The Amorous Nightingale

by Edward Marston

  'It's not at your beck and call.'

  'Nor even at His Majesty's?'

  'There are other constables in London.'

  'But none with your particular abilities, Mr Bale. How can you hold back, man? You're sworn to uphold the law. A dreadful crime has been committed and you're turning your back on the opportunity to bring the villains to justice.' Christopher was almost imploring him. 'Please consider your decision again. You simply must help me.'

  'It's out of the question, sir.'

  'But why?'

  'I told you earlier. It's a point of principle. You may trumpet the lady's virtues but she inhabits a world of vice. Theatre is a symbol of all that's wrong with this city. I'll not subsidise corruption.' He got to his feet, his broad shoulders straightening as he did so. 'Nor will I provide a missing favourite for the King's bed. That's not what I call upholding the law, Mr Redmayne. It's condoning a vile sin in order to solve a crime.'

  'The lady is in grave danger!' said Christopher angrily.

  Jonathan was unmoved. He crossed the room to open the door.

  'Then you'd better try to find her,' he said calmly.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  'Why are you asking me all these questions about Harriet Gow?'

  'Idle curiosity.'

  'I know you better than that, Henry.'

  'The lady fascinates me.'

  'She fascinates every man with red blood in his veins,' said Killigrew, twitching a lecherous eyebrow, 'but that doesn't make them interrogate me like this.'

  Henry Redmayne dispensed his most charming smile. 'I ask purely in the spirit of friendship, Tom.'

  'Friendship with me - or with Harriet?'

  'Both, my dear fellow.'

  'You're an accomplished liar, I'll give you that.'

  'Then we have something in common.'

  Thomas Killigrew laughed. He was too old and too experienced to be easily taken in. Now in his mid-fifties, he was a man of medium height, running to fat and showing candid signs of a lifetime of sustained dissipation. Viewing the puffy face with its watery eyes and drooping moustache, Henry found it difficult to believe that he was looking at the same man as the one who had been painted almost thirty years earlier by no less an artist than Van Dyck, the premier choice of Charles I, the most single-minded connoisseur of portraiture in Europe. Thomas Killigrew had moved in high circles. As a Page to the King and Groom of the Bedchamber, he was entitled to call upon the artistry of a true master. Anthony Van Dyck's brush had been precise.

  Henry had seen the painting at Killigrew's house on a number of occasions. It showed a pale, slim, desolate young man in mourning over the death of his wife, Cecilia Crofts, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. A bare eighteen months of marriage had ended in tragedy. Attached to the sleeve of the bereaved man was a gold and silver cross engraved with the intertwined initials of his dead wife. Around Killigrew's other wrist was a black band from which Cecilia's wedding ring dangled dolefully. The widower's expression was a study in dignified suffering. It was impossible to look at the portrait without being moved. Even someone as cynical and indifferent as Henry Redmayne had been profoundly touched when he first laid eyes upon it.

  Van Dyck would paint a vastly different picture now. Tom Killigrew had lost his good looks in a steady flow of drink and debauchery. There had been hardship along the way. An unrepentant Royalist, he endured arrest, imprisonment and exile during the Civil War but he also contrived to find a second wife for himself, a rich lady whose wealth he enjoyed to the full and whose tolerance he stretched to the limit. The Restoration was the making of him, a chance to establish his primacy as a theatre manager, profiting, as he did, from his cordial relationship with the King and from his ability to judge the mood of his public in order to satisfy it time and again. Only one serious rival existed and Tom Killigrew had all but eclipsed him.

  They were in the manager's room at The King's Theatre. One eye closed, Killigrew scrutinised his visitor through the other and stroked his moustache like a favourite cat. There was a mocking note in his voice.

  'Do you wish to try again, Henry?' he said.

  'Try what?'

  'This foolish game of deception.'

  Henry mimed indignation. 'Would I deceive you, Tom?'

  'If you could get away with it.'

  'I simply brought you what I felt was an important message.'

  'Balderdash!'

