The Amorous Nightingale

Chapter Seven

Henry Redmayne made such a determined assault on the bottle of brandy that it took the two of them to help him up into the saddle afterwards. He waved a perilous farewell then set off slowly in the direction of Bedford Street. Jacob watched the swaying figure merge with the darkness.

'Will he be safe, sir?' he said anxiously.

Christopher smiled. 'Have faith in the horse at least, if not in my brother,' he said tolerantly. 'The animal is well accustomed to carrying his master home when he has looked upon the wine at its reddest.'

'It was brandy this time.'

'Yes, and he had the gall to criticise its quality. I know, I heard him. That's typical of Henry, I'm afraid. He'll abuse your cellar then drink it dry. No matter, Jacob. He is my brother and his need was particularly urgent this evening.'

'So I saw.'

The servant led the way back into the house, clearing away the two glasses and the almost empty bottle into the kitchen. When he came into the parlour again, he saw that Christopher was unrolling some paper on the table. There was mild reproof in the servant's tone.

'You're not going to start work now, are you, sir?' he said.

'Bring me more light, Jacob.'

'You need your sleep.'

'Not when something is preying on my mind. I have to put my thoughts on paper. It's the only way that I can make sense of them.'

Jacob sighed but refrained from further comment. Lighting two more candles, he set them on the table with the others so that they threw a vivid rectangle of light on to the paper.

Christopher's charcoal was poised for action. He sensed that Jacob was hovering.

'I shan't require anything else now,' he said. 'You go to bed.'

'Not until you're ready to retire, sir.'

'There's no point in the two of us staying up.'

'There's every point,' returned the servant with a prim smile. He retreated towards the kitchen. 'Call me when you need me.'

'You may be in there a long time.'

'I've plenty to keep me occupied, sir.'

Jacob vanished from sight. Sounds of activity soon came from the kitchen as he began to clean some of the silverware. Christopher heard nothing. He was too absorbed in his project, drawing swiftly from memory and writing the occasional name on the paper. He was far too stimulated by the visits of Roland Trigg and of his brother even to consider going to his bed. In his own way, each man had sparked off Christopher's imagination. It was the coachman's evidence which guided his charcoal the most. Christopher was immersed for the best part of an hour before he sat up to stretch himself and massage the back of his neck. He was puzzled. As he stared down at what he had drawn, he felt that something was amiss but he could not decide exactly what it was.

The decision was taken out of his hands by the ringing of the doorbell. Jacob emerged at once from the kitchen as if his whole evening had been structured around this one particular duty. Christopher heard him open the door before engaging in a short dialogue with a man who had a deep, firm, resonant voice. The sound made Christopher rise with curiosity. He wondered why Jonathan Bale was calling on him- No visitor could be less likely in Fetter Lane. When the servant came back into the room, Christopher saw that he had, in fact, two guests with him. The burly constable was accompanied by a wiry, tousle-haired youth of no more than fifteen. Even in that light, Christopher could see the anguish in the boy's face.

Jacob sidled off to the kitchen again, leaving Jonathan to make an uneasy apology and to effect an introduction.

'I'm sorry to disturb you so late, Mr Redmayne,' he began, 'but this is something that wouldn't keep until morning. It may have some bearing on what we talked about earlier.' He turned to the boy. 'This is a young friend of mine, Peter Hibbert.'

'Hibbert?'

'His sister, Mary, is in service with Mrs Gow.'

'Then I'm pleased to meet you,' said Christopher with interest. He gave a kind smile. 'I'm Christopher Redmayne. You're welcome to my home, Peter. Do sit down for a moment.'

Peter Hibbert glanced at Jonathan as if requiring his permission. When the constable lowered himself on to the oak settle, his companion chose the stool in the corner. Perched on its edge, he looked smaller and more frail than ever.

'Peter has something to tell you, sir,' said Jonathan.

'Does he?'

'It's about his sister.'

'Then I'm eager to hear it.'

