The Frost Fair

Chapter Ten

Jonathan Bale rarely discussed his work as a constable with his wife. Most of it was too tedious even to talk about and he sought to protect her from the more gory aspects of his occupation. His children always pressed him for details of terrible crimes but he refused to satisfy their ghoulish interest. It was his belief that a home should be a place for quiet, pleasant, restorative family life, safe from the horrors that stalked the streets of London. This time, however, it was different. His younger son had actually been the person to discover a murder victim so it was impossible to say nothing about the investigation when he stepped into the house. Both boys were eager to know when the killer would be tried and hanged. Richard, in particular, was agog for any news.

Their day began with family prayers. It was followed by a breakfast of bread, whey and the remains of a meat pie that Sarah Bale had baked the previous afternoon. When the meal was over, she took her sons off to their petty school nearby. On her return, she found Jonathan still in his seat. He was brooding darkly.

'I wonder if they should have gone this morning,' she observed.

'They must learn to read and write, Sarah.'

'I know that but I worry about Richard. He has no chance to forget what he saw at the frost fair. No sooner does he get to the school than the other children ask him to tell his tale once more. It keeps it fresh in his mind.'

'We must hope that the whole business is soon over.'

She saw his furrowed brow. 'This case is troubling you badly.'

'No more than any other,' he said, trying to make light of it. 'I've been a constable for too many years to let the work distress me.'

'You do not fool me, Jonathan Bale. You hardly slept a wink last night.'

'How do you know?'

'How do you think I know?' she said, kissing the top of his head. 'Something is keeping you awake and it's not difficult to guess what it is. You are worried.'

'I'm confused, Sarah.'

'Why?'

'I find it hard to explain.'

'Did it make you feel better when you went to see Mr Redmayne?'

'In one way.'

'And what was that?'

'I let him see that I was concerned for him,' he explained. 'I know what a shock it can be to someone when a member of the family is arrested for a serious crime. They are dazed by it. Mr Redmayne was grateful. I was pleased about that.' He glanced up at her. 'But the truth is that he thinks that his brother is innocent and I do not. It makes me feel so uneasy Sarah. He asks me for my help yet I'm trying to find evidence to convict Henry Redmayne.'

'And is he guilty?'

'I think so.'

"Think? You were almost certain at first.'

'The case is not as straightforward as I imagined.'

'Then they could have arrested the wrong person?'

'No,' he said firmly. 'He's all but confessed to his brother.'

"Then why does Mr Redmayne fight to clear his name?'

'It's what anyone would do in his position, Sarah. I do not blame him for that.'

'Was he hurt because you did not support him?'

'Deeply,' said Jonathan with a sigh. 'I think that he was counting on me.'

'Are you still friends?'

'I hope so.'

'What if his brother is convicted?'

'That's what troubles me most, Sarah. I'd hate to lose Mr Redmayne's friendship but there may be no way to stop that happening. He turned to me and I let him down. I feel that it's a kind of betrayal.'

'You could never betray anyone.'

"Then why does my conscience keep me awake at night?'

'Only you know that, Jonathan.'

She put an affectionate arm around his shoulders. Sarah was very concerned. Ordinarily, her husband was a strong, reliable, phlegmatic man who remained cool in any crisis. She knew that his work as a constable must have confronted him with serious dangers and hideous sights, yet he took them all in his stride without the slightest murmur of complaint. For once, however, he was unable to hide his suffering. Sarah cast around for a way to ease his pain

'How often have you met Mr Redmayne's brother?' she asked.

'Often enough.'

'You do not like the man, do you?'

'I do not approve of any person who lives that kind of life.'

'What do you mean?'

'He's proud, selfish and given to the pursuit of pleasure.'

"Then he's not like his brother at all.'

'No, Sarah,' he replied. 'He's an embarrassment to Mr Redmayne, even more so now. I think that he's sainted the way that he's standing by him. It must be galling for him to see his brother locked away in prison.'

'It must be even more galling for his brother.'

'A man has to pay for his crime.'

'But he's not been convicted yet,' she argued. 'Have you spoken to him?'

'Why should I do that?'

'Well, it might give you a better idea if he's guilty or not.'

'Henry Redmayne has no wish to talk to me, Sarah.'

'How can he prevent you? As an officer of the law, you have a right to see him.'

'He's already been questioned.'

