The Amorous Nightingale

by Edward Marston

  'Is there nobody else who could take on this assignment?' asked Christopher. 'Work begins tomorrow on a house that I have designed. My presence on site is vital.'

  'Not if the building is delayed.'

  'There's no reason for that to happen, Your Majesty.'

  'There's every reason. And before you ask again,' he said, lifting an imperious hand, 'there is nobody else who is so well fitted for the task before us. Great courage and discretion are required. You possess both qualities in abundance.

  That is why I turn to you in this emergency.' He detached the spaniel from his shoulder and dropped it to the floor. 'No other names were even considered. I must have the two of you.'

  Christopher was taken aback. 'Henry and I?'

  'No, not Henry. That is a laughable suggestion. This is way beyond your brother's meagre capacities.' Henry bit back a protest and writhed afresh. 'The man I have in mind is that constable.'

  'Jonathan Bale?'

  'The very fellow. Surly but solid.'

  'You have summed him up to perfection, Your Majesty.'

  'The two of you worked well together.'

  'Give or take a few disagreements.'

  'Disagreements?'

  'Nothing of consequence,' said Christopher dismissively, gliding over any mention of Jonathan Bale's republican sympathies. 'Constable Bale is a dedicated man. A brave one, too. He saved me from a beating.'

  'You and he must pick up the trail at once.'

  'The trail, Your Majesty?'

  'Yes,' said the King, rising to his feet and scattering the dogs. 'The search must begin immediately. Thus it stands, Mr Redmayne. Someone very dear to me has been abducted. Circumstances compel me to pine for her in private. I need hardly tell you what those circumstances are. On one thing, however, I am decided. She must be found - alive and well - at the earliest possible opportunity.'

  'May I know the lady's name?'

  'All of London is familiar with it by now.'

  'Indeed? Then she must be famous.'

  'Deservedly so.'

  'Who is the lady?'

  'Mrs Harriet Gow.'

  Christopher was stunned. The idea that Harriet Gow was in any kind of peril was a severe blow. He reeled. Unable to contain himself, Henry let out an exclamation of horror before clapping a hand over his truant mouth. The King began to pace the room.

  'This is a bad business,' he moaned, 'and it must be resolved quickly. A precious life is at stake - a very precious life. Rescue must be effected.' He stopped in front of Christopher. 'All mention of me must, of necessity, be absent from this affair but I wish to be kept informed of any progress that you and Constable Bale make. Is that understood?'

  'Yes, Your Majesty,' mumbled Christopher, still trying to absorb the shock of what he had heard. 'But can this be so? Mrs Gow kidnapped? Who could wish to lay rough hands on such a beautiful lady?'

  'That is what you must find out, Mr Redmayne. Harsh punishment will await the malefactors, I can promise you that. I can also promise you and the constable a sizeable reward.'

  'Saving the lady would be reward enough in itself.'

  'Nobly said, sir!'

  'I had the good fortune to see Mrs Gow in The Maid's Tragedy,' said Christopher, recalling the effect she had had on him at the theatre. 'A truly remarkable talent. That song of hers could charm a bird from a tree.'

  'Then you will understand why I want her prised from the grip of her abductors,' said Charles, eyes flashing. 'The longer she is at their mercy, the more danger to her life. Act fast, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Where will I start, Your Majesty?'

  'That is up to you, sir.'

  'But you've given me no firm information.'

  'We do not have any, beyond the fact that Mrs Gow was travelling in her coach this morning when it was ambushed in a narrow lane. The coachman was overpowered, the lady seized and spirited away. A ransom note arrived soon after at the Palace.' He turned away to hide his consternation. 'What few details we have, you can learn from Will Chiffinch. Will?'

  'Your Majesty?' said the other, emerging from a corner.

  'Do what is needful.' He studied the ruby ring, distressed to think that the person to whom he gave its twin was in such peril. 'Mrs Gow occupies a special place in my heart. I'll not sleep a wink until she is safely returned to it. Please find her - soon!'