There was a long wait. Peter Hibbert was far too nervous to speak at first. Over-awed by Christopher and the fine house in which he lived, Peter's confidence dried up completely. He began to lose faith in the tale he had to tell. His eyes darted wildly. Jonathan tried to rescue him from his tongue-tied embarrassment.

'Go on, Peter,' he nudged. 'Say your piece.'

'You've come all this way to do it,' encouraged Christopher. 'I'll be interested to hear what you have to tell me about your sister.'

Hands knotted together, the boy stared at the floor and tried to summon up enough courage to speak. When the words finally came out, they did so in an irregular dribble.

'Mary - that's my sister, sir - is in service with Mrs Gow - Mrs Harriet Gow - she's a famous actress. They live in a big house near St James's Square. Mary is very kind to me, sir. She looks out for me.'

He came to a halt and shot a look of apprehension at Jonathan.

'Tell the truth, Peter,' said the other. 'Exactly as you told me.'

The boy nodded. 'I'm apprenticed to a tailor, sir,' he continued, aiming his words at Christopher via the carpet. 'It was my father's occupation though I'm afraid that I lack his skill. I'm poorly paid for my work so I get into debt quite often. Mary gives me money. I'll pay it back one day,' he said with a touch of spirit, 'but it may take time. Anyway, I arranged to call on Mary this afternoon, to collect some money from her. But when I got there, the door of the house was wide open and there was no sign of my sister.'

'A most unusual circumstance,' observed Jonathan. 'When her mistress is absent, Mary has responsibility for the security of the house. She would never leave it unguarded.'

Christopher had heard a version of the story from Roland Trigg, but he was grateful for corroboration. Peter Hibbert had come to the same conclusion as the coachman. Mary Hibbert was in some kind of terrible predicament. A creature of habit, if she made an arrangement to meet her brother, she never let him down. Mary knew how much he needed the regular gifts of money from her.

'What did you do, Peter?' said Christopher.

'I ran all the way to my uncle's house in Carter Lane, sir. I knew that Mary had called on him earlier in the day because he's been very ill. I wondered if she might still be there.' He shook his head. 'But she wasn't. Mary left hours before.'

'I can vouch for that,' added Jonathan. 'I was in Carter Lane myself this morning and I spoke to Peter's sister as she was leaving her uncle's house. We're old friends, sir. The Hibbert family used to live in my ward.'

'Let me hear it from Peter,' said Christopher gently.

'I was more worried than ever, Mr Redmayne, so I went back to the house. Mr Trigg was there. He's the coachman.

When I asked him where my sister was, he told me she'd gone away suddenly with Mrs Gow and that I wasn't to fret about her. But I do fret, sir,' said the boy, kneading his fingers. 'And I'm not sure that Mr Trigg was honest with me. He had these bruises all over his face and a bandage around his head.'

Christopher chuckled. 'That doesn't mean he was lying to you,' he said easily. 'As it happens, I've spoken to Mr Trigg myself and I accept his word. He's in the best position to know where your sister is, after all. Jacob!' he called. The servant was in the room instantly. 'This is Peter Hibbert. He looks very hungry to me. Take him into the kitchen while I talk to Mr Bale in private. Feed him well.'

Understanding the situation, Jacob whisked the boy off before the latter could protest. The kitchen door was shut firmly behind them. Christopher's relaxed manner evaporated at once. He lowered his voice to talk to Jonathan.

'The boy's fears are all too real,' he admitted, 'but he mustn't know that. We don't want him to spread the alarm or have his uncle and aunt getting anxious. Peter must think that his sister has gone out of London with Mrs Gow for a short while. Even though the plain truth is that she was most likely abducted from the house this afternoon.'

'Is that what the coachman said, sir?'

'He had no doubts about it.'

'Then the life of an innocent girl may be in danger.'

'Two lives are at risk here, Mr Bale,' corrected Christopher. 'I won't waste time arguing which of the ladies is the more innocent or guilty. Both need immediate help. The manner of their kidnap shows how bold and uncompromising the men who snatched them really are. They gave the coachman a sound thrashing.'

