Harriet
asked the same burning questions over and over again until she at last noticed
something. Changes had been made to the room. Strips of wood had been nailed
across the window, obscuring some of the light and making it impossible to
open. Most of the furniture had been removed, leaving her with no option but to
use the bed or the floor if she wished to sit down. Her comforts had been
dramatically reduced. It was the sight of the bed that really harrowed her. Not
only had it been stripped of all its linen to ensure that she could create no
makeshift rope for another escape attempt, it had acquired a tiny object that
glinted in the early morning light.
She
was transfixed. The brooch that lay in the middle of the bed was the keepsake
she had given to Mary Hibbert just before the girl had lowered herself into the
garden. It was more than a reward for her bravery. It was a sign of her
mistress's affection and gratitude. To have it brought back could mean only one
thing: Mary had been caught. She would have no need of the brooch now. Rushing
to the bed, Harriet snatched it up and held it to her bosom then she swung
round to run across to the door. Beating on it with both fists, she yelled as
loudly as she could and without any fear of the consequences.
'What
have you done with Mary? Where
is
she?'
Christopher
Redmayne was up at daybreak, refusing the breakfast that Jacob had prepared for
him and ignoring his servant's admonitions as he headed for the stable. Cocks
were still crowing with competitive zeal as he rode off down Fetter Lane.
Henry's condition was his primary concern and he made for the house in Bedford
Street at a canter, swerving his horse through the oncoming carts, waggons and
pedestrians who were already streaming towards the city's markets. In the year
since the Great Fire had devastated the capital, London had regained much of
its old zest and character. There was a communal sense of resilience in the
air.
When
he reached his destination, Christopher found that his brother was now sleeping
soundly after a disturbed night. He tiptoed into the bedchamber to look at
Henry but forbore to wake him. Pleased to hear that the physician was due to
call again that morning, he promised to return later himself then set off for
the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the- Fields. The short ride brought
him to a scene of almost ear- splitting activity. Picks, shovels and other
implements were being used with force, more building materials were arriving to
be unloaded and stacked, horses were neighing, a dog was barking as it darted
playfully between the piles of bricks and timber, workmen were cursing each
other roundly and Lodowick Corrigan was in the middle of it all, bellowing
above the tumult and pointing a peremptory finger.
Christopher
took careful stock of what had so far been done. Even in a day, they had made
perceptible progress, marking out the perimeter of the house and digging most
of the foundations. He waited until the builder ambled across to him.
'I
thought we'd seen the last of you, sir,' said Corrigan tartly.
'No,
I'll be here from time to time.'
'You
should stay all day, Mr Redmayne. If you did that, you might learn something.'
'About
what?'
'How
a house gets built.'
'But
I already know,' said Christopher, icily pleasant. 'You find a talented architect
to design it and an agreeable builder to put it up. All that they have to do is
to trust each other.'
'That's
what it comes down to in the end. Trust.'
'What
do you trust in, Mr Corrigan?'
'My
long experience.'
'Of
disobeying the instructions of an architect?'
'When
I started in this trade,' sneered the other, 'there weren't quite so many of
your profession, sir. Master-builders were the order of the day - men like my
father who did everything themselves. My father could design, construct and
decorate a property entirely on his own.'
'Those
days have gone.'
'They're
sorely missed.'
Christopher
did not rise to the bait of his implication. Instead, he tried to make use of
the other's much vaunted experience. After discussing what would be done on
site that day, he surprised his companion by resorting to some mild flattery.
'You
know your trade, Mr Corrigan,' he said. 'I took the trouble to look at some of
the houses you've put up in the city. Soundly built, every one of them. They're
a credit to you.'
'Why,
thank you, Mr Redmayne.'
'And
a credit to the architect who designed them, of course.'
'They
were all amenable men,' said Corrigan.
'Amenable?'
'To
my suggestions.'
'Nobody
is more amenable than I. Any suggestion of yours is always welcome. The problem
is that I've not heard one yet that I thought worth taking seriously.'
'That's
because your head's still in the clouds, sir.'
'Oh?'
'You're a true artist. All that concerns you is your reputation.'
'Naturally.'
'Other
architects had a sharper eye for the possibilities.'
'Of
what, Mr Corrigan?'
'Profit.
Gain. Advancement,' said the builder slyly. 'Take your insistence on the use of
Caen stone. It'll be expensive to buy and difficult to transport. The quarry in
which I have a stake could provide stone that's similar in type and colour but
costs half the price. Mr Hartwell doesn't know that, of course. Persuade him to
change his mind about the portico and you could pocket the difference between
the Caen stone and the kind I supply.'
'What's
in it for you?'
'The
pleasure of teaching a young man the ways of the world.'
'The
ways of
your
world, Mr Corrigan. Mine is very different. It includes
quaint concepts like honesty, fair dealing and mutual confidence. Proffer any
more lessons in cheating a client,' he warned, 'and I'll be forced to report
the conversation to Mr Hartwell.' The builder's smirk vanished at once. 'Now,
give me some advice that I can use.'
