Jonathan
was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He waved Christopher to a chair
then sat opposite him on a low stool. In spite of himself, he was not entirely
displeased to see his guest again. He had developed a deep and lasting respect
for him as well as a grudging affection. They could never be kindred spirits
but an adventure had drawn them together in a way that was bound to forge a
bond between them. It was one which put a friendly smile on Christopher's face.
The constable's manner was more wary.
'What
brings you to my house, Mr Redmayne?' he asked.
'I'll
not pretend that it was the pleasure of reading about Samson, though that does
have its charms. No, Mr Bale. I come on the most urgent business - at the
express request of His Majesty.'
Jonathan
quailed. 'His Majesty?'
'Do
you recall what he once said to us?'
'How
could I ever forget?'
'He
said that he might need us again one day.'
'The
words were like a hot brand.'
'Then
steel yourself for more pain, Mr Bale. The call has come.'
'To
you or to me?'
'To
both of us. His Majesty was most specific about that.'
Great
surprise. 'He remembered who I was?'
'By
deed, if not by name.'
'But
I'm only a humble constable.'
'I
know, Mr Bale. I'm a struggling architect but that doesn't stop His Majesty
from selecting the two of us for this assignment. It's a bizarre choice, I
grant you, but not without its reason.'
'Reason?'
Christopher
leaned forward. 'Before I say anything else, I must impress upon you the
importance of secrecy. We are dealing with a very delicate matter here. Nothing
must be heard outside these four walls.'
'You
can rely on me,' came the brisk reply, 'and nobody will eavesdrop. When my wife
comes downstairs, she'll go straight to the kitchen. You can trust Sarah. She
understands.' His eyes narrowed. 'Now, sir, what exactly is this very delicate
matter?'
'It
concerns a lady, Mr Bale. A rather special lady.'
Christopher
was succinct. He gave a clear account of the facts without embellishment. The
effect on Jonathan was startling. He was, by turns, shocked, alarmed, scornful,
interested, almost sympathetic then patently disgusted. One question burst out
of him.
'Was
the lady alone when she was abducted?' he asked.
'Apart
from her coachman, Mr Trigg.'
'There
was no one else in the vehicle with her, then?'
'Such
as?'
'A
maid, a companion.'
'No,
Mr Bale. The coachman left us in no doubt about that. Mrs Gow was completely
alone. That's what made her such an easy target.'
'I
see.' Jonathan relaxed visibly before coming to a quick decision. 'Find someone
else, Mr Redmayne. I'm not your man.'
'What
are you saying?'
'That
I've no wish to be involved. Why should I be? This crime has no relevance to
me. It didn't take place in my ward and I can bring no particular skills to the
solution of it. Someone else might. Seek him out and press him into service.'
Christopher
was aghast. 'You are daring to
refuse?'
'On a
point of principle.'
'But
this assignment comes with a royal command.'
'That's
what appals me,' said Jonathan levelly. 'I'm sorry to hear that the lady in
question has been kidnapped and I hope that she can be rescued before any harm
comes to her, but I've no wish to be part of a scheme which has one obvious
purpose.'
'And
what's that?'
'Retrieving
someone for His Majesty's bed.'
'You
put it very bluntly, Mr Bale.'
'Bluntly
but honestly.'
Christopher
was stung. 'I make no comment whatsoever on the King's motives,' he said
quickly, 'but this I can tell you. Harriet Gow's importance does not rest
solely on her relationship with His Majesty. She is an actress of supreme
talents, adored by all who have seen her perform or heard her sing.' He rose to
his feet. 'I had the good fortune to witness her on stage myself and I've never
been so moved by the sheer histrionic power. The lady is a genius. Let me nail
my colours to the mast,' he said proudly. 'To save Harriet Gow, I'd go to the
ends of the earth and endure any hazards. But I'll not succeed on my own.
That's why I need your help.'
'It's
not at your beck and call.'
'Nor
even at His Majesty's?'
'There
are other constables in London.'
'But
none with your particular abilities, Mr Bale. How can you hold back, man?
You're sworn to uphold the law. A dreadful crime has been committed and you're
turning your back on the opportunity to bring the villains to justice.'
Christopher was almost imploring him. 'Please consider your decision again. You
simply must help me.'
'It's
out of the question, sir.'
'But
why?'
'I
told you earlier. It's a point of principle. You may trumpet the lady's virtues
but she inhabits a world of vice. Theatre is a symbol of all that's wrong with
this city. I'll not subsidise corruption.' He got to his feet, his broad
shoulders straightening as he did so. 'Nor will I provide a missing favourite
for the King's bed. That's not what I call upholding the law, Mr Redmayne. It's
condoning a vile sin in order to solve a crime.'
'The
lady is in grave danger!' said Christopher angrily.
Jonathan
was unmoved. He crossed the room to open the door.
'Then
you'd better try to find her,' he said calmly.
