'Then your experience of it must have differed from mine.' He became almost testy. 'You've no business to come here to discuss my personal affairs. What's going on?'
'I wondered if you might tell me that, sir.' 'Me?'
'You're not easy to track down.' He glanced around the room. 'I hadn't realised that you lived in Clerkenwell.'
'This is only a temporary address until I can find something better.'
'Of course, sir,' said Jonathan, sensing the hurt pride that lay behind the lie. 'I was looking for you in Greer Lane.'
'Where?' Gow seemed baffled. 'Greer Lane?'
'It's just off the Strand.'
'Then it's well beyond the reach of my purse.'
'I was told that you lodged there, sir, but my guess is that you only use the premises on an occasional basis. A couple of days ago,' said Jonathan, deciding to confront him with the truth in order to gauge his reaction, 'an ambush took place in Greer Lane. Mrs Gow was abducted.'
'Harriet?' said her husband, mouth agape. 'Abducted?'
'I'm afraid so, sir. My job is to help in the search for her.'
'But who kidnapped her, man? And why?'
'I can only answer the second question, Mr Gow. Your wife is being held for ransom. To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to throw more light on the circumstances of the abduction.'
'How can I?'
'It took place outside the house you visit in Greer Lane.'
'But I've never been near the place.'
'That's not what the landlady says,' argued Jonathan. 'Nor the innkeeper at the Red Lion. Do you deny you patronised the tavern?'
'In the strongest possible terms!' retorted Gow, going on the attack. 'Do you have the gall to tell me that you thought I was responsible for the kidnap? On what evidence? My wife and I may be estranged, Mr Bale, but I'd never wish her any harm.'
'Did you and she ever meet in Greer Lane?'
'No! How could we? I don't even know where it is.'
Jonathan felt suddenly ill at ease. Thinking that he would unravel the mystery when he cornered Bartholomew Gow, he realised that it had instead become more complex. The ousted husband was plainly telling the truth. He had nothing whatsoever to do with the crime.
The dream made Henry Redmayne squirm and groan in his bed. He was sitting alone in a pew in Gloucester Cathedral, shorn of his finery and wearing sackcloth and ashes in its stead. Occupying the pulpit and gazing down at his elder son like a disgruntled prophet, was his father, the venerable Dean, pointing a finger of doom at him and accusing him of sinful behaviour and moral turpitude. What made Henry break out in a guilty sweat was the fact that his father was listing his peccadilloes with terrifying accuracy. It was as if every act of indiscretion, every visit to a gaming house, every night of inebriation and every lustful hour in the arms of a whore had been watched from a few feet away by the pious author of his being. It was mortifying. Henry came out of his nightmare with a cry of pain only to find that he had not escaped at all.
The Dean of Gloucester glared down from a bedside pulpit.
'What is the matter, Henry?' he asked solicitously.
'Is that you, Father?'
'Yes, my son. And it seems I came at just the right time to offer you solace. I was shocked when I saw you. Christopher and I have been praying beside your bed for almost half an hour.'
'That was very kind of you,' said Henry, closing his eyes in the hope of bringing the nightmare to an abrupt end before opening them again to find the Reverend Algernon Redmayne still bending over him. 'I know the value of prayer.'
'It has brought you back to us.'
Algernon Redmayne was a dignified man in his sixties with white hair curling to his shoulders and a large, curved, glistening forehead. Accounted a handsome man in his youth, he had features that were more akin to those of his younger son but their pleasing aspect had been subdued beneath years of sustained religiosity. Anything that was even marginally inappropriate in a devout churchman had been ruthlessly suppressed. The Dean of Gloucester was so completely defined by his rank and ministry that it was difficult to imagine his ever having been anything else. It was certainly impossible to believe that this tall, pale, solemn pillar of holy marble had actually fathered two children, thereby indulging in an act of procreation that indicated - against all the visible evidence - that he had, on two separate occasions at least, been a prey to fleshly desires that had no place in the cathedral precincts.
'How are you, Father?' asked Henry weakly.
