'So I understand.'
'I think that you criticise me for it.'
'It is not my place to pass judgement on you, Miss Hibbert.'
'Yet I can hear the disapproval in your voice.'
'It has no right to be there,' he apologised. 'Forgive me.'
Jonathan had always liked the Hibbert family. Daniel Hibbert was a skilful tailor, a small, anxious man who worked hard to support his wife and two children. The constable was sad to lose them when they moved from Carter Lane and distressed to hear that Daniel and his wife had been two of the first victims of the Great Plague. Mary, their elder child, had been in domestic service at the time. She was a kind, polite, obedient girl with attractive features. Jonathan recalled how hurt he had been to learn that she was now in the employ of Harriet Gow, an actress of such notorious reputation that even a God-fearing constable had heard of her. Looking at her now, he realised that he should not blame Mary herself. That would be quite unfair. She was one more victim of the Great Plague. Lacking the parents to guide her, she had gone astray.
Mary Hibbert seemed to read his thoughts. She shrugged again.
'It is only to be expected, I suppose,' she said.
'What is?'
'Your attitude, Mr Bale. My aunt is the same, except that she is more outspoken. She told me to my face that I had made a terrible mistake. But a girl has to take the chances that fall to her,' she added with spirit, 'and I do not regret having chosen the path that lay before me. It has opened my eyes to amazing new wonders.'
'I'm sure that it has,' said Jonathan evenly, 'though I suspect that your aunt and I might not describe them as wonders. That is not to condemn you. It is only natural that a young woman such as yourself is impressed by being able to wear fine clothes and travel in a carriage, but what price do you have to pay for such an experience?'
'What price?'
'Yes. What losses are involved? What dangers threaten?'
'Oh, there's no danger, Mr Bale, I do assure you. Our coachman takes great care of us. He is our protector. And nobody, in any case, would dare to hurt Miss Gow. When I am with her, I am completely safe. Have no fears for me, sir.'
'It is not physical danger that I speak of, Miss Hibbert.'
'Then what?'
'Moral danger.'
She gave a smile. 'You sound like my aunt.'
'Someone has to look out for you,' he said with concern. 'Since your parents died, that role falls to your relatives and to your friends.'
'But I can look out for myself.'
'That's a matter of opinion.'
'I respect yours, Mr Bale, but I'm afraid that I may have gone beyond the point when it has any relevance to me. My aunt told me bluntly that I have sold my soul to the devil when all I have done is to become maidservant to a talented actress.'
'Your aunt shares my distrust of the theatre.'
'Have you ever seen a play, Mr Bale?'
'Heaven forbid!'
'Have you been inside a playhouse?'
'I would not demean myself by doing so.'
'On what evidence, then, do you pour scorn on the theatre?'
'I have seen those who frequent such places, Miss Hibbert, and that is enough for me. During the Commonwealth, theatres were closed by law and the city was the better for it. There were standards of public behaviour. But now! All that is past. The drunken and the debauched flock to such places of resort. Women of the street parade their wares shamefully. Theatres are in a state of constant affray. They are sinks of iniquity and it pains me that you are associated with them.'
'It has done me no harm, I promise you.'
'It is bound to take its toll. However,' he said, making a conscious effort to sound more positive, 'the decision has been made and it is not for me to take you to task. I wish you well, Miss Hibbert. You deserve whatever success comes your way. To ride in a fine coach is a measure of success, I have to admit that. When you waved to us in Drury Lane some weeks ago, it crossed my mind that you had come a long way since your days of' living here. Many would account you very fortunate.'
'I do so myself, Mr Bale.'
'Then let us hope that good fortune continues,' he said, putting aside his reservations about her employer. 'Your aunt has a sharp tongue but she loves you dearly. Words spoken to wound you are well meant. Remember that. Mrs Hibbert has your best interests at heart.'
'What she conceives of to be my best interests.'
'Exactly.'