  'Mrs Harriet Gow is unable to appear on stage at the moment. I felt that you should know that at once. I must say that your reaction has been singularly uncharacteristic.'

  'In what way?'

  'Any other man in receipt of such intelligence would be frothing at the mouth. To lose any of your actresses would be a sorry blow. When the missing lady is Harriet Gow, there is a whiff of disaster in the air.'

  'I've grown rather used to disaster,' said the other wearily.

  'Aren't you at least disturbed?'

  'Of course. Highly disturbed. Harriet was to have performed once more in The Maid's Tragedy tomorrow afternoon. I'll now be forced to rehearse someone else in her place.'

  'How can you be so calm about it?' asked Henry.

  'It's the calm after the storm, my friend. Had you been here an hour ago, you'd have caught me in mid-tempest.'

  'Why?'

  'That was when I first heard the news.'

  'You knew already? But how?'

  'By reading Harriet's letter.'

  Henry gulped. 'She wrote to you?'

  'That's what people usually do when they wish to send a letter. Hers was short but unequivocal. Sickness is forcing her to withdraw from London for a brief time.'

  'Sickness?'

  'No details were given.'

  'And the letter arrived an hour ago?'

  'Yes. Here at the theatre.'

  'Who brought it?'

  'I've no idea. It was left at the stage door for me.'

  'Are you sure that it was written by Harriet Gow?' pressed Henry. 'Could it not have been a clever forgery? Did you recognise her hand?'

  'Of course. It's unmistakable.'

  'Was there nothing else in the letter? No hint?'

  'Of what?'

  'No entreaty?'

  'None.'

  'No second message between the lines?'

  'Why should there be?'

  'Oh, I just wondered, Tom.' Henry's tone was offhand but his mind was racing. A new piece of evidence had suddenly come to light. 'I don't suppose that you have the missive here, by any chance?'

  'As it happens, I do.'

  'Where?'

  'It's in my pocket.'

  'Ah.'

  'And before you ask,' said Killigrew, anticipating his request, 'you may not view my private correspondence. Anything that passes between Harriet Gow and me is our business and nobody else's. Be assured of that. What you can do, Henry,' he continued, impaling his visitor with a piercing stare, 'is to tell me what brought you here in the first place. No lies, no evasions, no feeble excuses. What, in God's name, is going on? Why these questions? Why this subterfuge? Why come charging over to my theatre in order to apprise me of something I already knew?' He stood inches away from his visitor and barked at him. 'Well?'

  Henry shifted his feet. His mouth felt painfully dry.

  'Is that a flagon of wine I see on the table?' he murmured.

  Christopher Redmayne was in a quandary. The lonely ride back to Fetter Lane gave him the opportunity to review its full extent. Clucked from a lucrative commission to supervise the building of the house he had designed, he was asked to track down and safely retrieve an actress who had been kidnapped in violent circumstances and who might already be a long distance away from London by now. What little information he had at his disposal had come from a coachman who had been beaten senseless and who was still stunned by the assault. Christopher's only assistant was his brother, Henry, erratic at the best of times, nothing short of chaotic at the worst. Jonathan Bale, the constable selected by the King
to aid him in his search, had refused even to take a serious interest in the case because of its moral implications. It was lowering. To all intents and purposes, Christopher was on his own.

  In an instant, the summons from the Palace had altered the whole perspective of his life. Instead of being engaged on site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields, he would have to begin the following day either by delaying work on the foundations or by yielding up control to Lodowick Corrigan. Neither course of action recommended itself. What excuses could he make? How would his absence be viewed? He blenched as he thought what sort of an impression his enforced disappearance would make on Jasper Hartwell. His client embodied a further complication. Here was a man, hopelessly in love with the very woman who had been abducted. What if Hartwell somehow caught wind of the kidnap? He would hardly thank Christopher for keeping such vital intelligence from him. It might sour their friendship beyond repair, perhaps even lose him the priceless commission to design the Hartwell residence.

