The Amorous Nightingale

    'Just like the old days.'

    'Not quite, Sarah.'

    'Will you be late back?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Whenever it is, I'll wait up for you.'

    'Thank you, my love.'

    After giving her a valedictory kiss, he left the house and trudged off in the direction of Thames Street. It was early evening and still light. He walked parallel to the river, inhaling the familiar smells that drifted up from the waterfront and listening to the familiar sounds. The street was busy and he collected a number of waves or greetings while he was still in Baynard's Castle Ward. Once he moved into Queenhithe Ward, he was outside his own territory and took on a welcome anonymity. Passers-by hardly gave him a second look.

    The Hope and Anchor was at the far end of Thames Street, well beyond London Bridge. It looked smaller than he remembered it and had acquired an almost ramshackle appearance. The one thing Jonathan had prised out of his attacker had been the man's name. Smeek would be at home in the Hope and Anchor, he decided. It was his natural habitat. The man bore all the marks of a sailor. Smeek was a tough, gritty, uncouth, fearless man who could look after himself in the roughest company and that was what the tavern offered him.

    It was echoing with noise and bursting with bodies when Jonathan let himself in. A group of drunken sailors was singing a coarse song at one of the tables. Others were yelling threats at each other. Prostitutes mingled with potential customers, distributing the occasional kiss by way of blandishment. There was a stink of tobacco smoke and a thick fug had settled on the room. As he looked around, Jonathan could not suppress a smile at the thought of Christopher Redmayne visiting the tavern. He would be as completely and ridiculously out of place as the constable would be in a box at The Theatre Royal.

    Jonathan bought a drink, shouldered his way to a corner and bided his time. It was important to blend into his surroundings. To accost the innkeeper at once and pepper him with questions would only arouse the man's suspicion. The constable had to be more casual in his enquiries. He fell in with a couple of sailors whose ship had just arrived from Holland. They were full of boasts about their exploits among Dutch women. Jonathan forced himself to listen. When he saw that the innkeeper was on his own, he offered to buy his companions some ale and squeezed his way to the counter.

    The innkeeper was a rotund man in his fifties with an ugly face made even more unsightly by a broken nose and a half- closed eye. As the man filled three tankards for Jonathan, the latter leaned in close.

    'I was hoping to see some old friends in here,' he said.

    'Oh?' replied the other. 'And who might they be?'

    'One's called Smeek. We sailed together years ago. He told me that they came in here sometimes. Is that true?'

    'It might be.'

    'He and Ben were always together. Boon companions.'

    'How well do you know them?' asked the innkeeper warily.

    'Haven't seen either for a long time. That's why I thought I'd drop in at the Hope and Anchor - in case they'd been around lately. It's the kind of place they'd like, especially Ben. Nice and lively.' He paid for the drinks and bought one for the innkeeper himself. 'Have you seen any sign of either of them?'

    'They were in here yesterday, as it happens.'

    'Oh?'

    'Throwing a bit of money around.'

    'That sounds like them,' said Jonathan with a chuckle.

    'Smeek might come back,' explained the other, deciding to take his customer on trust, 'but you won't see Ben Froggatt in here for a while, that's for sure.'

    'Why not?'

    'He came off worst in a fight. Right outside my back door.'

    'Ben Froggatt? He could handle himself in a brawl. I'd like to see the man who could get the better of him.' Jonathan took a sip of his ale. 'Was Ben hurt very badly?'

    'He must be. I'm told he's taken to his bed.'

    'Poor old Ben,' said Jonathan, expressing a sympathy that was masking a deep hatred. 'I must call on him and try to cheer him up. Do you know where he lodges?'

    'No,' said the innkeeper. 'But I think that Lucy might.'

    'Lucy?'

    The man nodded in the direction of a tall, angular woman with a heavily powdered face and a loud giggle. Sharing a drink with a grey-haired man, she fondled his arm with an easy familiarity.

    The innkeeper gave a lop-sided grin of appreciation.

    'Ben has taste,' he grunted. 'Lucy's his favourite.'

    'I haven't the slightest clue where you could find Martin Eldridge.'

    'Where would he go if he wanted to lie low?' asked Christopher.

    'Who cares?'

    'Please, Mr Killigrew. I need your help.'

    'The only person I'm interested in finding is Harriet Gow,' said the manager, banging on the table. 'Harriet is the one you should be after, not a damnable actor who's too lazy to learn his craft properly.'

    'Martin Eldridge might lead me to Mrs Gow.'

    'What gave you that idea?'

    'He's involved in some way,' said Christopher firmly. 'I know it. He was so evasive when I talked to him. He was hiding something.'

    'Well, it wasn't his talent because he doesn't have any.'

    Hoping for good news from his visitor, Thomas Killigrew was downcast when Christopher admitted that they still had no clear idea where the missing actress could be. The enquiry about Martin Eldridge only served to enrage the irascible manager.

    'You shouldn't have let him trick you like that, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I know.'

    'He's a cunning devil, Martin. I wouldn't trust him for a second.'

    'But some people do. His landlady told me how many friends he has. They are always calling at his lodging in Shoreditch. What I want from you is the name of those friends,' explained Christopher. 'My guess is that he'll stay with one of them in order to hide from me.'

    'Then you'll never find him.'

    'Why not?'

    'Because it would take you weeks to get round all of Martin's friends. There are scores of them. Mostly women, of course, because a man with that silvery tongue and those good looks is bound to make the best of them. Martin Eldridge could charm the clothes off a countess. Yes,' he said enviously, 'and he could probably charm some money out of her into the bargain. That would be typical of him. He gives all his best performances in the bedchamber. If only he could act that well on stage!'

    'I thought he was well cast as Lysippus.'

    'He did rouse himself for The Maid's Tragedy,' confessed Killigrew, 'but only because Harriet Gow was in the play. For her sake, Martin always made an effort. When she was not in a cast, he'd simply walk through his part. Forget him, Mr Redmayne. He's not your man.'

    'Then why did he take to his heels?'

    'Perhaps you said something to upset him.'

    'I'm serious, Mr Killigrew.'

    'And so am I, sir,' retorted the manager. 'Harriet's been gone for days now. The company is getting nervous. My patrons are starting to turn nasty. They disrupted the performance this afternoon. That lean-witted booby Jasper Hartwell even had the audacity to storm in here and threaten to sue me unless I brought her back instantly. He said he wanted to hear his nightingale sing again.'

    'Mr Hartwell has an obsession, I'm afraid.'

    'So do I, Mr Redmayne. And my obsession is more immediate than his. Not to put too fine a point on it, Harriet Gow is my bread and butter. She sets food on my table. Without her, my takings will plummet.'