The Amorous Nightingale

by Edward Marston

  'How can I when she's vanished?'

  'Mrs Gow has merely withdrawn. To recuperate.'

  'From what?'

  'That will become clear in time.'

  'But she was a picture of health when I last saw her,' argued the other. 'At the start of the week, Harriet was singing her heart out for me on stage. Where is my nightingale now?'

  'Resting, sir. Leave her be.'

  'I must find her, Mr Redmayne.'

  He went on at length, expressing his love for the missing actress and working himself up into a state of wild-eyed hysteria. Christopher was alive to the paradox. Having been engaged by the King to rescue Harriet Gow, he was now forced to pretend that she was not in any danger. Instead of continuing his search, he was being held back by the swirling infatuation of his client. Jasper Hartwell was luxuriating in his distress. Christopher wondered if the visit might yet have some practical value for him.

  'Henry tells me that you're a connoisseur of the theatre,' he interrupted.

  'It's my second home,' Jasper agreed.

  'Then you'll know all the members of the company.'

  'Both at The King's House and at The Duke's Playhouse,' he said proudly.

  'I'm only interested in Mr Killigrew's company.'

  'So am I since Harriet joined it,' said Hartwell wistfully. 'I can recall the very moment when she first stepped on to that stage. And as for that voice! Heaven has never fashioned such an instrument before.'

  'What of the actors around her?'

  'I never notice any of them when she is there.'

  'Oh, come, sir. You cannot fail to notice men like Michael Mohun or Charles Hart. They're masters of their trade.'

  'True. They lend quality and experience to the company.'

  'What of Martin Eldridge?'

  'A more slender talent,' said Hartwell dismissively. 'He relies too much on his good looks and not enough on his skill as an actor. Eldridge is able but no more than that.'

  'Have you ever met him?'

  'Of course. Most of them have supped with me at my expense. Actors are hungry people, Mr Redmayne, and they rarely earn enough to be able to turn down a free meal. Actresses, too, of course,' he added with a sigh, 'though Harriet has never accepted my invitation, alas. She is always spirited away from the theatre by someone else.'

  'His Majesty?'

  'When the mood takes him.'

  'Who else?'

  'Don't ask me to dwell on her other admirers, Mr Redmayne,' said Hartwell peevishly. 'I'm the only one who loves her properly and wants to take her away from that corrupt, dangerous, silly, shallow world.' He slapped the table. 'I do so hate it when I see them pounding on the door of her dressing room and demanding her favours.'

  'Who?'

  'The whole merry gang. Heartless rakes, one and all.'

  'Lord Rochester, you mean? Sir Charles Sedley?'

  'And the rest of them - Buckhurst, Armadale, Ogle. Yes, if ever a man was well named, it is Sir Thomas Ogle, for that's what he does. Well, he'll not ogle Harriet any longer. I'll rescue her forever from him and his drunken cronies. She's too good for any of them except me.'

  Christopher encouraged him to talk about his endless visits to the theatre and pertinent information tumbled out time and again, much of it supplementing what his listener had already heard from his brother or from Killigrew, but some of it quite original. As Hartwell burbled on, one of the names he referred to kept coming back into his host's mind.

  'You mentioned Armadale,' he noted.

  'That's right. Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

  Christopher was puzzled. He did not recognise the name and yet it sounded vaguely familiar. He had a strong feeling that he had heard it before and that it might be important to remember where.

  Moving with his usual measured tread, Jonathan Bale nevertheless went far in a relatively short time. Enquiries among court officials soon gave him the address he needed. He presented himself at the building in Threadneedle Street and asked to speak to Obadiah Shann. Jonathan was allowed through into the lawyer's office. Niceties were brief. Shann barely looked up from the document he was perusing.

  'What can I do for you, Constable Bale?'

  'I wanted some advice about a client of yours,' said Jonathan.

  'Then you seek it in vain. I never release confidential information about the people I represent.'

  'I merely seek an address.'

  'Of whom?'

  'Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

  'Why?'

  'It's a private matter, sir.'

  'Do you know Mr Gow?'

  'No, Mr Shann, but I'm anxious to make his acquaintance.'

