'I'll trespass on your time no longer,' he murmured.
'Give the lady my warmest regards.'
'Lady?'
'Harriet Gow. That's who you really came to talk about, isn't it? I could see it in your eyes.' His face crinkled into a tired smile. 'Stick to architecture, my friend. You're too honest to be a spy.'
Christopher was lost for words. A servant appeared in the hall.
'Please show Mr Redmayne out,' ordered D'Avenant crisply.
'Yes, Sir William,' said the man.
'Oh, and Gregory…'
The servant paused. 'Sir William?'
'Make sure that you don't let him into the house again.'
Jonathan Bale soon found the exact spot. The brickwork of the house had been deeply scored where the coach had scraped against it. The hasp that Trigg had been repairing was only one of the casualties on the vehicle. Jonathan ran a finger along the shallow grooves that had been gouged out of the brick. The impact must have been hard. He looked up and down the narrow lane, wondering yet again why such a route had been taken and seeing how perfect a place it had been for an ambush. Standing in the middle of the little thoroughfare, he tried to reconstruct in his mind exactly how it happened but his cogitations were interrupted by a sound from above. He glanced up quickly. The figure darted swiftly away from the upper window but not before the constable had caught sight of the man. Jonathan was being watched. He sensed that it was a hostile surveillance.
'There must be something we can do, Mrs Gow,' said Mary Hibbert.
'If only there were!' sighed her mistress.
'Have you tried to reason with them?'
'How can I when I'm not even allowed to speak?'
'What have they said to you?'
'Very little, Mary. When I asked a question, the man warned me to hold my tongue. I didn't argue with that raised fist of his. When the woman brings my food, she never says a single word.'
Mary was alerted. 'There's a woman here as well?'
'Yes, she's been keeping an eye on me.'
'All I've seen is one man. He wears a mask.'
'So does the woman. Her face is completely covered.'
'How many other people are here?'
'None, as far as I know.'
'Then we may have a chance.'
Mary crossed to the window. They were still alone together in the bedchamber. Reunited with Harriet Gow, Mary had recovered some of her willpower and all of her obligation to serve her mistress. She looked down at the garden below. It was empty. Open fields stretched beyond it to the horizon. The other woman joined her.
'It's too long a drop, Mary,' she said.
'There may be a way around that.'
'No, it's far too dangerous.'
'It's no more dangerous than staying here, Mrs Gow. They locked me in a dark cellar. It was horrifying. I'm not going to spend another night in there. I could hear a rat scampering about.'
'At least I've been spared that.'
'You're the person they need to look after,' argued Mary. 'That's why you have a proper bed and a woman to see to your needs. I'm glad of that. But I'm only a servant. They don't need to bother with me.' She stared through the window again. 'I've got nothing to lose.'
'What if they catch you?' 'I'll take that chance.'
'But what will you do, Mary?'
'Run as fast as I can to fetch help.'
'But we could be miles from anywhere.'
'Anything is better than staying here, Mrs Gow. I'm not asking you to come with me. You're safe enough here. They're treating you quite well because they know they have to. My case is different.'
'I'd much rather you stayed. You're such a comfort.'
'How long will they let us be together?'
Harriet Gow pondered. A woman of independent spirit, she found it galling to be deprived of her liberty. She was desperate to escape but she had grave doubts about the plan suggested by her maidservant. Getting down into the garden involved sufficient danger in itself. The chances of discovery seemed high. Even if Mary did get clear, she would be pursued as soon as her absence was noted. Harriet shuddered when she thought of the possible repercussions. She reached out to enfold her companion in protective arms, but Mary Hibbert was decisive.
'I'm going to try, Mrs Gow. It's our only hope.'
'But you could get hurt.'
'I'm not afraid.'
But Mary was trembling with fear and excitement. Feeling obscurely responsible for the predicament in which they found themselves, she wanted to do all that she could to get them out of it. She was young, fit and resolute. All she needed was a modicum of good fortune.
'It will work,' she promised.
