It was all that she uttered on her first, fleeting appearance but it drew a gasp from every man present. Christopher Redmayne was among them, moved by her patent suffering, struck by her wan loveliness and captivated by that soft, lilting voice. In the space of a few seconds, he came to appreciate the magical qualities of Harriet Gow. Once she quit the stage, a heavy murmur returned to fill the air, punctuated by the occasional outbreak of hostilities in the pit or by some altercation in one of the boxes.
The Maid's Tragedy slowly unfolded. Beaumont and Fletcher's play was over half a century old but its theme had a curious topicality, a fact which led to the suppression of the piece when the manager, Thomas Killigrew, had tried to stage it earlier in the reign. The plot revolved around a lecherous King and his corrupt Court. Amintor breaks his engagement to Aspatia at the King's request and in her stead marries Evadne, sister to his friend, Melantius. On their wedding night, Evadne reveals to her husband that he will never enjoy her favours because they are exclusively the property of the King. Unwittingly, Amintor has been tricked into being a cuckold, betraying his true love, Aspatia, in the process. The seeds of tragedy are sown.
Those who could hear the play felt its deeper resonance. The King on stage bore a marked resemblance to the one who sat so calmly in the royal box. Charles II was not always discreet in his private life. It was well known that he had sometimes provided husbands for his mistresses in order to give them a cloak of respectability. More than one real-life Amintor had heard the dread confession from his wife on his wedding night. Henry Redmayne missed none of the innuendoes and sniggered time and again. Jasper Hartwell let out a high-pitched, asinine giggle, accompanied by a violent shaking of his body that made his wig tilt at a dangerous angle. A tragic situation offered much unintended comedy.
There were neither sniggers nor giggles when Aspatia swept in once more, accompanying the treacherous Evadne to the latter's bedchamber. Harriet Gow was a picture of despair, reflecting upon her woe with a sense of resignation rather than self-pity, then cutting through the taut silence with a song that touched even the most cynical listeners.
'Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew,
Maidens, willow branches bear:
Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth.'
Christopher was entranced. Not only had he seen the small miracle of a rowdy audience being subdued to respectful silence, he had heard one of the most melodious and affecting voices ever to issue from a human mouth. Harriet Gow was truly a nightingale. The rest of the cast might display the full range of their abilities but the memory that would linger in every mind was that of Aspatia's sad song in the second act of the play. Christopher's mouth went dry and his eyes gently moistened. Aspatia's vulnerability left him tingling.
When she was offstage, the interruptions resurfaced and many of the lines were lost beneath the commotion but Christopher did not mind. He watched and waited for Aspatia to make another entrance, to impose order once more on the mild chaos and to trumpet the virtues of honesty and loyalty in a society that was bedevilled by vice. The play ended in a welter of deaths, Evadne's killing of the King being presented as a perverted sexual act that excited the senses of the dullest onlookers but it was Aspatia, yet again, who soared above them all, dying with such realism and poignancy that she set women weeping and strong men snuffling. Christopher was not ashamed of his own tears.
Thunderous applause was directed mainly at the hapless Aspatia, now gliding back to the centre of the stage like its undisputed jewel, luxuriating in the ovation and giving a gentle curtsey to the King who was leading it from the royal box. Christopher was a prey to swirling emotions. Pity for Aspatia welled up inside him along with deep affection for the actress who portrayed her. Envy soon took over, then a feeling of betrayal, then a sense of loss. Resignation finally claimed him. While she had been singing her plaintive song, Harriet Gow had been his and every other man's in the audience, reaching out to each one individually with the sheer power and musicality of her voice. Now she was indicating her preference very clearly. A royal nightingale for a royal bed.
'Well?' said Henry into his brother's ear. 'Was I right about her?'
'Oh, yes,' admitted Christopher. 'She is without compare.'
'I would give anything to make her mine,' said Hartwell effusively. 'Harriet Gow is the most beautiful woman in the world. Have you ever heard such a charming voice? It still echoes in my ears. She is absolute perfection.'
