The Frost Fair

Chapter Five

Devoted to a life of outward show, Henry Redmayne had never felt the need to look beyond his reflection in a mirror at the inner man. He was now forced to do so and found it a thoroughly disagreeable experience. It soon dawned on him that he had neither the character nor the strength to cope with the predicament in which he found himself. Gregarious by nature, he was lost when cut off from human company of the kind that he favoured. Yet he shuddered at the thought that any of his acquaintances should see him in such distress, locked away in a grimy cell, deprived of even the most basic comforts, drooping with fatigue and trembling with fear. In his fevered mind, the prospect of execution was a very real one. Henry knew that it would be preceded by a series of other humiliations. His name would be besmirched, his friends would fall away, his enemies would rejoice and his family would suffer horrendously. It was that same family which now preoccupied the prisoner.

While his brother, Christopher, was standing by him with unquestioning loyalty, his father would definitely take a more trenchant view of his plight. Henry was as terrified of the Dean of Gloucester as he was of the hangman. At least he would not have to endure a blistering sermon from the latter. Overcome with guilt, he could not bear the notion of being confronted by an outraged parent in homiletic vein, yet the truth could not be hidden from his father. One thing he had learned about the Church was its remarkable capacity for disseminating bad tidings. A messenger might already be on his way to Gloucester and he would not return to London alone. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne, stirred into action, would surely accompany him, armed with stinging rebukes and dire predictions about his elder son's reception at the Last Judgement. It would be worse than being flayed alive. Henry was unequal to it. Falling to his knees in the straw, he prayed, with a fervour he usually reserved for amorous encounters, that his father was kept away from him by whatever means.

The grating of a key in the lock made him jump to his feet and flatten himself against the wall, frightened that the Almighty had spurned his request and delivered the Dean of Gloucester to scourge him for his sins. When someone stepped into his cell, Henry did not dare to look. The door was locked behind the visitor.

'My dear fellow!' said a kindly voice. 'Look at the state of you!'

Henry peered at him. 'Is that you, Martin?' he asked, torn between gratitude and embarrassment. 'What are you doing here?'

'I came to see you and to bring you some sustenance.'

Martin Crenlowe was a fleshy man in his thirties with a reddish tinge to his nose and cheeks. A goldsmith by trade, Crenlowe had expensive tastes in clothing. His periwig framed a podgy face that was creased with sympathy. He was a fastidious man who had taken the precaution of carrying a pomander to ward off the stink of Newgate and the risk of infection. He had also brought a flagon of wine and some food. Unhappy at being seen in such a miserable condition, Henry was revived by the sight of the turkey pie, cheese and fruit. He accepted them with profuse thanks.

'It's good to know that one of my friends has not disowned me,' he said.

'Why should I disown you?'

'Because I'm held here on a charge of murder.'

'I know,' said Crenlowe, shifting his feet uneasily. 'I came to apologise for my part in that. I do not believe for one moment that you were the killer, Henry, but they put me under oath and I was compelled to speak the truth. I was there when it happened. I heard you threaten Signor Maldini.'

'I've never denied it.'

"The three of us had to bear witness against you. Sir Humphrey Godden, Captain Harvest and myself. We had no choice.'

'I do not blame you for that, Martin.'

'But our evidence helped to land you in Newgate. Can you ever forgive us?'

'You spoke honestly. I did threaten to kill him.'

'Only because you were sorely provoked,' said Crenlowe. 'And there's all the difference in the world between a wild threat uttered in the heat of the moment and the determination to carry it out. Let them say what they will. I'll never accept that Henry Redmayne is a ruthless killer, nor will Sir Humphrey.'

'What of Captain Harvest?'

Crenlowe sighed. 'James has let you down badly, alas.'

'In what way?'

'He's convinced of your guilt and is telling everyone who'll listen to him that you are a dangerous man with a temper you could not control. Sir Humphrey and I are so appalled by his behaviour that we've cut him dead.'

"The villain!'

'Forget him, Henry. Lean on your friends.'

