The Amorous Nightingale

    'She is, indeed!' said Christopher with enthusiasm. 'No woman could be more worthy of your love.'

    'Or of the house I am having built. It would be a fitting place for such beauty and grace. She could fill it with song. Bring it to life. Enlarge it with purpose. Tell no one of this,' he said, slurring the words. 'Jasper Hartwell does not wear his heart on his sleeve. I am too much a slave to fashion for that. But you know the truth, my friend. I worship her.'

    'I can understand why.'

    Hartwell spread his arms wide in a gesture of submission.

    'I love Harriet Gow!' he confessed.

    Then his arms dropped, his eyes closed, his head lolled and his whole body hunched forward. Jasper Hartwell's face rested gently on the plate in front of him. Christopher found himself sitting opposite a vast mountain of ginger hair. From somewhere deep in its interior came a series of resolute snores. The meal was comprehensively over.

    The parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was one of the largest and most prosperous in London. Though not without its darker areas, it was, for the most part, distinguished by the luxurious residences of aristocrats, courtiers, gentry and their dependents, alongside the neat houses of respectable tradesmen and successful businessmen. Situated next to the Palace of Whitehall, the parish was the favoured address of ministers and civil servants alike. It had status and grandeur. In the church which gave it its name, it also had a magnificent edifice as its focal point.

    Christopher Redmayne took a moment to appraise the church. Built over a century earlier, it had survived civil war, plague and fire intact, serving its parishioners faithfully and acting as a magnet to ambitious clerics once they realised what financial rewards could be reaped by the occupation of its pulpit. The spacious church had seating for a congregation of four hundred but, on the single occasion that Christopher had attended a service there, he estimated that at least twice that number were crammed inside St Martin's. It was a centre for urgent Christianity or for those who felt the need to be seen at prayer.

    Critical of some Tudor architecture, Christopher had nothing but admiration for this example of it. The parish church of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was triumphantly what it set out to be - a solid, soaring paean of praise to the Almighty, rising above the community it inspired yet remaining essentially part of it, friendly, familiar, welcoming. Time had mildewed its stone and generations of birds had subtly altered its texture but it carried these signs of age lightly. Over eighty churches perished in the Great Fire. It was not only the parishioners of St Martin's-in-the- Fields who gave thanks that their church had been spared. Here was a symbol of hope. A beacon of renewal in the area of Westminster.

    When he had gazed his fill, Christopher nudged his horse forward. He was still suffering from the effects of the monstrous dinner. Having helped to carry Jasper Hartwell out to the latter's coach, he had walked back to Fetter Lane, collected his mount, given Jacob some idea of his movements then set off to examine once again the site of the new house. It was only a few minutes' ride from the church. Occupying a corner, the site ran to the best part of an acre and offered a series of interesting challenges to both architect and builder. Christopher believed that he had met those challenges with some flair. Fortunately, his client agreed with him. Reaching the plot of land, he dismounted in order to walk over every part of the site while it was still virgin territory. Before long, he mused, a splendid new house and garden would rise up to take their place among the exclusive residences all around them.

    Swelling with pride, Christopher was also assailed by doubts. It was one thing to create a series of remarkable drawings for a client but quite another to translate them into reality. Did he have the correct proportions, the ideal materials, the most suitable style? Had he made best use of the corner site? More to the point, could he control a difficult builder? Before he could even begin to answer the questions, he was diverted by the clatter of a horse's hooves and by a yell of brotherly rage.

    'Christopher! Damnation, man! Where have you been?'

    Henry Redmayne arrived at a canter, reined in his horse and leaped to the ground. Face perspiring beneath his wig, he lurched across to Christopher and pointed an accusing finger.

    'It has taken me an age to find you.'

    'I've not been hiding from you, Henry.'

    'When I called at your house, that lame-brained servant of yours told me that you were dining with Jasper Hartwell, though he had no idea where. It was maddening!'

    'Jacob is not lame-brained,' said Christopher loyally. 'He is the shrewdest servant I know. Do not blame him. When I left with my client, I had no idea where we were going.'

    'No!' wailed Henry. 'That meant I had to work my way through Jasper's favourite haunts one by one. By the time I finally reached the Dog and Partridge, the pair of you had left so I returned once more to Fetter Lane. The ancient fool who looks after you at least gave me some idea of where you might be, although he could not supply the exact location of the site. The net result is that I have been charging around Westminster in search of you and getting more flustered by the minute.'

    'Was it so important to find me?'

    'Important and imperative.'

    'Why?' asked the other. 'What has happened?'

    'I received a royal summons.'

    Christopher smiled. 'A promotion at last? A well-deserved reward for your years of service at the Navy Office? Ennoblement, even? Tell me, Henry - are congratulations in order?'

    'No!' growled his brother.

    'I am sorry to hear it.'

    'Though I should perhaps be congratulated on tracking you down. It has taken me hours and, as you see, vexed me beyond measure.'

    Henry's appearance bore out the description. He was panting with exasperation. His face was white with anger, his eyes bulging with resentment. The long, largely unproductive search had left him hot and dishevelled. His wig was awry and his hat clinging on at a perilous angle. The apparel over which he took such care was smudged and wrinkled. A self- appointed man of fashion was, for once, unkempt. It irked him.

    'Look at the state of me,' he complained.

    'It's hardly my fault.'

    'Of course it's your fault, Christopher! But for you, there would have been no urgency, no madcap ride around London.'

    'But you were the person who received the royal summons.'

    'I thought I was,' said Henry darkly.

    'What do you mean?'

    'I was not even ushered into His Majesty's presence. After sustaining a vicious wound at the hands of my barber, I went to the Palace in great haste, only to be met by Will Chiffinch.'

    'Chiffinch?'

    'Page of the Bedchamber.'

    'I thought I had heard the name before.'

    'Anyone who wishes to get close to His Majesty is acquainted with Will Chiffinch. He is far more than a Closet- Keeper. He is the King's friend and trusted confidant, his pimp, pander and procurer-general. Chiffinch is also employed on the most secret and delicate business such as raising money for the royal purse or supplying information of a highly sensitive nature.'

    'Then why did this Mr Chiffinch send for you?'

    'In order that I could be dispatched to find my brother.'

    Christopher was astonished. 'Me?'

    'How many brothers do I possess?'

    'But I have never even met this Will Chiffinch.'

    'He controls the door to His Majesty. That is what makes this all so humiliating. I am hauled off to the Palace to be told that the royal summons is really intended for you and that my sole contribution is to hunt you down at once. In short,' said Henry, stamping a peevish foot, 'I am reduced to the status of a servant, a messenger, an intercessory. Why not approach you directly? Why involve me at all?'