  Wherever he looked, Christopher saw potential hazards. His search for the royal nightingale could be the ruination of him. With so little in the way of clues, it was an intimidating task. He was groping in the dark. His one hope lay in a speedy solution of the crime but that seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. Without the resourceful Jonathan Bale at his elbow, he was fatally-handicapped. It was an open question whether Henry would actually help, hinder or unwittingly subvert his enquiries.

  He was still wrestling with his problems as he turned into Fetter Lane at the lower end and nudged his horse into a trot. Gloom was slowly descending on the city now, wrapping up its buildings and its thoroughfares in a first soft layer of darkness. When he got closer to his own house, however, there was still enough light for him to pick out the shape of the coach that was standing there. His ears soon caught the sound of a loud altercation in which Jacob seemed to be involved. Christopher dropped from the saddle and ran to investigate.

  His arrival was timely. Jacob was trying to explain to his visitor that his master was not at home but the man became aggressive and started to hurl threats at the old servant, waving a fist and accusing him, in the ripest of language, of wilful obstruction. Unabashed, Jacob gave tongue to such stinging obscenities that his companion was momentarily silenced. Christopher leaped into the gap between expletives.

  'What on earth is going on here?' he demanded.

  'There you are!' said Roland Trigg, swinging around to confront him. 'I need to speak to you, sir, but this idiot of a servant is trying to send me packing.'

  'I'll send you packing if you can't speak more civilly, Mr Trigg. Anybody who abuses my servant must answer to me. Jacob is not an idiot. He's the most trustworthy man I know and he is waiting patiently for an apology from you.'

  Trigg glowered at Jacob who responded with a gap-toothed smile. The coachman used Christopher as his court of appeal.

  'But I've something important to tell you, sir.'

  'It can wait until you've apologised to Jacob.'

  'I came straight here when I found out about it.'

  Christopher held his ground. Hands on his hips, he waited with tight-lipped disdain while Trigg argued, whinged, pleaded and blustered. In the end, the coachman realised that the servant had to be appeased before the master would listen to him. A reluctant apology tumbled out, stinging his swollen lip in the process.

  'Thank you, Mr Trigg,' said Christopher evenly. 'Now that we've got that out of the way, perhaps you should step into my house. Stable my horse, please, Jacob. I'll not be going out again tonight.'

  'Very good, sir,' said the other.

  While his servant took charge of his horse, Christopher led his guest into the parlour. Trigg removed his hat to reveal the bandage. By the flickering light of the candles, he looked even more gruesome. Taking off his own hat, Christopher lowered himself into a chair and kept the coachman standing.

  'What is it that you wish to say to me?' he asked brusquely.

  'There's been more trouble, sir.'

  'Trouble?'

  'I didn't know who to turn to. Mr Chiffinch said I wasn't to bother him but I wasn't to talk to anyone else either. Apart from you, that is. He gave me this address so I come here.'

  'And picked a fight with my servant.'

  'I thought he was lying to me.'

  'Jacob never lies, Mr Trigg. As you saw, I was not on the premises when you called. Well, come on,' he prompted, 'let's hear it. What's all this about trouble?'

  'Someone else was took, sir.'

  'Someone else?'

  'Mary,' said the other. 'Mary Hibbert. Mrs Gow's maidservant.'

  'Kidnapped, you mean?'

  'That's what it looks like, sir. Mary almost never stirs from the house except to go to the theatre with Mrs Gow. She should have been there. But when I got back, the door was open and the place was empty.'

  'Had anything been taken?'

  'Not so far as I could see.'

  'Were there any signs of a struggle?'

  'None, sir.'

  'Then how do you know that Mary Hibbert was kidnapped?'

  'It's the only explanation, sir,' gabbled Trigg. 'One of the neighbours told me he'd heard sounds of a scuffle and the noise of a coach being driven away fast. His wife thought she might have heard a woman's scream.'

  'Might have?'

  'Mary is in danger, Mr Redmayne. I know it.'

  'The evidence is hardly conclusive.'