'But not by you,' she pointed out. 'You have to act on the opinion of others. It's unlike you not to question him, Jonathan. You prefer to dig around for yourself.'

'That's unnecessary in this case.'

'When a man's life is at stake? I'd have thought it very necessary.'

'Sarah-'

"Think how grateful Mr Redmayne would be.'

He was checked. 'What?'

'It would show that you were trying to hear both sides.'

Jonathan became pensive. He was irritated that his wife was arguing with him but honest enough to admit that she was making an important point. In accepting the probability of Henry Redmayne's guilt, he had denied the man the right to defend himself and left contact with the prisoner to his brother. He recalled that Martin Crenlowe had also visited Newgate to offer succour to his friend.

Yet Jonathan had deliberately kept away from the prison. He sought to justify his decision.

'It would be a waste of time, Sarah.'

'Why?'

'Henry Redmayne dislikes me. He'd never let me near him.'

"Things may have changed since he's been in there. You've often told me how glad prisoners are to have any visitors. It means that someone is thinking about them.'

'I'd not be there as a visitor. He'd see me as an enemy.'

'Even though he knows you are a friend of his brother?'

'Mr Redmayne might not wish me to go.'

'Have you asked him?'

'No, Sarah.'

'Then why not do so? He might even want the two of you to go together.'

"That would be different,' he conceded.

'He'll not refuse the offer. Besides,' she went on, 'you are much more used to visiting a prison than he is. You've been to Newgate dozens of times. You know some of the turnkeys there. Talk to them about Mr Redmayne's brother.'

Jonathan hesitated. His wife's advice was sound yet he found it difficult to accept. He was afraid that he would be spurned by Henry Redmayne and that his visit would simply widen the rift between him and the prisoner's brother. On the other hand, he knew the value of studying a man who was behind bars. The way that a suspect bore himself in custody could give a strong indication of his guilt or innocence. A word with the turnkeys who looked after Henry Redmayne might be profitable. It was worth trying. After making his decision, Jonathan stood up and wrapped his arms gratefully around his wife.

'Where would I be with you to counsel me, Sarah?'

'I do not do it for your benefit,' she said with a smile, 'but for my own. If you stay awake at night, then so do I. And we both need our sleep.'

Exhaustion had finally got the better of Henry Redmayne. His body had been drained of all its powers of resistance. Even the pervading stench and nocturnal pandemonium of Newgate could not keep him awake. He lay on the straw and went off into oblivion. It was only when the turnkey shook him hard next morning that he opened his eyes.

'Wake up, sir!' grunted the man. 'You've a visitor.'

Henry was bewildered. 'Where am I?' he asked, looking around.

'Where you belong - in Newgate.'

'I'm in prison?'

The realisation brought him fully awake and he sat up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. When the turnkey left the cell, Christopher stepped into it and the door was locked behind him. He was carrying a pile of clothing over his arm.

'Good morning, Henry,' he said.

'Is it morning? I've no sense of time in here.'

'Do you not hear the bells chiming the hour?'

'All I can here is the pounding of my own heart, Christopher.' He stared at the suit that his brother had brought. 'What do you have there?'

'A change of apparel.'

'I need none.'

'Those things are filthy,' said Christopher. 'You must take them off.'

'There's no call for fashion in here.'

'But there is a call for self-respect. That's one of my favourite tenets. Come, now. You'll feel much better when you look something like your old self.'

'I never expect to do that again,' moaned Henry.

'We'll see. The turnkey will be back soon with warm water and a razor. Since you did not shave yesterday, I'll be your barber today. I've also turned valet. That's why I called at your house on the way here to pick up this fresh attire.'

'I'll not wear it.'

'Would you let Father see you in that state?'

Henry quailed. The thought of meeting his father at all was unnerving. To receive him in a prison cell when he was soiled and unkempt would be to give the old man additional reasons for outrage and condemnation. A shaven chin and a smart suit would at least offer Henry a slight degree of protection. It would also remind him of whom he was. He thanked Christopher for his thoughtful- ness then bent down to retrieve something from the straw.

'You'll not need a razor,' he said. 'I have one here.' 'Where did that come from?'

'A friendly hand dropped it through the bars to help me escape.'

'Escape?' said Christopher with alarm. 'You surely did not think that you could kill the turnkey and get out of here. That's madness, Henry.'

'There's a simpler means of escape.'