Jonathan managed a first smile. It was wrong to criticise Mary Hibbert for things over which she had no control. The corrupt theatrical world into which she had wandered seemed to have caused her little visible damage. To his eye, she still had the same friendly manner, the same unforced honesty and the same fresh-faced eagerness. Jonathan felt guilty at some of the doubts he harboured about her. Her parents would have been proud of Mary Hibbert.
'Goodbye,' he said, offering a friendly palm.
She shook his hand. 'Goodbye, Mr Bale.'
They parted company and he headed for home, ready for the meal which his wife, Sarah, would be preparing for him and having lots of gossip to pass on to her. Sarah would be interested to hear about the meeting with Mary Hibbert. As he plodded along the street, he rehearsed what he was going to say, noting with pleasure that his fondness for the girl had gradually subdued his apprehensions about her. Mary Hibbert's essential goodness would be proof against the temptation all around her. Jonathan was glad that the chance encounter had taken place.
It never occurred to him that he might not see her alive again.
Wine did nothing to improve Lodowick Corrigan. He sipped the contents of his glass slowly and deliberately, studying his companions through narrowed lids and nodding his agreement with all that they proposed or suggested. Jasper Hartwell drank freely, giggled incessantly and became ever more flamboyant in his gestures. Christopher, too, enjoyed the wine but he was very conscious that it was only making the builder more deferential. What worried him was that the deference was only on the surface. Corrigan's body might fawn obligingly and his tongue might release the odd word of ingratiation but his eyes were cold and watchful. When their employer was not present, Christopher suspected, then a very different Lodowick Corrigan might emerge.
Christopher tried to coax him out of hiding.
'What is your view of the site, Mr Corrigan?' he asked.
'It is well chosen, sir,' replied the builder.
'The best that money could buy,' added Hartwell, tapping his purse. 'Nothing less than perfection will satisfy me.'
'Why does the site recommend itself to you, Mr Corrigan?' said Christopher, pressing him for an answer. 'Give us a comment from the builder's point of view.'
'The builder merely obeys orders, Mr Redmayne. In this case, the orders are remarkably easy to obey because Mr Hartwell has chosen a prime site on which to set his house. It will be a privilege to work with him and, of course, with a rising young architect like yourself.'
Hartwell beamed. 'I knew that you would get on with each other,' he said, draining his glass. 'I sensed it in my bones.'
Christopher's bones were delivering a contradictory message. He was finding the builder both irritating and evasive. Behind his show of agreement, he caught worrying indications of the man's quiet conviction that, as the oldest and most experienced person involved in the project, he would have the power of decision. Far from obeying employer and architect, Lodowick Corrigan was lurking in readiness to frustrate and subvert them. He had firm ideas about how a house should be built.
Just before they departed, the builder finally showed his hand.
'There is only one thing that concerns me, Mr Redmayne,' he said casually. 'With respect to your position as the architect, I felt that I must raise the matter at this early stage.'
'And what matter is that?' wondered Christopher.
'The use of Caen stone.'
'It's what I recommend for the portico.'
'I know that, Mr Redmayne, but you were ign
orant of the problems of supply when you made such a suggestion.'
'It's no suggestion, Mr Corrigan. It's a specification.'
'You might have to change your mind about that, sir.'
'Why?' said Hartwell. 'I liked the notion of Caen stone.'
'So do I,' insisted Christopher. 'I spent several weeks in Canterbury earlier in the year. Caen stone is used in abundance there, both in the ecclesiastical buildings and elsewhere. It is a clean, clear, well-defined stone. I noticed how easy it could be worked with chisel and hammer.'
'Other stone is even easier to work,' argued Corrigan. 'And it is more readily available here in London. I have shares in a stone quarry so I speak with authority here. If it were left to me…'
'But it is not.'
'Yet if it were…'
'If it were,' echoed Christopher, 'there would be no argument. You would have the stone of your choice and that would be an end to it. But that is not the case, Mr Corrigan, is it?' He paused meaningfully. 'As it happens, Mr Hartwell appreciates the virtues of Caen stone. On my advice, he wishes to have it incorporated into the facade of the house. I am confident that we will find a more than adequate supply of the material. Indeed, while I was there, I seized the opportunity to speak to one of the stonemasons in Canterbury to make sure that there were no difficulties with regard to delivery.'
