'For
today, yes.'
'Good.'
'Did
you want anything?'
'No
thank you, Sarah.'
'Some
cheese, perhaps? We've plenty in the larder.'
'Nothing,
my love.'
There
was a lengthy pause. Feeling that he owed her some kind of explanation, he
struggled to find the right words. Sarah waited patiently. He cleared his
throat before speaking.
'Mr
Redmayne came on private business,' he said.
'I
see.'
'He
wanted me to help him with something but…' He gave a shrug. 'But I had to
refuse. It was a question of conscience, Sarah. I simply couldn't bring myself
to do what he was asking. It offended me. I know that Mr Redmayne thought it
strange, even perverse. By his standards, it probably is. But I can only act as
my conscience dictates.'
'That's
what you've always done, Jonathan.'
'I
had to speak my mind.'
'Is
that why Mr Redmayne left so abruptly?' she probed, gently. He gave a nod. 'Do
you want to tell me any more about it?' He shook his head. 'Another time, then.
There's no hurry. I can see that it's shaken you somewhat.'
'It
has, Sarah. I hated having to turn him away. Mr Redmayne is a good man at
heart. It wasn't
him
I was rejecting.'
'I'm
glad to hear that.'
'There
was nothing else I could do.'
Sarah
could sense the doubts that were troubling him, the second thoughts that were
making him broach the subject in order to justify himself. She was fond of
Christopher Redmayne. On the few occasions when they had met, he had been
unfailingly polite to her, showing a genuine interest in her children and
wanting to befriend them. It pained her that he had stalked out of her home in
such disappointment. She hoped that she had not witnessed his last ever visit
to their home.
Jonathan
felt able to confide his anxiety for the first time.
'I
hope I did the right thing.'
'Only
time will tell.'
'He
shouldn't have asked me.'
'No,
Jonathan.'
'It
was unfair. It's not my problem.'
But
it clearly was now. Sarah did not ask for detail. Some of it was etched into
her husband's brow. For reasons best known to himself, he refused to take on an
assignment that involved Christopher Redmayne. It was not the end of the
matter, Sarah knew that. Recrimination had set in. Jonathan would torment
himself for hours. Whatever he had discussed with his visitor had affected him
at a deep level.
In a
vain attempt to cheer him up, Sarah starting talking about their neighbours,
offering him snippets of gossip that she had picked up during the day. Jonathan
was only half- listening. The most he offered by way of response was a tired
smile. Even an account of the wilder antics of some of the denizens of
Baynard's Castle Ward could not stop him from brooding. He was still miles
away.
The
banging noise brought him out of his brown study. Someone was pounding on the
front door. Sarah reached for the candle and made to rise from her chair but he
put out a hand to stop her.
'I'll
go, my love.'
'Who
can it be at this hour?'
'Someone
who wishes to be heard,' he said as the banging was repeated. 'He'll wake the
neigbours, if he goes on like that.'
'Is
it Mr Redmayne again?' she wondered.
'It
had better not be.'
Jonathan
used the candle to guide his way to the front door. As soon as he started to
pull back the bolts, the thumping stopped. He opened the door and found himself
looking at a small, almost frail figure, silhouetted against the moonlight.
'Mr
Bale?' asked a querulous voice.
'Yes,'
said Jonathan, holding the flame closer to the face of the youth who was
trembling at his threshhold. 'What do you want?'
'Don't
you recognise me?'
'Why,
yes, I do now. It's young Peter, isn't it? Peter Hibbert.'
'That's
right, Mr Bale. Mary's brother.'
'You're
shaking,' noted Jonathan. 'What's wrong?'
'Something
terrible's happened.'
It
took two large glasses of brandy to convert Henry's gibberish into intelligible
English. Arriving wild-eyed and incoherent at the house in Fetter Lane, he had to
be calmed and cosseted before his brother could get any sense out of him.
Christopher had only just waved off Roland Trigg before his brother appeared on
his doorstep. He and Henry now sat either side of the table with the bottle of
brandy between them as their interlocutor. Henry succumbed to another upsurge
of self- pity.
'Never,
never do that to me again, Christopher!' he said.
'Do
what?'
'Subject
me to that kind of embarrassment.'
'What
are you talking about?'
'That
old fox, Tom Killigrew. It will take a far better huntsman than Henry Redmayne
to run him to ground. He gave me the slip time and time again.'
'Did
you learn anything useful?' asked Christopher.
'Several
things.'
'Such
as?'
'That
I must have been demented to imagine I could coax any information out of Tom
Killigrew without arousing his suspicions. I was hopelessly out of my depth.'
'Don't tell me that you gave the game away!'
'Almost.'
'That's
the last thing you must do, Henry.'
'I
know, but I couldn't help myself. What saved me was the fact that he was
already aware of what I went there to tell him.'
Christopher
blinked. 'Already aware?'
'Harriet
Gow sent him a letter of apology.'
'When?'
'An
hour before I arrived.'
'How
could she do that when she's being held by kidnappers?'