He pretended to slit his throat with the razor. Christopher was so appalled that he dropped the clothing on the straw and snatched the razor from him. Slipping it into his pocket, he grabbed his brother by the shoulders.

'I do not believe that you even contemplated such a thing,' he said.

'It seemed the only way out.'

'Of what?'

'This unbearable misery, Christopher.'

'But that will not last forever.'

'No,' said Henry mournfully. 'It will end on the gallows when I dance on fresh air to amuse the crowd. I did not think that I could face that.'

'You'll not have to, Henry. Your case may not even come to trial.'

'I feel that it already has. That's why the razor had a gruesome appeal for me.'

'Then I'll make sure it's not left in the cell,' affirmed Christopher, 'and I'll speak to the prison sergeant. He needs to know that someone is encouraging one of his charges to commit suicide. Has it really come to this?' he asked, shaking his brother vigorously. 'Taking your own life is an unpardonable sin, Henry. It's a crime against God and an act of cruelty against those who love you. How could you even think about it?'

'I was desperate.'

'Then pray for deliverance.'

'There's no hope of that, Christopher.'

'Yes, there is,' rejoined the other. 'You are innocent of the charge against you.'

Henry was bemused. 'Am I?'

'When the real killer is apprehended, they'll have to release you.'

'When will that be?'

'Soon, I trust. Very soon.'

'But not before Father reaches London.' 'Perhaps not.'

'Do not tell him about the razor,' begged Henry. 'Spare me that.'

'I'd not dare tell him,' said Christopher, 'for I know how hurt he'd be. Father is on his way here in order to comfort you, Henry. How do you think he would feel if he learned that you had committed suicide? He'd be utterly destroyed. He'd see it, as everyone else would see it, as an admission of guilt.'

'But I may be guilty. That's what torments me.'

'You were guilty of drinking too much and losing your temper. Nothing more than that. Bad behaviour is not a crime. You were foolish but you are no killer.'

'Yet I wanted that villain dead. I own that freely.'

The door was unlocked and the turnkey handed Christopher a razor and a bowl of warm water. Christopher thanked him then the door was shut again. He looked at Henry with a sympathy that was tempered with disgust. At least, he told himself, his brother had confessed to the thoughts of suicide. That was a positive sign. But it did not take away his sense of shock. The razor suddenly felt hot in his hand.

'I'd never have done it,' Henry assured him. 'I was not brave enough.'

'A brave man would never even have considered it.'

'I'm sorry, Christopher.'

'Sit down under the window so that I can see to shave you.'

Henry was contrite. He put the stool where it would catch the best of the light then lowered himself on to it. Christopher had never shaved anyone else before, and these were hardly the ideal conditions in which to try it, but he did his best. After using the water to wash the grime from his brother's face, he plied the razor with great care.

'I've brought more food as well,' he said. 'I left it with the prison sergeant.'

'You are very kind to me, Christopher.'

'Kinder than you are to yourself, it seems.'

'I had a moment of weakness.'

'Your life is a succession of them,' said Christopher harshly. 'This is by far the worst. I thank God that you stayed your hand. Now, hold still,' he ordered as Henry moved his head. 'You may wish to cut your throat but I do not.'

When his beard had been slowly scraped away, Henry felt considerably better. He stripped off his dirty clothing and put on the clean apparel. Christopher had been right. His brother looked something like his old self and that instilled a new confidence in him. Henry told himself that was no longer a condemned man in grubby attire. He was the victim of a dreadful error.

'Thank you, Christopher,' he said, embracing him warmly.

'You thank me best by believing in yourself.'

Twill, I will.'

'Then let's have no more moments of weakness.'

'I give you my word.' Henry became afraid. 'When shall I expect Father?'

'That depends on how fast he travels from Gloucester,' said Christopher, folding up his brother's discarded clothing. 'The most he could manage in a day is thirty miles and only that if the roads are clear.'

'I thought he'd come down from heaven like a bolt of lightning.'

'You've already been struck by that.'

'Too true, brother!'

'Father will bring you more solace than stricture.'

'They are one and the same thing to him,' said Henry with a shiver. 'Father always travels with a pulpit.' He thought of his tattered reputation. 'What do they say about me, Christopher? How am I proclaimed in the city?'

'I do not listen to any hostile comment.'

'My enemies must be dancing with delight at my predicament.'