'I've changed my mind,' said Jonathan, getting up suddenly from his seat. 'I'm sorry that I had to refuse your invitation earlier on but matters are different now. I knew the Hibbert family well. I watched Mary and Peter grow up. Their father, Daniel, was a fine man and a good neighbour to us.' He thrust out his jaw. 'If his daughter is in the slightest danger, I'll help to rescue her.'

'That offer is music to my ears.'

'Just tell me what to do, Mr Redmayne.'

'The first thing is to calm young Peter down.'

'Leave that to me, sir.'

'It's a happy accident that you actually know one of the victims. You may be able to tell me things about her which supplement what I've already heard from Trigg.' He looked down at the table. 'Talking of whom, there's something you can do for me right now, Mr Bale.'

'What's that, sir?'

'Take a look at this map. It's rather crude, I fear, but I'm an architect and not a cartographer. Come over here - what do you see?'

Jonathan was impressed. 'A map of London, sir,' he said with a wheeze of admiration. 'As neat and tidy as you could wish. But that's London to the life, no question. You've moved one or two of the roads about by mistake and Fleet Street bends a trifle more than you've allowed. Otherwise, as far as I can judge, it's more or less accurate.'

'St James's Square would be up here in the corner somewhere,' said Christopher, marking the place with a cross. 'Now, if you had to drive a coach during the day from there to the Palace of Westminster, which route would you take?'

'The most direct one with the best roads.'

'And that would be?'

'Straight down to Charing Cross here,' said Jonathan, pointing with his finger, 'then south along King Street.'

'That was my feeling. Yet Harriet Gow was abducted when her coach was stopped in this narrow lane off the Strand - right here.' His own finger jabbed down. 'If Trigg was taking her to the Palace, why did he go by such a peculiar route?'

'Did he mean to call in at Drury Lane on the way?' suggested Jonathan. 'Perhaps she had business at The Theatre Royal.'

'The coachman assures me that she didn't. His mistress had an assignation with someone though he refuses to tell me with whom. Given the circumstances, I naturally assumed that it was with His Majesty.'

'I've no comment to make on that, sir.'

'He and Mrs Gow have been very close of late.'

'Please keep me ignorant of such detail.'

'But it's critical, Mr Bale. You agree with me that there's only one sensible way to travel from St James's Square to Westminster. That leaves us with two alternatives.'

'Does it?'

'The coachman may have misled me.'

'Or?'

Christopher looked up from his rudimentary map of London.

'Mrs Gow had a rendezvous with someone else entirely.'

Night brought a few concessions for Mary Hibbert. She was given a candle and provided with food and water. The man who untied her was wearing a mask but she did not have the courage to look up at him. Grateful to have some source of light in the dark cellar, she picked at the bread and cheese. Her captor waited until she had finished then he pointed to the truckle bed in the corner. When he went out, the door was locked behind him with an air of finality. Mary shuddered. During the previous night, she had slept in a fourposter at the house near St James's Square. Now she was reduced to a filthy mattress in a dank prison. The scuffling of the rat made her resolve not to lie down anywhere.

Huddled into the chair, she sat in the tiny circle of light and prayed that her ordeal would soon be over. No relief came, not even the cheering sound of a song from her mistress. It would be a long, lonely, unforgiving night for Mary Hibbert. Her wrists were chafed by her bonds, her whole body aching from its confinement in the chair. Her prospects were bleak. Trapped in her cellar, unable to reach the woman whom she served, unaware of the identity or purpose of her captors, uncertain of her future, she was more despondent than ever.

