The Amorous Nightingale

    Christopher appreciated the offer of help though he was not quite sure how best to employ it. The coachman's strength might certainly be an asset, especially as Christopher did not have the reassuring bulk of Jonathan Bale alongside him. Yet the sheer physical power of Roland Trigg could also be a handicap if used in the spirit of vengeance. During their earlier meeting, the coachman had made his feelings about the kidnappers quite plain. Murder had danced in his eyes. Christopher did not wish to be party to acts of random homicide.

    'How are you now?' he asked, considerately.

    'Hurt and upset, sir.'

    'I was referring to your wounds. You were still somewhat dazed when we spoke at the Palace. You had difficulty collecting your thoughts.'

    'Not any more.'

    'Does that mean you've had time to think things over?'

    'I've been doing nothing else, Mr Redmayne.'

    'And?'

    'I believe I know who might be behind all this.'

    'You gave us a few possible names earlier.'

    'I forgot the most obvious one.'

    'And who's that?'

    'Mr Bartholomew, sir.'

    'Bartholomew?'

    'Yes,' said the other with conviction. 'Bartholomew Gow. If you ask me, he's more than up to a trick like this. That's who you should be looking for, sir. Mrs Gow's husband.'

    Sarah Bale had long ago learned to read her husband's moods. It enabled her to offer succour when it was needed, advice when it was welcome and understanding when it was appropriate. Jonathan wanted none of these things now. Having retreated into a reflective silence, he was temporarily beyond her reach. His wife respected his mood. When her work was finally done, she adjourned to the parlour to sit with her husband and to mend a pair of Richard's breeches by the light of the candle. Her needle was slow and unhurried. Though she was eager to hear what had passed between Christopher

    Redmayne and him, she did not dare to raise the subject with Jonathan while he was preoccupied.

    It was a long time before he even became aware of her presence.

    'Have you finished your work?' he said, looking up.

    'It's never entirely finished, I'm afraid.'

    'But you're done in the kitchen.'

    'For today, yes.'

    'Good.'

    'Did you want anything?'

    'No thank you, Sarah.'

    'Some cheese, perhaps? We've plenty in the larder.'

    'Nothing, my love.'

    There was a lengthy pause. Feeling that he owed her some kind of explanation, he struggled to find the right words. Sarah waited patiently. He cleared his throat before speaking.

    'Mr Redmayne came on private business,' he said.

    'I see.'

    'He wanted me to help him with something but…' He gave a shrug. 'But I had to refuse. It was a question of conscience, Sarah. I simply couldn't bring myself to do what he was asking. It offended me. I know that Mr Redmayne thought it strange, even perverse. By his standards, it probably is. But I can only act as my conscience dictates.'

    'That's what you've always done, Jonathan.'

    'I had to speak my mind.'

    'Is that why Mr Redmayne left so abruptly?' she probed, gently. He gave a nod. 'Do you want to tell me any more about it?' He shook his head. 'Another time, then. There's no hurry. I can see that it's shaken you somewhat.'

    'It has, Sarah. I hated having to turn him away. Mr Redmayne is a good man at heart. It wasn't him I was rejecting.'

    'I'm glad to hear that.'

    'There was nothing else I could do.'

    Sarah could sense the doubts that were troubling him, the second thoughts that were making him broach the subject in order to justify himself. She was fond of Christopher Redmayne. On the few occasions when they had met, he had been unfailingly polite to her, showing a genuine interest in her children and wanting to befriend them. It pained her that he had stalked out of her home in such disappointment. She hoped that she had not witnessed his last ever visit to their home.

    Jonathan felt able to confide his anxiety for the first time.

    'I hope I did the right thing.'

    'Only time will tell.'

    'He shouldn't have asked me.'

    'No, Jonathan.'

    'It was unfair. It's not my problem.'

    But it clearly was now. Sarah did not ask for detail. Some of it was etched into her husband's brow. For reasons best known to himself, he refused to take on an assignment that involved Christopher Redmayne. It was not the end of the matter, Sarah knew that. Recrimination had set in. Jonathan would torment himself for hours. Whatever he had discussed with his visitor had affected him at a deep level.

    In a vain attempt to cheer him up, Sarah starting talking about their neighbours, offering him snippets of gossip that she had picked up during the day. Jonathan was only half- listening. The most he offered by way of response was a tired smile. Even an account of the wilder antics of some of the denizens of Baynard's Castle Ward could not stop him from brooding. He was still miles away.

    The banging noise brought him out of his brown study. Someone was pounding on the front door. Sarah reached for the candle and made to rise from her chair but he put out a hand to stop her.

    'I'll go, my love.'

    'Who can it be at this hour?'

    'Someone who wishes to be heard,' he said as the banging was repeated. 'He'll wake the neigbours, if he goes on like that.'

    'Is it Mr Redmayne again?' she wondered.

    'It had better not be.'

    Jonathan used the candle to guide his way to the front door. As soon as he started to pull back the bolts, the thumping stopped. He opened the door and found himself looking at a small, almost frail figure, silhouetted against the moonlight.

    'Mr Bale?' asked a querulous voice.

    'Yes,' said Jonathan, holding the flame closer to the face of the youth who was trembling at his threshhold. 'What do you want?'

    'Don't you recognise me?'

    'Why, yes, I do now. It's young Peter, isn't it? Peter Hibbert.'

    'That's right, Mr Bale. Mary's brother.'

    'You're shaking,' noted Jonathan. 'What's wrong?'

    'Something terrible's happened.'

    It took two large glasses of brandy to convert Henry's gibberish into intelligible English. Arriving wild-eyed and incoherent at the house in Fetter Lane, he had to be calmed and cosseted before his brother could get any sense out of him. Christopher had only just waved off Roland Trigg before his brother appeared on his doorstep. He and Henry now sat either side of the table with the bottle of brandy between them as their interlocutor. Henry succumbed to another upsurge of self- pity.

    'Never, never do that to me again, Christopher!' he said.

    'Do what?'

    'Subject me to that kind of embarrassment.'

    'What are you talking about?'

    'That old fox, Tom Killigrew. It will take a far better huntsman than Henry Redmayne to run him to ground. He gave me the slip time and time again.'

    'Did you learn anything useful?' asked Christopher.

    'Several things.'

    'Such as?'

    'That I must have been demented to imagine I could coax any information out of Tom Killigrew without arousing his suspicions. I was hopelessly out of my depth.' 'Don't tell me that you gave the game away!'

    'Almost.'

    'That's the last thing you must do, Henry.'

    'I know, but I couldn't help myself. What saved me was the fact that he was already aware of what I went there to tell him.'