'I
think I've worked that out, Christopher,' said the other, pouring brandy into
his empty glass. 'They must have forced her to write the note in order to throw
Tom Killigrew off the scent. If he suspected for one moment what had happened
to her, he'd raise a hue and cry.' He sipped the alcohol. 'Is this the best
brandy you have in the house?'
'What
did the letter say?'
'I
need something stronger than this.'
'Tell
me, Henry,' said his brother, shaking him by the arm. 'Did you actually see
this letter from Harriet Gow?'
'No.
It stayed in his pocket.'
Henry
recounted his interview with Killigrew in detail, making much of the discomfort
he suffered and the skill he'd had to employ in order to lead the manager
astray. The letter of apology from Harriet Gow was what weighed with Killigrew.
Christopher was reassured to hear that his brother had not, after all, betrayed
his pledge to maintain strict secrecy. He was also pleased that the visit to
the theatre had thrown up some interesting new names for consideration. Henry
passed over a crumpled list.
'I
recognise some of these,' said Christopher, perusing it with care. 'They are
mostly members of the company. Who is Abigail Saunders?'
'An
actress of sorts.'
'Of
sorts?'
'A
pretty enough creature who uses the stage to advertise her charms rather than
her talents, perhaps because she has an ample supply of the former and a dearth
of the latter. Abigail Saunders is a young lady of high ambition.'
'Why
have you drawn a circle around her name?'
'She
will replace Harriet Gow in
The Maid's Tragedy.'
'So
she stands to benefit.'
'Greatly.'
'And
is Abigail Saunders another nightingale?'
'More
of a vulture,' opined Henry. 'An attractive one, I grant you, but she is all
claw under those delightful feathers.'
Christopher
was amazed to read the last name of the list.
'Sir
William D'Avenant?'
'That
was Tom Killigrew's suggestion.'
'I
thought that you didn't discuss the abduction,' said Christopher in alarm. 'How
did it happen then that the manager is identifying a suspect?'
'By
doing so without even realising it. Now stop harassing me,' said Henry before
downing the contents of the glass. 'Talk to Tom Killigrew and Sir William's
name comes into the conversation time and again. It's inevitable. They are the
only two men with patents to run theatres in London so they are deadly rivals.
Tom Killigrew has the edge with The King's Theatre but Sir William D'Avenant
has had many triumphs at The Duke's House. They'll stop at nothing to secure an
advantage over the other. What's the worst thing that could befall Tom
Killigrew?'
'The
disappearance of Harriet Gow.'
'Which
theatre manager would profit most?'
'Sir
William D'Avenant.'
'Exactly.
That's why I put his name on the list,' Henry said smugly.
'Is
he capable of such desperate measures?'
'A
man with no spectacles is capable of anything.'
'No spectacles?'
Christopher could not follow this. 'Sir William?'
'Yes.
The old lecher contracted syphilis so often in the past that it's eaten away
his nose. He'll never balance a pair of spectacles on it, no matter how bad his
eyesight.'
'Be
serious, Henry. We're talking about kidnap here.'
'Then
Sir William D'Avenant must be a suspect.'
'I
wonder,' said Christopher doubtfully. 'Let's assume, just for a moment, that
you may be right. Why should Sir William send a ransom note to the King when it
ought more properly to go to the rival manager? He's the one who might be
expected to buy her release.'
'Hardly!'
said Henry with a harsh laugh.
'What
do you mean?'
'Tom
Killigrew's finances are in a worse state than the King's. Worse even than my
own, and that's saying something. He had to beg, borrow and steal to raise the
money to build his playhouse. Every penny that Tom had is sunk in The King's
House.'
'Couldn't
he find the ransom money somehow?'
'That
would be a miracle beyond even him, Christopher.'
'I
still cannot believe that Sir William D'Avenant is implicated.'
'Then
you don't know him as well as some of us do.'
'Is
he such a villain?'
'Try
asking Miss Abigail Saunders.'
'Why?'
'She was
his mistress.'
Henry
took up his list and went through the names one by one, fleshing them out with
detail and adding speculative comment. His knowledge of the theatrical world
was impressive, his insight into the private lives of its leading members even
more astonishing. When he had delivered his cargo of scandal and supposition,
he sat back in his chair and used the back of his hand to suppress a yawn.
'I'm
exhausted by all the effort I've put in today. Deception is such a tiring
business. You always have to remember which lie you've told to whom and for
what purpose. But enough of my travails,' he said as he reached for the brandy
once more. 'What of you, Christopher? Have you spoken to the grim constable
yet?' 'Yes,' sighed the other. 'For all the good it did me.'
'Did
he not rush to the aid of a lady in distress?'
'Not
exactly.'
Christopher
gave him an edited version of the conversation that took place in Addle Hill,
playing down Jonathan's rejection in order to rescue him from Henry's scorn.
What he did talk about at length was the unexpected visit of Roland Trigg, the
truculent coachman. Henry was troubled to hear of the second abduction.