'I did not know that I still had any.'

'One stands before you,' said Crenlowe loyally, 'and there are others who do not doubt your innocence. If there's any way that we can help, you've only to ask.'

'Your visit has been a medicine in itself, Martin. It's cured my one malady - the fear that the whole of London had turned against me. As for help,' said Henry, 'the person you must turn to is my brother, Christopher. He's trying to marshal my defence and would welcome aid from any source. He lives in Fetter Lane.'

'You once pointed out the house to me.' He heard the key in the lock again. 'My time is up. I was only permitted a brief moment with you.'

'You've brought me more comfort than I can say.'

'Enjoy the wine,' said Crenlowe as the door creaked open. 'And do not despair, Henry. We'll get you out of this somehow.'

'God bless you!'

The house was in Covent Garden and Christopher Redmayne spent several minutes admiring its exterior before he knocked on the door. It was typical of the properties that were being built in increasing numbers in the area, tall, imposing and elegant with a narrow frontage. Marble pillars supported the portico. Evidently, a considerable amount of money had been spent on the house by someone with firm views about architecture. A manservant opened the door and, after listening to the visitor's name and request, invited him into the hall while he went off to speak to his master. There was a long delay during which Christopher inspected the paintings on the wall. Like his brother, Sir Humphrey Godden had an insatiable curiosity in the naked female form. Nudes of varying shapes and sizes abounded. In the one portrait where a young lady was fully dressed, she was raising an expressive eyebrow while exposing a rounded breast to the artist. Christopher was still studying a picture of a Bacchanalian orgy when footsteps clacked across the marble floor. He turned to see a tall, striking man in his forties with a black moustache that matched exactly the colour of his wig. Dressed to go out in a scarlet cloak, he was carrying a hat and cane. He eyed his visitor with frank displeasure.

'Sir Humphrey?' asked Christopher.

'You come at an inopportune moment, Mr Redmayne,' replied the other, putting on his hat. 'I was about to leave.'

'I'll not detain you long. I'm sure that you can guess why I'm here.'

'If it is to ask me to change my evidence, you are wasting your time. I spoke as my conscience dictated. Your brother threatened to kill Jeronimo Maldini and I heard him loud and clear. That's what I reported.'

'Henry admits it himself.'

'Then this conversation is superfluous.'

'Not so, Sir Humphrey,' said Christopher, wondering why the man was so unwilling to talk to him. 'I came here on my brother's behalf because I understood that Henry counted you among his friends.'

'We've shared many pleasurable times together.'

'In view of that, is it too much to ask that you might try to help him?'

'I have an appointment, Mr Redmayne.'

'So does Henry, unless he is cleared of the charge. I venture to suggest that his appointment is of more significance than yours since it would be with the hangman.'

'Very well,' said Sir Humphrey with undisguised irritation. 'Ask what you will.'

'Thank you.'

Christopher could see at a glance why his brother had befriended Sir Humphrey Godden. They were birds of a feather, confirmed hedonists with a passion for all the vices of the city. Like Henry, his friend wore ostentatious apparel and cultivated an air of suppressed boredom. The handsome features were marred by the clear signs of late nights and loose company. The difference between the two men was that Sir Humphrey had unlimited money to support his indulgences while Henry Redmayne did not, though that fact did not deter him in the least.

'What manner of man was Jeronimo Maldini?' asked Christopher.

'He was a confounded foreigner and we already have too many of those here.'

'Yet an accomplished swordsman, obviously.'

'Yes,' said Sir Humphrey. 'Give the fellow his due. He could handle any kind of blade with masterful skill. None of us could touch him.'

'You were a pupil of his, then?'

'We all were at some time or another, Mr Redmayne. Captain Harvest was first. Then I took lessons from him, followed by Martin Crenlowe. Henry was the last to seek instruction and the quickest to abandon it.'

'Why did he do that?'

'Because he found Signor Maldini too infuriating.'

'Infuriating?'