  The King went back to the window and the audience was over. At a signal from Chiffinch, the Redmayne brothers tripped out of the Drawing Room. Christopher's mind was ablaze. All his reservations about taking on the assignment now faded away. Harriet Gow was missing. It was incredible and yet, when he thought about it, not entirely unexpected. Beauty as rare as hers, allied with talent as unique, was bound to attract envy and spite. Her enjoyment of royal favours would create another set of enemies. Which of them had kidnapped her? And how much were they demanding for her release?

  Will Chiffinch took a deep breath then indicated some chairs.

  'It might be better if you both sit down,' he said, marshalling his thoughts. 'What I am about to tell you is, of course, in the strictest confidence. Never forget that. You must be discreet. The ransom note, as you will see, warns of dire consequences if any attempt is made to rescue Mrs Gow. One wrong move could prove fatal to her.'

  'You can trust me, Mr Chiffinch,' affirmed Henry with a hand on his breast. 'I am Discretion itself.'

  'That is not His Majesty's estimation of you, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Oh?'

  'Hence the fact that you are relegated to the outer fringes of this inquiry. Remain there in silence, please. Otherwise, you delay us.'

  'Tell us about the abduction,' urged Christopher. 'Where exactly did it take place? How violent were the kidnappers? Was Mrs Gow hurt?'

  'We hope not.'

  'Yet the King said the coachman was overpowered.'

  'No question of that,' said Chiffinch with a sigh.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Let the fellow speak for himself.'

  He crossed to a door in the corner and opened it to admit a big, brawny man of middle years in a torn coat that was spattered with blood. The coachman's craggy features were disfigured by bruises, and heavy bandaging encircled his forehead. A split lip throbbed visibly with pain.

  'This is Roland Trigg,' introduced Chiffinch. 'He has been Mrs Gow's coachman for over a year now. His duties include more than simply conveying her from place to place. Mr Trigg is familiar with her movements and with those in her intimate circle. But let us return to the abduction itself. Hear it from one who was actually there. Mr Trigg?'

  Roland Trigg ran a purple tongue over his swollen lip.

  'She was took, sirs,' he said with a mixture of sadness and anger. 'Stolen from me in broad daylight. I fought hard to save her but I was outnumbered. Four of them in all. One with a pistol and three with cudgels. They left their trademark all over me, but no matter for that. Help me to find them, sirs, for I have a score to settle with that quartet.'

  'A score?' echoed Christopher.

  'Yes,' vowed the other, bunching his fists. 'I mean to kill each one of them with my bare hands. Slowly. Just for the pleasure of it.'

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  It was an afternoon of mixed fortunes for Jonathan Bale. Though he cleverly apprehended the thief who broke into unoccupied premises in Knightrider Street, he failed to catch the man's accomplice, a nimble youth who got away with appreciable takings. The constable went on to stop a fight between two irate neighbours, adjudicate in a marital dispute over a dead cat and give evidence before the magistrate in three separate cases. When a breathless Abraham Datchett accosted him with the news that a corpse was bobbing about in the river, Jonathan rushed down to the wharf, only to discover that the watchman's failing eyesight had confused a piece of driftwood caught up in some tarpaulin with human remains. There were further examples of success and failure during his patrol of Baynard's Castle Ward. It was a typical day.

  When his feet took him close to Add
le Hill once more, he slipped home to see his wife and to take some refreshment. Sarah Bale was in the kitchen as he let himself into the house. Bare arms deep in water, she was washing some clothes for regular clients. Among the jobs she took on in order to supplement their finances was that of tubwoman, receiving filthy sheets and returning them with an almost pristine whiteness. It was hard work but Sarah revelled in it, singing to herself as she laboured and building up a steady rhythm in the tub.

  Jonathan came up behind her to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  'Are you still doing that, my love?' he said.

  'It will keep me busy for a couple of hours yet.'

  'You take on too much, Sarah.'

  'I never refuse good, honest work.'

  'You should.'

  'We need the money, Jonathan.'

  'We'll manage somehow.'

  'You always say that.'

  'Only because it's the truth.'

  She broke off to dry her hands and to appraise her husband.

  'You look tired,' she noted.

  'It's been a tiring afternoon.'

  'Have you called in here to moan about it?'

  'I never do that, Sarah, and you know it,' he said solemnly. 'My work is left behind the moment I step through that door. This is my refuge. My place of sanctuary.'

  'I wish I could say the same.'

