'Back
to where he was born, in the West Country. That's where Sir Godfrey hails from
- down in Devon.' He swept the subject of his former master aside to make a
final offer. 'I could warn you, Mr Redmayne. I know what those rogues look
like. They're bound to try to strike again.'
'Then
I'll be ready for them.'
Christopher
did not have to waste any more time trying to get rid of his second visitor
because Trigg was immediately supplanted by a third. A coach drew up outside
the house and a stately figure in clerical garb alighted. Christopher's stomach
lurched. Jasper Hartwell and Roland Trigg were unwanted callers, but each had
nevertheless been able to impart useful information to him. The newcomer would
not. In fact, his presence threatened to hamper the search altogether.
Christopher
forced a smile and put false joy into his voice.
'Father!'
he said, spreading his arms. 'How wonderful to see you!'
Clerkenwell's
reputation had slowly changed over the years. Notorious for its brothels during
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it had been improved and developed by her
successors, containing, for example, London's first piped water supply and
attracting several aristocrats to build fine houses there. As the Court moved
westwards under Charles II, many of the grand residences were abandoned to
prosperous merchants or to skilled craftsmen who turned the area into a
thriving centre for certain specialised trades. When he reached Clerkenwell
after his long walk, Jonathan Bale was struck by the clear evidence of wealth.
There were still abundant houses of resort in some of the darker corners, but
the district was no longer as blatantly dedicated to sinfulness as in former
times.
He
eventually found the address with which Obadiah Shann had been reluctantly
forced to part. It was a modest dwelling, smaller and far less impressive than
the one in Greer Lane where, he had been led to believe, Bartholomew Gow actually
lived. The place was neglected. As Jonathan looked at the perished brickwork
and the cracks in the tiles, he understood why the man might arrange any
assignations elsewhere. The grubby little house in the more insalubrious part
of Clerkenwell was not a love-nest to tempt a discerning lady. A coach would be
incongruous in the mean and filthy street.
Knocking
on the door, he did not have long to wait for a reply. The servant who appeared
before him was virtually a homunculus, a tiny man of uncertain years with a
harassed look about him. The sight of the constable made him shrink back
defensively.
'Yes,
sir?' he whispered.
'My
name is Jonathan Bale,' introduced the other, 'and I've come in search of a Mr
Bartholomew Gow.'
'What
makes you think that he lives here, sir?'
'I
was given this address by Mr Shann.'
'The
lawyer?'
'Yes.
I've come straight from his office in Threadneedle Street.'
The
diminutive figure retreated another step as he tried to weigh up his visitor.
His scrutiny was intense, even slightly eerie, but Jonathan tolerated it with
patience. The man eventually regained his voice.
'Wait
here a moment, please,' he said.
'Is
Mr Gow in the house?'
'I'll
have to see, sir.'
Shutting
the door gently in his face, the servant vanished from sight. Jonathan waited
for several minutes. Tiring of the delay, he reached out to bang on the door
with more authority but it swung obligingly open. Bartholomew Gow regarded him
warily. He was a tallish man in his early thirties with apparel that was
starting to fade and hair that was beginning to recede. Jonathan wondered why
the innkeeper at the Red Lion had described as handsome a face that would have
been pleasant at best even without the scowl on it.
Unhappy
at being found in circumstances that caused him obvious embarrassment, Gow
could rise to nothing more than brisk courtesy.
'Good
day to you, Constable Bale. You wanted me?'
'Are
you Mr Gow, sir?'
'At
your service.'
'I
hope that may be the case. May I suggest that we step inside, please?' said the
visitor. 'I've come on business that should not be discussed in the street.'
Bartholomew
Gow was unhappy to invite him in, mumbling an apology as he did so and ushering
him into a small, low room with only a few pieces of furniture to hide its bare
boards. Anxious not to detain Jonathan any longer than he had to, he did not
offer him a seat.
'Well,
Mr Bale?' he said with bruised dignity. 'What do you want?'
'I've
come about your wife, sir.'
'Did
Harriet send you?'
'Not
exactly, Mr Gow. When did you last see her?'
'Some
time ago. Why?'
'So
you haven't been in touch recently?'
'No,'
said the other. 'If you've spoken to my lawyer, you'll know that my wife and I
live apart and have done so for a little while. That situation is unlikely to
alter. I've no cause to seek her out and my wife certainly has no desire to get
in touch with me.'
'I'm
sorry to hear that, Mr Gow.'
'Are
you?'
'I have
a great respect for the institution of marriage.'
'Then
your experience of it must have differed from mine.' He became almost testy.
'You've no business to come here to discuss my personal affairs. What's going
on?'
'I
wondered if you might tell me that, sir.' 'Me?'
'You're
not easy to track down.' He glanced around the room. 'I hadn't realised that
you lived in Clerkenwell.'
'This
is only a temporary address until I can find something better.'
'Of course,
sir,' said Jonathan, sensing the hurt pride that lay behind the lie. 'I was
looking for you in Greer Lane.'
'Where?'
Gow seemed baffled. 'Greer Lane?'
'It's
just off the Strand.'
'Then
it's well beyond the reach of my purse.'
