'I hope I did the right thing.'
'Only time will tell.'
'He shouldn't have asked me.'
'No, Jonathan.'
'It was unfair. It's not my problem.'
But it clearly was now. Sarah did not ask for detail. Some of it was etched into her husband's brow. For reasons best known to himself, he refused to take on an assignment that involved Christopher Redmayne. It was not the end of the matter, Sarah knew that. Recrimination had set in. Jonathan would torment himself for hours. Whatever he had discussed with his visitor had affected him at a deep level.
In a vain attempt to cheer him up, Sarah starting talking about their neighbours, offering him snippets of gossip that she had picked up during the day. Jonathan was only half- listening. The most he offered by way of response was a tired smile. Even an account of the wilder antics of some of the denizens of Baynard's Castle Ward could not stop him from brooding. He was still miles away.
The banging noise brought him out of his brown study. Someone was pounding on the front door. Sarah reached for the candle and made to rise from her chair but he put out a hand to stop her.
'I'll go, my love.'
'Who can it be at this hour?'
'Someone who wishes to be heard,' he said as the banging was repeated. 'He'll wake the neigbours, if he goes on like that.'
'Is it Mr Redmayne again?' she wondered.
'It had better not be.'
Jonathan used the candle to guide his way to the front door. As soon as he started to pull back the bolts, the thumping stopped. He opened the door and found himself looking at a small, almost frail figure, silhouetted against the moonlight.
'Mr Bale?' asked a querulous voice.
'Yes,' said Jonathan, holding the flame closer to the face of the youth who was trembling at his threshhold. 'What do you want?'
'Don't you recognise me?'
'Why, yes, I do now. It's young Peter, isn't it? Peter Hibbert.'
'That's right, Mr Bale. Mary's brother.'
'You're shaking,' noted Jonathan. 'What's wrong?'
'Something terrible's happened.'
It took two large glasses of brandy to convert Henry's gibberish into intelligible English. Arriving wild-eyed and incoherent at the house in Fetter Lane, he had to be calmed and cosseted before his brother could get any sense out of him. Christopher had only just waved off Roland Trigg before his brother appeared on his doorstep. He and Henry now sat either side of the table with the bottle of brandy between them as their interlocutor. Henry succumbed to another upsurge of self- pity.
'Never, never do that to me again, Christopher!' he said.
'Do what?'
'Subject me to that kind of embarrassment.'
'What are you talking about?'
'That old fox, Tom Killigrew. It will take a far better huntsman than Henry Redmayne to run him to ground. He gave me the slip time and time again.'
'Did you learn anything useful?' asked Christopher.
'Several things.'
'Such as?'
'That I must have been demented to imagine I could coax any information out of Tom Killigrew without arousing his suspicions. I was hopelessly out of my depth.' 'Don't tell me that you gave the game away!'
'Almost.'
'That's the last thing you must do, Henry.'
'I know, but I couldn't help myself. What saved me was the fact that he was already aware of what I went there to tell him.'
Christopher blinked. 'Already aware?'
'Harriet Gow sent him a letter of apology.'
'When?'
'An hour before I arrived.'
'How could she do that when she's being held by kidnappers?'
'I think I've worked that out, Christopher,' said the other, pouring brandy into his empty glass. 'They must have forced her to write the note in order to throw Tom Killigrew off the scent. If he suspected for one moment what had happened to her, he'd raise a hue and cry.' He sipped the alcohol. 'Is this the best brandy you have in the house?'
'What did the letter say?'
'I need something stronger than this.'
'Tell me, Henry,' said his brother, shaking him by the arm. 'Did you actually see this letter from Harriet Gow?'
'No. It stayed in his pocket.'
Henry recounted his interview with Killigrew in detail, making much of the discomfort he suffered and the skill he'd had to employ in order to lead the manager astray. The letter of apology from Harriet Gow was what weighed with Killigrew. Christopher was reassured to hear that his brother had not, after all, betrayed his pledge to maintain strict secrecy. He was also pleased that the visit to the theatre had thrown up some interesting new names for consideration. Henry passed over a crumpled list.
