, 'let's hear it. What's all this about trouble?'

'Someone else was took, sir.'

'Someone else?'

'Mary,' said the other. 'Mary Hibbert. Mrs Gow's maidservant.'

'Kidnapped, you mean?'

'That's what it looks like, sir. Mary almost never stirs from the house except to go to the theatre with Mrs Gow. She should have been there. But when I got back, the door was open and the place was empty.'

'Had anything been taken?'

'Not so far as I could see.'

'Were there any signs of a struggle?'

'None, sir.'

'Then how do you know that Mary Hibbert was kidnapped?'

'It's the only explanation, sir,' gabbled Trigg. 'One of the neighbours told me he'd heard sounds of a scuffle and the noise of a coach being driven away fast. His wife thought she might have heard a woman's scream.'

'Might have?'

'Mary is in danger, Mr Redmayne. I know it.'

'The evidence is hardly conclusive.'

'She's such a dutiful girl, sir. Mary would never go out of the house when Mrs Gow was expected back. Nor would she leave the door wide open for anyone to walk in. Mrs Gow has many admirers,' he said with a touch of rancour. 'Too many for comfort. Some of them try to pester her at home. My job is to keep them at bay. If I'm not there to protect Mrs Gow, then Mary always is. Please, sir,' he begged. 'You must believe me.

I wouldn't have bothered you without real cause. Mary's been took.'

'Then it's a worrying new development,' conceded the other. 'You did right to bring the news to me, Mr Trigg. Thank you.'

Though he could not bring himself to like the man, Christopher took pity on him. In the service of Harriet Gow, he had taken a severe beating. He was plainly distressed that both of the women he was employed to safeguard had been snatched away from him. Shuttling between anger and remorse, Trigg was like a distraught father whose daughters had been abducted.

'When we met at the Palace,' recalled Christopher, 'you told me that you'd been coachman to Mrs Gow for over a year.'

'That is true, sir.'

'And before that?'

'I held a similar post with Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

'Why did you leave?'

'I was offered the chance to work for Mrs Gow.'

'How did that come about?'

'A friend put in a kind word for me.'

'You obviously take your duties seriously.'

'It's the best position I've ever had, sir,' said Trigg earnestly. 'Until today, that is. Mrs Gow treats me very well and I've grown fond of Mary Hibbert. They're almost like a family to me. I can't tell you how upset I feel because I've let them down.'

'Don't blame yourself, Mr Trigg.'

'I should've saved Mrs Gow,' he insisted, beating his thigh with a fist. 'I should have been there to protect Mary Hibbert. It's my fault, Mr Redmayne, and there's no getting away with it. That's why I want to do all I can to find them. Use me, sir - please. Call on me at any time. I must be part of the rescue.'

'You will be, Mr Trigg.'

Christopher appreciated the offer of help though he was not quite sure how best to employ it. The coachman's strength might certainly be an asset, especially as Christopher did not have the reassuring bulk of Jonathan Bale alongside him. Yet the sheer physical power of Roland Trigg could also be a handicap if used in the spirit of vengeance. During their earlier meeting, the coachman had made his feelings about the kidnappers quite plain. Murder had danced in his eyes. Christopher did not wish to be party to acts of random homicide.

'How are you now?' he asked, considerately.

'Hurt and upset, sir.'

'I was referring to your wounds. You were still somewhat dazed when we spoke at the Palace. You had difficulty collecting your thoughts.'

'Not any more.'

'Does that mean you've had time to think things over?'

'I've been doing nothing else, Mr Redmayne.'

'And?'

'I believe I know who might be behind all this.'

'You gave us a few possible names earlier.'

'I forgot the most obvious one.'

'And who's that?'

'Mr Bartholomew, sir.'

'Bartholomew?'

'Yes,' said the other with conviction. 'Bartholomew Gow. If you ask me, he's more than up to a trick like this. That's who you should be looking for, sir. Mrs Gow's husband.'

Sarah Bale had long ago learned to read her husband's moods. It enabled her to offer succour when it was needed, advice when it was welcome and understanding when it was appropriate. Jonathan wanted none of these things now. Having retreated into a reflective silence, he was temporarily beyond her reach. His wife respected his mood. When her work was finally done, she adjourned to the parlour to sit with her husband and to mend a pair of Richard's breeches by the light of the candle. Her needle was slow and unhurried. Though she was eager to hear what had passed between Christopher

Redmayne and him, she did not dare to raise the subject with Jonathan while he was preoccupied.

It was a long time before he even became aware of her presence.

'Have you finished your work?' he said, looking up.

