'That's the last thing you must do, sir,' said Christopher, anxious to calm him down. 'What the lady most needs is rest from the hurly-burly of life in the theatre. The stage is an exciting place but it makes enormous demands on those who grace it with their talents. In any case,' he added, 'Mrs Gow is no longer in London. She had taken herself off to an unknown address to recuperate.'
'This is dreadful news!'
'I'm sorry to be the bearer of such tidings.'
'Not at all. I'm glad to hear them so early in the day. If my angel is sick, I want to be at her bedside. Tom Killigrew will know where she is. I'll to him to get the full details.'
'But the lady wishes to be left alone.'
'She'll want to see me,' said Hartwell, sitting back in his seat. 'I'll have privileged access to her. I'm not just one more lusty hound in the pack that bays at her heels. Harriet Gow is going to be my wife.'
He shouted a command to his coachman and the vehicle moved off. Christopher was covered in dismay. Not only was he being accused of having given advice that would never have issued from his lips, he was having to conduct a search for a woman who now had a crazed admirer on her trail. Jasper Hartwell's intervention could be ruinous. It would certainly hamper Christopher's own investigations. What concerned him more than that was the fact that it might also put the life of Harriet Gow in danger. Christopher was still trying to assimilate the new development when he became aware of Lodowick Corrigan at his shoulder.
'Was that Mr Hartwell?' asked the builder.
'Yes.'
'What did he say?'
'That he was pleased to see that work had started.'
'Why didn't you call me over?'
'He preferred to talk to his architect.'
'But I wanted to raise a few points with him.'
'Raise them with me, Mr Corrigan,' said Christopher, meaningfully. 'I'm the only point of contact between builder and client. Remember that and there'll be no friction between us. Forget it, however,' he stressed as he mounted his horse, 'and I fear that we may fall out. A sensible man like you would not wish that to happen, I'm sure.'
Before the builder could reply, Christopher rode off at a brisk trot.
Abigail Saunders was a revelation. When he rehearsed her that morning in the role of Aspatia, the most that Killigrew dared to hope for was a competent replacement for Harriet Gow. But the actress excelled herself. She knew the role well and exploited it to the full. Voice, movement and gesture could not be faulted. It was only the song which exposed her limitations. Abigail Saunders had a high, reedy voice that could offer only sweetness. It lacked the poignancy that Harriet Gow could achieve, the ability to fill the theatre with a sadness that was almost tangible. Killigrew did not complain. Though his patrons would be disgruntled at the loss of their favourite, they would be given a more than able actress in her stead. Pert, pretty and confident, Abigail Saunders was seizing her opportunity with the zeal of one who had waited for it for a long time.
When the rehearsal ended, it was not only Killigrew who showered her with praise. The other actors on stage were quick to flatter her as well. Stepping into the breach, she was saving a play in which they now had a far greater chance to shine, liberated, as they were, from the dominance of Harriet Gow and the lasting impact of her song. None of them spared a thought for their missing colleague. All that concerned them now was the afternoon's performance. For making it possible, Abigail Saunders deserved their thanks and their approval.
One other person had watched the rehearsal with interest. When it was over, he put his gloved hands together in token applause. Killigrew broke away from his company to accost the intruder.
'Whatever are you doing here, Henry?' he demanded.
'Witnessing a miracle, Tom.'
'Abigail surpassed herself.'
'So I saw. It was almost as if she knew this chance was coming.'
'What are you implying?'
'Nothing.'
'Then why do you have that look in your eye again?'
'Sheer fatigue, I do assure you.'
Henry Redmayne had been forced to rise much earlier than was his custom in order to get to The Theatre Royal that morning. The visit had been worthwhile. It had certainly forced him to revalue Abigail Saunders as an actress. In the scene where Aspatia, disguised as her own brother, provoked the man who betrayed her into fighting a duel, Henry was so moved that he had been jerked fully awake at last. The whole experience left him with a new interest in the young woman who had replaced the absent Harriet Gow.
