'Good,' she said, taking his coat and bustling off.
Jonathan went upstairs to his sons' bedchamber and took out the old clothes that he wore when he worked as a shipwright. They still fitted. He smiled as pleasant memories of his earlier life flooded back. He had loved his trade. It brought him happy times and good friends. It also gave him the muscles and the stamina which made him such a formidable opponent in a brawl. He slipped a dagger into his belt and made sure that it could not be seen. When he went into the next room, Oliver and Richard were already tucked up together in bed, delighted that their father would be reading to them. Oliver stared at his bruise.
'What've you done to your face?' he asked.
'I bumped into something, Oliver.'
'Does it hurt?' said Richard, intrigued by the injury.
'Not any more.'
'What did you bump into, Father?'
'Never you mind, Richard.' Jonathan picked up the family Bible, the one book in the house. 'Now, what shall I read this evening?'
'Could we have some more about Samson?' said Richard.
'Yes,' agreed Oliver. 'He was a big, strong man. Mr Redmayne told us about him. He said that Samson was betrayed by a woman.'
'She cut off his hair.'
'Mother would never betray you, would she?' said the older boy. 'She'd never cut off your hair or you'd look funny.'
The two boys giggled. Jonathan quietened them down then read them a passage from the Book of Judges. They listened carefully. When he had finished, he said prayers with them, gave each a kiss on the forehead then stole out of the room. Sarah was already using a needle and thread expertly on the torn sleeve of his coat. She looked at his apparel and smiled.
'Just like the old days.'
'Not quite, Sarah.'
'Will you be late back?'
'I don't know.'
'Whenever it is, I'll wait up for you.'
'Thank you, my love.'
After giving her a valedictory kiss, he left the house and trudged off in the direction of Thames Street. It was early evening and still light. He walked parallel to the river, inhaling the familiar smells that drifted up from the waterfront and listening to the familiar sounds. The street was busy and he collected a number of waves or greetings while he was still in Baynard's Castle Ward. Once he moved into Queenhithe Ward, he was outside his own territory and took on a welcome anonymity. Passers-by hardly gave him a second look.
The Hope and Anchor was at the far end of Thames Street, well beyond London Bridge. It looked smaller than he remembered it and had acquired an almost ramshackle appearance. The one thing Jonathan had prised out of his attacker had been the man's name. Smeek would be at home in the Hope and Anchor, he decided. It was his natural habitat. The man bore all the marks of a sailor. Smeek was a tough, gritty, uncouth, fearless man who could look after himself in the roughest company and that was what the tavern offered him.
It was echoing with noise and bursting with bodies when Jonathan let himself in. A group of drunken sailors was singing a coarse song at one of the tables. Others were yelling threats at each other. Prostitutes mingled with potential customers, distributing the occasional kiss by way of blandishment. There was a stink of tobacco smoke and a thick fug had settled on the room. As he looked around, Jonathan could not suppress a smile at the thought of Christopher Redmayne visiting the tavern. He would be as completely and ridiculously out of place as the constable would be in a box at The Theatre Royal.
Jonathan bought a drink, shouldered his way to a corner and bided his time. It was important to blend into his surroundings. To accost the innkeeper at once and pepper him with questions would only arouse the man's suspicion. The constable had to be more casual in his enquiries. He fell in with a couple of sailors whose ship had just arrived from Holland. They were full of boasts about their exploits among Dutch women. Jonathan forced himself to listen. When he saw that the innkeeper was on his own, he offered to buy his companions some ale and squeezed his way to the counter.
The innkeeper was a rotund man in his fifties with an ugly face made even more unsightly by a broken nose and a half- closed eye. As the man filled three tankards for Jonathan, the latter leaned in close.
'I was hoping to see some old friends in here,' he said.
'Oh?' replied the other. 'And who might they be?'
'One's called Smeek. We sailed together years ago. He told me that they came in here sometimes. Is that true?'
'It might be.'
'He and Ben were always together. Boon companions.'
'How well do you know them?' asked the innkeeper warily.
