'Alas,
yes,' said the other sadly. 'My aunt sent me a note, imploring me to call. This
is the first opportunity I've had to do so. My life has changed so much since I
moved away from this ward. I am so busy these days - I have almost no free
time. It means that some of my relatives have been rather neglected.' She gave
a shrug. 'There is no help for it, I fear. I live in a different world now, Mr
Bale.'
'So I
understand.'
'I
think that you criticise me for it.'
'It is
not my place to pass judgement on you, Miss Hibbert.'
'Yet
I can hear the disapproval in your voice.'
'It
has no right to be there,' he apologised. 'Forgive me.'
Jonathan
had always liked the Hibbert family. Daniel Hibbert was a skilful tailor, a
small, anxious man who worked hard to support his wife and two children. The
constable was sad to lose them when they moved from Carter Lane and distressed
to hear that Daniel and his wife had been two of the first victims of the Great
Plague. Mary, their elder child, had been in domestic service at the time. She
was a kind, polite, obedient girl with attractive features. Jonathan recalled
how hurt he had been to learn that she was now in the employ of Harriet Gow, an
actress of such notorious reputation that even a God-fearing constable had
heard of her. Looking at her now, he realised that he should not blame Mary
herself. That would be quite unfair. She was one more victim of the Great
Plague. Lacking the parents to guide her, she had gone astray.
Mary
Hibbert seemed to read his thoughts. She shrugged again.
'It
is only to be expected, I suppose,' she said.
'What
is?'
'Your
attitude, Mr Bale. My aunt is the same, except that she is more outspoken. She
told me to my face that I had made a terrible mistake. But a girl has to take
the chances that fall to her,' she added with spirit, 'and I do not regret
having chosen the path that lay before me. It has opened my eyes to amazing new
wonders.'
'I'm
sure that it has,' said Jonathan evenly, 'though I suspect that your aunt and I
might not describe them as wonders. That is not to condemn you. It is only
natural that a young woman such as yourself is impressed by being able to wear
fine clothes and travel in a carriage, but what price do you have to pay for
such an experience?'
'What
price?'
'Yes.
What losses are involved? What dangers threaten?'
'Oh,
there's no danger, Mr Bale, I do assure you. Our coachman takes great care of
us. He is our protector. And nobody, in any case, would dare to hurt Miss Gow.
When I am with her, I am completely safe. Have no fears for me, sir.'
'It
is not physical danger that I speak of, Miss Hibbert.'
'Then
what?'
'Moral
danger.'
She
gave a smile. 'You sound like my aunt.'
'Someone
has to look out for you,' he said with concern. 'Since your parents died, that
role falls to your relatives and to your friends.'
'But
I can look out for myself.'
'That's
a matter of opinion.'
'I
respect yours, Mr Bale, but I'm afraid that I may have gone beyond the point
when it has any relevance to me. My aunt told me bluntly that I have sold my
soul to the devil when all I have done is to become maidservant to a talented
actress.'
'Your
aunt shares my distrust of the theatre.'
'Have
you ever
seen
a play, Mr Bale?'
'Heaven
forbid!'
'Have
you been inside a playhouse?'
'I
would not demean myself by doing so.'
'On
what evidence, then, do you pour scorn on the theatre?'
'I have
seen those who frequent such places, Miss Hibbert, and that is enough for me.
During the Commonwealth, theatres were closed by law and the city was the
better for it. There were standards of public behaviour. But now! All that is
past. The drunken and the debauched flock to such places of resort. Women of
the street parade their wares shamefully. Theatres are in a state of constant
affray. They are sinks of iniquity and it pains me that you are associated with
them.'
'It
has done me no harm, I promise you.'
'It
is bound to take its toll. However,' he said, making a conscious effort to
sound more positive, 'the decision has been made and it is not for me to take
you to task. I wish you well, Miss Hibbert. You deserve whatever success comes
your way. To ride in a fine coach is a measure of success, I have to admit
that. When you waved to us in Drury Lane some weeks ago, it crossed my mind
that you had come a long way since your days of' living here. Many would
account you very fortunate.'
'I do
so myself, Mr Bale.'
'Then
let us hope that good fortune continues,' he said, putting aside his
reservations about her employer. 'Your aunt has a sharp tongue but she loves
you dearly. Words spoken to wound you are well meant. Remember that. Mrs Hibbert
has your best interests at heart.'
'What
she conceives of to be my best interests.'
'Exactly.'
Jonathan
managed a first smile. It was wrong to criticise Mary Hibbert for things over
which she had no control. The corrupt theatrical world into which she had
wandered seemed to have caused her little visible damage. To his eye, she still
had the same friendly manner, the same unforced honesty and the same
fresh-faced eagerness. Jonathan felt guilty at some of the doubts he harboured
about her. Her parents would have been proud of Mary Hibbert.
'Goodbye,'
he said, offering a friendly palm.
She
shook his hand. 'Goodbye, Mr Bale.'
They
parted company and he headed for home, ready for the meal which his wife,
Sarah, would be preparing for him and having lots of gossip to pass on to her.
Sarah would be interested to hear about the meeting with Mary Hibbert. As he
plodded along the street, he rehearsed what he was going to say, noting with
pleasure that his fondness for the girl had gradually subdued his apprehensions
about her. Mary Hibbert's essential goodness would be proof against the
temptation all around her. Jonathan was glad that the chance encounter had
taken place.