Corrigan fumed in silence. He had lost the first of what would be many battles with the architect. With his employer present, he did not risk a second engagement but Christopher knew further hostilities would transpire in due course. The man wanted his revenge. Emptying his glass in one peremptory gulp, he glared at Christopher.
'How many houses have you designed? he asked pointedly.
'Several.'
'I'm not familiar with your work.'
'Nor I with yours, Mr Corrigan.'
'Walk down any of the major thoroughfares of London and you will see the work of Lodowick Corrigan. I am in great demand.'
'That is why I sought you out,' said Hartwell, adjusting his wig in a mirror. 'I wanted a builder without compare. Matched with an architect whose name will dance down the ages.'
Corrigan was sour. 'An architect is only as good as his builder.'
'Granted,' said Christopher. 'By the same token, a builder is only as good as his architect. If he is able to take direction, that is.'
'Oh, Mr Corrigan will take direction,' Hartwell assured him. 'They tell me he's the most obliging fellow in Creation. You'll have no cause for complaint, Mr Redmayne.'
'I'm pleased to hear it.'
'Lodowick Corrigan will hang on your every word.'
'Will he?'
It was a rhetorical question but the builder nevertheless answered it. The face which had for so long worn an obsequious smirk now became one large black scowl. The mouth hardened, the teeth clenched and the eyes smouldered like hot coals. Christopher Redmayne had been looking forward to the building of the house for Jasper Hartwell. It had seemed a wonderful assignment in every way. Until now. Much of the pleasure had suddenly drained out of the enterprise. In choosing Lodowick Corrigan as his builder, Hartwell had unwittingly confronted his architect with a major and perhaps insurmountable problem. The two men were natural enemies. As he looked into the angry face of his visitor, Christopher was left to wonder how much of the house he had designed would actually make its way from the drawing to the site on which it was to be built.
It was the worst possible time to interrupt him. Henry Redmayne was enduring the morning ritual with his barber when the servant burst into the room. Henry sat up in surprise, the razor slipped and blood spurted from a cut in his cheek. Henry's shriek was worthy of an amputated limb. It sent the barber into retreat.
'You're supposed to shave me,' he howled. 'Not execute me!'
'I'm sorry, sir,' mumbled the barber.
'It was your fault,' said Henry, turning upon the servant who had charged into the bedchamber. 'What on earth possessed you to come racing in here like that? Have you taken leave of your senses, man?'
'No, sir,' muttered the other.
'Then what other explanation is there?'
'An urgent message has come for you, sir.'
'Nothing is so urgent that it cannot wait until I have been shaved. Heavens!' he said, applying a fingertip to the wounded area to test the flow of blood. 'I might have had my throat cut. Look, man.' He displayed a reddened forefinger. 'I am bleeding to death here. Your master is close to extinction - and all that you can talk about is an urgent message. Damn and blast you! Take your hideous visage away from me.'
The servant held his ground. 'The messenger awaits a reply.'
'Let the villain wait.'
'But he is bidden to return to the Palace at once, sir.'
'The Palace?' Henry's self-pity gave way to alarm. 'The message has come from the Palace? Why did you not say that, you dolt?'
He snatched the missive from the servant's hands and broke the royal seal. It took him only a second to read the message. Jumping from his seat, he issued a stream of instructions before permitting the barber to stem the flow of blood from the cut on his face. Ten minutes later, he was mounting the horse which had been saddled for him and riding at a steady canter towards the Palace of Westminster. A royal summons demanded an immediate response. It swept everything else aside. Henry Redmayne was needed by his King. That was all that mattered.
