The Amorous Nightingale

    The man ignored her. Harriet tried hard to assert herself.

    'You can't do this to me!' she protested with as much dignity as she could muster. 'Do you know who I am? What I am?'

    'Oh, yes,' said the man with a throaty chuckle. 'We know.'

    The dialogue took her up the staircase and along the landing. They were marching her back to her room. The change of accommodation was welcome but her relief was tinged with apprehension. Mary Hibbert's fate took precedence over her own immediate comfort. Harriet continued to ask about her until the door of the bedchamber was opened and she was pushed into it. Turning to continue her pleas, she found the door shut firmly in her face. At least she had been rescued from the cellar. What had prompted that? She could not believe that her captors had taken pity on her. Both of them - the man and the woman - had been consistently brusque with her. They spoke only to give her commands and they had no compunction about laying violent hands on her.

    Evidently, they were acting on orders - but who was giving them? Was there someone else in the house, supervising her imprisonment and controlling any punishment she needed to suffer? Her two captors wore masks to avoid being recognised. Did that mean she had seen them before, or were they merely concealing their identity as a precaution against being picked out by her at a later date? And what of their master? Why did he not put in an appearance, if only to taunt her? What made him keep so carefully out of the way?

    Harriet asked the same burning questions over and over again until she at last noticed something. Changes had been made to the room. Strips of wood had been nailed across the window, obscuring some of the light and making it impossible to open. Most of the furniture had been removed, leaving her with no option but to use the bed or the floor if she wished to sit down. Her comforts had been dramatically reduced. It was the sight of the bed that really harrowed her. Not only had it been stripped of all its linen to ensure that she could create no makeshift rope for another escape attempt, it had acquired a tiny object that glinted in the early morning light.

    She was transfixed. The brooch that lay in the middle of the bed was the keepsake she had given to Mary Hibbert just before the girl had lowered herself into the garden. It was more than a reward for her bravery. It was a sign of her mistress's affection and gratitude. To have it brought back could mean only one thing: Mary had been caught. She would have no need of the brooch now. Rushing to the bed, Harriet snatched it up and held it to her bosom then she swung round to run across to the door. Beating on it with both fists, she yelled as loudly as she could and without any fear of the consequences.

    'What have you done with Mary? Where is she?'

    Christopher Redmayne was up at daybreak, refusing the breakfast that Jacob had prepared for him and ignoring his servant's admonitions as he headed for the stable. Cocks were still crowing with competitive zeal as he rode off down Fetter Lane. Henry's condition was his primary concern and he made for the house in Bedford Street at a canter, swerving his horse through the oncoming carts, waggons and pedestrians who were already streaming towards the city's markets. In the year since the Great Fire had devastated the capital, London had regained much of its old zest and character. There was a communal sense of resilience in the air.

    When he reached his destination, Christopher found that his brother was now sleeping soundly after a disturbed night. He tiptoed into the bedchamber to look at Henry but forbore to wake him. Pleased to hear that the physician was due to call again that morning, he promised to return later himself then set off for the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the- Fields. The short ride brought him to a scene of almost ear- splitting activity. Picks, shovels and other implements were being used with force, more building materials were arriving to be unloaded and stacked, horses were neighing, a dog was barking as it darted playfully between the piles of bricks and timber, workmen were cursing each other roundly and Lodowick Corrigan was in the middle of it all, bellowing above the tumult and pointing a peremptory finger.

    Christopher took careful stock of what had so far been done. Even in a day, they had made perceptible progress, marking out the perimeter of the house and digging most of the foundations. He waited until the builder ambled across to him.

    'I thought we'd seen the last of you, sir,' said Corrigan tartly.

    'No, I'll be here from time to time.'

    'You should stay all day, Mr Redmayne. If you did that, you might learn something.'

    'About what?'

    'How a house gets built.'

    'But I already know,' said Christopher, icily pleasant. 'You find a talented architect to design it and an agreeable builder to put it up. All that they have to do is to trust each other.'

    'That's what it comes down to in the end. Trust.'

    'What do you trust in, Mr Corrigan?'

    'My long experience.'

    'Of disobeying the instructions of an architect?'

    'When I started in this trade,' sneered the other, 'there weren't quite so many of your profession, sir. Master-builders were the order of the day - men like my father who did everything themselves. My father could design, construct and decorate a property entirely on his own.'

    'Those days have gone.'

    'They're sorely missed.'

    Christopher did not rise to the bait of his implication. Instead, he tried to make use of the other's much vaunted experience. After discussing what would be done on site that day, he surprised his companion by resorting to some mild flattery.

    'You know your trade, Mr Corrigan,' he said. 'I took the trouble to look at some of the houses you've put up in the city. Soundly built, every one of them. They're a credit to you.'

    'Why, thank you, Mr Redmayne.'

    'And a credit to the architect who designed them, of course.'

    'They were all amenable men,' said Corrigan.

    'Amenable?'

    'To my suggestions.'

    'Nobody is more amenable than I. Any suggestion of yours is always welcome. The problem is that I've not heard one yet that I thought worth taking seriously.'

    'That's because your head's still in the clouds, sir.'

    'Oh?' 'You're a true artist. All that concerns you is your reputation.'

    'Naturally.'

    'Other architects had a sharper eye for the possibilities.'

    'Of what, Mr Corrigan?'

    'Profit. Gain. Advancement,' said the builder slyly. 'Take your insistence on the use of Caen stone. It'll be expensive to buy and difficult to transport. The quarry in which I have a stake could provide stone that's similar in type and colour but costs half the price. Mr Hartwell doesn't know that, of course. Persuade him to change his mind about the portico and you could pocket the difference between the Caen stone and the kind I supply.'

    'What's in it for you?'

    'The pleasure of teaching a young man the ways of the world.'

    'The ways of your world, Mr Corrigan. Mine is very different. It includes quaint concepts like honesty, fair dealing and mutual confidence. Proffer any more lessons in cheating a client,' he warned, 'and I'll be forced to report the conversation to Mr Hartwell.' The builder's smirk vanished at once. 'Now, give me some advice that I can use.'

    'I don't follow,' said the other resentfully.

    'Have you ever built a house in the vicinity of St James's Palace?'

    'Two in Berry Street and one in Piccadilly.'

    'What interests me are some properties in Rider Street.'