It
never occurred to him that he might not see her alive again.
Wine
did nothing to improve Lodowick Corrigan. He sipped the contents of his glass
slowly and deliberately, studying his companions through narrowed lids and
nodding his agreement with all that they proposed or suggested. Jasper Hartwell
drank freely, giggled incessantly and became ever more flamboyant in his
gestures. Christopher, too, enjoyed the wine but he was very conscious that it
was only making the builder more deferential. What worried him was that the
deference was only on the surface. Corrigan's body might fawn obligingly and
his tongue might release the odd word of ingratiation but his eyes were cold
and watchful. When their employer was not present, Christopher suspected, then
a very different Lodowick Corrigan might emerge.
Christopher
tried to coax him out of hiding.
'What
is your view of the site, Mr Corrigan?' he asked.
'It
is well chosen, sir,' replied the builder.
'The
best that money could buy,' added Hartwell, tapping his purse. 'Nothing less
than perfection will satisfy me.'
'Why
does the site recommend itself to you, Mr Corrigan?' said Christopher, pressing
him for an answer. 'Give us a comment from the builder's point of view.'
'The
builder merely obeys orders, Mr Redmayne. In this case, the orders are
remarkably easy to obey because Mr Hartwell has chosen a prime site on which to
set his house. It will be a privilege to work with him and, of course, with a
rising young architect like yourself.'
Hartwell
beamed. 'I knew that you would get on with each other,' he said, draining his
glass. 'I sensed it in my bones.'
Christopher's
bones were delivering a contradictory message. He was finding the builder both
irritating and evasive. Behind his show of agreement, he caught worrying
indications of the man's quiet conviction that, as the oldest and most
experienced person involved in the project, he would have the power of
decision. Far from obeying employer and architect, Lodowick Corrigan was
lurking in readiness to frustrate and subvert them. He had firm ideas about how
a house should be built.
Just
before they departed, the builder finally showed his hand.
'There
is only one thing that concerns me, Mr Redmayne,' he said casually. 'With
respect to your position as the architect, I felt that I must raise the matter
at this early stage.'
'And
what matter is that?' wondered Christopher.
'The
use of Caen stone.'
'It's
what I recommend for the portico.'
'I know
that, Mr Redmayne, but you were ignorant of the problems of supply when you
made such a suggestion.'
'It's
no suggestion, Mr Corrigan. It's a specification.'
'You
might have to change your mind about that, sir.'
'Why?'
said Hartwell. 'I liked the notion of Caen stone.'
'So
do I,' insisted Christopher. 'I spent several weeks in Canterbury earlier in
the year. Caen stone is used in abundance there, both in the ecclesiastical
buildings and elsewhere. It is a clean, clear, well-defined stone. I noticed
how easy it could be worked with chisel and hammer.'
'Other
stone is even easier to work,' argued Corrigan. 'And it is more readily
available here in London. I have shares in a stone quarry so I speak with
authority here. If it were left to me…'
'But
it is not.'
'Yet
if it were…'
'If
it were,' echoed Christopher, 'there would be no argument. You would have the
stone of your choice and that would be an end to it. But that is not the case,
Mr Corrigan, is it?' He paused meaningfully. 'As it happens, Mr Hartwell
appreciates the virtues of Caen stone. On my advice, he wishes to have it
incorporated into the facade of the house. I am confident that we will find a
more than adequate supply of the material. Indeed, while I was there, I seized
the opportunity to speak to one of the stonemasons in Canterbury to make sure
that there were no difficulties with regard to delivery.'
Corrigan
fumed in silence. He had lost the first of what would be many battles with the
architect. With his employer present, he did not risk a second engagement but
Christopher knew further hostilities would transpire in due course. The man
wanted his revenge. Emptying his glass in one peremptory gulp, he glared at
Christopher.
'How
many houses have you designed? he asked pointedly.
'Several.'
'I'm
not familiar with your work.'
'Nor
I with yours, Mr Corrigan.'
'Walk
down any of the major thoroughfares of London and you will see the work of
Lodowick Corrigan. I am in great demand.'
'That
is why I sought you out,' said Hartwell, adjusting his wig in a mirror. 'I
wanted a builder without compare. Matched with an architect whose name will
dance down the ages.'
Corrigan
was sour. 'An architect is only as good as his builder.'
'Granted,'
said Christopher. 'By the same token, a builder is only as good as his
architect. If he is able to take direction, that is.'
'Oh,
Mr Corrigan will take direction,' Hartwell assured him. 'They tell me he's the
most obliging fellow in Creation. You'll have no cause for complaint, Mr
Redmayne.'
'I'm
pleased to hear it.'
'Lodowick
Corrigan will hang on your every word.'
'Will
he?'
It
was a rhetorical question but the builder nevertheless answered it. The face
which had for so long worn an obsequious smirk now became one large black
scowl. The mouth hardened, the teeth clenched and the eyes smouldered like hot
coals. Christopher Redmayne had been looking forward to the building of the
house for Jasper Hartwell. It had seemed a wonderful assignment in every way.
Until now. Much of the pleasure had suddenly drained out of the enterprise. In
choosing Lodowick Corrigan as his builder, Hartwell had unwittingly confronted
his architect with a major and perhaps insurmountable problem. The two men were
natural enemies. As he looked into the angry face of his visitor, Christopher
was left to wonder how much of the house he had designed would actually make
its way from the drawing to the site on which it was to be built.