'No word from her, I suppose?' fished Henry.
'None,' said Killigrew. 'Harriet has gone to ground.'
'You make her sound like an animal.'
'She's an actress, Henry, and they are invariably one part human and three parts animal. If you worked with them as often as I do, you'd realise what vain and silly creatures even the best of them are. Actors are even worse,' he moaned.
'Rampant stallions. Did you know that I'm obliged to keep a woman at twenty shillings a week in order to satisfy eight of the young men in the house? Theatre management is a constant trial, sir. It's turned me pimp.'
'Harriet Gow is of a different order, surely?'
'Don't believe it.'
'She has such breeding and refinement.'
'A whore can pass for a nun on stage,' said Killigrew with a grim chuckle. 'That is the wonder of it. Harriet is neither whore nor nun but she is more akin to the former trade.'
'That's a scandalous thing to say!'
'I speak as I find, Henry. I love the lady to distraction but this is not the first time she's been wayward. Occasional disappearances have happened before.'
'Indeed?'
'She does it to vex me, I swear, or to remind me just how important she is to my company. Sick, indeed! I do not believe a word of that letter she sent. Harriet is the healthiest woman I know. She simply wanted a few days away from the theatre.'
'Why?'
'Why else? The pursuit of pleasure. A man of your proclivities must surely have guessed that. Sickness is the cloak behind which she hides but I know the truth of it. Harriet Gow is either lolling somewhere in a rich man's bed or sailing down the Thames in the royal barge.'
A deep sigh. 'I wish that you were right, Tom.'
'You've evidence to contradict me?'
'No, no,' said Henry, quick to extricate himself. 'I accept your word for it. Nobody knows the lady as well as you. I've only worshipped her from afar. Along with all the others.'
'Like that arrant fool, Jasper Hartwell.'
'Jasper? How is he involved here?'
'He was hammering on my door first thing this morning, begging me to tell him where Harriet was. When I was unable to do so, he first thrust money at me then threatened me with his sword. I tell you, Henry, it was all I could do to get rid of the dolt.' Killigrew threw both hands in the air. 'How did he know that Harriet was unable to play today? Has someone been issuing handbills to that effect?'
'I'm more worried about the passion that he showed.'
'Oh, that was real enough.'
'Jasper Hartwell? Aroused?'
'To full pitch. Harriet has certainly lit a fire in his breeches.'
'They're never doused, Tom,' said the other with a grimace. 'But they usually smoulder for some fair, fat wench in red taffeta. Jasper is a man who has to pay outrageously for his pleasures for no woman would oblige him out of love or curiosity.'
'Keep him away from me, that's all I ask.'
'I'll look into it.'
'And tell me why you're lurking in my theatre.'
'To pay my respects, of course.'
'To me, you lying dog?'
'No, Tom. To the new star in your little firmament. Miss Abigail Saunders. Excuse me while I have a word with the lady.'
Killigrew was about to protest but two of the actors suddenly pounced on him to demand their wages and an artist needed instruction about the scenery he was hired to paint. Henry dodged the manager and made his
way to the dressing rooms at the rear of the building. He soon found the one occupied by Abigail Saunders. A tap on the door brought a short, dumpy, dark-haired woman into view.
'My name is Henry Redmayne,' he said in his grandest manner. 'A close friend of Tom Killigrew and a connoisseur of the theatre. I was privileged to watch the rehearsal just now and I just wished to add my congratulations to Miss Saunders.'
'Thank you, sir,' said the woman gruffly. 'I'll pass them on.'
'No, Barbara,' called a voice. 'Invite Mr Redmayne in.'
The maid stood reluctantly aside so that Henry could stride into the dressing room. Sweeping off his hat, he executed a low bow. Abigail Saunders watched him in her mirror.
'Your performance was a delight, Miss Saunders,' he said.
'Thank you, kind sir.'
'It will carry all before it.'
'That is what I intend.'