Eager to make full use of daylight, Lodowick Corrigan arrived on site with his men shortly after dawn. Under the builder's supervision, posts were hammered into the ground to mark out the different areas of the property and materials were unloaded from carts before being stacked carefully in designated places. By the time that Christopher Redmayne rode up, workmen were already starting to dig the foundations. Overnight rain had left the earth soft and pliable. The picks sank deep and true. Pleased by the flurry of activity, Christopher was frustrated that he would be unable to stay in order to watch progress. Corrigan ambled over to him with an ingratiating smile.

'You're late, sir,' he commented drily.

'I had things to do, Mr Corrigan.'

'We like an early start.'

'So I see. You've certainly brought sufficient men.'

'The best I could muster.'

'They seem to know their jobs,' said Christopher with approval. 'That's not always the case, alas. With so much building going on in London, there's a desperate shortage of trained men. Fresh labour has had to be brought in from outside the city. Some of the newcomers are very raw and inexperienced.'

'I only employ men who know their trade,' boasted Corrigan. 'I'll not have anyone blundering around on one of my sites. If they work for me, they know the rules. I'm a hard taskmaster but I pay well.'

'It's a clear enough message.'

Corrigan unrolled a drawing and Christopher dismounted to take a closer look at his own draughtsmanship again. The builder had a dozen or more questions ready, all delivered in a tone of studied politeness but each one framed in terms that implied criticism. Corrigan was flexing his muscles, trying to secure minor changes to the overall plan in order to establish a pattern of amendment. Christopher resisted each suggestion with a mixture of reason and firmness, aware that even one concession to the builder would be viewed as a sign of weakness on his part. Unable to make any headway, Corrigan became more blunt.

'Some alterations will have to be made, sir,' he warned.

'Why?'

'Because that's what always happens.'

'Is it?'

'Problems arise, a client demands changes, the faults of an untried architect are exposed. I've seen it all before, Mr Redmayne.'

'Have you ever encountered a builder who was unable to take simple instructions? He would be the biggest handicap of all.'

Christopher's remark was all the more effective for being delivered in a pleasant voice. Corrigan tensed but said nothing. Rolling up the drawing, he went off to relieve his anger by berating some of his men with unnecessary relish. Christopher was grateful to have shaken him off but a new problem now presented itself. As a coach rolled up, the face of Jasper Hartwell beamed out at him. Attired with his usual flamboyance and almost buried beneath the ginger periwig, his client beckoned his architect across.

'Isn't this exciting?' he said with a childlike grin.

'Yes, Mr Hartwell. The first day is always rather special.'

'I'd not miss it for the world. And you, I daresay, will be here from dawn until dusk to watch your house take shape.'

'Alas, no,' confessed Christopher.

Hartwell was shocked. 'No? Why ever not?'

'Other business calls me away, sir.'

'But you're employed to supervise the construction of my new home. I can't have you deserting your post, Mr Redmayne.'

'That's not what I'm doing, I promise you. But further work is needed on my designs, small adjustments, subtle refinements. I can hardly do that here in the midst of all this frenetic activity. Besides,' he said, indicating the site, 'there is very little to see in the early stages. An architect is far better employed improving his design than by watching a group of muscular men dig a large hole in the ground.'

'There's some truth in that, I suppose.'

'Take my word for it, Mr Hartwell. I'll not be far away. From time to time, I'll ride over here to check that everything is in order. Your house will not be neglected. It occupies my full attention.'

'And so it must, Mr Redmayne.'

'Count on me, sir.'

'I do. I look upon you as a true friend.'

The voluminous wig prevented him from putting his head through the window of the coach so he crooked his finger to pull Christopher nearer to him. Making sure that they could not be overheard, he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

'I've decided to take your advice,' he said.

'My advice?'

'With regard to a certain lady. I touched on the matter when we dined at the Dog and Partridge yesterday.'

'Ah, yes,' said Christopher, amazed that the man could remember anything about the occasion in view of the amount he had eaten and drunk. 'I trust that you got home safely.'

'I awoke from dreams of pure delight, Mr Redmayne.'

'Dreams?'

'Of her. Of my angel. Of Harriet.'

'I see.'