'Invite her to your new home, Jasper,' advised Henry.
'Do you think that she would come?'
'She might. If I delivered the invitation - by way of the King.'
Hartwell grabbed him. 'Would you do that for me, Henry?'
'That and much more, my friend. You will have one of the finest houses in London. It deserves to be celebrated with a banquet to which only the most distinguished guests will be invited. Do you agree?'
'Oh, yes!' said the other. 'Mightily!'
'Only one thing remains, then.'
'And what is that?'
'A practical matter,' said Henry with an arm around his shoulder. 'You must engage my brother, Christopher, to design the house for you. When she sees the result, Harriet Gow will snatch at your invitation. In Christopher's hands, architecture is an act of seduction in itself.'
'Then he is the man for me!' announced Hartwell.
'It is settled. Are you content, brother?'
'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Very content.'
But his smile of gratitude concealed deep misgivings.
Chapter Three
Jacob Vout was the ideal servant, always at hand if needed, wholly invisible if not. He moved around the house in Fetter Lane with quiet efficiency and kept the place spotless. Christopher Redmayne could find no fault in him. Jacob was a benign presence, fiercely loyal to his master, honest, trustworthy, kind, conscientious, attentive without being intrusive and obedient without being servile. Now in his sixties, he had learned everything and forgotten nothing about his chosen occupation. Christopher treated him like a friend who happened to work for him.
'Jacob!' he called.
'Yes, sir?' said the old man, materialising at his elbow like a spirit.
'Do we have any drink in the house?'
'A little, sir.'
'Give me a more precise inventory.'
'One bottle of brandy and six bottles of wine.'
'Is the wine of good quality?'
'I think so, sir,' said Jacob defensively, 'but your brother decided otherwise. I fear that Mr Redmayne's tastes are rather exotic. On his last visit here, he made disparaging comments about your cellar, but that did not stop him from consuming a whole bottle of the wine on his own.'
'Only one? Henry must have been on his best behaviour.'
'Mr Redmayne is given to excess.'
Christopher grinned. 'It comes from being the son of a senior churchman,' he said. 'Forget my brother. Fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar and set out three glasses. A celebration is in order.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'Yes, Jacob. My design has been approved by my client and he is bringing the builder here this morning to meet me. This is an important moment in my career. I have finally reached the stage where a house of mine will see the light of day and be paid for in full.'
'That is cheering news, sir.'
'Look upon those bare shelves in the cellar for the last time. They will mock us no longer with their emptiness. We may at last be able to afford to fill them once again, if not with a vintage to Henry's taste, then at least with a tolerable wine.'
Jacob nodded then scuttled out of the parlour. Christopher looked down at the drawings laid out on the table in front of him. He had laboured long and hard to turn Jasper Hartwell's requirements into bricks and mortar, and he was pleased with the result. His fears about his client'
s unacceptable demands had been largely illusory. The exterior of Hartwell's new home would not, after all, reflect its owner's fantastical appearance in any way. He had been as willing to take instruction as to give it, resting gratefully on Christopher's superior knowledge of line and form, and eschewing any extravagance or vulgarity. The architect had been given the freedom to express himself without too much interference.
Christopher's visit to The Theatre Royal had borne rich fruit. Not only had he acquired a wealthy and indulgent client, he had been able to marvel at the art of Harriet Gow, an actress at the very height of her powers. It had been a memorable experience. The melancholy song from The Maid's Tragedy still haunted him and he hummed the tune aloud as he envisaged her singing the lament once again. Jacob showed less fondness for the sound. Returning from the cellar with a bottle of red wine in his grasp, he clicked his tongue at his master.
'You are doing it again, sir,' he commented.
'Doing what?'
'Humming that dirge.'
'It is no dirge, Jacob, but the most bewitching song I ever heard.'
'Then someone else must have been singing it.'
'Indeed, she was.'
'She?'
'A nightingale among women.'