'Haven't seen either for a long time. That's why I thought I'd drop in at the Hope and Anchor - in case they'd been around lately. It's the kind of place they'd like, especially Ben. Nice and lively.' He paid for the drinks and bought one for the innkeeper himself. 'Have you seen any sign of either of them?'
'They were in here yesterday, as it happens.'
'Oh?'
'Throwing a bit of money around.'
'That sounds like them,' said Jonathan with a chuckle.
'Smeek might come back,' explained the other, deciding to take his customer on trust, 'but you won't see Ben Froggatt in here for a while, that's for sure.'
'Why not?'
'He came off worst in a fight. Right outside my back door.'
'Ben Froggatt? He could handle himself in a brawl. I'd like to see the man who could get the better of him.' Jonathan took a sip of his ale. 'Was Ben hurt very badly?'
'He must be. I'm told he's taken to his bed.'
'Poor old Ben,' said Jonathan, expressing a sympathy that was masking a deep hatred. 'I must call on him and try to cheer him up. Do you know where he lodges?'
'No,' said the innkeeper. 'But I think that Lucy might.'
'Lucy?'
The man nodded in the direction of a tall, angular woman with a heavily powdered face and a loud giggle. Sharing a drink with a grey-haired man, she fondled his arm with an easy familiarity.
The innkeeper gave a lop-sided grin of appreciation.
'Ben has taste,' he grunted. 'Lucy's his favourite.'
'I haven't the slightest clue where you could find Martin Eldridge.'
'Where would he go if he wanted to lie low?' asked Christopher.
'Who cares?'
'Please, Mr Killigrew. I need your help.'
'The only person I'm interested in finding is Harriet Gow,' said the manager, banging on the table. 'Harriet is the one you should be after, not a damnable actor who's too lazy to learn his craft properly.'
'Martin Eldridge might lead me to Mrs Gow.'
'What gave you that idea?'
'He's involved in some way,' said Christopher firmly. 'I know it. He was so evasive when I talked to him. He was hiding something.'
'Well, it wasn't his talent because he doesn't have any.'
Hoping for good news from his visitor, Thomas Killigrew was downcast when Christopher admitted that they still had no clear idea where the missing actress could be. The enquiry about Martin Eldridge only served to enrage the irascible manager.
'You shouldn't have let him trick you like that, Mr Redmayne.'
'I know.'
'He's a cunning devil, Martin. I wouldn't trust him for a second.'
'But some people do. His landlady told me how many friends he has. They are always calling at his lodging in Shoreditch. What I want from you is the name of those friends,' explained Christopher. 'My guess is that he'll stay with one of them in order to hide from me.'
'Then you'll never find him.'
'Why not?'
'Because it would take you weeks to get round all of Martin's friends. There are scores of them. Mostly women, of course, because a man with that silvery tongue and those good looks is bound to make the best of them. Martin Eldridge could charm the clothes off a countess. Yes,' he said enviously, 'and he could probably charm some money out of her into the bargain. That would be typical of him. He gives all his best p
erformances in the bedchamber. If only he could act that well on stage!'
'I thought he was well cast as Lysippus.'
'He did rouse himself for The Maid's Tragedy,' confessed Killigrew, 'but only because Harriet Gow was in the play. For her sake, Martin always made an effort. When she was not in a cast, he'd simply walk through his part. Forget him, Mr Redmayne. He's not your man.'
'Then why did he take to his heels?'
'Perhaps you said something to upset him.'
'I'm serious, Mr Killigrew.'
'And so am I, sir,' retorted the manager. 'Harriet's been gone for days now. The company is getting nervous. My patrons are starting to turn nasty. They disrupted the performance this afternoon. That lean-witted booby Jasper Hartwell even had the audacity to storm in here and threaten to sue me unless I brought her back instantly. He said he wanted to hear his nightingale sing again.'
'Mr Hartwell has an obsession, I'm afraid.'
