'Old
Street.'
'Then
I may be able to help there as well,' said Jonathan, pleased that his contacts
were proving so useful. 'I know one of the constables in Shoreditch. Talk to
him and he might save your legs a lot of walking. If there's a Mr Eldridge
living in Old Street, the chances are that Jeremy Vye will come across him.'
'Thank
you. I'll speak to Constable Vye this very afternoon, when I've paid another
visit to my brother.'
'How
is Mr Redmayne?'
'Still
in some pain, I daresay. Several ribs were cracked.'
'Your
brother was lucky. I saw what they did to Mary Hibbert.'
'Henry
doesn't know about her yet,' said Christopher sombrely. 'I'm not sure that he
should; it would only agitate him. He's already made his contribution to this
enquiry. Henry deserves a rest.'
The
physician held the vessel carefully to his lips and made sure that he drank all
of the potion. Henry grimaced at the bitter taste. He mouthed a protest then
sank back on the pillow. The old man turned to the servant who was hovering at the
bedside.
'He's
taking a turn for the worse,' he said softly.
'Yes,
sir.'
'See
that he has another draught of the medicine this evening.'
'Yes,
sir.'
'What
he most needs is rest.'
'We'll
make sure that Mr Redmayne gets it.'
'Don't
rouse him. Let him wake in his own time.'
'Yes,
sir.'
'If
he seems to dwindle, call me back at once.'
The
servant nodded and showed the visitor out. Henry Redmayne heard nothing of
their exchange. The potion had been unpleasant to swallow but its effect was
immediate. His eyes closed, his body sagged, his mind emptied. He slid gently
back into a deep and restorative sleep.
Sitting
astride his horse, the man remained hidden under the trees, anxious to watch
the departure but equally anxious that there was no chance of his being seen by
Harriet Gow. The possibility was remote. When she was brought out of the house
by Arthur Oscott and his wife, Harriet was blindfolded and her wrists were tied
together. She had to be guided into the waiting coach. While his wife remained
inside with the prisoner, Oscott climbed up into the driving seat. The man was
satisfied. Everything had gone smoothly. When the coach drew away, he followed
it at a safe distance. Harriet Gow was being transferred to some alternative
accommodation. Tied up and unable to see, she would be increasingly anxious
during the trip. The man escorting the coach had no sympathy for her. He wanted
her to suffer. It was all part of his revenge.
Instead
of pursuing his investigations in Shoreditch at once, Christopher Redmayne
elected to return to Fetter Lane to snatch his first meal of the day, give
instructions to Jacob then ride on to Bedford Street to check on his brother's
condition. Going home was a serious mistake. Within minutes of his arrival, he
had the first of three unexpected and unwanted visitors. Jasper Hartwell was in
a frenzy of despair.
Clad
in blue and gold, he leaped out of his coach with his ginger periwig swaying so
wilfully that it all but parted company with the broad-brimmed hat that was
balanced atop it. Christopher caught a glimpse of him through the window,
gaining a few vital seconds to prepare his alibi. When Hartwell was conducted
into the parlour by Jacob, therefore, the architect was bent studiously over
the drawings he had just laid out on the table with such speed. He looked up
nonchalantly.
'Why,
Mr Hartwell,' he greeted. 'Good day to you, sir.'
'So
this is where you are skulking,' complained the other.
'Not
skulking, sir. Working on my designs, as you observe. Putting the last few
finishing touches to your house.'
'I
went to the site but you were nowhere to be seen. Mr Corrigan was deeply upset.
There are a number of issues he needs to raise with you, Mr Redmayne.'
'He
had an opportunity to do so earlier on,' said Christopher, 'when I rode over to
the site to inspect progress not long after dawn. From what I saw, Mr Corrigan
can manage very well without me.'
'Your
place is in St Martin's.'
'That's
exactly where I am, sir. In my mind's eye.'
Jacob
suddenly came out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine. Without the
slightest hint of gratitude, Hartwell took one of them, drank it down in a
series of noisy gulps then handed the glass back to the servant. Jacob withdrew
once more. The drink only seemed to intensify the visitor's apprehensions.
'Where
is she?' he gasped.
'Who?'
asked Christopher.
'Harriet,
of course. My future wife.'
'According
to report, the lady is unwell.'
'It's
a lie, Mr Redmayne. I've spoken twice about her to Tom Killigrew and he didn't
give me a satisfactory answer on either occasion. The truth is that he doesn't
know
where Harriet is. Neither does anyone else in the company. Think on
that,' he said with a scandalised yelp. 'Harriet disappears and her own manager
has no idea where she is or what drove her to be there. I fear skulduggery.'
'Never,
Mr Hartwell.'
'I
do. I felt it in my water.'
'An
illusion.'
'Something
untoward has happened to my beloved.'
'Surely
not,' said Christopher, rising to his feet. 'Who could want to hurt such a
beautiful woman as Mrs Gow? It's inconceivable.'