'I've no time for birds who keep me awake after dark,' said the other, eyes twinkling beneath their bushy brows. 'Especially when they are so mournful. I prefer to hear happy songs in daylight.' He set the bottle on the table. 'Three glasses, sir?'
'Yes, please.'
'Your brother will not be joining us, then?'
'Henry will not even be up at this time of the morning, Jacob. His barber does not call until eleven. Besides, he has already played his part in this business. The rest is up to me.'
'Yes, sir.' Jacob took the wine into the kitchen, returning empty-handed to peer over Christopher's shoulder at the drawings. Scratching his bald pate, he let out a wheeze of admiration through his surviving teeth. 'Will there be anything else, sir?'
'Not for the moment. Though I should perhaps warn you.'
'About what, sir?'
'My client's appearance.'
'His appearance?'
'It is rather overwhelming.'
'I'm not easily overwhelmed, sir.'
'That is what I thought until I encountered Mr Jasper Hartwell. Suffice it to say that ostentation is his middle name. Prepare yourself, Jacob. When you open the front door, you will be met by a blaze of colour such as you have never witnessed before.'
'I'll bear that in mind, sir.'
He disappeared from the room and Christopher was left to examine his handiwork once more. Aspatia's song soon returned to his lips. He wondered if Harriet Gow really would attend a banquet at the house he had designed. It gave the commission additional lustre. His mind toyed with memories of the visit to the theatre and time drifted steadily by. The arrival of a coach brought him out of his reverie. Jacob opened the front door before the guests even had time to ring the bell. True to his boast, he was impervious to the vivid plumage before him. After conducting the two men into the parlour, the servant vanished into the kitchen to await the summons concerning the wine.
Jasper Hartwell was at his most flamboyant. Dressed in a suit of blue velvet adorned with gold thread, he doffed his hat, displayed the ginger wig to full effect, gave a token bow and offered a crooked smile.
'Forgive the delay, Mr Redmayne,' he said earnestly. 'Mr Corrigan arrived at my lodgings on time but we were held up in Holborn by the traffic. I've never seen so many carts and carriages fighting over so little space. It was quite unbearable. Something should be done about it. I may need to raise the matter in Parliament. Oh,' he added, extending a gloved hand towards his companion, 'let me introduce the man who will construct my wonderful new house - Mr Lodowick Corrigan, builder supreme.'
Christopher exchanged a greeting with the newcomer then waved both men to chairs. Several weeks had passed since their initial meeting and he had become habituated to his client's mode of address. Jasper Hartwell lived in a world of superlatives. Any architect he employed had, by definition, to be at the pinnacle of his profession; any builder was, by extension, unrivalled in his craft. While Hartwell burbled on excitedly about the project, Christopher sized up the man charged with the responsibility of turning a bold vision into reality.
Notwithstanding his client's fulsome praise, Lodowick Corrigan did not inspire confidence. He was a tall, wiry man in his forties, dressed like a gentleman but with more than a hint of incongruity. Rough hands suggested hard work and his weathered complexion was the legacy of long hours outdoors. Greying hair was divided by a centre parting and fell either side of a mean, narrow face. High cheekbones and a lantern jaw destroyed any sense of proportion and the obsequious grin was unsettling. Corrigan said nothing but his dark eyes were loquacious: they spoke of envy. Christopher sensed trouble ahead.
It was time to call for the wine.
It was no occasion for social niceties. Summoned to the inn by one of the watchmen, Jonathan Bale took in the situation at a glance. A big, beefy man with a red face had drunk too much too fast and become violent. Here was no ordinary tavern brawl. Patient entreaty only fed the man's aggression. Having knocked one customer unconscious, he beat the head of a second against a table then hurled a bench at a third. When the innkeeper tried to remonstrate with him, he was kicked in the stomach. The drunkard then went on the rampage, overturning tables, heaving a huge settle to the floor and generally terrorising everyone in the taproom. Watchmen were sent for but they arrived at the moment when the man chose to discharge a pistol into the ceiling, creating an impromptu snowstorm of plaster and extracting yells of rage from the couple engaged in strenuous fornication in the bedchamber above.
