'At
her husband, for a start. Bartholomew Gow.'
'He's
already been cleared of involvement.'
'Then
I can do the same for Martin. Painful as it is to do him a favour, I can give
you my assurance that he's not the villain here.'
'I
reserve my judgement on that.'
Christopher
would not be deflected from his purpose. He wanted to speak to the actor again.
Unable to get assistance from one theatre manager, he decided to turn to
another. He bade farewell and headed for the door. Killigrew had a rush of
sympathy and called out to detain him.
'How
is your brother?'
'Recovering
very slowly.'
'I'll
try to make time to call on him.'
'Thank
you, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher, fearing an encounter between his father
and the disreputable manager. 'Not for a day or two, please. Henry can receive
no visitors at present. His physician has forbidden it.'
'Tell
him I asked after him.'
'I
will.'
'What
of the men who cudgelled him?'
'There's
brighter news on that front. One is already in custody and the other may soon
join him. In fact,' he recalled, 'a colleague of mine is attending to that
matter right now.'
Ben
Froggatt was in constant pain. His broken arm was in a splint, his eyes
blackened, his head covered in lumps and crisscrossed with deep gashes. His
hair was matted with dried blood. Every part of his body seemed to ache.
Propped up on a mattress in the dingy, airless room, he swigged from a stone
bottle and vowed to get his revenge. A mouse came out of its hole and ran
across to search for crumbs on the platter beside him. Froggatt spat at the
creature to send it on its way. There was a tap on the door. He tensed at once.
Putting the bottle aside, he used his free hand to reach for the cudgel under
the sheets.
'Who
is it?' he growled.
'Lucy,'
she answered.
'What
kept you?'
'I've
brought a friend of yours, Ben.'
She
opened the door to lead in Jonathan Bale. His friendly manner vanished at once.
He dashed across to the wounded man, caught his wrist as the cudgel was lifted
and twisted the weapon out of his hand. Froggatt howled with rage at Lucy, who
backed against the wall in alarm. Jonathan showed no compassion for the man's
injuries. He was standing over someone who had sent Mary Hibbert to an
agonising death. When his prisoner tried to punch him, Jonathan dodged the blow
and took the dagger from his belt. The point was held at Ben Froggatt's throat.
'Smeek
sent me,' he said.
'He'd
never do that. He's a friend.'
'Not
any more. Since we locked him up in gaol, he doesn't feel quite so loyal towards
you any more. Smeek says that you murdered that girl all on your own.'
'That's
a lie! He was there as well.'
'But
you did the damage.'
When
the dagger pricked his throat, Froggatt drew back. 'Who
are
you?' he
hissed.
'I'm
the man who arrested Smeek,' said Jonathan. 'I think it's high time that you
joined him, don't you?'
The
pangs of hunger were too strong to resist. Henry Redmayne was famished. Having
feigned sleep in the hope that his father would leave, he realised that he
could not dislodge the Dean of Gloucester so easily. There was something
intimidating about the old man's presence. It was not merely the odour of
sanctity which he gave off, nor even the sort of oppressive piety with which he
filled the room.
Algernon
Redmayne was sitting in judgement, poised to pass sentence on his wayward son.
It was unnerving. Henry had no right of appeal.
Relations
with his father had always been strained. Less than dutiful, Henry was also
more than disloyal at times. His epicurean life was a brash denial of all the
values that his father had inculcated in him. Though he had a comfortable
income from his sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed an allowance from
the Dean, a man of private wealth and generous disposition. Henry had abused
that generosity so many times that he was in danger of seeing it withdrawn. It
was a fate too hideous to contemplate. Living beyond his income, Henry needed
the money from the parental purse to fund his reckless expenditure.
The
pain in his stomach gradually overcoming his fear of the bedside judge, Henry
opened his eyes, blinked and pretended to be confused.
'Where
am I?' he asked.
'Back
with us again, my son,' said his father. 'How do you feel?'
'Hungry.'
'That
can only be a good sign.'
'I
haven't eaten a thing since the assault.'
'You
remember the incident?'
'Vaguely.'
'Good,
good. I long to hear the details.'
'They
seem very hazy at present, Father.' He looked around the bedchamber. 'Where's
Christopher?'
'He's
returned to his work on that new house. It's comforting to know that I have one
son who has gainful employment.'
'So
do I, sir. I have a position at the Navy Office.'
'Your
brother is forging a career, you merely occupy space. At least, that is what I
suspect. Christopher caused me many anxieties, I'll admit, but he does seem
finally to have found his true path in life. All the money I invested in his
education is paying off.' He bent over his elder son like a swan about to peck
an errant cygnet. 'But what of you, Henry? Oh dear, sir. What of you?'
'I
need some food, Father.'
'I'm
talking about spiritual nourishment,' said the other sternly. 'This house seems
singularly devoid of it. There is the unmistakable whiff of sin in the air. You
have strayed, Henry.'
'Once
or twice perhaps.'