'I
don't follow,' said the other resentfully.
'Have
you ever built a house in the vicinity of St James's Palace?'
'Two
in Berry Street and one in Piccadilly.'
'What
interests me are some properties in Rider Street.'
'Why?'
'I'd like
to know who built them. I understand that there's only a small row of houses
there at present, but they're well designed and neatly constructed. How could I
find out who put them up?'
'By
asking the man who owns them.'
'They're
leased out, then?'
'If
it's the houses I'm thinking of, yes.'
'Do
you happen to know who the landlord is?'
'It
used to be Crown land, Mr Redmayne,' said the other with a knowing grin. 'So
the King must be getting an income from them. If you want to live in one of
those houses, you'll have to kiss His Majesty's arse.' A crude cackle. 'Watch
out for those royal farts, sir, won't you?'
Jonathan
Bale's day also began at dawn. After breakfast with his wife and children, he
went off to acquaint Peter Hibbert with the sudden death of his sister. He was
not looking forward to the assignment but someone had to undertake it and his
link with the family made him the obvious choice. That was why he had
volunteered so assertively in front of William Chiffinch. Horrified by Mary's
death, Jonathan hoped that he might in some small way alleviate the distress
that the tidings were bound to create. Peter was not the most robust character
and his uncle was still very sick. Both would need to be helped to absorb the shock
that lay in wait for them.
The
boy was apprenticed to a tailor in Cornhill Ward and it was there that the
constable first presented himself. Peter Hibbert was already at work, cutting
some cloth from a bolt. After an explanatory word with his master, Jonathan
took the boy aside and broke the news as gently as he could. Peter burst into
tears. It was minutes before the boy was able to press for details.
'When
was this, Mr Bale?' he whimpered.
'Some
time yesterday.'
'Where
did it happen?'
'Her
body was found in Drury Lane. It seems that she was struck by a coach as it
careered along out of control. Mary had no chance. It was all over in seconds.'
'What
was my sister doing in Drury Lane?'
'I
don't know.'
'I
thought she and Mrs Gow had left London.'
'They
must've returned without warning. My guess is that Mary was on her way to The
Theatre Royal.'
'Where's
the body now?'
'Lying
in a morgue,' said Jonathan. 'I saw it late last night and identified it. This
was the earliest I could make contact with you.' He saw the boy about to topple
and gave him a hug. 'Bear up, Peter. This is a terrible blow, I know. Mary was
a good sister to you.'
'She
was everything, Mr Bale.'
'For
her sake, try to be strong.'
'How
can I?'
'Try,
Peter. Mary is with the angels now, where she belongs.'
'That's
true,' mumbled the boy.
Informed
of the circumstances, the tailor gave permission for his apprentice to take the
day off and Jonathan accompanied him to Carter Street, where he had to mix fact
with deception again. The uncle was numbed into silence by the news but his
wife let out a shriek, sobbing loudly and bemoaning the loss of her niece. She
laid responsibility for the death squarely on Mary Hibbert's involvement in the
tawdry world of the theatre. Jonathan was able to agree with her heartily on
that score but he did not labour the point, preferring to soothe rather than
allot blame, and anxious to leave Peter in the reassuring company of his
relatives. Uncle and aunt soon rallied. Grateful to the constable for telling
them the news, they willingly accepted his offer to speak to the parish priest
in order to make arrangements for the funeral.
'Will
you come back, Mr Bale?' asked Peter meekly.
'In
time.'
'I'd
like that.'
Jonathan
gave him a sad smile. It was outside that very house that he had last seen Mary
Hibbert and he was still prodded by uncomfortable memories of their
conversation. He was determined to be more helpful and less censorious towards
her brother. Peter had now lost a mother, a father and only sister in the space
of two short years. He needed all the friendship and support he could get.
Jonathan's
next visit was to the vicar, a white-haired old man who had lost count of the
number of funeral services he had conducted. Mary Hibbert no longer lived in
the parish but the fact that she was born there gave her the right to be buried
in the already overcrowded churchyard. After discussing details with his
visitor, the priest went scurrying off to Carter Lane to offer his own
condolences to the bereaved. Jonathan felt guilty at having to give them only
an attenuated version of the truth but he was relieved that he had not
confronted them with the full horror of the situation. Peter Hibbert, in
particular, would not have been able to cope. It was a kindness to spare him.
Having
discharged his duties regarding Mary Hibbert, the constable could now begin the
pursuit of those who murdered her. He left the city through Ludgate, walked
along Fleet Street then quickened his pace when he reached the Strand, the
broad thoroughfare that was fringed on his left by the palatial residences of
the great, the good and the ostentatiously wealthy. Jonathan was too caught up
in his thoughts to accord the houses his usual hostile glare. He came to a halt
at the place where the ambush had taken place, wondering yet again why that
route had been taken by the coachman. Walking to the top of the lane, he found
the landlord of the Red Lion supervising the unloading of barrels from a cart.
'Good
morning to you,' said Jonathan.