'How are you, dear boy?' returned the other anxiously.
'I'm rallying, I think.'
'Brave man!'
'Have you come from Gloucester?'
'Yes, the Bishop and I have business here in London.'
'How is Bishop Nicholson?'
Henry did not have the slightest interest in the man but he wanted to keep his father talking while he assembled his own thoughts. The old man unnerved him at the best of times. Lying in pain in his bed, he felt as if he were locked in the pillory, utterly at his father's mercy. The Dean chose the moment to deliver a sonorous sermon.
'Bishop Nicholson is very much perplexed at the many impudent coventicles that have grown up in every part of our county. Not only do these Dissenters openly appear at their places of worship, they justify their meetings unashamedly to the Bishop's face. It is disgraceful,' said the Dean, letting his voice swell for effect. 'We have made complaints to the Justices in the Peace but they are dilatory in enforcing the law. When we have proceeded against the malefactors in the church courts, we have met with the most disrespectful behaviour.'
'I'm sorry to hear that, Father.'
'We are to take the matter up with Archbishop Sheldon. It is one of the reasons we are here.' He clasped his hands together. 'Let us put that aside for a moment, Henry.
Your condition disturbs me. Tell me, my son. What exactly happened to you?'
Entreating rescue, Henry looked across at his brother.
'I've told Father very little,' said Christopher, spelling out the potential for deception. 'Nobody has any idea how you came by your injuries because you've been unconscious until today. I daresay that you're still dazed by the experience,' he prompted. 'Aren't you, Henry?'
'Yes,' said his brother. 'I can only remember bits of it.'
'Tell us what they are,' encouraged the Dean.
'It was the last place I would have expected an attack, Father.'
'What was?'
'The church.'
Astonishment registered. 'You were in a church?'
'I visit it every day.'
'Which one?'
'That's the strange thing,' said Henry, manufacturing his story as he went along. 'I don't know. All that I can recall is that I was kneeling in prayer when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I thought it was probably the churchwarden, wanting a quiet word with me, so I followed him down the nave. Suddenly, I felt something strike me across the back of the head and I pitched forward. The blows came thick and fast after that.' There was a shrug in his voice. 'My purse was taken and so were my rings. That's what the villains were after. But to have it happen on consecrated ground!' he concluded, with a passable stab at indignation. 'It was sacrilege!'
The Dean of Gloucester's face was impassive. When he leaned in close to his elder son, however, his eyes gleamed knowingly.
'The injuries have patently affected your memory,' he said quietly. 'Wherever else you received them, it was not in a church. I have had time to look around your house and note the inordinate amount of wine and brandy in your cellars. I also took the liberty of inspecting your wardrobe. Nothing I saw even hinted at a man of religious conviction. Indeed, if you dared to wear any of that garish apparel in Gloucester Cathedral, Bishop Nicholson would call the verger and have you ejected for mockery.'
'Henry looks tired, Father,' interrupted Christopher, coming to his brother's aid. 'Perhaps we should leave him to rest.'
'Of course,' agreed the other. 'Let me just say one last thing to him. L
isten very carefully, Henry.'
'I will, Father,' croaked the patient.
'Make use of this dreadful experience. Reflect on your life and wonder whether these injuries were not inflicted on you by way of just deserts. I am deeply sympathetic,' he emphasised. 'As your father, I am also upset to see you in such a condition. But your ordeal may yet have a curative effect. When you have recovered your strength and regained your memory, you may be ready to own that your tale about the church was a pretty fable devised to invite my approval. Next time I ask you what really happened,' he said firmly, 'I would like the truth.'
Henry Redmayne quivered and took refuge once more in sleep.
Chapter Twelve
As he made his way home on foot from Clerkenwell, Jonathan Bale reflected on the caprices of Fate. Bartholomew Gow had been a man of comfortable means, living in a fine house with a beautiful young wife and looking towards a future of uninterrupted happiness. Everything had changed dramatically. He was now embittered, short of money, living in a dingy abode with nothing more than a freakish servant for company and facing a bleak and lonely future. Jonathan could still not understand exactly how it had happened, but he did feel sorry for the man. The story had come out in fits and starts and it was only now that the constable was able to piece it together properly.