'Will it?'
'It has to, Mrs Gow. Or we've no hope.'
'Somebody may come for us.'
'Who? Nobody even knows where we are.'
Harriet Gow nodded sadly. It was true. Her kidnappers had been swift, efficient and merciless. They would have covered their tracks.
Mary Hibbert held out her hands to her.
'Give me your blessing,' she said. 'Please, Mrs Gow.'
'I'll give you more than that,' replied the other, taking the brooch from her dress to hand it over. 'Have this as a keepsake, Mary. It may bring you luck.'
She kissed the girl impulsively. Mary pinned the brooch to her own dress. The two of them were soon knotting the bedsheets together.
Christopher Redmayne found time in a busy day to ride back to the site in order to assess progress. Neither Jasper Hartwell nor Lodowick Corrigan was there, though the bustling commitment with which the men were working suggested that the vigilant builder was not too far away. Satisfied that all was well, Christopher continued his round of calls before ending up in Fleet Street. It was early evening and he had arranged to meet up with Jonathan Bale outside the Lamb and Flag. A clock chimed, a distant bell boomed and the constable walked into view, arriving exactly on time.
Christopher dismounted from his horse to trade a greeting.
'What sort of a day have you had, Mr Bale?'
'Tiring.'
'Yet productive, I hope?'
'To some degree. What of you, sir?'
'Oh, I think I can claim to have made some headway. I've been looking more closely at some of the names on my brother's list. Sir William D'Avenant was the first.'
'Is he implicated in any way?'
'No, no, Mr Bale, I'm certain of that. But he taught me things about the theatrical way of life that shed much new light. It was well worth passing the time of day with him.'
He told the constable about his visit to D'Avenant's home, Rutland House, and his subsequent calls on some of the actors identified by his brother as possible sources of information. Jonathan was a good listener, absorbing salient detail and requesting clarification from time to time. He could see how assiduous Christopher had been and that pleased him.
When he finally paused, the architect pursed his lips in concentration.
'I still believe we must look to the theatre,' he said at length. 'That was Harriet Gow's world and that's where the clues that may save her will probably lie.'
'Then you must uncover them without me, sir,' warned the other. 'I'd be lost in that swamp. You and your brother must wade through it.'
'That's what Henry's doing at this precise moment. Watching a performance at The Theatre Royal.'
'The theatre!'
'Yes, Mr Bale.'
'I'm shocked to hear it.'
'Why?'
'Attending a play at a time like this!'
'It's not only for the purposes of recreation,' Christopher pointed out. 'Henry can do valuable work simply by keeping his ears open. Each to his own. My brother wallows in his swamp, I interview some of the possible suspects and you pursue your own lines of enquiry.'
'I try to, Mr Redmayne.'
'What did you find out?'
'That a certain coachman will never win prizes for civility.'
'Ah, you met the redoubtable Mr Trigg, I s
ee.'
'He was a quarrelsome man, sir. I had to press him hard to get anything of value out of him. But it paid off eventually.'
'What did he tell you?'
Jonathan described the encounter and passed on the detailed account he had been given of the ambush. Christopher listened intently, noting slight variations from the earlier versions given by the coachman.
'Would you employ a brute like that?' he asked.
'No, sir.'
'Why not?'
'Because I wouldn't trust him.'
'Mrs Gow appears to do so.'
'He seemed to glory in that fact.' 'Where was he taking her when the coach was attacked?'
'That was the one thing even I couldn't prise out of him, sir. Not for want of trying. It was like talking to a brick wall. What Mr Trigg did insist on was that they'd not been heading for the Palace of Westminster.'
'I wonder.'
'What do you mean?'
'I had a second look at that map of mine, Mr Bale. It does seem odd that the coach would come into the Strand if it were going towards King Street, but there are other ways of reaching the Palace than by the obvious route.'
'I don't follow, sir.'
'The river. What better way to slip unnoticed into the royal apartments than by arriving in a boat? A woman could easily be smuggled inside to meet His Majesty.'