'Think only of your friends,' advised Christopher. 'They do not doubt you. I've spoken with Martin Crenlowe and with Sir Humphrey Godden. Both of them swear that you could never have committed this crime.'

'Martin was good enough to visit me.'

'Do not rely on the same consideration from Sir Humphrey. Though he supports you to the hilt, he is too full of his own affairs to come and see you. I had the impression that he was a fastidious man who'd never dare to let the stink of prison enter his nostrils.'

'Sir Humphrey has a fondness for perfumes and powders.'

'And an even greater fondness for himself.'

'He's good company when you get to know him properly, Christopher. Sir Humphrey Godden is cheerful, amusing and generous to a fault. I've lost count of the number of times his purse has bailed me out.'

'He loaned money to Captain Harvest as well, I believe.'

'Most people in London have done that,' said Henry with a cynical smile. 'A few of them have even had it repaid. James is a worthless hanger-on. This business has shown him in a true light.'

'He's the only one of the three who's turned against you.'

'Good riddance to him!'

'Sir Humphrey seemed to think him a likeable rogue,' said Christopher. 'Having met the captain myself, I saw a more sinister streak in him. Of the four of you who shared a meal that night, Captain Harvest was the most likely back-stabber.'

Henry was astonished. 'Do you believe that he killed Jeronimo Maldini?'

'Someone did, Henry, and it was not you.'

'But James and the Italian were on friendly terms.'

'How reliable is Captain Harvest's friendship? You've seen how quickly he's turned against you. Martin Crenlowe and Sir Humphrey were both disgusted by that.'

'No,' said Henry. 'I refuse to accept that James was involved. He had somewhere else to go that night. I watched him stride off down Fenchurch Street. Martin, too. He was eager to go home to his wife.'

'What of Sir Humphrey? Does he have a wife?'

'Oh, yes. And a comely creature she is.'

'Why did you not travel in his coach when he went back to Covent Garden that night?' wondered Christopher. 'His house is not far from Bedford Street and I understand that he offered you a lift. Why turn him down?'

'Because he was not going back home,' said Henry. 'Sir Humphrey wanted us to go elsewhere in order to carouse until dawn. I was in no mood for that. I preferred to make my own way back to Bedford Street.'

'But you were intercepted by Signor Maldini.'

'Yes, Christopher. Not far from the tavern.'

'That was in Fenchurch Street. How do you explain the fact that you were found by two watchmen much closer to the river?'

Henry blinked. 'Was I?' he asked in surprise. 'How did I get there?'

'I was hoping that you could tell me that.'

'It's all so vague. The truth is that I'm not sure what I remember about that night beyond the fact that I was seething with rage at that glib Italian.'

Christopher did not press him. Whether from drink or as a result of a blow he might have received to the head, his brother was genuinely confused about events. It made the task of defending him that much more difficult. The door was unlocked as a signal that it was time for the visitor to leave. Christopher gathered up the discarded clothing and made sure that the two razors were not left in the cell.

'Thank you for everything,' said Henry, embracing him again. 'I'm sorry that you've been dragged into this mess. It must perforce have dulled your own lustre.'

'Do not worry about me.'

'But I do. One act of folly from me will inflict damage on your career as well. Instead of being a successful architect, you'll be pointed at as the brother of a killer.'

'Not by people whose opinion I value,' said Christopher. 'I'll admit that I had fears in that direction but they've proved groundless. My latest commission is quite unthreatened by what's happened to you.'

"Then your client must not yet know about my disgrace.'

'I believe that she does, Henry. She hinted as much to me.'

'Oh?'

'Lady Whitcombe is given to impulses. When she sets her heart on something, she means to get it whatever the obstructions. I feel secure in her employ. She is so eager for me to design her new house in London that I fancy she'd not dismiss me even if my brother had assassinated the entire royal family.'

'But how can you attend to her needs when you are entangled with mine?'

'Forget her,' soothed Christopher. 'Lady Whitcombe is in Sheen and unlikely to stir from there until building gets under way. That will not happen until the Thames unfreezes completely, for the stone we require for the house will have to come by water. No,' he said confidently, 'I do not expect to see Lady Whitcombe for weeks.'

The coach moved slowly along the rutted track so that the occupants were not bounced about too much. Supported by cushions,

Lady Cecily Whitcombe sat in the coach with a blanket over her knees. Her daughter, Letitia, also wrapped up in warm clothing, was seated beside her. In spite of their discomfort, the two women were excited.