'I recognise some of these,' said Christopher, perusing it with care. 'They are mostly members of the company. Who is Abigail Saunders?'
'An actress of sorts.'
'Of sorts?'
'A pretty enough creature who uses the stage to advertise her charms rather than her talents, perhaps because she has an ample supply of the former and a dearth of the latter. Abigail Saunders is a young lady of high ambition.'
'Why have you drawn a circle around her name?'
'She will replace Harriet Gow in The Maid's Tragedy.'
'So she stands to benefit.'
'Greatly.'
'And is Abigail Saunders another nightingale?'
'More of a vulture,' opined Henry. 'An attractive one, I grant you, but she is all claw under those delightful feathers.'
Christopher was amazed to read the last name of the list.
'Sir William D'Avenant?'
'That was Tom Killigrew's suggestion.'
'I thought that you didn't discuss the abduction,' said Christopher in alarm. 'How did it happen then that the manager is identifying a suspect?'
'By doing so without even realising it. Now stop harassing me,' said Henry before downing the contents of the glass. 'Talk to Tom Killigrew and Sir William's name comes into the conversation time and again. It's inevitable. They are the only two men with patents to run theatres in London so they are deadly rivals. Tom Killigrew has the edge with The King's Theatre but Sir William D'Avenant has had many triumphs at The Duke's House. They'll stop at nothing to secure an advantage over the other. What's the worst thing that could befall Tom Killigrew?'
'The disappearance of Harriet Gow.'
'Which theatre manager would profit most?'
'Sir William D'Avenant.'
'Exactly. That's why I put his name on the list,' Henry said smugly.
'Is he capable of such desperate measures?'
'A man with no spectacles is capable of anything.'
'No spectacles?' Christopher could not follow this. 'Sir William?'
'Yes. The old lecher contracted syphilis so often in the past that it's eaten away his nose. He'll never balance a pair of spectacles on it, no matter how bad his eyesight.'
'Be serious, Henry. We're talking about kidnap here.'
'Then Sir William D'Avenant must be a suspect.'
'I wonder,' said Christopher doubtfully. 'Let's assume, just for a moment, that you may be right. Why should Sir William send a ransom note to the King when it ought more properly to go to the rival manager? He's the one who might be expected to buy her release.'
'Hardly!' said Henry with a harsh laugh.
'What do you mean?'
'Tom Killigrew's finances are in a worse state than the King's. Worse even than my own, and that's saying something. He had to beg, borrow and steal to raise the money to build his playhouse. Every penny that Tom had is sunk in The King's House.'
'Couldn't he find the ransom money somehow?'
'That would be a miracle beyond even him, Christopher.'
'I still cannot believe that Sir William D'Avenant is implicated.'
'Then you don't know him as well as some of us do.'
'Is he such a villain?'
'Try asking Miss Abigail Saunders.'
> 'Why?'
'She was his mistress.'
Henry took up his list and went through the names one by one, fleshing them out with detail and adding speculative comment. His knowledge of the theatrical world was impressive, his insight into the private lives of its leading members even more astonishing. When he had delivered his cargo of scandal and supposition, he sat back in his chair and used the back of his hand to suppress a yawn.
'I'm exhausted by all the effort I've put in today. Deception is such a tiring business. You always have to remember which lie you've told to whom and for what purpose. But enough of my travails,' he said as he reached for the brandy once more. 'What of you, Christopher? Have you spoken to the grim constable yet?' 'Yes,' sighed the other. 'For all the good it did me.'
'Did he not rush to the aid of a lady in distress?'
'Not exactly.'
Christopher gave him an edited version of the conversation that took place in Addle Hill, playing down Jonathan's rejection in order to rescue him from Henry's scorn. What he did talk about at length was the unexpected visit of Roland Trigg, the truculent coachman. Henry was troubled to hear of the second abduction.