  'How did you find out that I was his lawyer?'

  'You were seen dining with him at Locket's ordinary.'

  'Ah,' said the lawyer, taking offence. 'We're being spied on, are we?'

  'Not at all, sir.'

  Obadiah Shann eyed him with a blend of caution and dislike. Gaunt, grey-haired and wearing a pair of spectacles, he was a tall man whose back had been arched by many years of bending over a desk. Jonathan noticed the blue veins standing out on the backs of his hands and caught the distinctive whiff of tobacco in the room.

  'I'm sorry that I can't help you, Constable,' said the lawyer.

  'Then you may be compelled to, sir.'

  Controlled anger. 'You dare threaten me with compulsion?'

  'No, Mr Shann.'

  'I think it best if you leave, sir.'

  'Not until I know Mr Gow's whereabouts.'

  'I have a right to protect my client's interests. Tell me what this is all about and I may be able to help you. Otherwise, depart in peace and let me get on with my work.'

  'I need that address,' said Jonathan doggedly.

  'For what purpose?'

  'A most serious one.'

  'You have a warrant for his arrest?'

  'No,' admitted the other.

  'You're here on legal business of some kind?'

  'Please tell me where he is.'

  'I'm not sure that I should, Mr Bale.' 'You're withholding crucial information, Mr Shann.'

  'I don't answer to a mere constable,' said the lawyer, removing his spectacles to glare at his visitor. 'Who do you think you are, coming in here like this and issuing demands? Goodbye to you, sir! It seems to me that you've overstayed your welcome.'

  Jonathan moved to the door. 'I have, sir,' he conceded freely. 'I may be a mere constable but I speak for a higher authority. Far higher than even an exalted lawyer like yourself. I can see that I'll have to get a warrant to force you to help me.' He gave a warning smile. 'Don't be surprised if it bears the name of the Attorney-General.'

  'One moment,' said Shann, caught between alarm and disbelief. 'We're being too hasty here. I've no wish to be obstructive, I simply reserve the right to protect a client's confidentiality. Why are you so desperate to find Bartholomew Gow that you wave the Attorney-General at me? Surely you can give me some hint of what is in the wind.'

  'A matter of some gravity.'

  'Involving what?'

  'Murder,' said Jonathan flatly.

  'Murder?' echoed the other, jaw dropping.

  'Among other things.'

  'But Mr Gow is the most law-abiding man you could meet.'

  'Then he has nothing to fear from me, sir, does he?'

  Obadiah Shann hovered between surprise and suspicion. He wondered if Jonathan really did have the power of a senior law officer behind him. His visitor tried to nudge him along.

  'Does he, for instance, live in Greer Lane?' he said.

  'Where?'

  'Greer Lane. It runs between Tavistock Street and the Strand.'

  'No, Constable. Bartholomew Gow doesn't live anywhere near there and, to my certain knowledge, he never has.'

  'Then where does he live?'

  Jonathan eschewed politeness. The lawyer was needlessly delaying him. Searching for the killer of Mary Hibbert, the constable was in no mood for the prevarications of Obadiah Shann. His eyes glinted.
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br />   'Do I have to come back with a warrant, sir?' he said.

  It took Christopher an hour to calm down Jasper Hartwell and convince him that Harriet Gow was not in jeopardy, a considerable feat in view of the reality of the situation. Wanting to call on his brother again before resuming his search, Christopher accepted the necessity of soothing his visitor. Hartwell was, after all, paying him a lot of money to design the new house and that bought him the architect's indulgence as well as his artistic skills. There was another salient point. Ridiculous as Hartwell's romantic ambitions were, they were easily understood. It was at a performance of The Maid's Tragedy that Christopher first met him and first came under the spell of Harriet Gow himself. Though he had never succumbed to any fantasies about marrying her, he had spent more than an idle hour savouring her beauty and singing her melancholy song.

  No sooner had he dispatched one unwelcome visitor than a second came banging on his door. Jacob answered the summons and a heated exchange followed. Guessing who had called, Christopher interrupted the argument and detached his servant from the doorstep but he had no intention of inviting Roland Trigg across it. The coachman touched his cap in a courteous gesture and took the aggression out of his voice.