'I don't think that you do,' said the other, reaching out to grasp him by the shoulder. 'Your counsel inspired me, my friend. I fell asleep a disappointed man and woke a happy one. You were so right. Why should I wallow in despair when I can reach for Elysium?'

'Elysium?'

'In essence, it stands right here before us.' Hartwell giggled as he pointed a forefinger. 'Until I confided in you, I was ready to give up all hope but you stiffened my resolve. I love her, I want her, I need her, I deserve her, Mr Redmayne. More than any man alive. If obstacles lie in my way, they can be removed. Mrs Gow may be married but she and her husband have been living apart for so long that it will not be difficult to put them asunder by legal means. If all else fails, Bartholomew Gow can be bought off and sent packing.'

Christopher was disturbed that Harriet Gow's name had come into the conversation and appalled that he was being identified as the person who had given Jasper Hartwell such ludicrous advice. The chances of her ever taking his proposal seriously were so remote as to be non-existent, yet that did not deter the single-minded lover.

'As for this dalliance with His Majesty,' said Hartwell dismissively, 'it is of no account. Harriet will soon tire of him and he'll be off after fresh conquests. None of that worries me. I'll not see her as the discarded mistress of a King but as the woman who has finally discovered a man worthy of her. Me!' Another giggle slipped out. 'Am I not the most fortunate of mortals? I've everything a beautiful woman could want, Mr Redmayne. Wealth, position, influence, taste and the handsomest face in the whole world. Harriet and I were fashioned expressly for each other. And the house you've designed will be our Elysium, our place of perfect bliss. Thank you for making it all possible.'

'I hadn't realised that that's what I'd done, Mr Hartwell.'

'You've given me a new mission in life.'

'Have I?'

'Marriage to my adorable Harriet. Then I'll bring her home in my arms. You've not just designed a magnificent new house, Mr Redmayne. You've created a gilded cage for my amorous nightingale.'

'Quite by accident, sir.'

'No matter for that. All things proceed to wondrous consummation. I'll court the lady in earnest and begin this very afternoon.'

'How?' asked Christopher.

'At the theatre, of course. Harriet is to perform once more in The Maid's Tragedy. I'll be there to woo her from my box then I'll lay siege to her dressing room until she agrees to see me.'

'That may be rather difficult,' cautioned the other.

'Difficult?'

'Mrs Gow will not be appearing today.'

Hartwell's face crumpled. 'Why ever not?'

'I fear that she's indisposed.'

'But I've banked all on seeing her this afternoon.'

'You'll have to be patient, Mr Hartwell. It so happens that my brother, Henry, was at the theatre yesterday, talking to the manager. Mr Killigrew gave him to understand that sickness was obliging Mrs Gow to withdraw from today's performance.'

'Sickness? The poor darling is ill?'

'According to the manager.'

Panic set in. 'I must go to her,' he declared. 'Nurse her. Tend her.'

'That's the last thing you must do, sir,' said Christopher, anxious to calm him down. 'What the lady most needs is rest from the hurly-burly of life in the theatre. The stage is an exciting place but it makes enormous demands on those who grace it with their talents. In any case,' he added, 'Mrs Gow is no longer in London. She had taken herself off to an unknown address to recuperate.'

'This is dreadful news!'

'I'm sorry to be the bearer of such tidings.'

'Not at all. I'm glad to hear them so early in the day. If my angel is sick, I want to be at her bedside. Tom Killigrew will know where she is. I'll to him to get the full details.'

'But the lady wishes to be left alone.'

'She'll want to see me,' said Hartwell, sitting back in his seat. 'I'll have privileged access to her. I'm not just one more lusty hound in the pack that bays at her heels. Harriet Gow is going to be my wife.'

He shouted a command to his coachman and the vehicle moved off. Christopher was covered in dismay. Not only was he being accused of having given advice that would never have issued from his lips, he was having to conduct a search for a woman who now had a crazed admirer on her trail. Jasper Hartwell's intervention could be ruinous. It would certainly hamper Christopher's own investigations. What concerned him more than that was the fact that it might also put the life of Harriet Gow in danger. Christopher was still trying to assimilate the new development when he became aware of Lodowick Corrigan at his shoulder.

