The Amorous Nightingale

    Christopher tried to coax him out of hiding.

    'What is your view of the site, Mr Corrigan?' he asked.

    'It is well chosen, sir,' replied the builder.

    'The best that money could buy,' added Hartwell, tapping his purse. 'Nothing less than perfection will satisfy me.'

    'Why does the site recommend itself to you, Mr Corrigan?' said Christopher, pressing him for an answer. 'Give us a comment from the builder's point of view.'

    'The builder merely obeys orders, Mr Redmayne. In this case, the orders are remarkably easy to obey because Mr Hartwell has chosen a prime site on which to set his house. It will be a privilege to work with him and, of course, with a rising young architect like yourself.'

    Hartwell beamed. 'I knew that you would get on with each other,' he said, draining his glass. 'I sensed it in my bones.'

    Christopher's bones were delivering a contradictory message. He was finding the builder both irritating and evasive. Behind his show of agreement, he caught worrying indications of the man's quiet conviction that, as the oldest and most experienced person involved in the project, he would have the power of decision. Far from obeying employer and architect, Lodowick Corrigan was lurking in readiness to frustrate and subvert them. He had firm ideas about how a house should be built.

    Just before they departed, the builder finally showed his hand.

    'There is only one thing that concerns me, Mr Redmayne,' he said casually. 'With respect to your position as the architect, I felt that I must raise the matter at this early stage.'

    'And what matter is that?' wondered Christopher.

    'The use of Caen stone.'

    'It's what I recommend for the portico.'

    'I know that, Mr Redmayne, but you were ignorant of the problems of supply when you made such a suggestion.'

    'It's no suggestion, Mr Corrigan. It's a specification.'

    'You might have to change your mind about that, sir.'

    'Why?' said Hartwell. 'I liked the notion of Caen stone.'

    'So do I,' insisted Christopher. 'I spent several weeks in Canterbury earlier in the year. Caen stone is used in abundance there, both in the ecclesiastical buildings and elsewhere. It is a clean, clear, well-defined stone. I noticed how easy it could be worked with chisel and hammer.'

    'Other stone is even easier to work,' argued Corrigan. 'And it is more readily available here in London. I have shares in a stone quarry so I speak with authority here. If it were left to me…'

    'But it is not.'

    'Yet if it were…'

    'If it were,' echoed Christopher, 'there would be no argument. You would have the stone of your choice and that would be an end to it. But that is not the case, Mr Corrigan, is it?' He paused meaningfully. 'As it happens, Mr Hartwell appreciates the virtues of Caen stone. On my advice, he wishes to have it incorporated into the facade of the house. I am confident that we will find a more than adequate supply of the material. Indeed, while I was there, I seized the opportunity to speak to one of the stonemasons in Canterbury to make sure that there were no difficulties with regard to delivery.'

    Corrigan fumed in silence. He had lost the first of what would be many battles with the architect. With his employer present, he did not risk a second engagement but Christopher knew further hostilities would transpire in due course. The man wanted his revenge. Emptying his glass in one peremptory gulp, he glared at Christopher.

    'How many houses have you designed? he asked pointedly.

    'Several.'

    'I'm not familiar with your work.'

    'Nor I with yours, Mr Corrigan.'

    'Walk down any of the major thoroughfares of London and you will see the work of Lodowick Corrigan. I am in great demand.'

    'That is why I sought you out,' said Hartwell, adjusting his wig in a mirror. 'I wanted a builder without compare. Matched with an architect whose name will dance down the ages.'

    Corrigan was sour. 'An architect is only as good as his builder.'

    'Granted,' said Christopher. 'By the same token, a builder is only as good as his architect. If he is able to take direction, that is.'

    'Oh, Mr Corrigan will take direction,' Hartwell assured him. 'They tell me he's the most obliging fellow in Creation. You'll have no cause for complaint, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I'm pleased to hear it.'

    'Lodowick Corrigan will hang on your every word.'

    'Will he?'

    It was a rhetorical question but the builder nevertheless answered it. The face which had for so long worn an obsequious smirk now became one large black scowl. The mouth hardened, the teeth clenched and the eyes smouldered like hot coals. Christopher Redmayne had been looking forward to the building of the house for Jasper Hartwell. It had seemed a wonderful assignment in every way. Until now. Much of the pleasure had suddenly drained out of the enterprise. In choosing Lodowick Corrigan as his builder, Hartwell had unwittingly confronted his architect with a major and perhaps insurmountable problem. The two men were natural enemies. As he looked into the angry face of his visitor, Christopher was left to wonder how much of the house he had designed would actually make its way from the drawing to the site on which it was to be built.

    It was the worst possible time to interrupt him. Henry Redmayne was enduring the morning ritual with his barber when the servant burst into the room. Henry sat up in surprise, the razor slipped and blood spurted from a cut in his cheek. Henry's shriek was worthy of an amputated limb. It sent the barber into retreat.

    'You're supposed to shave me,' he howled. 'Not execute me!'

    'I'm sorry, sir,' mumbled the barber.

    'It was your fault,' said Henry, turning upon the servant who had charged into the bedchamber. 'What on earth possessed you to come racing in here like that? Have you taken leave of your senses, man?'

    'No, sir,' muttered the other.

    'Then what other explanation is there?'

    'An urgent message has come for you, sir.'

    'Nothing is so urgent that it cannot wait until I have been shaved. Heavens!' he said, applying a fingertip to the wounded area to test the flow of blood. 'I might have had my throat cut. Look, man.' He displayed a reddened forefinger. 'I am bleeding to death here. Your master is close to extinction - and all that you can talk about is an urgent message. Damn and blast you! Take your hideous visage away from me.'

    The servant held his ground. 'The messenger awaits a reply.'

    'Let the villain wait.'

    'But he is bidden to return to the Palace at once, sir.'

    'The Palace?' Henry's self-pity gave way to alarm. 'The message has come from the Palace? Why did you not say that, you dolt?'

    He snatched the missive from the servant's hands and broke the royal seal. It took him only a second to read the message. Jumping from his seat, he issued a stream of instructions before permitting the barber to stem the flow of blood from the cut on his face. Ten minutes later, he was mounting the horse which had been saddled for him and riding at a steady canter towards the Palace of Westminster. A royal summons demanded an immediate response. It swept everything else aside. Henry Redmayne was needed by his King. That was all that mattered.