'It's never entirely finished, I'm afraid.'

'But you're done in the kitchen.'

'For today, yes.'

'Good.'

'Did you want anything?'

'No thank you, Sarah.'

'Some cheese, perhaps? We've plenty in the larder.'

'Nothing, my love.'

There was a lengthy pause. Feeling that he owed her some kind of explanation, he struggled to find the right words. Sarah waited patiently. He cleared his throat before speaking.

'Mr Redmayne came on private business,' he said.

'I see.'

'He wanted me to help him with something but…' He gave a shrug. 'But I had to refuse. It was a question of conscience, Sarah. I simply couldn't bring myself to do what he was asking. It offended me. I know that Mr Redmayne thought it strange, even perverse. By his standards, it probably is. But I can only act as my conscience dictates.'

'That's what you've always done, Jonathan.'

'I had to speak my mind.'

'Is that why Mr Redmayne left so abruptly?' she probed, gently. He gave a nod. 'Do you want to tell me any more about it?' He shook his head. 'Another time, then. There's no hurry. I can see that it's shaken you somewhat.'

'It has, Sarah. I hated having to turn him away. Mr Redmayne is a good man at heart. It wasn't him I was rejecting.'

'I'm glad to hear that.'

'There was nothing else I could do.'

Sarah could sense the doubts that were troubling him, the second thoughts that were making him broach the subject in order to justify himself. She was fond of Christopher Redmayne. On the few occasions when they had met, he had been unfailingly polite to her, showing a genuine interest in her children and wanting to befriend them. It pained her that he had stalked out of her home in such disappointment. She hoped that she had not witnessed his last ever visit to their home.

Jonathan felt able to confide his anxiety for the first time.

'I hope I did the right thing.'

'Only time will tell.'

'He shouldn't have asked me.'

'No, Jonathan.'

'It was unfair. It's not my problem.'

But it clearly was now. Sarah did not ask for detail. Some of it was etched into her husband's brow. For reasons best known to himself, he refused to take on an assignment that involved Christopher Redmayne. It was not the end of the matter, Sarah knew that. Recrimination had set in. Jonathan would torment himself for hours. Whatever he had discussed with his visitor had affected him at a deep level.

In a vain attempt to cheer him up, Sarah starting talking about their neighbours, offering him snippets of gossip that she had picked up during the day. Jonathan was only half- listening. The most he offered by way of response was a tired smile. Even an account of the wilder antics of some of the denizens of Baynard's Castle Ward could not stop him from brooding. He was still miles away.

The banging noise brought him out of his brown study. Someone was pounding on the front door. Sarah reached for the candle and made to rise from her chair but he put out a hand to stop her.

'I'll go, my love.'

'Who can it be at this hour?'

'Someone who wishes to be heard,' he said as the banging was repeated. 'He'll wake the neigbours, if he goes on like that.'

'Is it Mr Redmayne again?' she wondered.

'It had better not be.'

Jonathan used the candle to guide his way to the front door. As soon as he started to pull back the bolts, the thumping stopped. He opened the door and found himself looking at a small, almost frail figure, silhouetted against the moonlight.

'Mr Bale?' asked a querulous voice.

'Yes,' said Jonathan, holding the flame closer to the face of the youth who was trembling at his threshhold. 'What do you want?'

'Don't you recognise me?'

'Why, yes, I do now. It's young Peter, isn't it? Peter Hibbert.'

'That's right, Mr Bale. Mary's brother.'

'You're shaking,' noted Jonathan. 'What's wrong?'

'Something terrible's happened.'

It took two large glasses of brandy to convert Henry's gibberish into intelligible English. Arriving wild-eyed and incoherent at the house in Fetter Lane, he had to be calmed and cosseted before his brother could get any sense out of him. Christopher had only just waved off Roland Trigg before his brother appeared on his doorstep. He and Henry now sat either side of the table with the bottle of brandy between them as their interlocutor. Henry succumbed to another upsurge of self- pity.

'Never, never do that to me again, Christopher!' he said.

'Do what?'

'Subject me to that kind of embarrassment.'

'What are you talking about?'

'That old fox, Tom Killigrew. It will take a far better huntsman than Henry Redmayne to run him to ground. He gave me the slip time and time again.'

'Did you learn anything useful?' asked Christopher.

'Several things.'

'Such as?'

'That I must have been demented to imagine I could coax any information out of Tom Killigrew without arousing his suspicions. I was hopelessly out of my depth.' 'Don't tell me that you gave the game away!'

'Almost.'

'That's the last thing you must do, Henry.'