  She glanced at the washing with a wry smile. Sarah Bale was a plump woman with a round face that was full of kindness and character. His wife was almost twice the weight she had been when she married him but Jonathan was quite unaware of the transformation that had taken place. The happiness of their union imposed a benign form of blindness on him. Looking at her now, he marvelled yet again at her comely features and her youthful vitality.

  Though he resented the amount of work she accepted, Jonathan saw the practical advantages. Apart from bringing a steady trickle of additional money into the home, taking in washing, sewing or doing other chores gave Sarah an insight into the lives of many families in the locality. Most of what she picked up was idle gossip but some of the information was extremely useful to her husband. Jonathan prided himself on the fact that he knew everyone in his parish by name but it was his wife who often provided significant detail about some of the people he nominally protected.

  Jonathan poured himself a mug of beer to slake his thirst.

  'Whose washing is that?' he asked, indicating the tub.

  'Mrs Calcart of Thames Street.'

  'When is her baby due?'

  'You're behind the times, Jonathan,' she said, poking his ribs with an affectionate finger. 'She brought a lusty son into the world over a fortnight ago. There'll be even more work from Mrs Calcart from now on.'

  'That sounds like bad news.'

  'Not to me,' she said brightly. Sarah folded her arms and became serious. 'I've been thinking about what you said earlier.'

  'Earlier?'

  'That meeting you had with Mary Hibbert.'

  'Yes,' he admitted, 'it's been preying on my mind as well.'

  'Oh? Why?'

  'Because I feel I was rather stern with her. Without cause. I tried to be friendly but my words were somehow tinged with disapproval. Why deceive myself?' he asked with a shrug. 'I do disapprove of what she's doing. There's no denying that. But it doesn't give me the right to condemn her.'

  'That was my view as well.'

  'I'm sorry I spoke out of turn to Mary.'

  'She's still very young.'

  'Young and vulnerable.'

  'You should have been more considerate.'

  'Should I?'

  'More understanding.'

  'About what?'

  'Her situation. This position she managed to secure. Most people would think that Mary Hibbert has done very well for herself.'

  'I'm not one of them, Sarah.'

  'There you go again!' she teased. 'Running the girl down.'

  'I'm worried about her, that's all. Deeply worried. Daniel Hibbert was a good friend of mine. Any child of his can call on me for help.'

  'But that's not what Mary did.'

  'More's the pity!'

  'Aren't you forgetting something?' she said quietly. 'When the Plague ravaged the city, she lost two parents in a matter of weeks. Think on that, Jonathan. Yet she never complained or asked for sympathy. Mary and her younger brother kept struggling on. She did all she could to improve herself and her hard work finally paid off. Look what she's achieved. A place in the household of a famous actress.'

  He was cynical. 'Famous or infamous?'

  'Don't be so harsh.'

  'I'm only being honest, Sarah. You think that Mary Hibbert has made something of herself but I shudder at what's happened. Her parents raised her to lead a life full of Christian endeavour, and where has it ended? In the playhouse! That veritable hell-hole. That public sewer called The King's Theatre.'

  'Can it really be so bad?'

  'Worse than I dare to describe.'

  'But you said that Mary had not been corrupted.'

  'Not as yet.'

  'You told me how friendly and open she still was.'

  'That's true,' he conceded. 'She had no airs and graces. Nor did I catch any hint of coarsening. It was a pleasure to talk to her.'

  'It's a pity you didn't give her the same pleasure,' chided his wife, putting a gentle hand on his arm. 'You mean well, Jonathan, I know, but your strictures can be a little daunting at times.'

  'Someone has to speak out.'

  'There are voices enough to do that.'

  'Mine will always be one of them.'

  'Even when you're talking to an innocent girl? What harm has she done? What crime has she committed?' She watched him carefully. 'I'll warrant that Mary has kept her innocence, hasn't she? Did you find time to notice that about her?'

  Jonathan pondered. 'Yes, Sarah,' he said at length. 'I did.'

  'And?'

  'Mary Hibbert has not been polluted.'

  'Then why read her a sermon?'

  'I've been feeling guilty about that ever since.'

  'So you should.'

  'Yet the girl needed to be warned.'

  'Against what?'

  'The dangers that surround her.'