'So do I, Mr Redmayne. And my obsession is more immediate than his. Not to put too fine a point on it, Harriet Gow is my bread and butter. She sets food on my table. Without her, my takings will plummet.'
'Then help me to find her.'
'You'll not do that by means of Martin Eldridge. He adored Harriet. She's probably the only woman he ever really cared for. What would he stand to gain by her abduction?'
'I don't know.'
'Nothing!'
'I wonder.'
'Look elsewhere, sir.'
'Such as?'
'At her husband, for a start. Bartholomew Gow.'
'He's already been cleared of involvement.'
'Then I can do the same for Martin. Painful as it is to do him a favour, I can give you my assurance that he's not the villain here.'
'I reserve my judgement on that.'
Christopher would not be deflected from his purpose. He wanted to speak to the actor again. Unable to get assistance from one theatre manager, he decided to turn to another. He bade farewell and headed for the door. Killigrew had a rush of sympathy and called out to detain him.
'How is your brother?'
'Recovering very slowly.'
'I'll try to make time to call on him.'
'Thank you, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher, fearing an encounter between his father and the disreputable manager. 'Not for a day or two, please. Henry can receive no visitors at present. His physician has forbidden it.'
'Tell him I asked after him.'
'I will.'
'What of the men who cudgelled him?'
'There's brighter news on that front. One is already in custody and the other may soon join him. In fact,' he recalled, 'a colleague of mine is attending to that matter right now.'
Ben Froggatt was in constant pain. His broken arm was in a splint, his eyes blackened, his head covered in lumps and crisscrossed with deep gashes. His hair was matted with dried blood. Every part of his body seemed to ache. Propped up on a mattress in the dingy, airless room, he swigged from a stone bottle and vowed to get his revenge. A mouse came out of its hole and ran across to search for crumbs on the platter beside him. Froggatt spat at the creature to send it on its way. There was a tap on the door. He tensed at once. Putting the bottle aside, he used his free hand to reach for the cudgel under the sheets.
'Who is it?' he growled.
'Lucy,' she answered.
'What kept you?'
'I've brought a friend of yours, Ben.'
She opened the door to lead in Jonathan Bale. His friendly manner vanished at once. He dashed across to the wounded man, caught his wrist as the cudgel was lifted and twisted the weapon out of his hand. Froggatt howled with rage at Lucy, who backed against the wall in alarm. Jonathan showed no compassion for the man's injuries. He was standing over someone who had sent Mary Hibbert to an agonising death. When his prisoner tried to punch him, Jonathan dodged the blow and took the dagger from his belt. The point was held at Ben Froggatt's throat.
'Smeek sent me,' he said.
'He'd never do that. He's a friend.'
'Not any more. Since we locked him up in gaol, he doesn't feel quite so loyal towards you any more. Smeek says that you murdered that girl all on your own.'
'That's a lie! He was there as well.'
'But you did the damage.'
When the dagger pricked his throat, Froggatt drew back. 'Who are you?' he hissed.
'I'm the man who arrested Smeek,' said Jonathan. 'I think it's high time that you joined him, don't you?'
The pangs of hunger were too strong to resist. Henry Redmayne was famished. Having feigned sleep in the hope that his father would leave, he realised that he could not dislodge the Dean of Gloucester so easily. There was something intimidating about the old man's presence. It was not merely the odour of sanctity which he gave off, nor even the sort of oppressive piety with which he filled the room.
Algernon Redmayne was sitting in judgement, poised to pass sentence on his wayward son. It was unnerving. Henry had no right of appeal.
Relations with his father had always been strained. Less than dutiful, Henry was also more than disloyal at times. His epicurean life was a brash denial of all the values that his father had inculcated in him. Though he had a comfortable income from his sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed an allowance from the Dean, a man of private wealth and generous disposition. Henry had abused that generosity so many times that he was in danger of seeing it withdrawn. It was a fate too hideous to contemplate. Living beyond his income, Henry needed the money from the parental purse to fund his reckless expenditure.
The pain in his stomach gradually overcoming his fear of the bedside judge, Henry opened his eyes, blinked and pretended to be confused.
