The Amorous Nightingale

    'It's only a suggestion, sir, but I think we should at least consider it.'

    There was a long silence. Jonathan was slightly embarrassed by what he was about to say and needed time to work up to it. He prefaced his remarks with a sincere apology.

    'If I malign the lady, I'm deeply sorry because I don't intend to cast aspersions on her. But when I think of that fine house, one suspicion does cross my mind.'

    'Some anonymous benefactor maintains her in it?'

    'That, too, is possible,' he conceded. 'From what you tell me, there seem to be a number of "benefactors" in Mrs Gow's life. We're on our way to meet one of them now, and others lurk on every side. Mrs Gow doesn't seem unduly concerned about her marital vows.'

    'So what's your suspicion?'

    'A fleeting thought, no more.'

    'Well?'

    'Could it be that Mrs Gow was not really abducted at all, sir?'

    'Of course she was!'

    'I wonder.'

    'You heard the coachman.'

    'Oh, Mr Trigg believes that she was kidnapped. He bears the bruises to prove it. But what if the lady devised the whole scheme herself? What if she sacrificed her coachman to achieve her end?'

    'And that is?'

    'To secure money, sir. Money to sustain her in the style that she prefers. We only know of the ransom note to His Majesty. Suppose that some of her other "benefactors" have received demands for lesser amounts? If only a few of them were frightened into paying, Mrs Gow would make a handsome profit on the scheme.' He sensed Christopher's disapproval. 'I know it's unjust to hold someone I've never met in such low esteem, but she wouldn't be the first woman to attempt such a cunning trick.'

    'You're forgetting two things, Mr Bale.'

    'Am I?'

    'It's not just Harriet Gow's disappearance that we investigate. There's your erstwhile friend, Mary Hibbert, as well. Unless you think that she's in on this conspiracy?'

    'No, sir. I'd absolve her of any duplicity.'

    'Then why was she snatched from the house?'

    'Can we be sure that she was, sir?'

    'Roland Trigg had no doubts.'

    'I have a few about him.'

    'Then there was Peter Hibbert.'

    'He was a frightened boy, thrown into a panic. I can see how it must have looked to Peter and to Mr Trigg, but the open door of a house is not conclusive evidence of a kidnap.'

    'Granted. But it's part of a distinct pattern.'

    'Is it?'

    'You remarked a moment ago how grand the house was. Would anyone be careless enough to leave such a property unlocked and at the mercy of any passer-by?'

    'No, Mr Redmayne.'

    'The other factor you overlook concerns my brother.'

    'I knew nothing of his plight when I first had these thoughts.'

    'Well, you do now, so ask yourself a question. If this is all a game concocted by a grasping woman to squeeze money out of her lovers, why does she need to have a blameless individual like Henry battered to the ground?' Anger showed through. 'Another trick to convince us? That would be taking verisimilitude too far!'

    'My suspicions are obviously unfounded.'

    'I think they are, Mr Bale.'

    'Pretend I never put them into words.'

    'Very well. They annoy me greatly.'

    'The truth is that I've never encountered a lady like Mrs Gow before, sir. You can guess at my views on the theatre. I revile it, hence I'm bound to have prejudices against anyone who works in such a place. Unjust ones, I daresay, but nonetheless real.'

    'You were right to tell me.'

    'I withdraw all that I said.'

    'No need.'

    'I was too quick to think the worst of her.'

    'Harriet Gow is no saint,' Christopher admitted with a sigh. 'That's what makes this case so baffling. Most people are content to find one person to love them. Mrs Gow obviously enjoys having several admirers at her feet. In fact, the more we delve into her private life, the greater their number seems to be. Without knowing it, Mr Hartwell may have coined the perfect name for her.'

    'Mr Hartwell, sir?'

    'Jasper Hartwell,' explained Christopher. 'The man for whom I've designed a house. If only I had the time to watch it being built! He, too, has more than a passing interest in Harriet Gow and his description may turn out to be the most apt.'

    'What was it?'

    'He called her a nightingale.'

    'A nightingale?'

    'An amorous nightingale.'

    Harriet Gow had never felt less amorous in her entire life. Locked in a dark cellar, deprived of the comforts she had enjoyed before, shorn of the company of the one person who had restored her spirits, she was now quite desolate. Uncertainty about Mary Hibbert continued to plague her. The later it got, the more fearsome her imaginings. Recriminations scalded their way through her mind. It was too long a time. If Mary had managed to get away to raise the alarm, help would surely have arrived by now. But none came. None might ever come. Wrapping her arms tightly around her body, she sat in the chair and wondered who could be inflicting such torture on her and to what end.

    Did someone really hate her so much? Who could it be? As she addressed herself to the problem yet again, the same names flitted past. The men who bore them might have cause to resent her, but would they subject her to such pain and indignity? Harriet could not accept it. Accustomed to being loved and desired, she could not believe that anyone could detest her enough to abduct and imprison her. what was the next stage in her humiliation? How soon would it come?

    In a vain attempt to cheer herself up, she tried to concentrate on happier times, on the charmed life she led, on her status as Harriet Gow, actress and singer, on her recurring triumphs in the theatre and her effortless conquests outside it, on her reputation. She was the mistress of a King, his unsurpassed favourite. She was at the height of her powers in the theatre. Such memories only served to throw her present situation into relief. Instead of lying in the luxury of the royal bed, she was sharing a cellar with the stink of damp and the scrabbling of a rat. Had she risen so high to be hurled down so low?

    Snatching at her memories, she clung to the moment when she had been feted as Aspatia, the forlorn lover in The Maid's Tragedy. The thunderous applause still echoed in her ears. She had won the hearts of her audience. Her plaintive lament had ensnared a King and enchanted scores of other men. Yet her beautiful voice was meaningless now. This was something which brought the most anguish. Harriet Gow, the theatre's own nightingale, had a horrid fear that she would never be able to sing again.

    William Chiffinch's lodging was close to the Privy Stairs, the usual mode of access for ladies on clandestine excursions to the Palace. Meeting them as they alighted from their boat, Chiffinch could conduct them discreetly into the building and along to His Majesty's apartments, next to which his own were conveniently set. Speed of entry and secrecy of movement were assured. When opportunity presented itself, Chiffinch was not above making use of the route for his own purposes. A man so dedicated to the King was bound to ape him in some ways.

    He was not lurking near the Privy Stairs now. When the coach at last arrived, he intercepted it at the Palace Gate and took charge of its occupants. Accompanied by two servants with torches, the three men walked past the Banqueting Hall and briskly on towards the Chapel. Unhappy at being back on what he felt was polluted ground, Jonathan maintained a sullen silence. He left it to Christopher to tender their joint apologies.