'Dissipation
is writ large upon this building. It is the house of a voluptuary, sir. A
hedonist. An unashamed sensualist.'
'Oh,
I writhe with shame, Father. I assure you.'
'This
is not a suitable environment for a son of the Dean of Gloucester. Too many
temptations lie at hand for an idle man. Illicit pleasures beckon. I shudder at
the thought that I might actually be paying for some of them.'
'No,
no, that's not true at all.'
'Then
where does that allowance go?' pressed the old man. 'On gaudy clothes and
expensive periwigs? On wine and brandy? On some of those irreligious paintings
I see hanging on your wall?'
Algernon
Redmayne hit his stride. As his father's rebuke turned into a stinging homily,
Henry could do nothing but lie there defenceless. In mind as well as body, he
was suffering. He resorted to the only thing left to him. Against all hope, his
prayer was answered. After knocking on the door, a servant entered with a
potion for him.
'The
physician said that you were to take this sleeping draught, Mr Redmayne.'
'Yes,
yes!' agreed Henry willingly.
'But
I wish to talk to you,' said his father testily. 'I want to hear the full story
of your assault.'
'The
physician was most insistent,' argued the servant.
'There's
no hurry for the medicine.'
'There
is, Father,' said Henry, making a mental note to reward his servant for his
kind intervention. 'We must obey his wishes.'
He
took the tiny vessel from the man and lifted it to his mouth. Within seconds,
his eyes began to close and his body to sag. The Dean of Gloucester finally
gave up. Leaving instructions with the servant, he gave his son one last look
of disappointment then left the room. Henry came awake at once. Spitting out
the potion into a cup beside the bed, he panted with relief then issued a
command.
'Bring
me food at once!' he urged. 'And some wine!'
William
D'Avenant stood in the middle of the pit at The Duke's Playhouse and surveyed
the stage like a triumphant general looking proudly out across conquered land.
He was a striking figure in dark attire, a wrinkled wizard of the theatre, a
living link between the world of Shakespeare, his godfather, if not his actual
parent, and the witty, vibrant, stylish and often shocking fare of the
Restoration. Seeing the manager in his natural milieu, Christopher Redmayne
could not fail to be impressed. D'Avenant was less impressed with his
unannounced visitor. He spun round to confront the newcomer with a frown of
disapproval.
'What
are
you
doing here, Mr Redmayne?' he demanded.
'I
came to see you, Sir William. Since you've barred me from your home, your
playhouse was the only place I could try.'
'A
pointless journey. Our debate on theatre architecture is at an end. I've
nothing to add on that or on any other subject.'
'I
wanted to talk about a play.'
'The
performance was over hours ago.'
'There's
only one actor I'm interested in,' said Christopher, 'and I'm sure he's known
to you. Mr Martin Eldridge.'
'Eldridge?'
repeated the other, covering his surprise well. 'What dealings do you hope to
have with him?'
'That's
a matter between the two of us. I understand that he was once a member of your
company.'
'Not
any more.'
'I
suspect he has ambitions of rejoining the fold.'
'Does
he?'
'Yes,
Sir William. When I was at his lodging earlier, I happened to notice a copy of
Shakespeare's
Othello
on his table. That's the play I'm here to talk
about. Why would an actor read it unless to work up some speeches from the
drama? And why do that if not to win his way back into your favour?'
'You're
a perceptive man, Mr Redmayne.'
'Mr
Eldridge's hopes must centre on this playhouse because you have a monopoly on
the work of Shakespeare.'
'I
adapt it with distinction to suit the tastes of the day.'
'Will
you take on a new actor for the performance of
Othello
?'
'Possibly.
Possibly not.'
'You
doubt his ability?'
'No,'
said D'Avenant. 'Martin is an able actor. At least, he was when I was shaping
his career. Who knows what damage that blundering fool, Tom Killigrew, has done
to his talent? Martin's art may be beyond repair.' He studied Christopher
shrewdly for a full minute before offering an unexpected concession. 'Linger a
while and you may judge for yourself.'
'Why?'
'Because,
as luck will have it, he is on his way here this evening. It's the only time
when the playhouse is empty enough for me to hear him, and I no longer care to
turn my home into a theatre. That's why you see all these candles lit, Mr
Redmayne,' he said with an expansive gesture. 'They are here to shed light on
the talent of Martin Eldridge.'
'You
may be disappointed, Sir William.'
'More
than likely.'
'No,'
explained Christopher, 'not in the quality of his performance, because you're
unlikely to see it. Mr Eldridge will not even turn up.'
'We
made an appointment. It must be honoured.'
'He's
on the run and has most likely gone to ground.'
'On
the run? From whom?'
'Me,
Sir William.'
'What's
his offence?'
'I'm not
sure until I can question him.'
D'Avenant
was peremptory. 'Well, you'll not do that until
I've
heard him give his account of Iago,' he insisted, tossing his white hair with a
flick of his head. 'Interrupt that and I'll have you thrown out.'