Jonathan marched in on a scene of chaos. Sword drawn, the man was stumbling around the room, swearing wildly, demanding a woman to take the edge off his lust and swishing his weapon in all directions. The sight of the constable only turned his tongue to even fouler language. Jonathan remained calm and waited for his chance. It soon came. The man staggered unsteadily towards him and tried to decapitate him with a vicious swipe of the sword. It was his last act of defiance. Ducking beneath the blade, Jonathan flung himself hard at his assailant, hitting him in the midriff and knocking every ounce of breath and resistance from him. The man was toppled like a tree. There was a resounding thud as the back of his head met the solid oaken floorboard then he plunged into oblivion.
A grateful silence followed. It was broken by a gulping sound as the drunkard began to vomit convulsively. Still nursing his stomach, the innkeeper walked across to Jonathan.
'Thank you, Mr Bale,' he said with feeling. 'He went berserk.'
'Do you know the fellow?'
'No, he's a stranger. And he won't cross the threshold of the Brazen Serpent again, that I can tell you.' '
'If he does,' advised one of the watchmen, 'call me. Had it not been for the pistol, I'd have tackled the rogue myself.'
'Then he was lucky that he only had me to deal with, Abraham,' said Jonathan with an affectionate smile. 'You and Luke Peach here would have torn him to pieces between you and fed the scraps to the dogs. You are doughty watchmen.'
Abraham Datchett and Luke Peach did not hear the gentle irony in his voice. The two old men were dutiful officers but age and infirmity limited their effectiveness as agents of the law. They showed great bravery after the event but erred on the side of discretion whenever a crisis occurred. Fond of them both, Jonathan excused their obvious shortcomings and only ever assigned them tasks within their compass.
'Get him out of here,' he ordered. 'He has an urgent appointment with the magistrate. Lug him away so that this mess can be cleared up. I'll take statements from all witnesses then overhaul you.'
'Yes, Mr Bale,' said Abraham, pleased to be called into action. He bent over the supine figure. 'Grab his other arm, Luke. When I give the word, haul him upright.'
Jonathan helped them to lift the miscreant to his feet. Get
ting a firm hold on him, the two watchmen dragged him unceremoniously through the door, setting off a communal sigh of relief. The constable was brisk in his work. After taking statements from all who had been present during the outburst, he took possession of the discarded pistol and sword, refused the innkeeper's offer of a free tankard of ale and walked quickly after the others. The dazed offender was soon being charged by the local magistrate.
It was the third incident to which Jonathan had been called that morning and he knew that it would not be the last.
Baynard's Castle Ward, which he patrolled so sedulously, was an area rife with crime and disorder. The Great Fire had temporarily burned out some of its worst offenders but they were starting to trickle back now that rebuilding was under way in earnest and fresh pickings were available. If the streets were to be kept safe, Jonathan had to remain vigilant.
As he strode along Carter Lane with the sun on his back, he saw a figure emerge from a house ahead of him. The sight of the young woman aroused ambivalent feelings in him. Unsure whether she was a friend or a discarded acquaintance, he opted for a muted greeting, tipping his hat solemnly and rising to a noncommittal grunt.
'Good morning, Miss Hibbert.'
Mary Hibbert's pretty face lit up with unfeigned pleasure.
'Good morning, Mr Bale,' she said pleasantly. 'How nice to see you again! I hope that I find you well?'
'Very well, thank you.'
'How is Mrs Bale?'
'Extremely well.'
'I'm pleased to hear it.'
'You have just been visiting your uncle, I see,' observed Jonathan with a nod at the house. 'He has been ailing these past few weeks.'
'Alas, yes,' said the other sadly. 'My aunt sent me a note, imploring me to call. This is the first opportunity I've had to do so. My life has changed so much since I moved away from this ward. I am so busy these days - I have almost no free time. It means that some of my relatives have been rather neglected.' She gave a shrug. 'There is no help for it, I fear. I live in a different world now, Mr Bale.'
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