The Amorous Nightingale cr-2

by Edward Marston

  'What do you mean?'

  'Mary suffered a great deal. Her whole body was covered in bruises where she'd been cudgelled unmercifully. I think she was beaten to death. My guess is that they only broke her neck afterwards. These men are animals,' he said with rancour. 'They didn't just murder the girl. They enjoyed it.'

  Chapter Ten

  After a long and largely sleepless night, Harriet Gow dozed off in the chair, still agonising over her decision to condone her maidservant's bold escape bid. Her slumbers were soon interrupted. The door was unlocked and unbolted then flung open to allow the man and the woman to come bustling in. They wasted no time on a greeting. Harriet was grabbed and lifted bodily from her chair before being dragged out. As they hustled her up the steps, she found her voice again.

  'Where are you taking me?' she bleated.

  'Be quiet!' grunted the man.

  'Who are you?'

  'Never you mind.'

  'You're hurting my arm.'

  'Be glad that I don't do worse.'

  'What's going on?' she cried.

  'You'll be told in time.'

  'Where's Mary?'

  'Forget about her.'

  'Tell me!'

  The man ignored her. Harriet tried hard to assert herself.

  'You can't do this to me!' she protested with as much dignity as she could muster. 'Do you know who I am? What I am?'

  'Oh, yes,' said the man with a throaty chuckle. 'We know.'

  The dialogue took her up the staircase and along the landing. They were marching her back to her room. The change of accommodation was welcome but her relief was tinged with apprehension. Mary Hibbert's fate took precedence over her own immediate comfort. Harriet continued to ask about her until the door of the bedchamber was opened and she was pushed into it. Turning to continue her pleas, she found the door shut firmly in her face. At least she had been rescued from the cellar. What had prompted that? She could not believe that her captors had taken pity on her. Both of them - the man and the woman - had been consistently brusque with her. They spoke only to give her commands and they had no compunction about laying violent hands on her.

  Evidently, they were acting on orders - but who was giving them? Was there someone else in the house, supervising her imprisonment and controlling any punishment she needed to suffer? Her two captors wore masks to avoid being recognised. Did that mean she had seen them before, or were they merely concealing their identity as a precaution against being picked out by her at a later date? And what of their master? Why did he not put in an appearance, if only to taunt her? What made him keep so carefully out of the way?

  Harriet asked the same burning questions over and over again until she at last noticed something. Changes had been made to the room. Strips of wood had been nailed across the window, obscuring some of the light and making it impossible to open. Most of the furniture had been removed, leaving her with no option but to use the bed or the floor if she wished to sit down. Her comforts had been dramatically reduced. It was the sight of the bed that really harrowed her. Not only had it been stripped of all its linen to ensure that she could create no makeshift rope for another escape attempt, it had acquired a tiny object that glinted in the early morning light.

  She was transfixed. The brooch that lay in the middle of the bed was the keepsake she had given to Mary Hibbert just before the girl had lowered herself into the garden. It was more than a reward for her bravery. It was a sign of her mistress's affection and gratitude. To have it brought back could mean only one thing: Mary had been caught. She would have no need of the brooch now. Rushing to the bed, Harriet snatched it up and held it to her bosom then she swung round to run across to the door. Beating on it with both fists, she yelled as loudly as she could and without any fear of the consequences.

  'What have you done with Mary? Where is she?'

  Christopher Redmayne was up at daybreak, refusing the breakfast that Jacob had prepared for him and ignoring his servant's admonitions as he headed for the stable. Cocks were still crowing with competitive zeal as he rode off down Fetter Lane. Henry's condition was his primary concern and he made for the house in Bedford Street at a canter, swerving his horse through the oncoming carts, waggons and pedestrians who were already streaming towards the city's markets. In the year since the Great Fire had devastated the capital, London had regained much of its old zest and character. There was a communal sense of resilience in the air.