  'She's such a dutiful girl, sir. Mary would never go out of the house when Mrs Gow was expected back. Nor would she leave the door wide open for anyone to walk in. Mrs Gow has many admirers,' he said with a touch of rancour. 'Too many for comfort. Some of them try to pester her at home. My job is to keep them at bay. If I'm not there to protect Mrs Gow, then Mary always is. Please, sir,' he begged. 'You must believe me.

  I wouldn't have bothered you without real cause. Mary's been took.'

  'Then it's a worrying new development,' conceded the other. 'You did right to bring the news to me, Mr Trigg. Thank you.'

  Though he could not bring himself to like the man, Christopher took pity on him. In the service of Harriet Gow, he had taken a severe beating. He was plainly distressed that both of the women he was employed to safeguard had been snatched away from him. Shuttling between anger and remorse, Trigg was like a distraught father whose daughters had been abducted.

  'When we met at the Palace,' recalled Christopher, 'you told me that you'd been coachman to Mrs Gow for over a year.'

  'That is true, sir.'

  'And before that?'

  'I held a similar post with Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

  'Why did you leave?'

  'I was offered the chance to work for Mrs Gow.'

  'How did that come about?'

  'A friend put in a kind word for me.'

  'You obviously take your duties seriously.'

  'It's the best position I've ever had, sir,' said Trigg earnestly. 'Until today, that is. Mrs Gow treats me very well and I've grown fond of Mary Hibbert. They're almost like a family to me. I can't tell you how upset I feel because I've let them down.'

  'Don't blame yourself, Mr Trigg.'

  'I should've saved Mrs Gow,' he insisted, beating his thigh with a fist. 'I should have been there to protect Mary Hibbert. It's my fault, Mr Redmayne, and there's no getting away with it. That's why I want to do all I can to find them. Use me, sir - please. Call on me at any time. I must be part of the rescue.'

  'You will be, Mr Trigg.'

  Christopher appreciated the offer of help though he was not quite sure how best to employ it. The coachman's strength might certainly be an asset, especially as Christopher did not have the reassuring bulk of Jonathan Bale alongside him. Yet the sheer physical power of Roland Trigg could also be a handicap if used in the spirit of vengeance. During their earlier meeting, the coachman had made his feelings about the kidnappers quite plain. Murder had danced in his eyes. Christopher did not wish to be party to acts of random homicide.

  'Ho
w are you now?' he asked, considerately.

  'Hurt and upset, sir.'

  'I was referring to your wounds. You were still somewhat dazed when we spoke at the Palace. You had difficulty collecting your thoughts.'

  'Not any more.'

  'Does that mean you've had time to think things over?'

  'I've been doing nothing else, Mr Redmayne.'

  'And?'

  'I believe I know who might be behind all this.'

  'You gave us a few possible names earlier.'

  'I forgot the most obvious one.'

  'And who's that?'

  'Mr Bartholomew, sir.'

  'Bartholomew?'

  'Yes,' said the other with conviction. 'Bartholomew Gow. If you ask me, he's more than up to a trick like this. That's who you should be looking for, sir. Mrs Gow's husband.'

  Sarah Bale had long ago learned to read her husband's moods. It enabled her to offer succour when it was needed, advice when it was welcome and understanding when it was appropriate. Jonathan wanted none of these things now. Having retreated into a reflective silence, he was temporarily beyond her reach. His wife respected his mood. When her work was finally done, she adjourned to the parlour to sit with her husband and to mend a pair of Richard's breeches by the light of the candle. Her needle was slow and unhurried. Though she was eager to hear what had passed between Christopher

  Redmayne and him, she did not dare to raise the subject with Jonathan while he was preoccupied.

  It was a long time before he even became aware of her presence.

  'Have you finished your work?' he said, looking up.

  'It's never entirely finished, I'm afraid.'

  'But you're done in the kitchen.'

  'For today, yes.'

  'Good.'

  'Did you want anything?'

  'No thank you, Sarah.'

  'Some cheese, perhaps? We've plenty in the larder.'

  'Nothing, my love.'

  There was a lengthy pause. Feeling that he owed her some kind of explanation, he struggled to find the right words. Sarah waited patiently. He cleared his throat before speaking.