'I know, but I couldn't help myself. What saved me was the fact that he was already aware of what I went there to tell him.'

Christopher blinked. 'Already aware?'

'Harriet Gow sent him a letter of apology.'

'When?'

'An hour before I arrived.'

'How could she do that when she's being held by kidnappers?'

'I think I've worked that out, Christopher,' said the other, pouring brandy into his empty glass. 'They must have forced her to write the note in order to throw Tom Killigrew off the scent. If he suspected for one moment what had happened to her, he'd raise a hue and cry.' He sipped the alcohol. 'Is this the best brandy you have in the house?'

'What did the letter say?'

'I need something stronger than this.'

'Tell me, Henry,' said his brother, shaking him by the arm. 'Did you actually see this letter from Harriet Gow?'

'No. It stayed in his pocket.'

Henry recounted his interview with Killigrew in detail, making much of the discomfort he suffered and the skill he'd had to employ in order to lead the manager astray. The letter of apology from Harriet Gow was what weighed with Killigrew. Christopher was reassured to hear that his brother had not, after all, betrayed his pledge to maintain strict secrecy. He was also pleased that the visit to the theatre had thrown up some interesting new names for consideration. Henry passed over a crumpled list.

'I recognise some of these,' said Christopher, perusing it with care. 'They are mostly members of the company. Who is Abigail Saunders?'

'An actress of sorts.'

'Of sorts?'

'A pretty enough creature who uses the stage to advertise her charms rather than her talents, perhaps because she has an ample supply of the former and a dearth of the latter. Abigail Saunders is a young lady of high ambition.'

'Why have you drawn a circle around her name?'

'She will replace Harriet Gow in The Maid's Tragedy.'

'So she stands to benefit.'

'Greatly.'

'And is Abigail Saunders another nightingale?'

'More of a vulture,' opined Henry. 'An attractive one, I grant you, but she is all claw under those delightful feathers.'

Christopher was amazed to read the last name of the list.

'Sir William D'Avenant?'

'That was Tom Killigrew's suggestion.'

'I thought that you didn't discuss the abduction,' said Christopher in alarm. 'How did it happen then that the manager is identifying a suspect?'

'By doing so without even realising it. Now stop harassing me,' said Henry before downing the contents of the glass. 'Talk to Tom Killigrew and Sir William's name comes into the conversation time and again. It's inevitable. They are the only two men with patents to run theatres in London so they are deadly rivals. Tom Killigrew has the edge with The King's Theatre but Sir William D'Avenant has had many triumphs at The Duke's House. They'll stop at nothing to secure an advantage over the other. What's the worst thing that could befall Tom Killigrew?'

'The disappearance of Harriet Gow.'

'Which theatre manager would profit most?'

'Sir William D'Avenant.'

'Exactly. That's why I put his name on the list,' Henry said smugly.

'Is he capable of such desperate measures?'

'A man with no spectacles is capable of anything.'

'No spectacles?' Christopher could not follow this. 'Sir William?'

'Yes. The old lecher contracted syphilis so often in the past that it's eaten away his nose. He'll never balance a pair of spectacles on it, no matter how bad his eyesight.'

'Be serious, Henry. We're talking about kidnap here.'

'Then Sir William D'Avenant must be a suspect.'

'I wonder,' said Christopher doubtfully. 'Let's assume, just for a moment, that you may be right. Why should Sir William send a ransom note to the King when it ought more properly to go to the rival manager? He's the one who might be expected to buy her release.'

'Hardly!' said Henry with a harsh laugh.

'What do you mean?'

'Tom Killigrew's finances are in a worse state than the King's. Worse even than my own, and that's saying something. He had to beg, borrow and steal to raise the money to build his playhouse. Every penny that Tom had is sunk in The King's House.'

'Couldn't he find the ransom money somehow?'

'That would be a miracle beyond even him, Christopher.'

'I still cannot believe that Sir William D'Avenant is implicated.'

'Then you don't know him as well as some of us do.'

'Is he such a villain?'

'Try asking Miss Abigail Saunders.'

'Why?'

'She was his mistress.'

Henry took up his list and went through the names one by one, fleshing them out with detail and adding speculative comment. His knowledge of the theatrical world was impressive, his insight into the private lives of its leading members even more astonishing. When he had delivered his cargo of scandal and supposition, he sat back in his chair and used the back of his hand to suppress a yawn.

'I'm exhausted by all the effort I've put in today. Deception is such a tiring business. You always have to remember which lie you've told to whom and for what purpose. But enough of my travails,' he said as he reached for the brandy once more. 'What of you, Christopher? Have you spoken to the grim constable yet?' 'Yes,' sighed the other. 'For all the good it did me.'