She rose from her chair and turned to appraise him. His voice had led her to expect a younger and more handsome man but her smile shielded her disappointment from him. Her life had been an endless series of Henry Redmaynes. She talked their language.
'Will you be at the performance this afternoon, sir?'
'Nothing would prevent me from missing it.'
'Pray, visit me in my dressing room afterwards.'
'I'll do so with a basket of flowers,' he said gallantly.
'Have you seen the play before?'
'Only once. It is a powerful drama and no mistake.'
'You watched Mrs Gow in the role, then.'
'Possibly, Miss Saunders. I've quite forgotten. You have made the part so completely your own, I can't imagine any other actress even daring to take it on.'
'You flatter me, sir.'
'I welcome a rising talent.'
He gave another bow and was rewarded with an outstretched hand. Taking it by the fingertips, he bestowed a light kiss before releasing it again. Abigail flirted mischievously with her eyes.
'All you've needed is your place in the sun,' he remarked.
'It's come at last, Mr Redmayne.'
'I hope that this is only the start.'
'Oh, it will be,' she said with quiet determination.
'You sound very certain of that.'
'I am, sir. Nobody likes to profit from the misfortune of others but that is the guiding principle of theatrical life. As one person falls by the wayside, another must take her place. I'm deeply upset, of course, that dear Harriet is indisposed but I know how much she would hate a play to be cancelled because of her.' She spread her arms and spun around on her toes. 'So here I am. Keeping the theatre open this afternoon when it might otherwise have been closed.'
'Tom Killigrew was overjoyed with you.'
'So he will be when he sees my full range.'
'Full range?'
'Yes, Mr Redmayne. Aspatia is only one of the roles in which I'll dazzle the patrons. There'll be many others.' She turned back to the mirror to examine her hair. 'After all, Harriet Gow may be indisposed for quite some time.'
Mary Hibbert slept fitfully until the sound of a key in the lock brought her rudely awake. The cellar was cold, damp and hostile. Since the candle had burned itself out, the room was plunged into darkness, robbing her of any idea of time. When the door opened, therefore, she was surprised how much natural light flooded in. It made her eyes blink. Mary was taken out to use the privy, an embarrassing business when a man in a mask is guarding the door but a necessary one all the same. Hauled back down to the cellar, she was given more food and water. Breakfast over, she was guided back up the steps, across the hall and up the wide staircase. Mary began to shiver uncontrollably. Was she going to be ravished by her mute companion?
When they paused outside a room, she tried to break free but he was far too strong, subduing her with ease and taking liberties with his hands that confirmed her worst fears. Mary felt as if she were being suffocated. She began to swoon. A door was opened and she was thrust roughly through it alone. Tumbling to the floor, she heard the door being locked behind her and quailed. Then she heard something else.
'Mary!'
Harriet Gow came running across the room to help her up.
'Have they brought you here as well?'
'Yes, Mrs Gow.'
Mary burst into tears, not knowing whether to be relieved at the sight of her mistress or frightened by the dire straits in which they found themselves. Rising from her feet, she flung herself into her employer's arms, each clinging tight and drawing comfort from the other. Harriet eventually took her maidservant by the shoulders.
'This is all my fault,' she admitted.
'No, no, Mrs Gow. Don't say that.'
'They've dragged you down with me, Mary.'
'I don't blame you, honestly. I'm just so glad to see you again.'
There was no gladness in her eyes. As she looked at Harriet Gow, she did not see the poised and graceful woman with whom she spent her days so happily. Her mistress was flushed and unkempt, her dress torn and her shoes discarded. Hair that was so lovingly brushed as a rule now hung in long, uneven strands. All of her jewellery had been removed. Her composure had also vanished. There was a hunted look about her.
'Where are we, Mrs Gow?' asked Mary, looking around.
'I've no idea.'
'Have they hurt you? Did they…'
'No, Mary. Nobody has touched me. Yet, that is.'
'They locked me in a cellar all night.'
