The Amorous Nightingale

    Christopher
Redmayne found conversations with his elder brother rather trying at the best
of times. When there was a mirror at hand, it was well nigh impossible to have
a meaningful exchange with Henry for he was continually preening himself,
adjusting his wig, fidgeting with his attire, experimenting with a series of
facial expressions and generally ignoring the person or persons unfortunate
enough to be in his presence at such a moment of total self-absorption. Though
he found such behaviour extremely irritating, Christopher schooled himself to
be patient.

    'What
manner of man is this Mr Hartwell?' he asked.

    'Jasper?'
said Henry dismissively. 'He's an arrant fool.'

    'I
thought that he was a friend of yours.'

    'A
mere acquaintance. I'd never list Jasper Hartwell among my intimates. It would
damage my reputation.' He tried the wig at a slightly different angle and
raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 'How does this look?'

    'Fine,'
said Christopher wearily. 'It looks fine.'

    'Does
it make me handsome and faintly satanic?'

    'You look
like Henry Redmayne and he is both of those things with many other distinctive
traits besides. Could we put your appearance to one side for a moment and
discuss this Mr Hartwell?'

    'But
appearance is everything, my dear brother.'

    'I
would dispute that.'

    'Well,
do not do so in front of Jasper,' warned his brother, striking a peevish note.
'In fact, I would advise you to dispute nothing in the presence of your
potential client. Agree with everything he says, however vapid or inane. Jasper
is all outward show. If you think that your dear brother leans a little towards
vanity - a crime I readily confess - wait until you meet Jasper Hartwell. He
puts me in the shade. Jasper makes Narcissus seem like a martyr to modesty.'

    'What
of his inner nature?'

    'He
doesn't have one.'

    'He
must, Henry.'

    'Why?'

    'Every
man has a true centre to his being.'

    'Jasper
is the exception to the rule.'

    Henry
Redmayne decided that his waistcoat was not being displayed to the best
advantage and fiddled with his coat for several minutes. Christopher suppressed
a sigh and waited. They were in the hall of Henry's house in Bedford Street,
preparing to leave for a visit to the theatre, a pleasurable occasion which
also had a commercial purpose, since Christopher was to be introduced to
someone who might well be interested in employing him as the architect to
design his new London abode. The fact that he had to rely on his brother for
the introduction brought a number of anxieties in its wake. When Henry turned
his attention back to his wig, Christopher tried to probe for more detail.

    'I
hope that Mr Hartwell proves a more reliable client,' he said.

    'Reliable?'
echoed the other.

    'Profoundly
grateful as I am for your help, I have to admit that your introductions have
not always borne fruit.'

    'What
do you mean?' returned Henry, rounding on him. 'Did I not secure a valuable
commission for you from Sir Ambrose Northcott?'

    'You
did, indeed.'

    'Was
it not the start of your career as an aspiring architect?'

    'Undoubtedly.'

    'And
were not your services generously rewarded?'

    'They
were, Henry. The fee was paid in full. Unfortunately, the house was never built
so that all of my work went to waste.'

    'Don't
blame me, Christopher. How was I to know that Sir Ambrose would be unguarded
enough to let himself be murdered? It was an unforeseen hazard. The point is
that, out of the kindness of my filial heart, I presented you with a golden
opportunity.' He gave a loud sniff. 'A modicum of thanks is in order, I fancy.'

    'I
have already said how deeply grateful I am, Henry. Grateful for the
introductions to Sir Ambrose Northcott and, more recently, to that other
friend, acquaintance, crony, drinking companion, associate, call him what you
will, Lord Staines.'

    'Fulke
is part of my inner circle.'

    'So I
assumed.'

    'A
man on whom I pattern myself.'

    'I
deduced that from his air of dissipation.' '

    Henry
stiffened. 'Fulke Rowett, tenth Baron Staines, is a splendid fellow in every particular.
Had circumstances been more propitious, he could have looked to be the next
warden of the Cinque Ports. You can surely not complain about Lord Staines. You
designed a beautiful house for him and it stands to this day as a worthy
example of your talent.'

    'The
house was built,' agreed Christopher, 'but the architect's fee was never paid.
Nor was that of the builder.'

    'A
temporary problem in raising finance,' said Henry airily. 'I'm sure that Fulke
will soon rectify this situation.'

    'Not
while he is still on his Irish estates. For that is where he fled when we tried
to seek payment. And we were two among many, Henry. The queue of his creditors
would stretch from here to Land's End. Lord Staines may be a splendid fellow
but he is also impulsive, extravagant, irresponsible and up to his neck in
debt.'

    'Even
the best horse stumbles at times.'

    'This
one fell at the first jump.'

    'What
are you saying?' demanded Henry, putting his hands on his hips as he went on
the attack. 'Are you telling me that your brother should not put himself out to
advance your interests, to honour the promise I gave to Father to lend all the
help I could in your search for gainful and satisfying employment?'

    'No,
Henry,' said Christopher with an appeasing smile, 'that is not my meaning at
all. I simply wish to remind you that my experience has hitherto been somewhat
chequered. My first client was killed and my second took to his heels when the
question of payment was raised. All I am seeking to do is to establish that Mr
Hartwell is more dependable.'

    'Have
no worries on that score.'

    'How
can I be sure?'

    'Jasper
has no intention of being murdered, nor does he have any Irish estates which
can act as a refuge from his creditors. Arrant fool he may be, but he is as
rich as Croesus and more likely to pay you twice the fee you ask out of sheer
benevolence. Does that answer your question?'

    'Not
entirely.'

    'How
do you like my new coat?' said Henry, courting the mirror once more. 'Does it
not lend a certain dignity?'

    'Dignity
and
elegance.'

    'Truly,
my tailor has ennobled me.'

    'You
could pass for an earl, if not a duke.'

    'Dignity,
elegance, nobility. The quintessence of Henry Redmayne.'

    'Coming
back to Mr Hartwell…'

    'Now,
which hat shall I wear? The choice is crucial.'