In his own estimation, Gow was a casualty of his wife's ruthless ambition. Since so much of it was activated by self- pity, Jonathan did not believe all that he had heard from the man. What interested him was Bartholomew Gow's ambivalent attitude towards his wife. Angry at her for the way she had treated him, he was genuinely concerned at the news of her abduction and fearful that she might be hurt in some way. Yet that concern was itself tempered by the feeling that justice may somehow have been done, that Harriet Gow was getting no more than she deserved for the way she had behaved. At one point, an almost complacent smile had touched Gow's lips.
Jonathan was baffled. His insight into a turbulent marriage upset him. He could not comprehend how two people who came together out of love and who took sacred vows at the altar could part with such enmity. Harriet Gow should certainly not take all of the blame herself. As he listened to the husband's meandering account of events, Jonathan saw the man's defects revealing themselves. Gow was spiteful, envious of his wife's talents, boastful about himself, mean- spirited, capable of bursts of temper and quite unable to accept that he had in any way been in the wrong. Though his visitor came to see how an outwardly personable man like Gow could have attracted an inexperienced girl to marry him, he also noted some of the shortcomings in the husband that must in time have irritated his spouse beyond measure.
When he turned into Addle Hill, he felt a surge of love for his own wife, a deep gratitude that he and Sarah had not bickered and battled with each other in the way that Bartholomew Gow and his wife clearly had. Jonathan and Sarah Bale had a different kind of partnership. It might lack the luxuries and the excitements that the other marriage had enjoyed at the start but it had endured. It was the core of Jonathan's life, the immoveable base from which he set out each day and to which he could return with the confident expectation of a warm smile and a loving welcome. A long conversation in Clerkenwell made him count his own blessings. He was not given to impulsive gestures as a rule, but when he let himself into the house and found Sarah in the kitchen, he wrapped her in his arms and gave her a resounding kiss.
'What have I done to deserve that?' she said, laughing.
'You're here, Sarah.'
'Well, of course I'm here. I've sheets to wash and clothes to mend and a dozen other chores to get through. I can't stir from the house until all that's done.'
'That wasn't what I meant, my love.'
'Then what did you mean?'
'Nothing,' he said.
The second kiss was brief but tender. Sarah busied herself with getting a meal for him. Eating times were irregular in the Bale household because she never knew when his duties would allow him to slip back to the house. She never carped about the fact. Though she might tease him at times, she rarely chided him about anything. What she had married was a good, honest, loving man who worked as a shipwright in their early years together. Her commitment was total. Sarah did not question his decision to become a constable even though it meant that less money would come into the house and that he would be exposing himself to constant physical danger. She was content to support him in whatever he chose to do.
'I hoped you might be back earlier,' she said, putting the food on the table. 'Where have you been?'
'Far afield.'
'Oh?'
'What about you, my love?'
'I've been far afield myself,' she joked. 'I went into the parlour, back into the kitchen, upstairs to clean the rooms, down again to start the washing in here then out to the garden to peg it on the line. You're not the only person who's travelled today, Jonathan Bale.'
He munched his slice of ham and smiled. She knew instinctively that he was engaged in a serious investigation but she did not press for details. Sarah would be told what was going on when her husband was ready to confide in her and not before. As she babbled on about the customers who had called at the house that morning, Jonathan felt sorry that he had to keep her in ignorance, but the case required absolute secrecy and there were some elements in it that he could never divulge. From the speed with which he gobbled his meal, Sarah could see how anxious he was to get back to his work. Collecting a kiss of thanks, she saw him to the door.
'When will you be back?' she asked.
'I've no idea, my love.'
'In time to read to the children?'
'I hope so.'
'They like to hear their father read,' she said. 'Though they did enjoy listening to Mr Redmayne, too. Oliver loved that story about Samson. Do tell that to Mr Redmayne, if you chance to see him again.'