'The maidservant taken as well?'
'So it seems.'
'This is a bad omen, Christopher.'
'I prefer to see it as a good one.'
'What goodness can there be in the kidnap of a young woman?'
'A little, I hope. I take it as a sign of consideration towards Harriet Gow. She must be in a state of absolute terror. Her kidnappers are at least providing her with some company to still her fears. She and Mary Hibbert are very close. Trigg kept telling me that.'
'He told you a great deal, apparently.'
'Some of it was very revealing.'
'If the fellow can be trusted.'
'Try to get behind that forbidding appearance of his,' suggested Christopher. 'The man might yet turn out to be a useful ally. Roland Trigg deserves the credit for one thing at least.'
'What's that?'
'Providing us with a name to go at the very top of our list.'
'Who might that be?'
'Bartholomew Gow.'
Henry was chastened. 'Her husband?' he said, eyes glistening. 'I never even considered him. He and his wife have lived apart for some time. I'm not even sure that Bartholomew Gow is still in London.'
'What manner of man is he?'
'An odd one. A fellow of moderate wealth and peculiar disposition. Content to hug the shadows while Harriet courted the light - at first, that is, but he grew resentful. Never marry an actress, Christopher. They would tax the patience of a saint and Mr Gow is assuredly no saint.'
'Would he stoop to the kidnap of his own wife?'
'I don't know him well enough to form a judgement about it.'
'What does your instinct tell you?'
'Anything is possible.'
'Trigg was quite antagonistic towards him.'
'He'd be antagonistic towards anyone. I've never met such a bellicose individual. What did he have to say about Bartholomew Gow?'
'Nothing to the fellow's credit.'
'Did he tell you where the wandering husband was living?'
'No, Henry. But he has pointed us in the right direction.'
'Has he?'
'I think so,' said Christopher, indicating the list. 'Look at those names. They're giving us a false start. Instead of beginning with a list of those who might or might not have a motive to abduct Harriet Gow, we should work from the other end.'
'Other end?'
'The lady herself, Henry. Examine her character and way of life. That's where the clues will lie. Why, for instance, did she marry a man like Bartholomew Gow? How did she become involved with His Majesty? What hopes did she have for her future? In short,' said Christopher, getting up from the table, 'what sort of person is Harriet Gow?'
'You saw her for yourself at The King's House.'
'What I saw there was a brilliant actress, thrilling our blood and working on our emotions. She's in no position to do that now. Harriet Gow is no longer floating along on a cloud of applause, Henry. She's a very frightened woman, held against her will. How will she cope with that?'
'Bravely, I'm sure.'
Crossing to the window, Christopher peered out into the darkness.
'I hope so,' he said quietly. 'I sincerely hope so.'
Mary Hibbert was still in a state of abject terror. After the long, jolting ride in the coach, she had been taken to a house and locked in a small cellar. Tied firmly to a stout chair, she could scarcely move her limbs. The hood had been removed from behind by her captors so that she caught not even the merest glimpse of them as they slipped out of the room. The sounds of a key turning in the lock and of heavy bolts being pushed into position had been further hammer blows to her already bruised sensibilities. Too scared even to cry out, she sat in her fetid prison and sobbed quietly to herself. Another noise made her sit up in alarm. It was the snuffling of a rat in the darkest recess of the cellar.
Mary was beside herself with fear. Why was she being put through this ordeal, and by whom? What had she done to deserve such cruel treatment? Would she ever leave the building alive? It was at that point, when she was writhing in pain, being slowly overwhelmed by her misery and about to slide inexorably into total despair that a new sound penetrated the gloom of her dungeon. It was faint but haunting. She strained her ears to listen.
'Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew:
Maidens, willow branches bear
Say I died true.'
She revived at once. It was extraordinary. A song about death had effectively recalled her to life, had given her hope and sustenance. Only one woman could sing as beautifully and movingly as that. Mary Hibbert was not alone in her distress: Harriet Gow was sharing it with her. They were bonded by suffering. The voice rose, strengthened and sang on with mournful clarity. It was enchanting. Mary closed her eyes to listen to the strains of her beloved nightingale.