'Was that Mr Hartwell?' asked the builder.

'Yes.'

'What did he say?'

'That he was pleased to see that work had started.'

'Why didn't you call me over?'

'He preferred to talk to his architect.'

'But I wanted to raise a few points with him.'

'Raise them with me, Mr Corrigan,' said Christopher, meaningfully. 'I'm the only point of contact between builder and client. Remember that and there'll be no friction between us. Forget it, however,' he stressed as he mounted his horse, 'and I fear that we may fall out. A sensible man like you would not wish that to happen, I'm sure.'

Before the builder could reply, Christopher rode off at a brisk trot.

Abigail Saunders was a revelation. When he rehearsed her that morning in the role of Aspatia, the most that Killigrew dared to hope for was a competent replacement for Harriet Gow. But the actress excelled herself. She knew the role well and exploited it to the full. Voice, movement and gesture could not be faulted. It was only the song which exposed her limitations. Abigail Saunders had a high, reedy voice that could offer only sweetness. It lacked the poignancy that Harriet Gow could achieve, the ability to fill the theatre with a sadness that was almost tangible. Killigrew did not complain. Though his patrons would be disgruntled at the loss of their favourite, they would be given a more than able actress in her stead. Pert, pretty and confident, Abigail Saunders was seizing her opportunity with the zeal of one who had waited for it for a long time.

When the rehearsal ended, it was not only Killigrew who showered her with praise. The other actors on stage were quick to flatter her as well. Stepping into the breach, she was saving a play in which they now had a far greater chance to shine, liberated, as they were, from the dominance of Harriet Gow and the lasting impact of her song. None of them spared a thought for their missing colleague. All that concerned them now was the afternoon's performance. For making it possible, Abigail Saunders deserved their thanks and their approval.

One other person had watched the rehearsal with interest. When it was over, he put his gloved hands together in token applause. Killigrew broke away from his company to accost the intruder.

'Whatever are you doing here, Henry?' he demanded.

'Witnessing a miracle, Tom.'

'Abigail surpassed herself.'

'So I saw. It was almost as if she knew this chance was coming.'

'What are you implying?'

'Nothing.'

'Then why do you have that look in your eye again?'

'Sheer fatigue, I do assure you.'

Henry Redmayne had been forced to rise much earlier than was his custom in order to get to The Theatre Royal that morning. The visit had been worthwhile. It had certainly forced him to revalue Abigail Saunders as an actress. In the scene where Aspatia, disguised as her own brother, provoked the man who betrayed her into fighting a duel, Henry was so moved that he had been jerked fully awake at last. The whole experience left him with a new interest in the young woman who had replaced the absent Harriet Gow.

'No word from her, I suppose?' fished Henry.

'None,' said Killigrew. 'Harriet has gone to ground.'

'You make her sound like an animal.'

'She's an actress, Henry, and they are invariably one part human and three parts animal. If you worked with them as often as I do, you'd realise what vain and silly creatures even the best of them are. Actors are even worse,' he moaned.

'Rampant stallions. Did you know that I'm obliged to keep a woman at twenty shillings a week in order to satisfy eight of the young men in the house? Theatre management is a constant trial, sir. It's turned me pimp.'

'Harriet Gow is of a different order, surely?'

'Don't believe it.'

'She has such breeding and refinement.'

'A whore can pass for a nun on stage,' said Killigrew with a grim chuckle. 'That is the wonder of it. Harriet is neither whore nor nun but she is more akin to the former trade.'

'That's a scandalous thing to say!'

'I speak as I find, Henry. I love the lady to distraction but this is not the first time she's been wayward. Occasional disappearances have happened before.'

'Indeed?'