'He liked to humble us, to expose our weaknesses in front of others. Henry could not bear that. He felt that the man was there to improve our skills, not to demonstrate that his own were far superior. I left the fencing school for the same reason and so did Martin Crenlowe. The only person who could tolerate him was James.'

'James?'

'Captain Harvest.'

'My brother said he was a fine swordsman in his own right.'

'He was. Try as he might, even that mocking Italian could not make James look like a novice. Soldiers are trained to fight for their lives, not merely for pleasure. James had picked up too many tricks to be humiliated by a fencing master.'

'Why did he need the lessons in the first place?'

'You'll have to ask him that.'

'So you left the school because of Signor Maldini's habit of goading you?'

'That was only part of the reason,' replied Sir Humphrey, adjusting his cloak. 'I disliked the man intensely. He was vain, insolent, disrespectful and lacking in all the virtues of an English gentleman. In short,' he said with disgust, 'he was an Italian.'

'I have great respect for Italians,' said Christopher, responding to the other's manifest prejudice. 'No nation on earth has produced so many wonderful artists and architects. This house bears many traces of Classical influence.'

'I need no lecture on architecture, Mr Redmayne.'

'Nor would I presume to give you one.'

"Then do not try to excuse the faults of Jeronimo Maldini by citing the artistic achievements of his countryman. I knew the man for what he was - a low, cunning, deceitful rogue with a rare skill as a fencing master. I'll not mourn him,' he asserted, wagging a finger. 'I think he deserved to die.' He moved across to the front door. 'And now, I fear, you must excuse me. I've given you all the time I can.'

'One last question, Sir Humphrey.'

'Well?'

'Do you believe that my brother killed Signor Maldini?'

'Of course not,' said the other, opening the door. 'Henry Redmayne would not stab anyone in the back. He's like me. He would have run the man through with a sword so that he could have enjoyed the look of horror in the eyes of that odious Italian. What's the point of revenge if you cannot savour it to the full?'

Captain James Harvest proved to be an elusive quarry. Jonathan Bale did not track him down until well into the following day. When the man was not at his lodgings, Jonathan pursued him through his various haunts, guided by the advice of Harvest's landlord and a succession of tavern keepers, all of whom seemed to be on close terms with the ubiquitous soldier. It was almost as if the man knew that the constable was on his tail and kept one step ahead of him. Jonathan was not to be shaken off. A combination of patience and dogged determination eventually brought a result. Captain Harvest was run to ground at the Peacock Inn. Located in Whitefriars, it was at the heart of a lively district, inhabited by people of contrasting fortunes. While the area attracted lawyers, doctors and members of other professions, some of its streets were warrens of poverty and neglect.

Jonathan paused to study a row of houses that had been rebuilt the previous year. During the Great Fire, he had helped to pull down the properties that stood there before in order to create a firebreak but the inferno scorned his efforts by vaulting over the empty space with ease. Whitefriars had a cosmopolitan feel to it. In its noisy streets, English was not the only language that drifted into his ear. Jonathan lost count of the number of taverns and ordinaries that he passed. The area seemed to have its fair share of bookshops as well. The Peacock Inn was a popular establishment, occupying a corner site. When he heard the clash of steel and the sound of raised voices, Jonathan went around to the courtyard at the rear of the premises and saw two men engaged in a sword fight, encouraged by a handful of spectators with tankards of beer in their hand. The constable did not stop to notice that the younger of the two combatants was having difficulty in fending the other one off.

'Stop!' he ordered, rushing forward. "The law forbids duels.'

'This is no duel,' explained the older man, lowering his rapier. 'I was merely giving this young fellow a lesson in how to defend himself.'

'You've taught me enough for one day,' said his opponent, glad of the interruption and sheathing his weapon. 'Come inside and I'll honour my promise.'

'I'll hold you to that, my friend.'

The young man went into the inn with the onlookers and Jonathan was left alone with a sturdy individual in his forties whose face was half-hidden by a red beard and further obscured by an pair of enormous eyebrows that all but met on the bridge of his nose. The stranger had the ready grin and easy manner of a born adventurer. He wore a bright red coat that was frayed slightly at the edges and a wide-brimmed hat that he doffed with a flourish.