'I'm so pleased that Egerton has come back at last,' said Lady Whitcombe. 'He's been away too long. I've missed him terribly.'

'So have I, Mother. Life is so dull without Egerton to brighten our day. But I'm even more pleased that he wishes to stay in London,' said Letitia with a giggle. 'It gives us an excuse to visit him there.'

'Egerton is not the only person we'll visit, Letitia.'

'I know. I have every hope that we'll see your architect again.'

'Be assured of that.'

'Will I be able to meet him?'

'I'll insist on it.'

"Thank you, Mother.'

'Do you like Mr Redmayne?'

'Very much.'

'I could see that he's taken to you,' said the older woman complacently. "Though you must strive for more composure in his presence. You giggle far too much. That's irritating. It shows a lack of maturity. Mr Redmayne is a serious young man. Try to impress him.'

'It's he who impresses me. What an imagination he must have!'

'That's why I chose him, Letitia.'

'He's so clever and yet so modest. I love being close to him.'

'Good,' said Lady Whitcombe, patting her hand with maternal approval. 'That's as it should be. I'm sure that Egerton will get on with him as well.'

'Nobody could take a dislike to Mr Redmayne.'

'Precisely. He is truly exceptional. There are lots of people we shall call on while we are in London and Christopher Redmayne will certainly be among the first.'

The coffee house was in a street behind Charing Cross. Jonathan Bale had walked past it many times without daring to venture in but he had no choice on this occasion. One of the customers was just arriving in a sedan chair. He was an elderly man with a walking stick and a servant had to help him up the stairs. The constable followed them. Before he even stepped into the room itself, he could hear the babble of voice and smell the aroma of coffee mingling with that of tobacco smoke. Jonathan was relieved to see that the place was half-empty at that time of the morning. It lessened the degree of discomfort he felt and made it easier to pick out the man he sought. The room was long and narrow with tables set out in parallel lines along both walls. It was an exclusively male preserve for fashionable Londoners. He could see why coffee was sometimes called politicians' porridge for the snippets of conversation he heard from nearby all concerned the affairs of the day. Christopher Redmayne had given him an accurate description of the customer he was looking for so Jonathan soon identified Sir Humphrey Godden. Seated alone at a table in the corner, the man was taking snuff from a silver box.

Jonathan approached him, introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit. Sir Humphrey was not pleased to be accosted by a parish constable.

'How did you know that I'd be here?' he said with indignation.

'I called at your house,' explained Jonathan. 'I was told that you always visited this coffee house at a certain time of the morning.'

'I come here to see friends, not to be interrogated.'

'I thought that Henry Redmayne was one of those friends.'

'Well, yes,' said the other,' he is. More often than not, he'd be sitting in that chair opposite me. Henry is a fine fellow. But, like me, he loathes any interruptions.'

'He needs your help, Sir Humphrey.'

'He has it, man. He knows that I'll speak up for him in court.'

'There are a few questions I wish to put to you first.'

'This is not a convenient moment,' said Sir Humphrey testily. 'I've arranged to meet someone and he'll be here at any moment.'

Jonathan folded his arms. 'Then I'll wait.'

'I can't have you standing over me like that.'

'Would you prefer that I sat down?'

'No!'

'The questions are important, Sir Humphrey.'

'So is drinking my coffee in peace.'

'I won't disturb you.'

Jonathan stood there obstinately with his feet wide apart. Other customers were glancing across at him and speculating audibly on why he was there. Though he felt incongruous among the moneyed and over-dressed habitues of the coffee house, he was determined not to budge. Sir Humphrey eventually capitulated.

'Very well,' he snarled. 'Ask your questions then get out of here.'

'My first question is this. Why are you so unwilling to assist your friend?'

'I'll assist Henry in any way that I can.'

'That was not his brother's opinion, Sir Humphrey, nor is it mine. Both of us have seen how you put your own interests before those of a man in a desperate situation.'

'What more can I do?'

'You might visit him in prison to offer your sympathy.'

'Go to Newgate?' said Sir Humphrey, offended by the suggestion. 'The place is rife with disease, man. You'll not find me going into a fetid swamp like that.'

'Mr Crenlowe had enough compassion to call on a friend.'