'She does it to vex me, I swear, or to remind me just how important she is to my company. Sick, indeed! I do not believe a word of that letter she sent. Harriet is the healthiest woman I know. She simply wanted a few days away from the theatre.'

'Why?'

'Why else? The pursuit of pleasure. A man of your proclivities must surely have guessed that. Sickness is the cloak behind which she hides but I know the truth of it. Harriet Gow is either lolling somewhere in a rich man's bed or sailing down the Thames in the royal barge.'

A deep sigh. 'I wish that you were right, Tom.'

'You've evidence to contradict me?'

'No, no,' said Henry, quick to extricate himself. 'I accept your word for it. Nobody knows the lady as well as you. I've only worshipped her from afar. Along with all the others.'

'Like that arrant fool, Jasper Hartwell.'

'Jasper? How is he involved here?'

'He was hammering on my door first thing this morning, begging me to tell him where Harriet was. When I was unable to do so, he first thrust money at me then threatened me with his sword. I tell you, Henry, it was all I could do to get rid of the dolt.' Killigrew threw both hands in the air. 'How did he know that Harriet was unable to play today? Has someone been issuing handbills to that effect?'

'I'm more worried about the passion that he showed.'

'Oh, that was real enough.'

'Jasper Hartwell? Aroused?'

'To full pitch. Harriet has certainly lit a fire in his breeches.'

'They're never doused, Tom,' said the other with a grimace. 'But they usually smoulder for some fair, fat wench in red taffeta. Jasper is a man who has to pay outrageously for his pleasures for no woman would oblige him out of love or curiosity.'

'Keep him away from me, that's all I ask.'

'I'll look into it.'

'And tell me why you're lurking in my theatre.'

'To pay my respects, of course.'

'To me, you lying dog?'

'No, Tom. To the new star in your little firmament. Miss Abigail Saunders. Excuse me while I have a word with the lady.'

Killigrew was about to protest but two of the actors suddenly pounced on him to demand their wages and an artist needed instruction about the scenery he was hired to paint. Henry dodged the manager and made his way to the dressing rooms at the rear of the building. He soon found the one occupied by Abigail Saunders. A tap on the door brought a short, dumpy, dark-haired woman into view.

'My name is Henry Redmayne,' he said in his grandest manner. 'A close friend of Tom Killigrew and a connoisseur of the theatre. I was privileged to watch the rehearsal just now and I just wished to add my congratulations to Miss Saunders.'

'Thank you, sir,' said the woman gruffly. 'I'll pass them on.'

'No, Barbara,' called a voice. 'Invite Mr Redmayne in.'

The maid stood reluctantly aside so that Henry could stride into the dressing room. Sweeping off his hat, he executed a low bow. Abigail Saunders watched him in her mirror.

'Your performance was a delight, Miss Saunders,' he said.

'Thank you, kind sir.'

'It will carry all before it.'

'That is what I intend.'

She rose from her chair and turned to appraise him. His voice had led her to expect a younger and more handsome man but her smile shielded her disappointment from him. Her life had been an endless series of Henry Redmaynes. She talked their language.

'Will you be at the performance this afternoon, sir?'

'Nothing would prevent me from missing it.'

'Pray, visit me in my dressing room afterwards.'

'I'll do so with a basket of flowers,' he said gallantly.

'Have you seen the play before?'

'Only once. It is a powerful drama and no mistake.'

'You watched Mrs Gow in the role, then.'

'Possibly, Miss Saunders. I've quite forgotten. You have made the part so completely your own, I can't imagine any other actress even daring to take it on.'

'You flatter me, sir.'

'I welcome a rising talent.'

He gave another bow and was rewarded with an outstretched hand. Taking it by the fingertips, he bestowed a light kiss before releasing it again. Abigail flirted mischievously with her eyes.

'All you've needed is your place in the sun,' he remarked.

'It's come at last, Mr Redmayne.'

'I hope that this is only the start.'

'Oh, it will be,' she said with quiet determination.

'You sound very certain of that.'