'We may have other things to discuss,' Jonathan murmured.
He walked up Addle Hill towards Carter Lane, intending to resume his task by following up some of the lines of enquiry suggested to him by Bartholomew Gow. Since the husband could now be excluded from the list of suspects, attention had to centre on someone else. Jonathan did not get far before he realised that he was being followed. The man must have been lurking not far from his home, waiting for the constable to emerge before trailing him. Jonathan did not look round for fear of frightening the stalker away. If someone had a reason to dog his steps, he wanted to know what it was, regardless of the hazards that might be involved.
The pursuit was relentless. Though he led the man on a twisting route, he could not shake him off. Jonathan eventually walked into Ave Maria Lane, part of the area around St Paul's Cathedral that had been stricken by the Great Fire and rebuilt in accordance with the new specifications. The lane had been widened to eighteen feet and some of its character had been lost in the process but the change had been necessary. Having helped to fight the fire himself in the previous year, Jonathan recalled how destructive and undiscriminating it had been. Not even the towering magnificence of St Paul's had been spared. He had taken a close interest in the reconstruction and had an intimate knowledge of every inch of the district. That knowledge was now put to practical use.
Swinging right into Paternoster Row, he headed for a narrow passage that led off to a tavern. It would be an ideal place for an attack. If his shadow were waiting for his opportunity, this is where he would take it. Jonathan was ready for him. Ambling along with apparent unconcern, he turned calmly into the passage then flattened himself immediately into the first doorway. Footsteps quickened and a stocky man came running around the corner with a cudgel in his hand, ready to strike. With no quarry in sight, he came to a halt and gazed around in astonishment, unaware that the constable was directly behind him. Relaxing his grip on the weapon, he let it dangle by his side.
Jonathan was on him at once. Leaping out of his hiding place, he threw one arm around the man's neck and used the other hand to grab the wrist that held the cudgel. The man struggled fi
ercely and it was all that Jonathan could do to hold him. He managed to twist the cudgel from the man's grasp and it fell to the ground but his adversary was wily as well as strong. Unable to dislodge the constable, he gave a sudden heave backwards and slammed him against the wall of a house. The impact made Jonathan release his grip and the man wrenched himself free. He retrieved his cudgel and raised it to hit out but Jonathan parried the blow before it gained any real force.
They grappled, punched and lurched violently to and fro. Jonathan had to take a couple more painful blows from the cudgel but he was not deterred. The man in his arms was most probably one of the assailants who had beaten a coachman, assaulted Henry Redmayne and, worst of all, helped to murder a defenceless girl. The thought of Mary Hibbert lying on a slab put extra strength and urgency into the constable. Bringing a knee up sharply into the man's groin, he made him double up with agony. Jonathan seized him by the neck and swung him headfirst against the nearest wall, splitting open his skull and depriving him of all interest in continuing the brawl.
It was Jonathan's turn to hold the cudgel now. He hauled the man upright, pinned him roughly against the wall and held the weapon at both ends so that he could press it against his adversary's throat. Dazed and bleeding, the man spluttered helplessly. His eyes began to bulge. Jonathan applied more pressure on his windpipe.
'Who sent you?' he demanded.
The arrival of his father clouded his mind and robbed him of valuable time. Christopher Redmayne had distractions enough without having to cope with the Dean of Gloucester. Much as he loved his father, he could not imagine a more untimely moment for the old man to descend on him. Paradoxically, the unexpected appearance of Algernon Redmayne might work to the advantage of his elder son. Swathed in linen and covered with bruises, Henry was able to draw heavily on his father's compassion. Had the visitor caught him in his more usual guise as a sybarite, the wounded man would have attracted abuse rather than sympathy.
Christopher rode towards Shoreditch at a steady canter. Henry's condition had been a help to his brother as well. Anxious about the state of his elder son, the Dean had sent for the physician and insisted on remaining at the bedside until he came. Christopher was released to continue with work which, his father assumed, would take him to the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields. Instead, the architect was heading in the opposite direction.
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