'Captain James Harvest, at your service, sir,' he announced.

'Good,' said Jonathan, relieved that he had finally caught up with him. 'My name is Jonathan Bale and I've been searching for you all morning.'

'A not unusual situation, alas. Constables are forever barking at my heels.'

'I only came to ask a few questions, sir.'

'Then I shall endeavour to provide you with a few answers, Mr Bale.' Replacing his hat, Harvest scrutinized him for a moment. 'You were a military man, I think.'

'I've borne arms, Captain Harvest, it's true.'

'For whom did you fight? King and country?'

'I fought for a just cause.'

'Then I applaud you, sir,' said Harvest. 'A soldier who is driven by belief in a cause is worth ten whose swords can be hired for money. So, you were one of Noll's men, were you? He was a doughty commander. I fought against him three times and was thrice hounded from the battlefield.' He nodded towards the inn. 'Shall we step inside?' he suggested, sheathing his sword. 'That little bout has made me thirsty and my pupil owes me a drink.'

'I'd rather speak to you out here where we have some privacy.'

'As you wish, Mr Bale.'

'I believe that you were a friend of Mr Henry Redmayne.'

'I knew him,' conceded Harvest with a frown, 'but I'd hardly describe myself as a friend. I always found him too smug and self-satisfied to merit my friendship. Henry was a silly man at bottom. I did not care for him at all.'

'Yet you spent time with him.'

'Only when it was necessary.'

'How did you meet Mr Redmayne?'

'By chance. We were taught by the same fencing master, not far from here, as it happens. When it comes to swordsmanship, Whitefriars has some of the finest tutors in London. We were fortunate to study with the best of them.'

'Signor Jeronimo Maldini.'

'The very same.'

'I would not have thought that you needed lessons, Captain Harvest. With your experience, you should have been a fencing master yourself.'

'Why, so I am when occasion serves,' said the other, tapping the hilt of his rapier. 'But I like to keep my art in repair and Jeronimo did that for me. He also employed me to practice with novices in return for a modest fee. I taught as I learned.'

'Did you ever teach Mr Redmayne?'

'He thought himself above that,' said Harvest, 'and spurned my offer. Jeronimo soon cut him down to size and made him look the arrant fool that he was.'

"The two men fell out, I believe.'

'They were never kindred spirits, Mr Bale.'

'Why not?'

'Because Henry was too irredeemably English. In other words, he was haughty, selfish and quite unable to turn his gaze beyond our narrow shores.'

'A common complaint, sir.'

'Henry seemed to think that he had a divine right to look down on other nations, especially Italy. His condescension knew no bounds. If he'd seen as much of the world as I have, he'd know that every country has valuable lessons to teach us.' Harvest took a step closer. 'Have you ever met Henry Redmayne?'

'Yes, Captain. A number of times.'

'What was your opinion of the man?'

'It's immaterial.'

'Nevertheless, I'd like to hear it.'

'He's not a person I could readily admire,' admitted Jonathan. 'But, then, nor am I the sort of companion that he would ever seek.'

'What was your trade before you became a constable?'

'I was a shipwright.'

'A good, honest, worthwhile occupation.' He gave a ripe chuckle. 'I could see from the size of your shoulders and the roughness of your hands that you were not a ladies' hairdresser. There's the difference between the two of you, Mr Bale. You served the Navy with the strength of your arm and sweat of your brow. Henry pretends to work at the Navy Office but spends most of his time at play.'

'I'm aware of his habits, Captain Harvest.'

'So why did you come to me?'

'For confirmation of certain facts. Mr Redmayne, as you know, is in prison.'

'And rightly so. He stabbed Jeronimo Maldini to death.'

"That remains to be proved in a court of law.'

'I need no lawyers to tell me who the killer was.'

'You supped with him that night.'

'So?'

'What state was he in when he left you?'

'Quivering with anger.'

'At Signor Maldini?'

