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.
Jonathan Bale's advice was sound. It did not take Christopher long to find one of the local constables. Jeremy Vye was as unlike Jonathan as it was possible to be. A short, stumpy, jovial man in his forties with a red nose and bloodshot eyes, he was drinking ale in a tavern when the visitor tracked him down. Vye was keen to help.
'So, then,' he said cheerily, 'Jonathan Bale sent you?'
'Yes, Mr Vye.'
'Give him my compliments.'
'He sends his to you,' said Christopher. 'He also assured me that you would know almost everyone who lived in Old Street.'
'Know them and love them, Mr Redmayne. I was born and brought up in Shoreditch. Never been more than a few miles away from the place. Old Street? I can tell you the names of every man, woman and child,' he bragged. 'I can even tell you what they call their cats and dogs.'
'I'm not after a pet, Mr Vye.'
'Then who are you after?'
'Mr Martin Eldridge.'
The constable blinked. 'Eldridge? That name is new to me.'
'This man is an actor.'
'We have a few of them in Shoreditch, sir. Out of work, mostly.' He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. 'But this Mr Eldridge of yours must be a stranger to the area or I'd have met him.
My guess is that he lodges at the far end of the street, sir. Mrs Lingard took in a lodger recently - her dog is called Blackie, by the way - and there's a gentleman who's just taken a room with Mrs Passmore. Oldish fellow with a squint.'
'Then he's not the man I want. Martin Eldridge is still relatively young and handsome. He'd bear himself well.'
'Then he has to be Mrs Lingard's lodger. Be careful of that dog of hers when you call there, sir. Blackie can give you a nasty bite.'
He led Christopher out of the tavern and gave him directions. After riding to the address he had been given, Christopher dismounted and knocked on the door of a neat house of medium size, owned by someone who evidently took a pride in it. When he knocked, he heard a dog bark. The landlady soon answered the summons. Mrs Lingard was a pleasant woman of middle years and ample girth. Keeping her dog under control with an affectionate kick, she listened to her visitor's request before inviting him in.
'Mr Eldridge has a lot of visitors,' she explained, leading the way up the stairs. 'I can see why. He's a most charming gentleman.' She tapped lightly on a door and called, 'There's someone to see you, Mr Eldridge. A Mr Redmayne.'
After a short delay, the door opened and Martin Eldridge came into view. Christopher recognised him at once as the actor who had played Lysippus, brother to the King in The Maid's Tragedy, a comparatively small yet telling role and one which allowed him the final cautionary lines. Mrs Lingard was hovering. Eldridge dismissed her with a smile.
'Thank you, Mrs Lingard.' He stood back from the door. 'You'd better come in, Mr Redmayne.'
Christopher went into a room that was large and well appointed. The actor was a man who liked his comforts. Bottles of wine stood on a table beside the script of a play. Eldridge was excessively courteous. He motioned his visitor to a chair then spoke in a rich, cultured voice.
'You don't look like a man of the theatre,' he observed.
'Nor am I, Mr Eldridge.'
'I won't pretend that I'm not disappointed. You see before you a man who is, I regret to say, temporarily separated from his art. I await the call, Mr Redmayne. I hoped that you might have brought it.'
'No, sir,' said Christopher. 'As it happens, it was Mr Killigrew who drew my attention to you, but not because he wished to engage you again.'
'Killigrew is a money-grubbing old lecher!'
'Yet not without a perceptive eye for talent. In a performance of The Maid's Tragedy, I saw an actor give a most excellent account of the role of Lysippus. My congratulations, sir.'
'Why, thank you,' said the other, warming to him. 'I flatter myself that I acted to the limit of my ability in that play. Not that anyone would have noticed with Harriet Gow alongside me. She dwarfed us all.'
His tone was affectionate and quite free of envy. Given his cue, Christopher took it at once. He sat forward earnestly in his chair.
'It is about Mrs Gow that I've come,' he said.
'Why?'
'I was wondering if you knew where I could find her.'
'At her home, I daresay.'
'She does not seem to be there, Mr Eldridge.'
'Then you'd better ask Tom Killigrew where she is.'
'Mr Killigrew is as puzzled as I am, sir. The lady has disappeared.'
'Harriet would never do that,' argued the other. 'Not without due warning, in any case. She's wedded to her art. It's always come first with her. If you've seen her act and heard her sing, you'll know how gloriously she blossoms on a stage.'
'Oh, yes,' agreed Christopher. 'She was captivating.'
'Yet you say she's disappeared?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Since when?'