  When he reached his destination, Christopher found that his brother was now sleeping soundly after a disturbed night. He tiptoed into the bedchamber to look at Henry but forbore to wake him. Pleased to hear that the physician was due to call again that morning, he promised to return later himself then set off for the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the- Fields. The short ride brought him to a scene of almost ear- splitting activity. Picks, shovels and other implements were being used with force, more building materials were arriving to be unloaded and stacked, horses were neighing, a dog was barking as it darted playfully between the piles of bricks and timber, workmen were cursing each other roundly and Lodowick Corrigan was in the middle of it all, bellowing above the tumult and pointing a peremptory finger.

  Christopher took careful stock of what had so far been done. Even in a day, they had made perceptible progress, marking out the perimeter of the house and digging most of the foundations. He waited until the builder ambled across to him.

  'I thought we'd seen the last of you, sir,' said Corrigan tartly.

  'No, I'll be here from time to time.'

  'You should stay all day, Mr Redmayne. If you did that, you might learn something.'

  'About what?'

  'How a house gets built.'

  'But I already know,' said Christopher, icily pleasant. 'You find a talented architect to design it and an agreeable builder to put it up. All that they have to do is to trust each other.'

  'That's what it comes down to in the end. Trust.'

  'What do you trust in, Mr Corrigan?'

  'My long experience.'

  'Of disobeying the instructions of an architect?'

  'When I started in this trade,' sneered the other, 'there weren't quite so many of your profession, sir. Master-builders were the order of the day - men like my father who did everything themselves. My father could design, construct and decorate a property entirely on his own.'

  'Those days have gone.'

  'They're sorely missed.'

  Christopher did not rise to the bait of his implication. Instead, he tried to make use of the other's much vaunted experience. After discussing what would be done on site that day, he surprised his companion by resorting to some mild flattery.

  'You know your trade, Mr Corrigan,' he said. 'I took the trouble to look at some of the houses you've put up in the city. Soundly built, every one of them. They're a credit to you.'

  'Why, thank you, Mr Redmayne.'

  'And a credit to the architect who designed them, of course.'

  'They were all amenable men,' said Corrigan.

  'Amenable?'

  'To my suggestions.'

  'Nobody is more amenable than I. Any suggestion of yours is always welcome. The problem is that I've not heard one yet that I thought worth taking seriously.'

  'That's because your head's still in the clouds, sir.'

  'Oh?' 'You're a true artist. All that concerns you is your reputation.'

  'Naturally.'

  'Other architects had a sharper eye for the possibilities.'

  'Of what, Mr Corrigan?'

  'Profit. Gain. Advancement,' said the builder slyly. 'Take your insistence on the use of Caen stone. It'll be expensive to buy and difficult to transport. The quarry in which I have a stake could provide stone that's similar in type and colour but costs half the price. Mr Hartwell doesn't know that, of course. Persuade him to change his mind about the portico and you could pocket the difference between the Caen stone and the kind I supply.'

  'What's in it for you?'

  'The plea
sure of teaching a young man the ways of the world.'

  'The ways of your world, Mr Corrigan. Mine is very different. It includes quaint concepts like honesty, fair dealing and mutual confidence. Proffer any more lessons in cheating a client,' he warned, 'and I'll be forced to report the conversation to Mr Hartwell.' The builder's smirk vanished at once. 'Now, give me some advice that I can use.'

  'I don't follow,' said the other resentfully.

  'Have you ever built a house in the vicinity of St James's Palace?'

  'Two in Berry Street and one in Piccadilly.'

  'What interests me are some properties in Rider Street.'

  'Why?'

  'I'd like to know who built them. I understand that there's only a small row of houses there at present, but they're well designed and neatly constructed. How could I find out who put them up?'

  'By asking the man who owns them.'

  'They're leased out, then?'

  'If it's the houses I'm thinking of, yes.'

  'Do you happen to know who the landlord is?'

  'It used to be Crown land, Mr Redmayne,' said the other with a knowing grin. 'So the King must be getting an income from them. If you want to live in one of those houses, you'll have to kiss His Majesty's arse.' A crude cackle. 'Watch out for those royal farts, sir, won't you?'

