The Amorous Nightingale

    The dream made Henry Redmayne squirm and groan in his bed. He was sitting alone in a pew in Gloucester Cathedral, shorn of his finery and wearing sackcloth and ashes in its stead. Occupying the pulpit and gazing down at his elder son like a disgruntled prophet, was his father, the venerable Dean, pointing a finger of doom at him and accusing him of sinful behaviour and moral turpitude. What made Henry break out in a guilty sweat was the fact that his father was listing his peccadilloes with terrifying accuracy. It was as if every act of indiscretion, every visit to a gaming house, every night of inebriation and every lustful hour in the arms of a whore had been watched from a few feet away by the pious author of his being. It was mortifying. Henry came out of his nightmare with a cry of pain only to find that he had not escaped at all.

    The Dean of Gloucester glared down from a bedside pulpit.

    'What is the matter, Henry?' he asked solicitously.

    'Is that you, Father?'

    'Yes, my son. And it seems I came at just the right time to offer you solace. I was shocked when I saw you. Christopher and I have been praying beside your bed for almost half an hour.'

    'That was very kind of you,' said Henry, closing his eyes in the hope of bringing the nightmare to an abrupt end before opening them again to find the Reverend Algernon Redmayne still bending over him. 'I know the value of prayer.'

    'It has brought you back to us.'

    Algernon Redmayne was a dignified man in his sixties with white hair curling to his shoulders and a large, curved, glistening forehead. Accounted a handsome man in his youth, he had features that were more akin to those of his younger son but their pleasing aspect had been subdued beneath years of sustained religiosity. Anything that was even marginally inappropriate in a devout churchman had been ruthlessly suppressed. The Dean of Gloucester was so completely defined by his rank and ministry that it was difficult to imagine his ever having been anything else. It was certainly impossible to believe that this tall, pale, solemn pillar of holy marble had actually fathered two children, thereby indulging in an act of procreation that indicated - against all the visible evidence - that he had, on two separate occasions at least, been a prey to fleshly desires that had no place in the cathedral precincts.

    'How are you, Father?' asked Henry weakly.

    'How are you, dear boy?' returned the other anxiously.

    'I'm rallying, I think.'

    'Brave man!'

    'Have you come from Gloucester?'

    'Yes, the Bishop and I have business here in London.'

    'How is Bishop Nicholson?'

    Henry did not have the slightest interest in the man but he wanted to keep his father talking while he assembled his own thoughts. The old man unnerved him at the best of times. Lying in pain in his bed, he felt as if he were locked in the pillory, utterly at his father's mercy. The Dean chose the moment to deliver a sonorous sermon.

    'Bishop Nicholson is very much perplexed at the many impudent coventicles that have grown up in every part of our county. Not only do these Dissenters openly appear at their places of worship, they justify their meetings unashamedly to the Bishop's face. It is disgraceful,' said the Dean, letting his voice swell for effect. 'We have made complaints to the Justices in the Peace but they are dilatory in enforcing the law. When we have proceeded against the malefactors in the church courts, we have met with the most disrespectful behaviour.'

    'I'm sorry to hear that, Father.'

    'We are to take the matter up with Archbishop Sheldon. It is one of the reasons we are here.' He clasped his hands together. 'Let us put that aside for a moment, Henry.

    Your condition disturbs me. Tell me, my son. What exactly happened to you?'

    Entreating rescue, Henry looked across at his brother.

    'I've told Father very little,' said Christopher, spelling out the potential for deception. 'Nobody has any idea how you came by your injuries because you've been unconscious until today. I daresay that you're still dazed by the experience,' he prompted. 'Aren't you, Henry?'

    'Yes,' said his brother. 'I can only remember bits of it.'

    'Tell us what they are,' encouraged the Dean.

    'It was the last place I would have expected an attack, Father.'

    'What was?'

    'The church.'

    Astonishment registered. 'You were in a church?'

    'I visit it every day.'

    'Which one?'

    'That's the strange thing,' said Henry, manufacturing his story as he went along. 'I don't know. All that I can recall is that I was kneeling in prayer when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I thought it was probably the churchwarden, wanting a quiet word with me, so I followed him down the nave. Suddenly, I felt something strike me across the back of the head and I pitched forward. The blows came thick and fast after that.' There was a shrug in his voice. 'My purse was taken and so were my rings. That's what the villains were after. But to have it happen on consecrated ground!' he concluded, with a passable stab at indignation. 'It was sacrilege!'

    The Dean of Gloucester's face was impassive. When he leaned in close to his elder son, however, his eyes gleamed knowingly.

    'The injuries have patently affected your memory,' he said quietly. 'Wherever else you received them, it was not in a church. I have had time to look around your house and note the inordinate amount of wine and brandy in your cellars. I also took the liberty of inspecting your wardrobe. Nothing I saw even hinted at a man of religious conviction. Indeed, if you dared to wear any of that garish apparel in Gloucester Cathedral, Bishop Nicholson would call the verger and have you ejected for mockery.'

    'Henry looks tired, Father,' interrupted Christopher, coming to his brother's aid. 'Perhaps we should leave him to rest.'

    'Of course,' agreed the other. 'Let me just say one last thing to him. Listen very carefully, Henry.'

    'I will, Father,' croaked the patient.

    'Make use of this dreadful experience. Reflect on your life and wonder whether these injuries were not inflicted on you by way of just deserts. I am deeply sympathetic,' he emphasised. 'As your father, I am also upset to see you in such a condition. But your ordeal may yet have a curative effect. When you have recovered your strength and regained your memory, you may be ready to own that your tale about the church was a pretty fable devised to invite my approval. Next time I ask you what really happened,' he said firmly, 'I would like the truth.'

    Henry Redmayne quivered and took refuge once more in sleep.

Chapter Twelve

    As he made his way home on foot from Clerkenwell, Jonathan Bale reflected on the caprices of Fate. Bartholomew Gow had been a man of comfortable means, living in a fine house with a beautiful young wife and looking towards a future of uninterrupted happiness. Everything had changed dramatically. He was now embittered, short of money, living in a dingy abode with nothing more than a freakish servant for company and facing a bleak and lonely future. Jonathan could still not understand exactly how it had happened, but he did feel sorry for the man. The story had come out in fits and starts and it was only now that the constable was able to piece it together properly.

    In his own estimation, Gow was a casualty of his wife's ruthless ambition. Since so much of it was activated by self- pity, Jonathan did not believe all that he had heard from the man. What interested him was Bartholomew Gow's ambivalent attitude towards his wife. Angry at her for the way she had treated him, he was genuinely concerned at the news of her abduction and fearful that she might be hurt in some way. Yet that concern was itself tempered by the feeling that justice may somehow have been done, that Harriet Gow was getting no more than she deserved for the way she had behaved. At one point, an almost complacent smile had touched Gow's lips.