The Amorous Nightingale

    'Then help me to find her.'

    'You'll not do that by means of Martin Eldridge. He adored Harriet. She's probably the only woman he ever really cared for. What would he stand to gain by her abduction?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Nothing!'

    'I wonder.'

    'Look elsewhere, sir.'

    'Such as?'

    'At her husband, for a start. Bartholomew Gow.'

    'He's already been cleared of involvement.'

    'Then I can do the same for Martin. Painful as it is to do him a favour, I can give you my assurance that he's not the villain here.'

    'I reserve my judgement on that.'

    Christopher would not be deflected from his purpose. He wanted to speak to the actor again. Unable to get assistance from one theatre manager, he decided to turn to another. He bade farewell and headed for the door. Killigrew had a rush of sympathy and called out to detain him.

    'How is your brother?'

    'Recovering very slowly.'

    'I'll try to make time to call on him.'

    'Thank you, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher, fearing an encounter between his father and the disreputable manager. 'Not for a day or two, please. Henry can receive no visitors at present. His physician has forbidden it.'

    'Tell him I asked after him.'

    'I will.'

    'What of the men who cudgelled him?'

    'There's brighter news on that front. One is already in custody and the other may soon join him. In fact,' he recalled, 'a colleague of mine is attending to that matter right now.'

    Ben Froggatt was in constant pain. His broken arm was in a splint, his eyes blackened, his head covered in lumps and crisscrossed with deep gashes. His hair was matted with dried blood. Every part of his body seemed to ache. Propped up on a mattress in the dingy, airless room, he swigged from a stone bottle and vowed to get his revenge. A mouse came out of its hole and ran across to search for crumbs on the platter beside him. Froggatt spat at the creature to send it on its way. There was a tap on the door. He tensed at once. Putting the bottle aside, he used his free hand to reach for the cudgel under the sheets.

    'Who is it?' he growled.

    'Lucy,' she answered.

    'What kept you?'

    'I've brought a friend of yours, Ben.'

    She opened the door to lead in Jonathan Bale. His friendly manner vanished at once. He dashed across to the wounded man, caught his wrist as the cudgel was lifted and twisted the weapon out of his hand. Froggatt howled with rage at Lucy, who backed against the wall in alarm. Jonathan showed no compassion for the man's injuries. He was standing over someone who had sent Mary Hibbert to an agonising death. When his prisoner tried to punch him, Jonathan dodged the blow and took the dagger from his belt. The point was held at Ben Froggatt's throat.

    'Smeek sent me,' he said.

    'He'd never do that. He's a friend.'

    'Not any more. Since we locked him up in gaol, he doesn't feel quite so loyal towards you any more. Smeek says that you murdered that girl all on your own.'

    'That's a lie! He was there as well.'

    'But you did the damage.'

    When the dagger pricked his throat, Froggatt drew back. 'Who are you?' he hissed.

    'I'm the man who arrested Smeek,' said Jonathan. 'I think it's high time that you joined him, don't you?'

    The pangs of hunger were too strong to resist. Henry Redmayne was famished. Having feigned sleep in the hope that his father would leave, he realised that he could not dislodge the Dean of Gloucester so easily. There was something intimidating about the old man's presence. It was not merely the odour of sanctity which he gave off, nor even the sort of oppressive piety with which he filled the room.

    Algernon Redmayne was sitting in judgement, poised to pass sentence on his wayward son. It was unnerving. Henry had no right of appeal.

    Relations with his father had always been strained. Less than dutiful, Henry was also more than disloyal at times. His epicurean life was a brash denial of all the values that his father had inculcated in him. Though he had a comfortable income from his sinecure at the Navy Office, he also enjoyed an allowance from the Dean, a man of private wealth and generous disposition. Henry had abused that generosity so many times that he was in danger of seeing it withdrawn. It was a fate too hideous to contemplate. Living beyond his income, Henry needed the money from the parental purse to fund his reckless expenditure.

    The pain in his stomach gradually overcoming his fear of the bedside judge, Henry opened his eyes, blinked and pretended to be confused.

    'Where am I?' he asked.

    'Back with us again, my son,' said his father. 'How do you feel?'

    'Hungry.'

    'That can only be a good sign.'

    'I haven't eaten a thing since the assault.'

    'You remember the incident?'

    'Vaguely.'

    'Good, good. I long to hear the details.'

    'They seem very hazy at present, Father.' He looked around the bedchamber. 'Where's Christopher?'

    'He's returned to his work on that new house. It's comforting to know that I have one son who has gainful employment.'

    'So do I, sir. I have a position at the Navy Office.'

    'Your brother is forging a career, you merely occupy space. At least, that is what I suspect. Christopher caused me many anxieties, I'll admit, but he does seem finally to have found his true path in life. All the money I invested in his education is paying off.' He bent over his elder son like a swan about to peck an errant cygnet. 'But what of you, Henry? Oh dear, sir. What of you?'

    'I need some food, Father.'

    'I'm talking about spiritual nourishment,' said the other sternly. 'This house seems singularly devoid of it. There is the unmistakable whiff of sin in the air. You have strayed, Henry.'

    'Once or twice perhaps.'

    'Dissipation is writ large upon this building. It is the house of a voluptuary, sir. A hedonist. An unashamed sensualist.'

    'Oh, I writhe with shame, Father. I assure you.'

    'This is not a suitable environment for a son of the Dean of Gloucester. Too many temptations lie at hand for an idle man. Illicit pleasures beckon. I shudder at the thought that I might actually be paying for some of them.'

    'No, no, that's not true at all.'

    'Then where does that allowance go?' pressed the old man. 'On gaudy clothes and expensive periwigs? On wine and brandy? On some of those irreligious paintings I see hanging on your wall?'

    Algernon Redmayne hit his stride. As his father's rebuke turned into a stinging homily, Henry could do nothing but lie there defenceless. In mind as well as body, he was suffering. He resorted to the only thing left to him. Against all hope, his prayer was answered. After knocking on the door, a servant entered with a potion for him.

    'The physician said that you were to take this sleeping draught, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Yes, yes!' agreed Henry willingly.

    'But I wish to talk to you,' said his father testily. 'I want to hear the full story of your assault.'

    'The physician was most insistent,' argued the servant.

    'There's no hurry for the medicine.'

    'There is, Father,' said Henry, making a mental note to reward his servant for his kind intervention. 'We must obey his wishes.'

    He took the tiny vessel from the man and lifted it to his mouth. Within seconds, his eyes began to close and his body to sag. The Dean of Gloucester finally gave up. Leaving instructions with the servant, he gave his son one last look of disappointment then left the room. Henry came awake at once. Spitting out the potion into a cup beside the bed, he panted with relief then issued a command.