  'Is there any news of Mrs Gow, sir?' he asked eagerly.

  'None to raise any optimism,' confessed the other.

  'But you're still searching for her?'

  'Oh, yes. In the light of recent events, with more vigour than ever.'

  'Recent events?'

  'They know that we are after them, Mr Trigg. So they did their best to dissuade us from continuing our work. First of all, my brother Henry was attacked by two men in Drury Lane.'

  'Never!' exclaimed Trigg. 'Why pick on him?'

  'Because he was helping me in my search.'

  'Was he badly hurt, Mr Redmayne?'

  'Very badly,' said Christopher. 'I suspect that the men who gave you a beating also administered one to my brother. I don't need to tell you how proficient they are with their cudgels.'

  'No, sir,' said the coachman ruefully. A grin formed. 'But I got my revenge on one of them. I chanced upon the rogue in a tavern and gave him a taste of his own medicine. He deserved it, too,' he added, pointing to his wounds. 'He was the man who really set about me. So I showed him that I can handle a cudgel as well.'

  'Where is he now?'

  'Nursing his broken bones, probably.'

  'You let the villain go?'

  'I had to, sir.'

  'Why ever didn't you capture him?' said Christopher irritably. 'If he was involved in the kidnap, he should be arrested and held for trial. More to the point, he could have been interrogated about Mrs Gow's whereabouts. It was madness to release him.'

  'They gave me no choice, sir.'

  'Who?'

  'The sailors who came out of the tavern. Half-a-dozen of them. When they saw what I'd done, they gave me no time to explain. They came at me to tear me to pieces so I took to my heels.' Angling for praise, he gave another grin. 'I paid him back, sir. He won't be assaulting me, your brother or anyone else for a very long time. Did I do well?'

  'By your own standards,' said Christopher drily, 'I suppose that you did. But I'm annoyed that you let the man slip through your fingers like that. He should have been apprehended. Why didn't you go for help?'

  'There wasn't time. He was leaving the tavern.'

  'Which one?'

  'The Hope and Anchor, sir.'

  'Is that down by the river somewhere?'

  'Thames Street.'

  'What took you there, Mr Trigg?'

  'It was only one of a number of places I went,' explained the other. 'That's where their sort go, sir - the men who ambushed us. Hired villains with a taste for violence. I had a feeling I might just stumble on one of them in a tavern along the waterfront or, if not there, in the stews of Southwark. I was working my way through them when I came to the Hope and Anchor and had some luck at last.' A growl of a laugh. 'My good luck was his misfortune.'

  'Thank you for coming to tell me this, Mr Trigg,' said Christopher, keen to move him on his way. 'I'm relieved to hear that there is one less villain on the loose, though I would have preferred to see him behind bars where we could get some facts out of him. I hope that my own hunt is as successful as yours. When I've been to see my brother, I'll get back to it.'

  'Let me come with you,' urged the other.

  'I work more effectively on my own, Mr Trigg.'

  'But you need protection, sir. Look what happened to me and to your brother. These men will stop short of nothing.'

  'Not even murder.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'There's something I haven't told you,' said Christopher sadly, 'because we need to keep the details secret for the time being. But, given your position in Mrs Gow's household, I think that you have a right to know. Mary Hibbert has been killed.'

  'Mary!' His face turned purple with rage. 'They killed that young girl? I can't believe it.'

  'It's true, I'm afraid. I've seen the body myself.'

  'How did they do it?'

  'That's immaterial.'

  'Not to me, Mr Redmayne, I want to know. I liked Mary Hibbert. She was always kind to me. How, sir? Was she stabbed, strangled or poisoned? Did they put a bullet in her head?'

  'The girl was beaten to death.'

  Trigg almost foamed at the mouth. 'I should've finished him off when I had the chance,' he said vehemently. 'I should've done for him.'

  'That would only have led to your own arrest for murder.'

  'Justified revenge. An eye for an eye.'

  'I take a different reading from the Bible. "Thou shalt not kill".'