  Jonathan Bale's day also began at dawn. After breakfast with his wife and children, he went off to acquaint Peter Hibbert with the sudden death of his sister. He was not looking forward to the assignment but someone had to undertake it and his link with the family made him the obvious choice. That was why he had volunteered so assertively in front of William Chiffinch. Horrified by Mary's death, Jonathan hoped that he might in some small way alleviate the distress that the tidings were bound to create. Peter was not the most robust character and his uncle was still very sick. Both would need to be helped to absorb the shock that lay in wait for them.

  The boy was apprenticed to a tailor in Cornhill Ward and it was there that the constable first presented himself. Peter Hibbert was already at work, cutting some cloth from a bolt. After an explanatory word with his master, Jonathan took the boy aside and broke the news as gently as he could. Peter burst into tears. It was minutes before the boy was able to press for details.

  'When was this, Mr Bale?' he whimpered.

  'Some time yesterday.'

  'Where did it happen?'

  'Her body was found in Drury Lane. It seems that she was struck by a coach as it careered along out of control. Mary had no chance. It was all over in seconds.'

  'What was my sister doing in Drury Lane?'

  'I don't know.'

  'I thought she and Mrs Gow had left London.'

  'They must've returned without warning. My guess is that Mary was on her way to The Theatre Royal.'

  'Where's the body now?'

  'Lying in a morgue,' said Jonathan. 'I saw it late last night and identified it. This was the earliest I could make contact with you.' He saw the boy about to topple and gave him a hug. 'Bear up, Peter. This is a terrible blow, I know. Mary was a good sister to you.'

  'She was everything, Mr Bale.'

  'For her sake, try to be strong.'

  'How can I?'

  'Try, Peter. Mary is with the angels now, where she belongs.'

  'That's true,' mumbled the boy.

  Informed of the circumstances, the tailor gave permission for his apprentice to take the day off and Jonathan accompanied him to Carter Street, where he had to mix fact with deception again. The uncle was numbed into silence by the news but his wife let out a shriek, sobbing loudly and bemoaning the loss of her niece. She laid responsibility for the death squarely on Mary Hibbert's involvement in the tawdry world of the theatre. Jonathan was able to agree with her heartily on that score but he did not labour the point, preferring to soothe rather than allot blame, and anxious to leave Peter in the reassuring company of his relatives. Uncle and aunt soon rallied. Grateful to the constable for telling them the news, they willingly accepted his offer to speak to the parish priest in order to make arrangements for the funeral.

  'Will you come back, Mr Bale?' asked Peter meekly.

  'In time.'

  'I'd like that.'

  Jonathan gave him a sad smile. It was outside that very house that he had last seen Mary Hibbert and he was still prodded by uncomfortable memories of their conversation. He was determined to be more helpful and less censorious towards her brother. Peter had now lost a mother, a father and only sister in the space of two short years. He needed all the friendship and support he could get.

  Jonathan's next visit was to the vicar, a white-haired old man who had lost count of the number of funeral services he had conducted. Mary Hibbert no longer lived in the parish but the fact that she was born there gave her the right to be buried in the already overcrowded churchyard. After discussing details with his visitor, the priest went scurrying off to Carter Lane to offer his own condolences to the bereaved. Jonathan felt guilty at having to give them only an attenuated version of the truth but he was relieved that he had not confronted them with the full horror of the situation. Peter Hibbert, in particular, would not have been able to cope. It was a kindness to spare him.

  Having discharged his duties regarding Mary Hibbert, the constable could now begin the pursuit of those who murdered her. He left the city through Ludgate, walked along Fleet Street then quickened his pace when he reached the Strand, the broad thoroughfare that was fringed on his left by the palatial residences of the great, the good and the ostentatiously wealthy. Jonathan was too caught up in his thoughts to accord the houses his usual hostile glare. He came to a halt at the place where the ambush had taken place, wondering yet again why that route had been taken by the coachman. Walking to the top of the lane, he found the landlord of the Red Lion supervising the unloading of barrels from a cart.