Christopher gave him a shortened version of events, leaving out any mention of the King, the ransom note and the murder of Mary Hibbert. The more he heard, the more alarmed Martin Eldridge grew. Christopher watched him carefully to see if the alarm was sincere and not simply called up by the skill of a trained actor. There was something about Eldridge that was faintly troubling. The man was too plausible, too ready with his responses, too expressive with his emotions. Christopher had the strong feeling that he was hiding something from him.
'When did you last see Mrs Gow?' he asked.
'Not for some time, Mr Redmayne. As Tom Killigrew must have told you, I'm no longer a member of the company. He dismissed me.'
'Mr Killigrew said that you were a good friend of Mrs Gow's.'
'I was and still am,' replied Eldridge with feeling. 'When she first joined the company, she turned to me for advice and I was able to help her a little. At that time, of course, she was still married to Bartholomew.'
'Did you ever meet her husband?'
'Regularly. He came to the theatre to collect her.'
'How did you get on with him, Mr Eldridge?'
; 'Tolerably well,' said the other. 'We all did at first. Then things began to turn sour between them and we saw the results. Bartholomew was spiky and resentful. He came to the theatre less and less.'
'Was he a vengeful man?'
'I think that he could be.'
'On what evidence?'
'I can't rightly say, Mr Redmayne. But any man who lost a wife like Harriet Gow would be entitled to feel vengeful. Bartholomew always claimed that she slowly emptied his purse then cast him aside because he could no longer afford to keep her in such style.'
'Have you seen the house where she lives?'
'Once or twice.'
'I take it that Mrs Gow neither owns nor rents it.'
'No,' said the other smoothly, 'and it's none of my business who does. Acting is a precarious profession, Mr Redmayne.
We all of us have to make concessions or reach compromises to stay afloat. Harriet Gow has earned everything she has, believe me. I admire her for it.'
'Some of her colleagues at the theatre do not.'
'Mindless envy.'
'Would you describe Abigail Saunders as envious?'
'I'm a gentleman, Mr Redmayne,' said the other pointedly, 'which means that I lack a vocabulary coarse enough to describe Abigail to you. We first acted together at The Duke's Playhouse and I took her to be my friend then. I gave her a lot of support but she chose to forget that in time. The kindest thing I can say about Abigail Saunders is that she is a pretty little bloodsucker.'
'Would she be capable of sucking Mrs Gow's blood?'
'To the last drop!'
'You have a low opinion of the lady.'
'The woman,' corrected the other. 'Harriet Gow is a lady; Abigail is the inferior version that we call a woman. But why sit here talking to me when you should be out trying to find Harriet?' he said with sudden desperation. 'What have you learned? Who have you talked to? Do you have no clues at all, Mr Redmayne?'
'Several, sir.'
'Then act on them. Harriet must be found!'
'I appreciate your anxiety, Mr Eldridge, but I have the feeling that you may be able to help me rather more than you've so far been willing to do.' Christopher fixed him with a stare. 'I suspect that you and Mrs Gow were extremely close friends. She confided in you: that means you know things that are germane to this investigation, facts that might help to guide our footsteps.'
'What more can I tell you?'
'To begin with, you can be more precise about the date when you last saw Mrs Gow. A man as fond of a lady as you patently are would not be parted from her for too long. I think you know the day and the hour when the two of you last met.' An inquisitive smile. 'Don't you?'
Martin Eldridge seemed relaxed to the point of nonchalance but his mind was working busily. He appraised Christopher for some time, noting his visitor's strong build and air of determination. He also eyed the sword and dagger that Christopher wore. The architect would not easily be sent on his way. Other measures needed to be adopted.
'You're right, Mr Redmayne,' he admitted sadly. 'There are things that I've held back. From the best of motives, as you will see. Let me show you a letter from Harriet. It may explain a lot.' He moved to the door. 'Wait here a moment while I fetch it.'
'Very well.'
Eldridge went out of the room and left his guest to examine it with more care. It told him much about the character and habits of the actor. When he crossed to the table to pick up the printed text, he saw that the play was Shakespeare's Othello. Was Martin Eldridge planning a return to The Duke's Men? Only the company run by Sir William D'Avenant had the right to stage revivals of Shakespeare's plays. The sound of the front door opening alerted Christopher. Setting the play aside, he went swiftly over to the window and was just in time to see Martin Eldridge darting up Old Street before vanishing around a corner. Instead of going to fetch a letter, the actor had bolted.
Christopher was furious with himself for being so easily duped. He hurried to the door, flung it open and descended the stairs at speed but he was not permitted to leave Mrs Lingard's house. Blocking his way and barking fiercely at him was a large, black, angry dog with its eyes ablaze and its fangs bared.
'He doesn't like strangers,' explained the landlady helpfully.