'Is
it?' countered Hartwell. 'Who would want to hurt such an amiable fellow as your
brother? Yet I gather from Killigrew that he was viciously assaulted yesterday
outside the theatre. Beauty and affability are no protection against naked
villainy. If a harmless man like Henry Redmayne can be picked on by bullies,
then Harriet, too, may be marked out as a victim.'
'At
whose behest, sir?'
'She
has her share of enemies.'
'Do
you know who they are?'
'They're
too numerous to list, Mr Redmayne. Envy breeds many foes. My worry is that it
may not be
her
enemies who are at work here but mine.' Hartwell plopped
down into a chair. 'Sensing that I'm determined to make her my wife, someone
has lashed out at me from sheer spite. It could be that husband of hers, of
course, or it may just be a rival for her hand, consumed with chagrin because
I've made her mine.'
'But
you haven't, sir,' Christopher reminded him, delicately.
'How
can I when she's vanished?'
'Mrs
Gow has merely withdrawn. To recuperate.'
'From
what?'
'That
will become clear in time.'
'But
she was a picture of health when I last saw her,' argued the other. 'At the
start of the week, Harriet was singing her heart out for me on stage. Where is
my nightingale now?'
'Resting,
sir. Leave her be.'
'I
must
find
her, Mr Redmayne.'
He went
on at length, expressing his love for the missing actress and working himself
up into a state of wild-eyed hysteria. Christopher was alive to the paradox.
Having been engaged by the King to rescue Harriet Gow, he was now forced to
pretend that she was not in any danger. Instead of continuing his search, he
was being held back by the swirling infatuation of his client. Jasper Hartwell
was luxuriating in his distress. Christopher wondered if the visit might yet
have some practical value for him.
'Henry
tells me that you're a connoisseur of the theatre,' he interrupted.
'It's
my second home,' Jasper agreed.
'Then
you'll know all the members of the company.'
'Both
at The King's House and at The Duke's Playhouse,' he said proudly.
'I'm
only interested in Mr Killigrew's company.'
'So
am I since Harriet joined it,' said Hartwell wistfully. 'I can recall the very
moment when she first stepped on to that stage. And as for that voice! Heaven
has never fashioned such an instrument before.'
'What
of the actors around her?'
'I
never notice any of them when she is there.'
'Oh,
come, sir. You cannot fail to notice men like Michael Mohun or Charles Hart.
They're masters of their trade.'
'True.
They lend quality and experience to the company.'
'What
of Martin Eldridge?'
'A
more slender talent,' said Hartwell dismissively. 'He relies too much on his
good looks and not enough on his skill as an actor. Eldridge is able but no
more than that.'
'Have
you ever met him?'
'Of
course. Most of them have supped with me at my expense. Actors are hungry
people, Mr Redmayne, and they rarely earn enough to be able to turn down a free
meal. Actresses, too, of course,' he added with a sigh, 'though Harriet has
never accepted my invitation, alas. She is always spirited away from the
theatre by someone else.'
'His
Majesty?'
'When
the mood takes him.'
'Who
else?'
'Don't
ask me to dwell on her other admirers, Mr Redmayne,' said Hartwell peevishly.
'I'm the only one who loves her properly and wants to take her away from that
corrupt, dangerous, silly, shallow world.' He slapped the table. 'I do so hate
it when I see them pounding on the door of her dressing room and demanding her
favours.'
'Who?'
'The
whole merry gang. Heartless rakes, one and all.'
'Lord
Rochester, you mean? Sir Charles Sedley?'
'And
the rest of them - Buckhurst, Armadale, Ogle. Yes, if ever a man was well
named, it is Sir Thomas Ogle, for that's what he does. Well, he'll not ogle
Harriet any longer. I'll rescue her forever from him and his drunken cronies.
She's too good for any of them except me.'
Christopher
encouraged him to talk about his endless visits to the theatre and pertinent
information tumbled out time and again, much of it supplementing what his
listener had already heard from his brother or from Killigrew, but some of it
quite original. As Hartwell burbled on, one of the names he referred to kept
coming back into his host's mind.
'You
mentioned Armadale,' he noted.
'That's
right. Sir Godfrey Armadale.'
Christopher
was puzzled. He did not recognise the name and yet it sounded vaguely familiar.
He had a strong feeling that he had heard it before and that it might be
important to remember where.
Moving
with his usual measured tread, Jonathan Bale nevertheless went far in a
relatively short time. Enquiries among court officials soon gave him the
address he needed. He presented himself at the building in Threadneedle Street
and asked to speak to Obadiah Shann. Jonathan was allowed through into the
lawyer's office. Niceties were brief. Shann barely looked up from the document
he was perusing.
'What
can I do for you, Constable Bale?'
'I
wanted some advice about a client of yours,' said Jonathan.
'Then
you seek it in vain. I never release confidential information about the people
I represent.'
'I
merely seek an address.'
'Of
whom?'
'Mr
Bartholomew Gow.'
'Why?'
'It's
a private matter, sir.'
'Do
you
know
Mr Gow?'
'No,
Mr Shann, but I'm anxious to make his acquaintance.'
'How
did you find out that I was his lawyer?'