  Sarah gave him a hug. 'You spy dangers everywhere,' she said fondly. 'It comes from being a constable. You may claim that you never bring your work across that threshhold but it's not true. It follows you wherever you go. You're always on duty. You can't help being what you are, Jonathan, and I love you for it.'

  'There's some consolation, then,' he said with a smile.

  'You're a good man. Too good in some ways.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You expect too much. You set standards that others can never meet. Stop trying to control people. They have their own lives to lead, Mary Hibbert among them. Leave her be,' she counselled. 'My guess is that she's under no threat. Not if she's the girl I remember. She has her wits about her.'

  'You may be right.'

  'I am right. Stop worrying about her.'

  'I'll try, Sarah.'

  'Have faith in the girl. Mary won't let herself down, I'm sure. Nor will she come to any grief. Just let her go about her own business in her own way,' she said softly. 'No harm will befall her.'

  The flowers never ceased to delight her. Mary Hibbert walked among them like a child exploring a magic garden. Harriet Gow never lacked for floral tributes. Baskets of exquisite blooms arrived each day from close friends or anonymous admirers. The house near St James's Square was replete with Nature's beauty and charged with the fragrance of summer. A red rose caught Mary's eye, a flower so rich in hue and so perfect in composition that it took her breath away. She felt a vicarious thrill. No man had ever sent her flowers or even given her a posy. Yet she could take pleasure from the fact that her mistress attracted so much love and devotion. She could share indirectly in the joy of adoration.

  It was early evening and Mary had been back in the house for several hours now. She was glad that she had vis
ited her sick uncle even though she collected a severe reproach from her aunt in the process, and, during her chance meeting with Constable Bale, some further disapproval. Mary could understand their attitude towards her and she was relieved that her brother, Peter, did not share it. Her aunt and her former neighbour could never appreciate the privileges of the world in which she now moved whereas Peter simply marvelled at them. Being surrounded by beautiful flowers was only one of those privileges. As she looked around the room with its costly furnishings, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

  Hearing the sound of a coach, she crossed to the window to see if her mistress was returning but the vehicle rumbled on past the house. Mary was mystified. Mrs Gow should have been back some hours ago. Peter, too, should have arrived by now. Her brother was coming to get some money from her and he was rarely late for such an appointment. Mary had no idea where either of them might be. Mrs Gow's absences were routinely cloaked in euphemism. That was the rule of the house. In this particular case, her departure enabled Mary to pay the overdue visit to Carter Lane to call on an ailing relative. Enjoined to be back at the house by early afternoon, she wondered what had delayed her employer. Her apprehension grew.

  She was relieved, therefore, when she heard the bell ring. Her mistress had come at last. Running to the front door, she flung it open with a welcoming smile but the greeting died on her lips. Instead of looking into the lovely face of Harriet Gow, she was staring at a complete stranger, a short, stocky individual in the garb of a coachman. The visitor tipped his hat respectfully.

  'Miss Hibbert?' he asked.

  'Yes.'

  'We need your help, please. Mrs Gow has sprained her ankle and will not alight from the coach until you come. Follow me.'

  'Wait!' said Mary guardedly. 'Where's Roland? He always drives Mrs Gow's coach. Why isn't Roland here?'

  'He, too, was injured in the accident, Miss Hibbert.'

  'What accident?'

  'Come with me and your mistress will explain.'

  'But I see no coach.'

  'It's just around the corner, a mere step away.'

  'Why is it there?'

  'Please,' he insisted politely. 'You're keeping Mrs Gow waiting.'

  Against her better judgement, Mary went with him around the angle of the house to the vehicle that was parked in the next street. She came to a sudden halt. It was not her mistress's coach at all. Before she could protest, her companion grabbed her firmly by the shoulder. A second man, lurking in readiness in a doorway, came up behind her to drop a hood over her head and to push her forward. Mary was hustled swiftly into the coach. Strong arms imprisoned her while a rope was tied tightly around her wrists. She flew into a panic but the hood muffled her screams. Her flailing body was easily subdued by the people who trussed her up. It was terrifying. She heard a whip crack and felt the horses lunge into action. The coach soon picked up speed. As the vehicle rattled noisily along the street, Mary Hibbert continued to yell for help that she knew would never come.