The physician completed his examination and stood up from the bed.
'His condition is stable,' he announced.
'Can you not be more specific, sir?' asked Algernon Redmayne.
'Your son is neither better nor worse than when I was here earlier. Rest is the only true physician. He took a fearful beating and has several cracked ribs. They will take time to heal. As for the bruises,' said the old man, 'they will vanish more quickly. Give him a week and you may recognise your son once again.'
'Unhappily, I'm not able to remain at his bedside for a week,' said the Dean of Gloucester, 'though I would willingly do so if it would be of any practical help to him. I'm just grateful that his dear mother never lived to see him in such dire straits. It would have broken her heart.' He addressed the physician with lofty condescension. 'When will Henry's mind clear enough for him to tell me the full details of the assault?'
'Your guess is as good as mine, sir.'
'A day? Two?'
'I've known cases where memory has been affected much longer,' explained the physician. 'We are not talking about a happy experience here but one that brought untold pain. The mind is a strange organ. It sometimes blocks out unpleasant recollections in order to spare a victim having to relive the agony. Be patient with him.'
'I am patient, man! I'm his father.'
'Don't expect too much too soon.'
'What are you telling me?' asked the other sharply.
'Mr Redmayne must not be harried. It will only add to his distress and may even delay recovery. The simple truth is,' he concluded, 'that your son may never fully regain his memories of the assault.'
Pretending to be asleep, Henry Redmayne heard every word and he could not stop himself responding to the physician's welcome words. His eyes remained firmly shut but his face gave him away. The Dean of Gloucester stared down at it with mild exasperation.
'Good heavens!' he declared. 'He's grinning at us!'
Smeek was sullen and uncooperative. Taken before a magistrate by Jonathan Bale, he was charged with felonious assault on a constable and held in custody, pending further charges that might well include kidnap and murder. Jonathan waited until they reached the gaol before he resumed his interrogation. Two hefty turnkeys went into the gloomy cell with the constable but Smeek was not intimidated. His years at sea had toughened him against all eventualities.
'Who hired you?' demanded Jonathan.
'I don't know.'
'Someone paid your wages.'
'Did they?' asked Smeek with a defiant smirk.
'What was his name?'
'I don't know.'
'Why did he set you on to me?'
'Nobody set me on to you.'
'Then why did you attack me?'
'Because I didn't like the look of you.'
The prisoner gave another smirk. Bleeding had been stemmed from the wound on his skull but his coat was still stained with blood. Smeek's temples were pounding. He vowed to be as obstructive as he could when questioned by the man who had given him the headache.
'Do you know what will happen to you?' said Jonathan.
'Who cares?'
'You should. Gaol can break most men.'
'I've never found one that broke me,' boasted the other.
'You'll only be held here until the trial. Kidnap is a more serious offence than assault. Doesn't that worry you?'
'No.'
'It should.'
'Nothing worries me, Mr Bale.'
'Not even the thought that you'll be tried for murder?'
'Murder?' There was a first note of alarm in his voice.
'A girl called Mary Hibbert was beaten to death,' said Jonathan. 'I viewed the body so I know exactly the kind of monsters they were. Mary Hibbert was a
friend of mine and I have a personal interest in bringing these monsters to justice. The men who killed her will hang.'
'I wasn't involved.' 'Are you sure?'
'I swear it!'
'Yes,' said the other with heavy sarcasm, 'and you'll swear that you didn't attack a man called Roland Trigg. Nor one called Henry Redmayne, to say nothing of myself. It wasn't you, was it? Your cudgel has a life of its own. It did all that damage by itself.'
'I did not kill the girl!' protested Smeek.
'We'll prove that you did.'
'No! I'll answer for what I did, but not for someone else's crime.'
'You were involved. That's enough for me.'
'Not in the murder, Mr Bale. You must believe me. I went after the girl, I admit,' he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, 'but only to track her down. That was our orders: to catch Mary Hibbert and take her back to the house. But she fought agin us. That upset Ben. He tried to quieten her down.'
'I saw how she was quietened down,' said Jonathan grimly.
'Not by me!' insisted the other. 'I hardly touched her.'
'Then who did?'
Smeek clammed up. He sensed that he had already said too much.
'Who did?' repeated Jonathan, stepping right up to him. 'You called him Ben, didn't you? Ben who? Tell me the name of the man who beat Mary Hibbert to death. Ben who?'
The prisoner regained some of his bravado. He folded his arms and leaned his back against the wall of the cell. He taunted Jonathan.
'Don't ask me, Mr Bale,' he said innocently. 'I swear that I don't know anyone by that name. Do you, sir?'
The Amorous Nightingale Page 21