'Did he not rush to the aid of a lady in distress?'

'Not exactly.'

Christopher gave him an edited version of the conversation that took place in Addle Hill, playing down Jonathan's rejection in order to rescue him from Henry's scorn. What he did talk about at length was the unexpected visit of Roland Trigg, the truculent coachman. Henry was troubled to hear of the second abduction.

'The maidservant taken as well?'

'So it seems.'

'This is a bad omen, Christopher.'

'I prefer to see it as a good one.'

'What goodness can there be in the kidnap of a young woman?'

'A little, I hope. I take it as a sign of consideration towards Harriet Gow. She must be in a state of absolute terror. Her kidnappers are at least providing her with some company to still her fears. She and Mary Hibbert are very close. Trigg kept telling me that.'

'He told you a great deal, apparently.'

'Some of it was very revealing.'

'If the fellow can be trusted.'

'Try to get behind that forbidding appearance of his,' suggested Christopher. 'The man might yet turn out to be a useful ally. Roland Trigg deserves the credit for one thing at least.'

'What's that?'

'Providing us with a name to go at the very top of our list.'

'Who might that be?'

'Bartholomew Gow.'

Henry was chastened. 'Her husband?' he said, eyes glistening. 'I never even considered him. He and his wife have lived apart for some time. I'm not even sure that Bartholomew Gow is still in London.'

'What manner of man is he?'

'An odd one. A fellow of moderate wealth and peculiar disposition. Content to hug the shadows while Harriet courted the light - at first, that is, but he grew resentful. Never marry an actress, Christopher. They would tax the patience of a saint and Mr Gow is assuredly no saint.'

'Would he stoop to the kidnap of his own wife?'

'I don't know him well enough to form a judgement about it.'

'What does your instinct tell you?'

'Anything is possible.'

'Trigg was quite antagonistic towards him.'

'He'd be antagonistic towards anyone. I've never met such a bellicose individual. What did he have to say about Bartholomew Gow?'

'Nothing to the fellow's credit.'

'Did he tell you where the wandering husband was living?'

'No, Henry. But he has pointed us in the right direction.'

'Has he?'

'I think so,' said Christopher, indicating the list. 'Look at those names. They're giving us a false start. Instead of beginning with a list of those who might or might not have a motive to abduct Harriet Gow, we should work from the other end.'

'Other end?'

'The lady herself, Henry. Examine her character and way of life. That's where the clues will lie. Why, for instance, did she marry a man like Bartholomew Gow? How did she become involved with His Majesty? What hopes did she have for her future? In short,' said Christopher, getting up from the table, 'what sort of person is Harriet Gow?'

'You saw her for yourself at The King's House.'

'What I saw there was a brilliant actress, thrilling our blood and working on our emotions. She's in no position to do that now. Harriet Gow is no longer floating along on a cloud of applause, Henry. She's a very frightened woman, held against her will. How will she cope with that?'

'Bravely, I'm sure.'

Crossing to the window, Christopher peered out into the darkness.

'I hope so,' he said quietly. 'I sincerely hope so.'

Mary Hibbert was still in a state of abject terror. After the long, jolting ride in the coach, she had been taken to a house and locked in a small cellar. Tied firmly to a stout chair, she could scarcely move her limbs. The hood had been removed from behind by her captors so that she caught not even the merest glimpse of them as they slipped out of the room. The sounds of a key turning in the lock and of heavy bolts being pushed into position had been further hammer blows to her already bruised sensibilities. Too scared even to cry out, she sat in her fetid prison and sobbed quietly to herself. Another noise made her sit up in alarm. It was the snuffling of a rat in the darkest recess of the cellar.

Mary was beside herself with fear. Why was she being put through this ordeal, and by whom? What had she done to deserve such cruel treatment? Would she ever leave the building alive? It was at that point, when she was writhing in pain, being slowly overwhelmed by her misery and about to slide inexorably into total despair that a new sound penetrated the gloom of her dungeon. It was faint but haunting. She strained her ears to listen.

'Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew:

Maidens, willow branches bear

Say I died true.'

She revived at once. It was extraordinary. A song about death had effectively recalled her to life, had given her hope and sustenance. Only one woman could sing as beautifully and movingly as that. Mary Hibbert was not alone in her distress: Harriet Gow was sharing it with her. They were bonded by suffering. The voice rose, strengthened and sang on with mournful clarity. It was enchanting. Mary closed her eyes to listen to the strains of her beloved nightingale.