'Where am I?' he asked.
'Back with us again, my son,' said his father. 'How do you feel?'
'Hungry.'
'That can only be a good sign.'
'I haven't eaten a thing since the assault.'
'You remember the incident?'
'Vaguely.'
'Good, good. I long to hear the details.'
'They seem very hazy at present, Father.' He looked around the bedchamber. 'Where's Christopher?'
'He's returned to his work on that new house. It's comforting to know that I have one son who has gainful employment.'
'So do I, sir. I have a position at the Navy Office.'
'Your brother is forging a career, you merely occupy space. At least, that is what I suspect. Christopher caused me many anxieties, I'll admit, but he does seem finally to have found his true path in life. All the money I invested in his education is paying off.' He bent over his elder son like a swan about to peck an errant cygnet. 'But what of you, Henry? Oh dear, sir. What of you?'
'I need some food, Father.'
'I'm talking about spiritual nourishment,' said the other sternly. 'This house seems singularly devoid of it. There is the unmistakable whiff of sin in the air. You have strayed, Henry.'
'Once or twice perhaps.'
'Dissipation is writ large upon this building. It is the house of a voluptuary, sir. A hedonist. An unashamed sensualist.'
'Oh, I writhe with shame, Father. I assure you.'
'This is not a suitable environment for a son of the Dean of Gloucester. Too many temptations lie at hand for an idle man. Illicit pleasures beckon. I shudder at the thought that I might actually be paying for some of them.'
'No, no, that's not true at all.'
'Then where does that allowance go?' pressed the old man. 'On gaudy clothes and expensive periwigs? On wine and brandy? On some of those irreligious paintings I see hanging on your wall?'
Algernon Redmayne hit his stride. As his father's rebuke turned into a stinging homily, Henry could do nothing but lie there defenceless. In mind as well as body, he was suffering. He resorted to the only thing left to him. Against all hope, his prayer was answered. After knocking on the door, a servant entered with a potion for him.
'The physician said that you were to take this sleeping draught,
Mr Redmayne.'
'Yes, yes!' agreed Henry willingly.
'But I wish to talk to you,' said his father testily. 'I want to hear the full story of your assault.'
'The physician was most insistent,' argued the servant.
'There's no hurry for the medicine.'
'There is, Father,' said Henry, making a mental note to reward his servant for his kind intervention. 'We must obey his wishes.'
He took the tiny vessel from the man and lifted it to his mouth. Within seconds, his eyes began to close and his body to sag. The Dean of Gloucester finally gave up. Leaving instructions with the servant, he gave his son one last look of disappointment then left the room. Henry came awake at once. Spitting out the potion into a cup beside the bed, he panted with relief then issued a command.
'Bring me food at once!' he urged. 'And some wine!'
William D'Avenant stood in the middle of the pit at The Duke's Playhouse and surveyed the stage like a triumphant general looking proudly out across conquered land. He was a striking figure in dark attire, a wrinkled wizard of the theatre, a living link between the world of Shakespeare, his godfather, if not his actual parent, and the witty, vibrant, stylish and often shocking fare of the Restoration. Seeing the manager in his natural milieu, Christopher Redmayne could not fail to be impressed. D'Avenant was less impressed with his unannounced visitor. He spun round to confront the newcomer with a frown of disapproval.
'What are you doing here, Mr Redmayne?' he demanded.
'I came to see you, Sir William. Since you've barred me from your home, your playhouse was the only place I could try.'
'A pointless journey. Our debate on theatre architecture is at an end. I've nothing to add on that or on any other subject.'
'I wanted to talk about a play.'
'The performance was over hours ago.'
'There's only one actor I'm interested in,' said Christopher, 'and I'm sure he's known to you. Mr Martin Eldridge.'
'Eldridge?' repeated the other, covering his surprise well. 'What dealings do you hope to have with him?'
'That's a matter between the two of us. I understand that he was once a member of your company.'
'Not any more.'
The Amorous Nightingale Page 23