'I am, sir. Nobody likes to profit from the misfortune of others but that is the guiding principle of theatrical life. As one person falls by the wayside, another must take her place. I'm deeply upset, of course, that dear Harriet is indisposed but I know how much she would hate a play to be cancelled because of her.' She spread her arms and spun around on her toes. 'So here I am. Keeping the theatre open this afternoon when it might otherwise have been closed.'

'Tom Killigrew was overjoyed with you.'

'So he will be when he sees my full range.'

'Full range?'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne. Aspatia is only one of the roles in which I'll dazzle the patrons. There'll be many others.' She turned back to the mirror to examine her hair. 'After all, Harriet Gow may be indisposed for quite some time.'

Mary Hibbert slept fitfully until the sound of a key in the lock brought her rudely awake. The cellar was cold, damp and hostile. Since the candle had burned itself out, the room was plunged into darkness, robbing her of any idea of time. When the door opened, therefore, she was surprised how much natural light flooded in. It made her eyes blink. Mary was taken out to use the privy, an embarrassing business when a man in a mask is guarding the door but a necessary one all the same. Hauled back down to the cellar, she was given more food and water. Breakfast over, she was guided back up the steps, across the hall and up the wide staircase. Mary began to shiver uncontrollably. Was she going to be ravished by her mute companion?

When they paused outside a room, she tried to break free but he was far too strong, subduing her with ease and taking liberties with his hands that confirmed her worst fears. Mary felt as if she were being suffocated. She began to swoon. A door was opened and she was thrust roughly through it alone. Tumbling to the floor, she heard the door being locked behind her and quailed. Then she heard something else.

'Mary!'

Harriet Gow came running across the room to help her up.

'Have they brought you here as well?'

'Yes, Mrs Gow.'

Mary burst into tears, not knowing whether to be relieved at the sight of her mistress or frightened by the dire straits in which they found themselves. Rising from her feet, she flung herself into her employer's arms, each clinging tight and drawing comfort from the other. Harriet eventually took her maidservant by the shoulders.

'This is all my fault,' she admitted.

'No, no, Mrs Gow. Don't say that.'

'They've dragged you down with me, Mary.'

'I don't blame you, honestly. I'm just so glad to see you again.'

There was no gladness in her eyes. As she looked at Harriet Gow, she did not see the poised and graceful woman with whom she spent her days so happily. Her mistress was flushed and unkempt, her dress torn and her shoes discarded. Hair that was so lovingly brushed as a rule now hung in long, uneven strands. All of her jewellery had been removed. Her composure had also vanished. There was a hunted look about her.

'Where are we, Mrs Gow?' asked Mary, looking around.

'I've no idea.'

'Have they hurt you? Did they…'

'No, Mary. Nobody has touched me. Yet, that is.'

'They locked me in a cellar all night.'

'How dreadful!' She hugged the girl to her. 'My plight is little better but at least I have a comfortable bed and a garden I can look out on. Where exactly it is, I don't know. We were ambushed near the Strand. While they fought with Roland, someone put a hood over my head and pushed me into another coach. It seemed to travel for an age before we got here. All I know is that we're out in the country somewhere. It's no use calling for help. We're quite isolated.'

'I heard you sing, Mrs Gow.'

'What?'

'That's what kept me going. I heard your voice drifting down to the cellar and knew that you were here as well. It helped. I hate it that this has happened to you, but at least we're together now.'

'Yes, child.'

They exchanged a kiss and held each other tighter than ever.

'Mrs Gow,' said Mary at length.

'Yes?'

'Who are they?'

'I'm not sure.'

'What do they want?'

'They haven't told me.'

'Do you have no idea who they might be?'

'No, Mary.'

'Why are they doing this to us?'

By way of an answer, Harriet Gow eased her across to the little sofa and sat beside her on it. Letting the girl nestle into her, she stroked Mary's hair softly and tried to reassure them both in the only way that came to mind. She began to sing.