'Who else?' asked Harvest. 'Henry loathed the man and made no secret of it. He claimed that Jeronimo once cheated at cards but his hatred went deeper. When two men are at each other's throats like that, there's usually only one reason for it.'

'A pretty woman?' said Jonathan.

'A beautiful woman, Mr Bale. A truly gorgeous and enchanting young lady who had every red-blooded man in London lusting after her. Henry Redmayne was among them, convinced that she'd bestow her favours on him. Then Jeronimo Maldini joined in the hunt and that was that.'

'Was it?'

'Well, you've seen Henry. His good looks deserted him years ago. He could never forgive Jeronimo for being so young, dashing and handsome. Fencing is not the only skill in which the Italians are superior to us. They are also proficient in the arts of seduction.' He chuckled again. 'It was a terrible blow to Henry's self-esteem. He not only lost the lady in question. He surrendered her to a despised rival, who, in his opinion, came from a lower order of creation.'

'How can you be sure that he murdered Signor Maldini?'

'Because it was on his mind when he left the tavern that night.'

'Mr Redmayne claims that the man was lying in wait for him.'

Harvest gave a contemptuous snort. 'He would! It was the other way round, Mr Bale, mark my words. It was Henry who laid the ambush. He caught Jeronimo off guard. That was the only way he could have secured an advantage over him,' he said, thrusting his beard close to Jonathan's face. 'Henry could never hope to beat him in a fair fight so he stabbed him in the back then threw the body in the river.'

'What evidence do you have to support that belief?'

'The evidence of my own eyes,' affirmed Harvest, widening them for effect. 'Henry Redmayne is a killer. I'd stake my reputation on it.'

Christopher Redmayne spent the whole afternoon with the lawyer whom he engaged to take charge of his brother's defence but the man was unable to give him any grounds for optimism. By the time he left, Christopher was more worried than ever. It was early evening as he began the walk home and the light was fading. Frost and ice had been expelled from the city but the thaw had left the streets wet and slippery. Christopher moved along with due care.

He was so taken up with his brother's plight that he had neglected his own work. Drawings lay untouched on his table and he had forgotten about his demanding client. All of his energy was directed towards securing Henry's release from prison. He was suddenly struck by the thought that the murder of Jeronimo Maldini might have serious consequences for his career. Nobody would be eager to employ the brother of a man who had been convicted of such an atrocious crime and his existing client, Lady Whitcombe, might wish to disown him in the light of recent developments. A contract had been signed but Christopher did not feel that it would be sufficiently binding to hold such a forceful woman. The dagger that ended the life of a fencing master might also have severed in two a valuable commission.

Lady Whitcombe was not the only person who had been ousted from his thoughts for the past couple of days. Susan Cheever, too, had faded to the back of his mind even though she had been at the frost fair with him when the body was discovered in the ice. He was too busy to contact her and too uncertain about the reception he would have got at the house in Westminster. Christopher hoped that he might count on sympathy from Susan but he sensed that her father would be much more censorious. Sir Julius Cheever had no respect whatsoever for Henry Redmayne and could hardly be expected to offer support to a man whom he considered to be a worthless rake. He would not scruple to prevent his daughter from getting in touch with Henry's brother.

The change in the weather meant that the truculent knight had probably left for Northamptonshire, which meant that Susan, in turn, would have withdrawn to Richmond. At the very moment when Christopher was starting to get closer to her, she had moved out of his reach. It was galling. In getting arrested and imprisoned, Henry had not simply endangered his brother's career as an architect, he might well have poisoned the dearest relationship in his life. There would no doubt be other appalling losses to come.

It all served to strengthen his resolve to establish his brother's innocence but he recognised that that would not be easy. The one person who was assisting him did so with grave misgivings. Jonathan Bale was too honest to pretend that he shared his friend's belief in a wrongful arrest. The constable had personal reasons for taking an interest in the case and was not impelled by any affection for the suspect. All that mattered to him was the weight of the evidence. He was far more accustomed to the processes of law than Christopher and that disturbed the latter. Hoping for uncritical assistance from his friend, he was settling for something far less. On the other hand, he told himself, Jonathan would certainly unearth some important new facts and he could only hope that they would be instrumental in helping to clear his brother's name.