'Why
are you asking me all these questions about Harriet Gow?'
'Idle
curiosity.'
'I
know you better than that, Henry.'
'The
lady fascinates me.'
'She fascinates
every man with red blood in his veins,' said Killigrew, twitching a lecherous
eyebrow, 'but that doesn't make them interrogate me like this.'
Henry
Redmayne dispensed his most charming smile. 'I ask purely in the spirit of
friendship, Tom.'
'Friendship
with me - or with Harriet?'
'Both,
my dear fellow.'
'You're
an accomplished liar, I'll give you that.'
'Then
we have something in common.'
Thomas
Killigrew laughed. He was too old and too experienced to be easily taken in. Now
in his mid-fifties, he was a man of medium height, running to fat and showing
candid signs of a lifetime of sustained dissipation. Viewing the puffy face
with its watery eyes and drooping moustache, Henry found it difficult to
believe that he was looking at the same man as the one who had been painted
almost thirty years earlier by no less an artist than Van Dyck, the premier
choice of Charles I, the most single-minded connoisseur of portraiture in
Europe. Thomas Killigrew had moved in high circles. As a Page to the King and
Groom of the Bedchamber, he was entitled to call upon the artistry of a true
master. Anthony Van Dyck's brush had been precise.
Henry
had seen the painting at Killigrew's house on a number of occasions. It showed
a pale, slim, desolate young man in mourning over the death of his wife,
Cecilia Crofts, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. A bare eighteen months of
marriage had ended in tragedy. Attached to the sleeve of the bereaved man was a
gold and silver cross engraved with the intertwined initials of his dead wife.
Around Killigrew's other wrist was a black band from which Cecilia's wedding
ring dangled dolefully. The widower's expression was a study in dignified
suffering. It was impossible to look at the portrait without being moved. Even
someone as cynical and indifferent as Henry Redmayne had been profoundly
touched when he first laid eyes upon it.
Van
Dyck would paint a vastly different picture now. Tom Killigrew had lost his
good looks in a steady flow of drink and debauchery. There had been hardship
along the way. An unrepentant Royalist, he endured arrest, imprisonment and
exile during the Civil War but he also contrived to find a second wife for
himself, a rich lady whose wealth he enjoyed to the full and whose tolerance he
stretched to the limit. The Restoration was the making of him, a chance to
establish his primacy as a theatre manager, profiting, as he did, from his
cordial relationship with the King and from his ability to judge the mood of
his public in order to satisfy it time and again. Only one serious rival
existed and Tom Killigrew had all but eclipsed him.
They
were in the manager's room at The King's Theatre. One eye closed, Killigrew
scrutinised his visitor through the other and stroked his moustache like a
favourite cat. There was a mocking note in his voice.
'Do
you wish to try again, Henry?' he said.
'Try
what?'
'This
foolish game of deception.'
Henry
mimed indignation. 'Would I deceive
you,
Tom?'
'If
you could get away with it.'
'I
simply brought you what I felt was an important message.'
'Balderdash!'
'Mrs
Harriet Gow is unable to appear on stage at the moment. I felt that you should
know that at once. I must say that your reaction has been singularly
uncharacteristic.'
'In
what way?'
'Any
other man in receipt of such intelligence would be frothing at the mouth. To
lose any of your actresses would be a sorry blow. When the missing lady is
Harriet Gow, there is a whiff of disaster in the air.'
'I've
grown rather used to disaster,' said the other wearily.
'Aren't
you at least disturbed?'
'Of
course. Highly disturbed. Harriet was to have performed once more in
The
Maid's Tragedy
tomorrow afternoon. I'll now be forced to rehearse someone
else in her place.'
'How
can you be so calm about it?' asked Henry.
'It's
the calm after the storm, my friend. Had you been here an hour ago, you'd have
caught me in mid-tempest.'
'Why?'
'That
was when I first heard the news.'
'You
knew
already? But how?'
'By
reading Harriet's letter.'
Henry
gulped. 'She wrote to you?'
'That's
what people usually do when they wish to send a letter. Hers was short but
unequivocal. Sickness is forcing her to withdraw from London for a brief time.'
'Sickness?'
'No
details were given.'
'And
the letter arrived an hour ago?'
'Yes.
Here at the theatre.'
'Who
brought it?'
'I've
no idea. It was left at the stage door for me.'
'Are
you sure that it was written by Harriet Gow?' pressed Henry. 'Could it not have
been a clever forgery? Did you recognise her hand?'
'Of
course. It's unmistakable.'
'Was
there nothing else in the letter? No hint?'
'Of
what?'
'No
entreaty?'
'None.'
'No
second message between the lines?'
'Why
should there be?'
'Oh,
I just wondered, Tom.' Henry's tone was offhand but his mind was racing. A new
piece of evidence had suddenly come to light. 'I don't suppose that you have
the missive here, by any chance?'
'As
it happens, I do.'
'Where?'