'It still doesn't answer our objection, Mr Bale. Had the coachman been driving towards one of the wharves, he'd most likely have come into the Strand from Charing Cross.'
'Not necessarily.'
'I took a close look at that lane, sir. I found the exact spot where the ambush occurred. There's barely room for a coach to get through. Mr Trigg must have had a very good reason to choose that route.'
'Do you have any idea what it might be?'
'I could hazard a guess.'
'Well?'
'We're searching for a destination that doesn't exist, sir, whether it be the Palace or somewhere in the Strand. Put yourself in the position of the coachman. Only one thing could take you down that lane.'
'What is it?'
'Think hard.'
Christopher snapped his fingers. 'The need to call at one of the houses there.'
'Exactly.'
'That's where Mrs Gow must have been going for her rendezvous. Instead of passing through the lane, they were planning to stop there. That raises the question of whom she was going to see.' Christopher thought hard.
'Impossible to be sure.'
'Quite so,' Christopher agreed.
'But I did my best to find out,' said Jonathan, reaching into his pocket to take out a grubby piece of paper. 'I didn't want to draw attention to myself by knocking on doors so I went into the tavern at the top end of the lane - the Red Lion. The innkeeper was a talkative man. He gave me the names of some of the local people who frequent his tavern.' He handed the list to Christopher. 'I think you'll find the one at the top the most interesting.'
'Why?'
'See for yourself, Mr Redmayne.'
Christopher looked at the shaky handwriting then gaped.
'Bartholomew Gow!'
Henry Redmayne stayed at the theatre long after the performance of The Maid's Tragedy ended. It had been only a qualified success. Incensed at the absence of Harriet Gow, some of the more obstreperous elements in the audience had stamped their feet in protest and barracked the actors. A few scuffles had broken out and Aspatia's first entrance went almost unnoticed. Abigail Saunders did not lose heart and her perseverance slowly won over the bulk of the spectators even though her tender pleas had to be delivered in a strident voice in order to be heard above the din. Much of the essence of the play survived and the company was given a rousing ovation at its conclusion.
After carousing with his friends, Henry had to remind himself that he was there on serious business; he made his way to the dressing room bearing the gift he had already bought from a flower girl. He was one of a number of admirers who jostled their way towards Abigail Saunders but persistence and combative elbows soon got him close to the actress. He presented the basket of flowers to her with a flourish and was rewarded with a proffered hand. Henry lingered over his kiss.
'You were divine, Miss Saunders!' he cooed.
'Thank you, Mr Redmayne.'
'The whole audience was enraptured.'
'I fought hard to earn their attention, sir.'
'You had mine from the moment you set foot on the stage. I could sing your praises all night, Miss Saunders. Sup with me and I will.'
'Unhappily, I already have an engagement.'
'Will you dine with me tomorrow, then?'
'I have another rehearsal to attend, Mr Redmayne.'
'Then I'll batter at your defences until they crumble,' he said with a broad grin. 'Crumble, they must. I'm resolved on it.'
A brittle laugh. 'I admire tenacity in a man.'
'And I admire quality in a woman,' he countered. 'It was on display out there on stage and it made me swoon with wonder. The pity of it is that your mentor was not there to appreciate it as well.'
'My mentor?'
'The man who inspired you.'
'And who might that be?' she asked.
'Why, Sir William D'Avenant.'
It was not the most tactful remark to make to the actress at such a moment. Her smile froze, her teeth clenched and his basket of flowers was tossed uncaringly aside. Abigail Saunders gave him a withering stare before turning her back on him.
'Goodbye, Mr Redmayne.'
Henry gabbled his apologies but the damage was irreparable. Ignoring him, she lapped up the flattery of all the other men who had crowded into her dressing room. Henry found himself slowly edged out of the room altogether. His attempt at befriending the actress had been hopelessly bungled. He would never get close enough to question her indirectly about Harriet Gow's disappearance now. Nor could he expect any kind of dalliance by way of compensation. Abigail Saunders had effectively rejected him on the spot.