  'Good morning to you,' said Jonathan.

  'Good morning, sir.'

  'There's no room for anything to get past while this cart is here.'

  'They'll have to wait,' said the other cheerily. 'We must have our beer or I'll lose custom. I daresay you don't have lanes as narrow as this in your ward. Not since the fire, that is.'

  'Every street, lane and alley that was rebuilt had to be wider, sir, by order of Parliament. It's a sensible precaution. Fire spreads easily when properties are huddled so closely together.'

  'Then keep it away from us.'

  The innkeeper was a short, stout, red-faced man with a bald head that was encircled by a tonsure of matted grey hair. There was nothing monastic, however, in his coarse appearance and rough voice.

  'So what brings you back to the Red Lion?' he said.

  'Something you told me yesterday.'

  'I think I told you quite a lot, sir.'

  'You gave me a list of people who live in the lane.'

  'That I did, Mr Bale.'

  Jonathan was surprised. 'You remember my name, then?'

  'A good memory is an asset in my trade, sir. People like to be recognised. It makes them feel welcome. I always remember names.'

  'The one that interests me is Bartholomew Gow.'

  'Ah, yes. He wasn't a regular patron of my inn but he did come in often enough for me to get to know him a little.'

  'How would you describe him?'

  'Pleasant enough, sir. Kept himself to himself. He always moved on if things became a bit rowdy. Mr Gow was too much of a gentleman to put up with that.'

  'What age would you put him at?'

  'Well below thirty still, I'd say,' replied the man, exploring a hirsute ear with his little finger. 'Handsome fellow. The tavern wenches were all keen to serve Mr Gow. He had a way with him, see. My wife remarked on it a few times.' He gave an understanding chuckle. 'She wouldn't admit it to me, of course, but I think she misses him.'

  'Misses him?'

  'He hasn't been in to see us for weeks.'

  'Why not?'

  'Who knows? Maybe he found somewhere more to his taste, sir.
The Red Lion can get a bit lively when drink has flowed. Mr Gow was never at ease when that happened.'

  'Where exactly does he live?' said Jonathan, glancing back down the lane. 'Do you know which house?'

  'No, sir, but it's towards the bottom. That's where the best lodgings are to be found and I told you he was a gentleman.'

  'Lodgings? He doesn't own the house, then?'

  'Oh, no. He had a room, that's all.'

  Jonathan squeezed every detail he could out of the man before thanking him for his help and moving off. When he got to the lower end of the lane, he began knocking on doors systematically in his search for Bartholomew Gow. The fourth house was owned by a big, fleshy woman in her thirties with a prominent bosom taking attention away from a podgy face that was pitted by smallpox. She opened the door with reluctance and was clearly displeased to see a constable standing there.

  'Good morning,' said Jonathan politely.

  She was wary. 'What can I do for you, sir?'

  'I'm looking for a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

  'Then you've come too late. He moved out.'

  'When?'

  'Week or so ago.'

  'But he did lodge here?'

  'Yes.'

  'What sort of man was he?'

  'The kind that pays his rent. That's all I cared about.' She gave him a basilisk stare then tried to close the front door.

  'Wait,' he said, putting out a hand to stop her. 'I need to ask you something. A couple of days ago, there was an incident right outside your door involving a coach. It scraped along the front of your house.' He pointed to the marks in the brickwork. 'Were you in the house at the time?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Was anyone else here? Anyone who might have heard the noise and rushed out to see what was going on?'

  'Nobody, sir.'

  'What of your neighbours? Did they see anything?'

  'I don't think so or they'd have told me.'

  'There must have been some witnesses.'

  'I wouldn't know,' she said sourly.

  Jonathan became aware that he was being watched from the upper room. It was the second time he had been under surveillance from that standpoint. When he stepped back to look up, he saw a figure move smartly away from the window.