He left the city through Ludgate and strode along Fleet Street.

Candlelight burned in windows or showed through the chinks in shutters. People were going home on foot or on horseback. London was beginning to close down for another day. Within the hour, watchmen would begin their nocturnal perambulations. When he turned into Fetter Lane, he did so with a sense of guilt. While he would sleep beneath warm sheets that night, Henry would shiver, in the cold of Newgate. In place of a devoted servant like Jacob, his brother would have a coarse and uncaring turnkey. Most important of all, Christopher could enjoy a freedom that was denied to the prisoner.

Jacob had an uncanny gift for anticipating the return of his master. When the latter was within ten yards of the front door, it opened wide. Rubbing his hands together, Jacob put out his head to look down the street. Christopher's approach made him smile with quiet satisfaction.

'Good evening, sir.'

'How did you know that I was coming?'

'It was simply a guess.'

'I wish that my guesses were as accurate,' said Christopher, going into the house. 'When I chose a lawyer this afternoon, I guessed that he might send me home feeling more sanguine. That was not the case, Jacob.'

'Oh dear!'

The old man closed and bolted the door before following him into the parlour.

'It's been such a disappointing day.'

'Would a glass of wine lift your spirits, sir?'

'Not unless I could share it with Henry and toast his release.'

"That moment will come in due course,' said Jacob confidently.

'Is this another of your guesses?'

'I merely offer it as my opinion.'

'Then I accept it with gratitude,' said Christopher, taking off his coat and hat before handing them to Jacob. 'It's comforting to be with someone who believes in my brother's innocence. Jonathan Bale does not and, more to the point, neither does Henry himself.' He lowered himself into a chair. 'Has anything happened while I was away?'

'A gentleman called, sir. Mr Martin Crenlowe.'

'One of Henry's friends.' 'He visited your brother in Newgate and urged you to call on him for any help.'

"Then I'll certainly take up that offer. Any other news?'

'A letter arrived for you, sir.'

'A letter?' said Christopher, hoping that it was from Susan Cheever.

'Here it is,' said Jacob, taking it from the table to hand to him. 'It was delivered by one of Lady Whitcombe's servants.'

'Oh, I see.'

Christopher lost all enthusiasm for opening the missive. A single line from Susan would have rallied him but he could expect no such inspiration from his client. As he studied the neat calligraphy on the front of the letter, he feared that he knew exactly what it would contain. News of his brother's arrest must have found its way to the home of Lady Whitcombe. She was writing to dismiss her architect summarily. Seeing the distress in his master's face, Jacob made the same assumption.

'There'll be many other houses to build, sir.'

'And many other architects to design them.'

'Your reputation will stand you in good stead.'

'I begin to doubt that, Jacob.'

Breaking the seal, he opened the letter and braced himself for the loss of a lucrative commission. Miraculously, it did not come. Instead, he was simply reminded of his promise to deliver his final drawings to Lady Whitcombe that week. His client had either not heard of Henry's disgrace or chosen to ignore it. Whichever it might be, Christopher was placed in an awkward situation. Time that should have been spent at his work had been mortgaged elsewhere. Long hours were still required for the drawings to be in a presentable state. Christopher leapt to his feet.

'Jacob!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Light more candles. I must work.'

'Will that glass of wine be needed now?'

'Only brandy will suffice,' said Christopher. 'I'll have to ride to Sheen tomorrow morning and I need to take the drawings with me. They'll keep me up all night.'

'You're going to Sheen, sir?'

'Yes, Jacob.'

"Then you'll not be far from Richmond.' 'How true!' said Christopher with a slow grin, realising that he might be able to meet Susan Cheever after all. "Thank you for pointing that out, Jacob. I may have two calls to make tomorrow.'

'I thought you might, sir.'

'Fetch that brandy.'

Christopher was soon poring over the table with renewed enthusiasm.