The Amorous Nightingale

    'I don't follow.'

    'He's moved away, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Oh?'

    'Quite recently, they tell me.'

    'Where has he gone?'

    'Back to where he was born, in the West Country. That's where Sir Godfrey hails from - down in Devon.' He swept the subject of his former master aside to make a final offer. 'I could warn you, Mr Redmayne. I know what those rogues look like. They're bound to try to strike again.'

    'Then I'll be ready for them.'

    Christopher did not have to waste any more time trying to get rid of his second visitor because Trigg was immediately supplanted by a third. A coach drew up outside the house and a stately figure in clerical garb alighted. Christopher's stomach lurched. Jasper Hartwell and Roland Trigg were unwanted callers, but each had nevertheless been able to impart useful information to him. The newcomer would not. In fact, his presence threatened to hamper the search altogether.

    Christopher forced a smile and put false joy into his voice.

    'Father!' he said, spreading his arms. 'How wonderful to see you!'

    Clerkenwell's reputation had slowly changed over the years. Notorious for its brothels during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it had been improved and developed by her successors, containing, for example, London's first piped water supply and attracting several aristocrats to build fine houses there. As the Court moved westwards under Charles II, many of the grand residences were abandoned to prosperous merchants or to skilled craftsmen who turned the area into a thriving centre for certain specialised trades. When he reached Clerkenwell after his long walk, Jonathan Bale was struck by the clear evidence of wealth. There were still abundant houses of resort in some of the darker corners, but the district was no longer as blatantly dedicated to sinfulness as in former times.

    He eventually found the address with which Obadiah Shann had been reluctantly forced to part. It was a modest dwelling, smaller and far less impressive than the one in Greer Lane where, he had been led to believe, Bartholomew Gow actually lived. The place was neglected. As Jonathan looked at the perished brickwork and the cracks in the tiles, he understood why the man might arrange any assignations elsewhere. The grubby little house in the more insalubrious part of Clerkenwell was not a love-nest to tempt a discerning lady. A coach would be incongruous in the mean and filthy street.

    Knocking on the door, he did not have long to wait for a reply. The servant who appeared before him was virtually a homunculus, a tiny man of uncertain years with a harassed look about him. The sight of the constable made him shrink back defensively.

    'Yes, sir?' he whispered.

    'My name is Jonathan Bale,' introduced the other, 'and I've come in search of a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'

    'What makes you think that he lives here, sir?'

    'I was given this address by Mr Shann.'

    'The lawyer?'

    'Yes. I've come straight from his office in Threadneedle Street.'

    The diminutive figure retreated another step as he tried to weigh up his visitor. His scrutiny was intense, even slightly eerie, but Jonathan tolerated it with patience. The man eventually regained his voice.

    'Wait here a moment, please,' he said.

    'Is Mr Gow in the house?'

    'I'll have to see, sir.'

    Shutting the door gently in his face, the servant vanished from sight. Jonathan waited for several minutes. Tiring of the delay, he reached out to bang on the door with more authority but it swung obligingly open. Bartholomew Gow regarded him warily. He was a tallish man in his early thirties with apparel that was starting to fade and hair that was beginning to recede. Jonathan wondered why the innkeeper at the Red Lion had described as handsome a face that would have been pleasant at best even without the scowl on it.

    Unhappy at being found in circumstances that caused him obvious embarrassment, Gow could rise to nothing more than brisk courtesy.

    'Good day to you, Constable Bale. You wanted me?'

    'Are you Mr Gow, sir?'

    'At your service.'

    'I hope that may be the case. May I suggest that we step inside, please?' said the visitor. 'I've come on business that should not be discussed in the street.'

    Bartholomew Gow was unhappy to invite him in, mumbling an apology as he did so and ushering him into a small, low room with only a few pieces of furniture to hide its bare boards. Anxious not to detain Jonathan any longer than he had to, he did not offer him a seat.

    'Well, Mr Bale?' he said with bruised dignity. 'What do you want?'

    'I've come about your wife, sir.'

    'Did Harriet send you?'

    'Not exactly, Mr Gow. When did you last see her?'

    'Some time ago. Why?'

    'So you haven't been in touch recently?'

    'No,' said the other. 'If you've spoken to my lawyer, you'll know that my wife and I live apart and have done so for a little while. That situation is unlikely to alter. I've no cause to seek her out and my wife certainly has no desire to get in touch with me.'

    'I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Gow.'

    'Are you?'

    'I have a great respect for the institution of marriage.'

    'Then your experience of it must have differed from mine.' He became almost testy. 'You've no business to come here to discuss my personal affairs. What's going on?'

    'I wondered if you might tell me that, sir.' 'Me?'

    'You're not easy to track down.' He glanced around the room. 'I hadn't realised that you lived in Clerkenwell.'

    'This is only a temporary address until I can find something better.'

    'Of course, sir,' said Jonathan, sensing the hurt pride that lay behind the lie. 'I was looking for you in Greer Lane.'

    'Where?' Gow seemed baffled. 'Greer Lane?'

    'It's just off the Strand.'

    'Then it's well beyond the reach of my purse.'

    'I was told that you lodged there, sir, but my guess is that you only use the premises on an occasional basis. A couple of days ago,' said Jonathan, deciding to confront him with the truth in order to gauge his reaction, 'an ambush took place in Greer Lane. Mrs Gow was abducted.'

    'Harriet?' said her husband, mouth agape. 'Abducted?'

    'I'm afraid so, sir. My job is to help in the search for her.'

    'But who kidnapped her, man? And why?'

    'I can only answer the second question, Mr Gow. Your wife is being held for ransom. To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to throw more light on the circumstances of the abduction.'

    'How can I?'

    'It took place outside the house you visit in Greer Lane.'

    'But I've never been near the place.'

    'That's not what the landlady says,' argued Jonathan. 'Nor the innkeeper at the Red Lion. Do you deny you patronised the tavern?'

    'In the strongest possible terms!' retorted Gow, going on the attack. 'Do you have the gall to tell me that you thought I was responsible for the kidnap? On what evidence? My wife and I may be estranged, Mr Bale, but I'd never wish her any harm.'

    'Did you and she ever meet in Greer Lane?'

    'No! How could we? I don't even know where it is.'

    Jonathan felt suddenly ill at ease. Thinking that he would unravel the mystery when he cornered Bartholomew Gow, he realised that it had instead become more complex. The ousted husband was plainly telling the truth. He had nothing whatsoever to do with the crime.