'I
was told that you lodged there, sir, but my guess is that you only use the
premises on an occasional basis. A couple of days ago,' said Jonathan, deciding
to confront him with the truth in order to gauge his reaction, 'an ambush took
place in Greer Lane. Mrs Gow was abducted.'
'Harriet?'
said her husband, mouth agape. 'Abducted?'
'I'm
afraid so, sir. My job is to help in the search for her.'
'But
who kidnapped her, man? And
why?
'
'I
can only answer the second question, Mr Gow. Your wife is being held for
ransom. To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to throw more light
on the circumstances of the abduction.'
'How
can I?'
'It
took place outside the house you visit in Greer Lane.'
'But
I've never been near the place.'
'That's
not what the landlady says,' argued Jonathan. 'Nor the innkeeper at the Red
Lion. Do you deny you patronised the tavern?'
'In
the strongest possible terms!' retorted Gow, going on the attack. 'Do you have
the gall to tell me that you thought I was responsible for the kidnap? On what
evidence? My wife and I may be estranged, Mr Bale, but I'd never wish her any
harm.'
'Did
you and she ever meet in Greer Lane?'
'No!
How could we? I don't even know where it is.'
Jonathan
felt suddenly ill at ease. Thinking that he would unravel the mystery when he
cornered Bartholomew Gow, he realised that it had instead become more complex.
The ousted husband was plainly telling the truth. He had nothing whatsoever to
do with the crime.
The
dream made Henry Redmayne squirm and groan in his bed. He was sitting alone in
a pew in Gloucester Cathedral, shorn of his finery and wearing sackcloth and
ashes in its stead. Occupying the pulpit and gazing down at his elder son like
a disgruntled prophet, was his father, the venerable Dean, pointing a finger of
doom at him and accusing him of sinful behaviour and moral turpitude. What made
Henry break out in a guilty sweat was the fact that his father was listing his
peccadilloes with terrifying accuracy. It was as if every act of indiscretion,
every visit to a gaming house, every night of inebriation and every lustful
hour in the arms of a whore had been watched from a few feet away by the pious
author of his being. It was mortifying. Henry came out of his nightmare with a
cry of pain only to find that he had not escaped at all.
The
Dean of Gloucester glared down from a bedside pulpit.
'What
is the matter, Henry?' he asked solicitously.
'Is
that you, Father?'
'Yes,
my son. And it seems I came at just the right time to offer you solace. I was
shocked when I saw you. Christopher and I have been praying beside your bed for
almost half an hour.'
'That
was very kind of you,' said Henry, closing his eyes in the hope of bringing the
nightmare to an abrupt end before opening them again to find the Reverend
Algernon Redmayne still bending over him. 'I know the value of prayer.'
'It
has brought you back to us.'
Algernon
Redmayne was a dignified man in his sixties with white hair curling to his
shoulders and a large, curved, glistening forehead. Accounted a handsome man in
his youth, he had features that were more akin to those of his younger son but
their pleasing aspect had been subdued beneath years of sustained religiosity.
Anything that was even marginally inappropriate in a devout churchman had been
ruthlessly suppressed. The Dean of Gloucester was so completely defined by his
rank and ministry that it was difficult to imagine his ever having been
anything else. It was certainly impossible to believe that this tall, pale,
solemn pillar of holy marble had actually fathered two children, thereby
indulging in an act of procreation that indicated - against all the visible
evidence - that he had, on two separate occasions at least, been a prey to
fleshly desires that had no place in the cathedral precincts.
'How
are you, Father?' asked Henry weakly.
'How
are
you,
dear boy?' returned the other anxiously.
'I'm
rallying, I think.'
'Brave
man!'
'Have
you come from Gloucester?'
'Yes,
the Bishop and I have business here in London.'
'How
is Bishop Nicholson?'
Henry
did not have the slightest interest in the man but he wanted to keep his father
talking while he assembled his own thoughts. The old man unnerved him at the
best of times. Lying in pain in his bed, he felt as if he were locked in the
pillory, utterly at his father's mercy. The Dean chose the moment to deliver a
sonorous sermon.
'Bishop
Nicholson is very much perplexed at the many impudent coventicles that have
grown up in every part of our county. Not only do these Dissenters openly
appear at their places of worship, they justify their meetings unashamedly to
the Bishop's face. It is disgraceful,' said the Dean, letting his voice swell
for effect. 'We have made complaints to the Justices in the Peace but they are
dilatory in enforcing the law. When we have proceeded against the malefactors
in the church courts, we have met with the most disrespectful behaviour.'
'I'm
sorry to hear that, Father.'
'We
are to take the matter up with Archbishop Sheldon. It is one of the reasons we
are here.' He clasped his hands together. 'Let us put that aside for a moment,
Henry.
Your
condition disturbs me. Tell me, my son. What exactly happened to you?'
Entreating
rescue, Henry looked across at his brother.
'I've
told Father very little,' said Christopher, spelling out the potential for
deception. 'Nobody has any idea how you came by your injuries because you've
been unconscious until today. I daresay that you're still dazed by the
experience,' he prompted. 'Aren't you, Henry?'