'Then Martin will have spoken for both of us.'

'Are you trying to disown Mr Redmayne?'

'That's a scandalous suggestion, Mr Bale, and I resent it.' He made a visible effort to sound more reasonable. 'Look, man,' he said. 'Nothing can be achieved by my visiting Henry in prison. I know him. He'd be mortified to be seen in such dire straits. It's a kindness not to trouble him. But that does not mean I've forgotten the poor fellow. Only yesterday, I spent half an hour with the lawyer whom his brother has engaged to defend Henry. I spoke up strongly for him.'

'Could you offer any firm evidence to prove his innocence?'

'It does not need to be proved. Henry would never do such a thing. It's as simple as that. You do not spend so much time in the company of a friend without understanding his essential character.'

'He's prone to lose his temper.'

'Most of us are, Mr Bale,' said the other, glaring at him. 'When provoked.'

'Were you sorry to hear that Signor Maldini had been murdered?'

'Not at all. I was delighted.'

'Did you dislike him so much?'

'I dislike all foreigners, sir. They should be sent back where they belong.'

'The Queen is a foreigner,' noted Jonathan, arching an eyebrow. 'Would you have Her Majesty sent back to her own country?' 'Of course not, you idiot! Royalty is above reproach.'

'That's a matter of opinion, Sir Humphrey.'

'Jeronimo Maldini was a scheming Italian without a decent bone in his body. He was a fine swordsman, I grant him that. I've never seen a better one. But he did not respect his betters, Mr Bale.' His eyes ignited. 'He did not know his place.'

'Who stabbed him in the back?'

'It was not Henry Redmayne.'

'Who else could it have been?'

'I wish I knew, sir. I'd like to congratulate him.'

'Do you condone an act of murder, then?'

'I abhor the taking of life but applaud the result in this case.'

'That's as much as to say you think the killing was justified.'

'It rid us of a foul pestilence.'

'Captain Harvest does not think so.'

'Do not listen to James,' said Sir Humphrey, flushing with anger. 'He actually liked that execrable foreigner. That was his besetting sin. He could not discriminate. James liked almost everybody.'

'He does not seem to like Henry Redmayne.'

'James had a blind spot where Henry was concerned.'

'Is that all it was?' asked Jonathan. There was no reply. 'Someone must pay the penalty for this crime, Sir Humphrey,' he resumed. 'Most people believe that the culprit has already been caught.'

'Only because they do not know him as we do.'

'If he's innocent, someone else must have wielded that dagger. I realise that Captain Harvest was a friend of the dead man but could he have been the killer?'

"That's a ludicrous notion!'

'Mr Crenlowe did not think so.'

'James had no motive,' said Sir Humphrey. 'We all gain by the murder. He is the only one who stands to lose. Why search for a killer among the four of us who shared a meal that night? Nobody knows better than a constable how many hazards there are at night in the streets of London. There are hundreds of villains at large who'd stab a man in the back for the sheer pleasure of it.'

'But they'd have their own weapons,' observed Jonathan. 'They'd not use a dagger that was owned by Mr Redmayne. How do you account for that?' There was another silence. 'And I have to disagree with your earlier comment, Sir Humphrey,' he continued. 'You do

not all gain from this murder. As a result of it, Mr Redmayne may well lose his life.'

Before he could respond, Sir Henry saw someone walking down the room and rose to welcome him. Martin Crenlowe was surprised to see the constable there. After an exchange of greetings, the two friends took their seats at the table.

Sir Humphrey was abrupt. 'Will that be all, Mr Bale?'

'For the moment,' said Jonathan. 'I may need to speak to you again.'

'Do not dare to do so in here again. You have created a scene.'

'That was not my intention, Sir Humphrey.'

'What about me, Mr Bale?' asked Crenlowe, adopting a more helpful tone. 'Shall you require some more information from me? I'll be happy to furnish it.'

Thank you, sir.'

'I'm sorry if I was a trifle brusque with you at our last meeting.'

'You were in a hurry, Mr Crenlowe. I understood that.'

'Henry's welfare comes before my family obligations.'

'I agree,' added Sir Humphrey. 'Now perhaps you'll leave us alone so that we can enjoy a cup of coffee. We have much to discuss.'

Jonathan looked from one to the other. 'I'm sure that you have, Sir Humphrey.' He touched the brim of his hat. 'Good day to you, gentlemen.'

