The Amorous Nightingale

    'It will work,' she promised.

    'Will it?'

    'It has to, Mrs Gow. Or we've no hope.'

    'Somebody may come for us.'

    'Who? Nobody even knows where we are.'

    Harriet Gow nodded sadly. It was true. Her kidnappers had been swift, efficient and merciless. They would have covered their tracks.

    Mary Hibbert held out her hands to her.

    'Give me your blessing,' she said. 'Please, Mrs Gow.'

    'I'll give you more than that,' replied the other, taking the brooch from her dress to hand it over. 'Have this as a keepsake, Mary. It may bring you luck.'

    She kissed the girl impulsively. Mary pinned the brooch to her own dress. The two of them were soon knotting the bedsheets together.

    Christopher Redmayne found time in a busy day to ride back to the site in order to assess progress. Neither Jasper Hartwell nor Lodowick Corrigan was there, though the bustling commitment with which the men were working suggested that the vigilant builder was not too far away. Satisfied that all was well, Christopher continued his round of calls before ending up in Fleet Street. It was early evening and he had arranged to meet up with Jonathan Bale outside the Lamb and Flag. A clock chimed, a distant bell boomed and the constable walked into view, arriving exactly on time.

    Christopher dismounted from his horse to trade a greeting.

    'What sort of a day have you had, Mr Bale?'

    'Tiring.'

    'Yet productive, I hope?'

    'To some degree. What of you, sir?'

    'Oh, I think I can claim to have made some headway. I've been looking more closely at some of the names on my brother's list. Sir William D'Avenant was the first.'

    'Is he implicated in any way?'

    'No, no, Mr Bale, I'm certain of that. But he taught me things about the theatrical way of life that shed much new light. It was well worth passing the time of day with him.'

    He told the constable about his visit to D'Avenant's home, Rutland House, and his subsequent calls on some of the actors identified by his brother as possible sources of information. Jonathan was a good listener, absorbing salient detail and requesting clarification from time to time. He could see how assiduous Christopher had been and that pleased him.

    When he finally paused, the architect pursed his lips in concentration.

    'I still believe we must look to the theatre,' he said at length. 'That was Harriet Gow's world and that's where the clues that may save her will probably lie.'

    'Then you must uncover them without me, sir,' warned the other. 'I'd be lost in that swamp. You and your brother must wade through it.'

    'That's what Henry's doing at this precise moment. Watching a performance at The Theatre Royal.'

    'The theatre!'

    'Yes, Mr Bale.'

    'I'm shocked to hear it.'

    'Why?'

    'Attending a play at a time like this!'

    'It's not only for the purposes of recreation,' Christopher pointed out. 'Henry can do valuable work simply by keeping his ears open. Each to his own. My brother wallows in his swamp, I interview some of the possible suspects and you pursue your own lines of enquiry.'

    'I try to, Mr Redmayne.'

    'What did you find out?'

    'That a certain coachman will never win prizes for civility.'

    'Ah, you met the redoubtable Mr Trigg, I see.'

    'He was a quarrelsome man, sir. I had to press him hard to get anything of value out of him. But it paid off eventually.'

    'What did he tell you?'

    Jonathan described the encounter and passed on the detailed account he had been given of the ambush. Christopher listened intently, noting slight variations from the earlier versions given by the coachman.

    'Would you employ a brute like that?' he asked.

    'No, sir.'

    'Why not?'

    'Because I wouldn't trust him.'

    'Mrs Gow appears to do so.'

    'He seemed to glory in that fact.' 'Where was he taking her when the coach was attacked?'

    'That was the one thing even I couldn't prise out of him, sir. Not for want of trying. It was like talking to a brick wall. What Mr Trigg did insist on was that they'd not been heading for the Palace of Westminster.'

    'I wonder.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'I had a second look at that map of mine, Mr Bale. It does seem odd that the coach would come into the Strand if it were going towards King Street, but there are other ways of reaching the Palace than by the obvious route.'

    'I don't follow, sir.'

    'The river. What better way to slip unnoticed into the royal apartments than by arriving in a boat? A woman could easily be smuggled inside to meet His Majesty.'

    'It still doesn't answer our objection, Mr Bale. Had the coachman been driving towards one of the wharves, he'd most likely have come into the Strand from Charing Cross.'

    'Not necessarily.'

    'I took a close look at that lane, sir. I found the exact spot where the ambush occurred. There's barely room for a coach to get through. Mr Trigg must have had a very good reason to choose that route.'

    'Do you have any idea what it might be?'

    'I could hazard a guess.'

    'Well?'

    'We're searching for a destination that doesn't exist, sir, whether it be the Palace or somewhere in the Strand. Put yourself in the position of the coachman. Only one thing could take you down that lane.'

    'What is it?'

    'Think hard.'

    Christopher snapped his fingers. 'The need to call at one of the houses there.'

    'Exactly.'

    'That's where Mrs Gow must have been going for her rendezvous. Instead of passing through the lane, they were planning to stop there. That raises the question of whom she was going to see.' Christopher thought hard.

    'Impossible to be sure.'

    'Quite so,' Christopher agreed.

    'But I did my best to find out,' said Jonathan, reaching into his pocket to take out a grubby piece of paper. 'I didn't want to draw attention to myself by knocking on doors so I went into the tavern at the top end of the lane - the Red Lion. The innkeeper was a talkative man. He gave me the names of some of the local people who frequent his tavern.' He handed the list to Christopher. 'I think you'll find the one at the top the most interesting.'

    'Why?'

    'See for yourself, Mr Redmayne.'

    Christopher looked at the shaky handwriting then gaped.

    'Bartholomew Gow!'

    Henry Redmayne stayed at the theatre long after the performance of The Maid's Tragedy ended. It had been only a qualified success. Incensed at the absence of Harriet Gow, some of the more obstreperous elements in the audience had stamped their feet in protest and barracked the actors. A few scuffles had broken out and Aspatia's first entrance went almost unnoticed. Abigail Saunders did not lose heart and her perseverance slowly won over the bulk of the spectators even though her tender pleas had to be delivered in a strident voice in order to be heard above the din. Much of the essence of the play survived and the company was given a rousing ovation at its conclusion.

    After carousing with his friends, Henry had to remind himself that he was there on serious business; he made his way to the dressing room bearing the gift he had already bought from a flower girl. He was one of a number of admirers who jostled their way towards Abigail Saunders but persistence and combative elbows soon got him close to the actress. He presented the basket of flowers to her with a flourish and was rewarded with a proffered hand. Henry lingered over his kiss.