Chapter Four
When they dined at the Dog and Partridge in Fleet Street, it seemed to Christopher that dogs and partridges were almost the only creatures that were not served as part of their meal. Fish, fowl and meat of every description were brought to their table in strict rotation so that Jasper Hartwell could inspect, admire, decry, sample, spit out, order or reject, according to his whim. He was a generous host, encouraging his guest to eat heartily and drink deeply. Hartwell set the tone, gourmandising shamelessly and barely pausing to allow one course to be digested before forcing another down his throat. Rich food made him more talkative, fine wine took him to the verge of hysteria. Hartwell's bizarre appearance already made him the unrivalled centre of attention. His wild laugh and excitable gestures ensured that everyone in the inn watched him with ghoulish curiosity.
Christopher Redmayne was at once pleased and dismayed. He was glad to be invited to dine by his client, especially as Lodowick Corrigan, the troublesome builder, had been deliberately excluded from the invitation. At the same time, however, he was worried by Hartwell's readiness to blur the line between employer and architect, to treat the latter as a friend with the same gluttonous appetite and the same vices. Christopher could simply not cope with such a huge meal on a regular basis. Nor could he show anything but polite interest in Hartwell's merry tales of his nightly visits to brothels and gaming houses. The suggestion that he might accompany his host on a nocturnal escapade was deftly deflected without giving any offence. It was an art he had perfected by dint of refusing similar blandishments from his brother, Henry, a man of rakish inclination with the money and the leisure time to indulge the wanton urges that were his constant companions.
Eager to keep his relationship with Jasper Hartwell firmly on a professional basis, Christopher tried to guide him around to the subject of the house. It was not easy. Concentration had long since deserted Hartwell. He had reached the stage of giggling uncontrollably for no apparent reason. Stupor was only a few glasses of wine away.
'Why did you choose Mr Corrigan?' asked Christopher.
'Who?' replied Hartwell, pulling a face.
'Lodowick Corrigan.'
'Never heard of the fellow.'
'Mr Corrigan is your builder.'
Blank amazement. 'Is he?'
'You know he is, Mr Hartwell. You brought him to my home this morning so that I could meet him. We passed a pleasant hour or two together. Mr Corrigan seemed to be…' Christopher searched for a word to cloak his disapproval of the man. 'He seemed to be sound. Very sound.'
'The soundest man in the building trade.'
/> 'You remember who he is, then?'
'Of course, of course,' said Hartwell, before guzzling some more wine. 'Lodowick Corrigan came with the highest recommendation. As did my architect. I pay for the best so I expect the best. If I had sufficient Latin, I'd translate that sentence and use it as my family motto. But I am no Classicist, alas. Latin baffles me almost as much as Greek. But the point holds, regardless of the language in which I express it. Only the finest of its kind is good enough for Jasper Hartwell. Well,' he said, chewing a mouthful of venison, 'you are living proof of the fact.'
'I'm flattered to hear you say so.'
'I recognise quality when I see it.'
'Thank you.'
'The Hartwell eye is unerring in its accuracy. Why, look at my apparel. Am I not the most elegant gentleman alive? I have the gift of selection. As with my clothing, so with my choice of employees. Pure instinct. No sooner did I catch sight of you at the theatre that afternoon than I thought, This young architect, Christopher Redmayne, is the man for me. That is why you are here.'
'I am deeply grateful, Mr Hartwell.'
'You are here but Corrigan, being of a lower order of creation, is not. A builder cannot enjoy the same privileges as an architect. He is a mere employee whereas you are also a friend. I will give the fellow a ride in my coach but I would not condescend to break bread with him. Apart from anything else, he has the most appalling hands. Did you notice all that dirt under his fingernails? No,' he continued, letting out a sudden laugh, 'Lodowick Corrigan is a prince among builders but he will never aspire to occupy a place among my intimates.'
'Who recommended him?'
'Several people. He has a fearsome reputation.'
'For what, Mr Hartwell?'
'Maintaining the dirtiest fingernails in Europe.' He shook with mirth and banged the table with both fists. 'Forgive me, Mr Redmayne. I am in humorous vein today. Let me be serious for a moment,' he said, making an effort to control himself. 'Lodowick Corrigan is renowned for building houses on time and to his clients' exact specification.'
'I'm glad to hear it.'
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