Another day had been swallowed up with frightening speed by the crisis. Christopher Redmayne suddenly found that evening was already starting to chase the last rays of light out of the sky yet again. Much had been done but little had so far been achieved. After his visit to the prison, he had returned to the house in Bedford Street to hand over the discarded clothing to Henry's valet and to assure him, and the other servants who gathered anxiously around him, that their master would eventually be released without a stain on his character. They tried hard to believe him but Christopher could see that they feared the worst. Their own futures looked bleak. It would not be easy for the servants of a convicted murderer to find a new master.

After dining early at home, Christopher went off for another meeting with the lawyer who would fight to save Henry's life in court. Indifferent to the legal costs that he was running up, he spent the whole afternoon with him but the man was able to hold out much hope of success. All that Christopher could offer him were hearsay evidence and intelligent speculation. The prosecution, by contrast, had a murder weapon with his brother's initials on it. He was irritated by the excessive caution of his legal advisor but he could do nothing to dispel it. A mood of pessimism hung over the whole discussion. By the time that he left, Christopher was forced to accept that, unless he and Jonathan Bale found an alternative killer, then Henry Redmayne's initials might already be on the hangman's rope as well.

It was ironic. As prospects were brightening for one brother, they were rapidly deteriorating for the other. Christopher felt guilty about it because he was eternally grateful to Henry for helping him to launch his career as an architect. It was his brother who had secured the first vital commissions for him and whose connections at Court and elsewhere had brought Christopher so many valuable contacts. Now that he was more established, he did not need Henry's assistance but that did not weaken his profound feeling of gratitude. While the architect was about to earn a substantial sum of money from Lady Whitcombe, his brother was languishing in a prison with a possible death sentence hanging over him. The disparity in their fortunes could not have been greater.

Christopher had arranged to call on Jonathan Bale that evening so that they could compare any new intelligence that had come to light. Before he did that, however, he felt the urge to visit Fenchurch Street to view the tavern where his brother had gone with friends on the fateful night. Setting a brisk pace, he walked along Cheapside and took note of the architecture on the way. It was encouraging to see just how much rebuilding had already been completed. Within three years of the Great Fire, almost three thousand new houses had been constructed in the ashes of the old ones. It was an astonishing feat. Christopher was proud to have designed a few of those properties. Taverns, ordinaries, guild halls, warehouses and civic buildings had also risen again and work was continuing on some of the many churches that had been destroyed in the blaze. Precautions had been enforced from the start. Streets were widened, thatch was replaced by tile and brick was the most common building material. Half-timbered houses had gone up like tinder in the blaze. London had learned its lesson.

When he reached the tavern in Fenchurch Street, Christopher was reminded of that lesson once again. The Elephant was well- named. It was big, solid and indomitable. While neighbouring buildings crashed to the ground, its thick stone walls had withstood the fiery siege like an invincible fortress. Christopher was not there to admire the finer points of its construction and the growing darkness would have made it impossible to do so. He gazed around, feeling that conditions were very similar to those on the night when his brother had come out of the tavern. It was cold, murky and inhospitable. People who passed on the other side of the street were conjured out of the gloom for seconds before disappearing into it again. If Henry was too drunk to walk properly, it would have been simple to ambush him.

After looking up and down the street, Christopher made his way towards the river. Jonathan Bale had told him the exact location where the two watchmen had chanced upon the fallen man. It was in an alleyway off Thames Street, too dark to explore without a lantern and too dangerous for any sensible person to enter late at night. Henry must have got himself there somehow but had no memory of the journey. As he stood there and tried to work out how his brother had ended up at that spot, Christopher could hear a strange noise. He soon discovered what it was. When he walked down to the river bank itself, he realised that the ice was still cracking up. Having thawed in the middle, it was now melting towards the banks, splitting into huge blocks that bobbed and jostled in the water. Directly below him, Christopher noticed, a small pond had opened up, still filled with jagged pieces of ice but clear evidence that the Thames was determined to obliterate all signs of the frost fair that had been held upon its back.

There were lots of people passing by and he felt in no danger. He leaned over and peered into the darkness. It was a grave mistake. A hand was suddenly placed in the middle of his back to give him a hard shove. Christopher lost his balance. Unable to stop himself, he tumbled helplessly through space until he hit the cold, swirling, merciless water with a loud splash.