'How dreadful!' She hugged the girl to her. 'My plight is little better but at least I have a comfortable bed and a garden I can look out on. Where exactly it is, I don't know. We were ambushed near the Strand. While they fought with Roland, someone put a hood over my head and pushed me into another coach. It seemed to travel for an age before we got here. All I know is that we're out in the country somewhere. It's no use calling for help. We're quite isolated.'
'I heard you sing, Mrs Gow.'
'What?'
'That's what kept me going. I heard your voice drifting down to the cellar and knew that you were here as well. It helped. I hate it that this has happened to you, but at least we're together now.'
'Yes, child.'
They exchanged a kiss and held each other tighter than ever.
'Mrs Gow,' said Mary at length.
'Yes?'
'Who are they?'
'I'm not sure.'
'What do they want?'
'They haven't told me.'
'Do you have no idea who they might be?'
'No, Mary.'
'Why are they doing this to us?'
By way of an answer, Harriet Gow eased her across to the little sofa and sat beside her on it. Letting the girl nestle into her, she stroked Mary's hair softly and tried to reassure them both in the only way that came to mind. She began to sing.
* * *
Chapter Eight
Jonathan Bale made up for lost time. Having committed himself to the search for the missing women, he began early next day by calling on the house in Carter Lane, ostensibly to reassure Mary Hibbert's relatives that she was safe but also to find out how much they knew about her life and movements. Having gleaned some interesting new details, he left the city by Ludgate and began the long walk towards St James's Palace. It gave him time to marshal his thoughts. Impelled by a desire to rescue Mary Hibbert, he was troubled by memories of the earlier meeting with her when, he now felt, his principles had got the better of his civility. Sarah Bale's comment had been apt: the girl was still young. Jonathan should have made more allowance for the fact.
He was also assailed by guilt about his attitude towards Harriet Gow. Personal interest had drawn him into the investigation but it was as important to find the actress he had never met as the maidservant he had known for years. Both lives were threatened. Both women deserved help. Jonathan chided himself for letting his conscience get in the way of his compassion. While he was worrying about his moral standards, a gifted actress was being held to ransom by brutal men. It had taken the kidnap of
Mary Hibbert to bring him to his senses and he was keen to make amends. His stride lengthened purposefully.
St James's Square was still at a very early stage of its growth. Situated in fields to the north-east of St James's Palace, it was taking shape on land which had been leased by the King to one of his most trusted friends, Henry Jermyn, the enterprising Earl of St Albans, who, among other services to the nation, was credited with negotiating the marriage of Charles II. Plots of land around the square were let on building leases and snapped up by astute speculators. Large, well-appointed houses began to rise on all sides, their value increased by their proximity to St James's Palace. It was an area of high profit and aristocratic tone, the sort of suburban development that was anathema to a Puritan constable still shackled by notions of integrity and nostalgia for the Commonwealth.
When he finally reached his destination, therefore, he winced at the sight of the exclusive houses of the rich and titled, at the leafy parkland that surrounded it and at the extraordinary sense of space. Even since it was rebuilt, Baynard's Castle Ward was still a warren of cluttered streets and modest dwellings. St James's Square was a world apart, a frank display of wealth, a haven of Royalist sympathy, a dazzling manifestation of the true spirit of the Restoration. Jonathan fervently hoped that his business would not detain him too long in such an uncongenial part of the capital.
Harriet Gow's abode was at the end of a row of neat houses near the west end of the square. Smaller than most of the new residences that were being erected, they nevertheless rose to three storeys, had matching facades and boasted long walled gardens to the rear. Jonathan rang the front doorbell but got no response. Hearing a banging noise at the back of the property, he went under the archway that separated it from its neighbour and strolled down to the stable. Roland Trigg was inside, coat off and sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms. Using a hammer with the skill of a blacksmith, he was trying to beat a strip of iron back into shape on an anvil.
Jonathan sized him up quickly then stepped into his field of vision. The hammer immediately stopped swinging. Trigg straightened up and greeted the visitor with a defensive stare, wondering why a constable had come calling on him. The heavy implement dangled from his hand.
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