Chapter Seven
Henry Redmayne made such a determined assault on the bottle of brandy that it took the two of them to help him up into the saddle afterwards. He waved a perilous farewell then set off slowly in the direction of Bedford Street. Jacob watched the swaying figure merge with the darkness.
'Will he be safe, sir?' he said anxiously.
Christopher smiled. 'Have faith in the horse at least, if not in my brother,' he said tolerantly. 'The animal is well accustomed to carrying his master home when he has looked upon the wine at its reddest.'
'It was brandy this time.'
'Yes, and he had the gall to criticise its quality. I know, I heard him. That's typical of Henry, I'm afraid. He'll abuse your cellar then drink it dry. No matter, Jacob. He is my brother and his need was particularly urgent this evening.'
'So I saw.'
The servant led the way back into the house, clearing away the two glasses and the almost empty bottle into the kitchen. When he came into the parlour again, he saw that Christopher was unrolling some paper on the table. There was mild reproof in the servant's tone.
'You're not going to start work now, are you, sir?' he said.
'Bring me more light, Jacob.'
'You need your sleep.'
'Not when something is preying on my mind. I have to put my thoughts on paper. It's the only way that I can make sense of them.'
Jacob sighed but refrained from further comment. Lighting two more candles, he set them on the table with the others so that they threw a vivid rectangle of light on to the paper.
Christopher's charcoal was poised for action. He sensed that Jacob was hovering.
'I shan't require anything else now,' he said. 'You go to bed.'
'Not until you're ready to retire, sir.'
'There's no point in the two of us staying up.'
'There's every point,' returned the servant with a prim smile. He retreated towards the kitchen. 'Call me when you need me.'
'You may be in
there a long time.'
'I've plenty to keep me occupied, sir.'
Jacob vanished from sight. Sounds of activity soon came from the kitchen as he began to clean some of the silverware. Christopher heard nothing. He was too absorbed in his project, drawing swiftly from memory and writing the occasional name on the paper. He was far too stimulated by the visits of Roland Trigg and of his brother even to consider going to his bed. In his own way, each man had sparked off Christopher's imagination. It was the coachman's evidence which guided his charcoal the most. Christopher was immersed for the best part of an hour before he sat up to stretch himself and massage the back of his neck. He was puzzled. As he stared down at what he had drawn, he felt that something was amiss but he could not decide exactly what it was.
The decision was taken out of his hands by the ringing of the doorbell. Jacob emerged at once from the kitchen as if his whole evening had been structured around this one particular duty. Christopher heard him open the door before engaging in a short dialogue with a man who had a deep, firm, resonant voice. The sound made Christopher rise with curiosity. He wondered why Jonathan Bale was calling on him- No visitor could be less likely in Fetter Lane. When the servant came back into the room, Christopher saw that he had, in fact, two guests with him. The burly constable was accompanied by a wiry, tousle-haired youth of no more than fifteen. Even in that light, Christopher could see the anguish in the boy's face.
Jacob sidled off to the kitchen again, leaving Jonathan to make an uneasy apology and to effect an introduction.
'I'm sorry to disturb you so late, Mr Redmayne,' he began, 'but this is something that wouldn't keep until morning. It may have some bearing on what we talked about earlier.' He turned to the boy. 'This is a young friend of mine, Peter Hibbert.'
'Hibbert?'
'His sister, Mary, is in service with Mrs Gow.'
'Then I'm pleased to meet you,' said Christopher with interest. He gave a kind smile. 'I'm Christopher Redmayne. You're welcome to my home, Peter. Do sit down for a moment.'
Peter Hibbert glanced at Jonathan as if requiring his permission. When the constable lowered himself on to the oak settle, his companion chose the stool in the corner. Perched on its edge, he looked smaller and more frail than ever.
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