The Amorous Nightingale

    'Where exactly does he live?' said Jonathan, glancing back down the lane. 'Do you know which house?'

    'No, sir, but it's towards the bottom. That's where the best lodgings are to be found and I told you he was a gentleman.'

    'Lodgings? He doesn't own the house, then?'

    'Oh, no. He had a room, that's all.'

    Jonathan squeezed every detail he could out of the man before thanking him for his help and moving off. When he got to the lower end of the lane, he began knocking on doors systematically in his search for Bartholomew Gow. The fourth house was owned by a big, fleshy woman in her thirties with a prominent bosom taking attention away from a podgy face that was pitted by smallpox. She opened the door with reluctance and was clearly displeased to see a constable standing there.

    'Good morning,' said Jonathan politely.

    She was wary. 'What can I do for you, sir?'

    'I'm looking for a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

    'Then you've come too late. He moved out.'

    'When?'

    'Week or so ago.'

    'But he did lodge here?'

    'Yes.'

    'What sort of man was he?'

    'The kind that pays his rent. That's all I cared about.' She gave him a basilisk stare then tried to close the front door.

    'Wait,' he said, putting out a hand to stop her. 'I need to ask you something. A couple of days ago, there was an incident right outside your door involving a coach. It scraped along the front of your house.' He pointed to the marks in the brickwork. 'Were you in the house at the time?'

    'No, sir.'

    'Was anyone else here? Anyone who might have heard the noise and rushed out to see what was going on?'

    'Nobody, sir.'

    'What of your neighbours? Did they see anything?'

    'I don't think so or they'd have told me.'

    'There must have been some witnesses.'

    'I wouldn't know,' she said sourly.

    Jonathan became aware that he was being watched from the upper room. It was the second time he had been under surveillance from that standpoint. When he stepped back to look up, he saw a figure move smartly away from the window.

    'Did Mr Gow have the room at the front?' he wondered.

    'Yes, sir.'

    'Who lodges there now?'

    'Another gentleman.'

    And she closed the door this time before he could stop her.

    'You've saved me a journey, Mr Redmayne. I was just about to come calling at your house in order to see you.'

    'Why?'

    'Because I wish to get to the bottom of this once and for all.'

    'What do you mean, Mr Killigrew?'

    'Something is afoot, sir,' said the manager waspishly. 'A worrying turn of events has occurred. First of all, I get a letter from Harriet Gow to say that she's temporarily indisposed. Then your brother, Henry, barges in here with the same news and does his best to pump me about the members of my company. Word somehow leaks out about her absence and I'm harried to death by her admirers, that moonstruck idiot, Jasper Hartwell, among them. Next minute, I find your brother peering over my shoulder while I'm taking a rehearsal then he springs the biggest surprise of all by turning up at my theatre, covered in blood.'

    'It was good of you to convey him back to his home, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher. 'That's one of the main reasons I called. To thank you for coming to Henry's aid and to give you a report on his condition.'

    'How is he?'

    'Weak but slowly recovering from his ordeal.'

    'I thought we'd lost him when he was carried in here. Let me be brutally honest, sir. There've been times in my life when I could willingly have taken a cudgel to your brother myself. Henry can irritate so. But I repented my urge when I saw him lying there,' he said, recalling the gruesome image. 'No man deserves to be battered to a pulp like that.'

    Thomas Killigrew was in a peppery mood when Christopher met him at the theatre. His visitor noted the disparity between this manager and the one with whom he had competed so strenuously for years. Killigrew had none of the easy charm of Sir William D'Avenant, the putative son of a humble Oxford innkeeper, who had risen to the status of a courtier and effortlessly acquired all the skills that went with it. The puffy Killigrew might have prior claim on the King's friendship but he lacked the studied grace of the older man.

    'Let's not waste words, Mr Redmayne,' said the manager. 'I want to know exactly what's going on.'

    'You have every right to do so, Mr Killigrew.'

    'Then please explain.'

    'First, let me offer an apology,' said Christopher. 'I feel that an unguarded remark of mine might have led Mr Hartwell to hound you here yesterday. He's developed a rare passion for Harriet Gow.'

    'Show me a man who hasn't.'

    'She's a remarkable woman. I count that performance of hers in The Maid's Tragedy as the most moving I've ever seen from an actress.'

    'Abigail Saunders ran her close.'

    'I'll come to Miss Saunders in moment.'

    'Your brother was showing an interest in her.'

    'Henry is not in a position to show an interest in any woman at the moment,' said Christopher sadly. 'It's all my fault for employing him to do a job that I was engaged to do myself.'

    'And what job was that?'

    Christopher saw no point in trying to deceive someone as worldly as the manager any longer. The disappearance of Harriet Gow had a direct effect on his takings at the theatre. It was in his interests to have her back on stage as soon as possible so that audiences would flock there again. That could be best achieved, Christopher judged, by taking the manager into his confidence. It would gain far more cooperation from Killigrew than Henry Redmayne had been able to secure by his more roundabout means. Swearing him to secrecy, Christopher gave a terse account of the situation. Killigrew was shaken to hear that his leading actress had been abducted and horrified to learn of the death of Mary Hibbert. When he fitted the attacks on Henry Redmayne and Roland Trigg into the picture, he saw how serious the predicament was.

    One thing puzzled the manager. He frowned in wonderment.

    'You're conducting this search on your own, Mr Redmayne?'

    'No, I'm working in harness with Jonathan Bale, a constable.'

    'An architect and a mere constable?'

    'We were able to be of service to His Majesty in the past,' said Christopher modestly. 'That's why he sent for us. But the principal reason for using two men in this investigation instead of two hundred is that we will not arouse attention. At least, that's what I thought until Henry was assaulted. The ransom note insisted that no attempt be made to rescue Harriet Gow. Because we disobeyed, Mary Hibbert was killed by way of reprisal.'

    'Doesn't that frighten you and this constable off?'

    'Quite the opposite, Mr Killigrew. I feel guilty that anything I may have done somehow led to the girl's death and Mr Bale is not the kind of man who's ever scared away. He knew Mary Hibbert as a friend and neighbour. Nothing will stop him tracking down her killers.'

    'How can I help?'

    'In many ways.'

    'Teach me what they are.'

    'The main one is to tell us more about Mrs Gow's private life. You must have had some insight into it. Henry made a start for me. He managed to compile a list of people who were either close to her or who might be suspect in some way.'