  While the coachman struggled to master his anger, Christopher was left to question his wisdom in releasing the news about Mary Hibbert. He was glad when the man's fury seemed to abate. Roland Trigg held out his hands to plead.

  'I beg you, Mr Redmayne. Take me with you.'

  'That won't be possible.'

  'But you can't do it all on your own, sir.'

  'I have Constable Bale to help me.'

  'It's not enough. You need a bodyguard. I'm your man.'

  Trigg straightened his shoulders and thrust out his chest. His strength could not be doubted. The coachman had been assaulted by the same men who had put Henry Redmayne into his bed for a week, yet he had already recovered enough to mete out his own crude form of justice. Roland Trigg was resilient and, by his own boast, seasoned in violence. Christopher could see his value as a bodyguard to Harriet Gow but it was her predecessor who popped into his mind. He suddenly recalled where he had heard a certain name before.

  'You served Sir Godfrey Armadale, didn't you?' he said.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'How long were you with him?'

  'Some years, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Sir Godfrey is something of a rake, I believe.'

  'He enjoyed life,' conceded the other, 'but he was a good master. He gave me no cause for complaint. On the other hand, I was glad to be taken on by Mrs Gow - until the ambush, that is. In one way, it was just as well.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I like to be in London, sir. My roots are here, and all my friends. I couldn't take to anywhere else so I'd have had to leave Sir Godfrey Armadale in any case.'

  'I don't follow.'

  'He's moved away, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Oh?'

  'Quite recently, they tell me.'

  'Where has he gone?'

  'Back to where he was born, in the West Country. That's where Sir Godfrey hails from - down in Devon.' He swept the subject of his former master aside to make a final offer. 'I could warn you, Mr Redmayne. I know what those rogues look like. They're bound to try to strike again.'

  'Then I'll be ready for them.'

  Christopher did not have to waste any more time trying to get rid of his second visitor because Trigg was immediately supplanted by a third. A coach drew up outside the house and a stately figure in clerical garb alighted. Christopher's stomach
lurched. Jasper Hartwell and Roland Trigg were unwanted callers, but each had nevertheless been able to impart useful information to him. The newcomer would not. In fact, his presence threatened to hamper the search altogether.

  Christopher forced a smile and put false joy into his voice.

  'Father!' he said, spreading his arms. 'How wonderful to see you!'

  Clerkenwell's reputation had slowly changed over the years. Notorious for its brothels during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it had been improved and developed by her successors, containing, for example, London's first piped water supply and attracting several aristocrats to build fine houses there. As the Court moved westwards under Charles II, many of the grand residences were abandoned to prosperous merchants or to skilled craftsmen who turned the area into a thriving centre for certain specialised trades. When he reached Clerkenwell after his long walk, Jonathan Bale was struck by the clear evidence of wealth. There were still abundant houses of resort in some of the darker corners, but the district was no longer as blatantly dedicated to sinfulness as in former times.

  He eventually found the address with which Obadiah Shann had been reluctantly forced to part. It was a modest dwelling, smaller and far less impressive than the one in Greer Lane where, he had been led to believe, Bartholomew Gow actually lived. The place was neglected. As Jonathan looked at the perished brickwork and the cracks in the tiles, he understood why the man might arrange any assignations elsewhere. The grubby little house in the more insalubrious part of Clerkenwell was not a love-nest to tempt a discerning lady. A coach would be incongruous in the mean and filthy street.

  Knocking on the door, he did not have long to wait for a reply. The servant who appeared before him was virtually a homunculus, a tiny man of uncertain years with a harassed look about him. The sight of the constable made him shrink back defensively.

  'Yes, sir?' he whispered.

  'My name is Jonathan Bale,' introduced the other, 'and I've come in search of a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

  'What makes you think that he lives here, sir?'

  'I was given this address by Mr Shann.'

  'The lawyer?'

  'Yes. I've come straight from his office in Threadneedle Street.'

  The diminutive figure retreated another step as he tried to weigh up his visitor. His scrutiny was intense, even slightly eerie, but Jonathan tolerated it with patience. The man eventually regained his voice.