There was worse to come. Rolling out of the theatre, Henry followed a group of playgoers who were tottering towards a nearby tavern. He needed some revelry to atone for his disappointment. A vision of his brother came before his eyes. Christopher would be angry that he had thrown away all chance of wheedling information out of the woman who stood to gain most from Harriet Gow's indisposition. Henry needed more alcohol before he could face his brother's censure. Licking his lips, he hastened after the others.
He did not get very far. As he walked past a sidestreet, two brawny men came out to grab him by the arms. Henry was given no time to call for help, still less to offer any resistance. Dragged into a doorway in the sidestreet, he was cudgelled viciously to the ground then kicked hard in the ribs by his two attackers. They were swift and proficient. When their work was done, they flitted nimbly away into the shadows, leaving Henry Redmayne in a groaning heap on the ground, lying helplessly in a pool of blood.
Chapter Nine
The summons was answered immediately. As soon as Christopher Redmayne heard the grim tidings, he mounted his horse and kicked it into a gallop, using the hectic journey to torment himself with guilt and arriving at the house in Bedford Street in a state of agitation. When he ran up to the bedchamber, he was shocked to see the condition that his brother was in. Henry seemed barely alive. His face was covered with bruises and lacerations, his head swathed in white linen. Traces of blood showed on the bedsheets. More bandaging had been wound tightly around the exposed chest. His bare arms were listless, his eyes scarcely flickering. He could manage no word of welcome.
The one consolation was that a physician was in attendance. The injuries were beyond the competence of a mere apothecary or surgeon and Christopher was glad to discover that a trained physician had been called in. Old and wizened, the man looked up with a half-smile.
'Are you his brother, sir?' he said.
'Christopher Redmayne,' replied the other.
'I've done all I can for him, Mr Redmayne.'
&nb
sp; 'How is he?'
'Very weak. He lost a lot of blood.'
'But he'll recover?'
'Oh yes, given time and careful nursing. Your brother is tougher than he looks, sir. He'll pull through, I've no doubts on that score.'
Christopher followed him to the door, asking for more detail of the injuries and seeking more reassurance. When the physician withdrew, the visitor rushed back to his brother's bedside and knelt anxiously beside it. He put a gentle hand on the patient's shoulder.
'Henry?' he said quietly. 'Can you hear me?'
'Yes,' came a faint whisper.
'Does it hurt you to talk?'
'A little.'
'What happened?'
Henry needed a few moments to gather his thoughts. Christopher felt a surge of remorse as he saw the extent of the wounds. Without his fine clothes and resplendent wig, his brother looked old, disfigured and positively decrepit. Words came out with painful slowness. Henry was patently suffering.
'I went to The King's House,' he said hoarsely, 'to see Abigail Saunders and to pick up what information I could. She acted well but she is no Harriet Gow.' A fit of coughing delayed him. 'When I came out into Drury Lane,' he continued, 'I was strolling along when I was set on by two bullies with cudgels.'
'Did you get a good look at them?'
'No, Christopher.'
'You'd never seen them before?'
'I don't think so.'
'Can you tell me anything about them?'
'Not really.'
'What did they say?'
'Nothing.'
'They just knocked you to the ground?'
'And kicked me in the ribs.' He rested a palm gingerly on his chest. 'I thought I was done for. I thought the rogues would kick me to death.'
'Were there no witnesses?'
'I've no idea. I was more or less unconscious.'
'Who found you?'
'Someone who was passing. He probably saved my life.'
'How did you get back here?'
'They carried me to the theatre. Tom Killigrew brought me home in his carriage.' A ghost of a laugh. 'I'm surprised he recognised me. I was covered in blood when they found me. Still, I suppose he's used to such a sight,' he croaked on reflection. 'There are often nasty brawls at his theatre. Broken heads and bleeding wounds are common enough.'
The Amorous Nightingale cr-2 Page 13
