The Frost Fair

    'Well?' he prompted. 'I still await an answer.'

    'Yes, Mr Redmayne,' she said with an effort. 'You have my word.'

    Henry Redmayne was so grateful to be back in his own home again that he kept touching his possessions for reassurance and admiring himself in every mirror that he passed. Jonathan Bale was a mute guest, standing in a corner of the parlour and feeling distinctly out of place. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne was a much more censorious visitor, describing some of the paintings on the walls as far too lewd for public display and wondering why his elder son had such a well-stocked wine cellar when he claimed to lead a life of sobriety. The house in Bedford Street, he insisted, did not bear the marks of an owner with true Christian purpose. Henry endured the criticism with a patient smile. Back in his finest apparel again and wearing his periwig, he felt that he could withstand any parental assaults with equanimity.

    When Christopher finally joined them from his meeting with his client, a bottle of wine was opened in celebration of Henry's release. Jonathan refused to touch it but the Dean was coaxed into taking a small cup of the liquid. After the toast, the old man became very solemn.

    'Learn from this experience, my son,' he said, pointing a finger at Henry. 'A man is judged by his friends and yours were found cruelly wanting. On that shameful night, you broke bread with three vile individuals whose company you should have shunned.'

    'Sir Humphrey Godden committed no crime,' said Henry defensively.

    'He did, in my estimation,' said Jonathan.

    'Yes,' agreed Christopher. 'He withheld information from us. Even when he knew that Captain Harvest was an impostor, he still gave him money and offered him a refuge. In short, he was protecting a wanted man. The law will require him to say why.'

    'I can tell you why,' said Henry, sipping his wine. 'Sir Humphrey made the mistake of letting the fellow stay at the house while Lady Godden was away. A party was held there one night at which certain indiscretions took place. James - as we all knew him - was able to lean on Sir Humphrey to buy his silence.'

    How do you know all this?' demanded his father with suspicion. 'I hope that you were not present at this night of degradation, Henry.'

    'No, no, Father.'

    'Would you swear to that?'

    'I was there at the start of the evening,' admitted Henry, deciding that a half-truth was better than a downright lie, 'but I left before any impropriety occurred. It was Sir Humphrey who confided to me that he was guilty of a peccadillo.'

    'Murder, theft, fraud, drunkenness and sexual licence!' The Dean threw both hands up to heaven in supplication. 'How did a son of mine become embroiled in it?'

    'By sheer accident, Father.'

    'Henry is right,' said Christopher, jumping in to save his brother from another homily. 'His real fault lay in choosing the wrong friends.'

    'And consuming far too much wine and brandy with them,' added his father.

    'I confess it,' said Henry. 'Because I'm so unused to strong drink, it blinded me to what was going on. I thought I was in Fenchurch Street when I was accosted by Jeronimo Maldini that night, but I'd staggered almost all the way to the river.'

    'Signor Maldini followed you,' explained Christopher, 'waiting for his chance to attack. What the Italian did not know, however, was that he, in turn, was being shadowed by Martin Crenlowe, who had seen him come out of his hiding place in Fenchurch Street. You walked on in search of a carriage to take you home. Although it was a bitterly cold night, there were still people abroad. Signor Maldini had to bide his time until you reached an alley near Thames Street. Then he challenged you.'

    'That's what I remember, Christopher. He was suddenly there in front of me.'

    'Fortunately for you, Mr Crenlowe was also there,' said Christopher. 'In knocking you down from behind, he probably saved your life. Signor Maldini would else have run you through. Mr Crenlowe, as we now know, had a score of his own to settle with the fencing master.'

    'His wife had fallen for the Italian's charms.'

    'I think it may have been the other way around, Henry.'

    'Whatever the truth,' said the Dean, 'it was deplorable behaviour.'

    'But it gave Mr Crenlowe the urge to commit murder, Father,' said Christopher. 'When the opportunity presented itself, he took it. While Henry was lying unconscious on the ground, Mr Crenlowe bent over him out of pretended concern and took hold of Henry's dagger. He then tried to appease Signor Maldini with soft words. When the Italian was off guard, Mr Crenlowe stabbed him in the back.'

    'Yes,' said Jonathan, taking up the story, 'then he dragged the dead body to the river and heaved it in, thinking it might never be found. He did not bargain for the Thames freezing over like that. When my son stumbled on the body that day, it still had Mr Redmayne's dagger in its back.'

    'I felt that it was in my back,' complained Henry.

    'To some degree, it was,' said his father sonorously. 'Instead of confessing his crime, this goldsmith friend of yours let you take his punishment. He stabbed you in the back, Henry.'

    'So did Captain Harvest,' noted Christopher. 'He deliberately brought Signor Maldini along that evening so that the two of you would strike sparks off each other. The fencing master knew where you were and that you'd not be in the best position to defend yourself by the time you'd been drinking heavily. By setting you up like that, the captain stabbed you in the back as well.'

    'Who is this Captain Harvest?' asked the Dean. 'What's the villain's real name?'

    'James Wragg,' replied Jonathan, 'and he had been a soldier but not in any English army. He was a mercenary who fought on the Continent for anyone willing to pay him. He'd picked up a smattering of languages along the way, Italian among them. It was the reason that he and Signor Maldini were so close. Mr Wragg had a talent for making easy friendships - your son was only one of his victims - and he lured to the fencing school gentlemen whom Signor Maldini had a particular interest in meeting.'

    'Why?' said the old man.

    'Because they had desirable wives, Father,' said Christopher.

    The Dean was appalled. 'Then this unprincipled rogue was a pandar!' he cried.

    He would have been even more outraged if he had known that the women whom Jeronimo Maldini had seduced almost invariably had husbands with political influence, but Christopher kept that information from his father, as from everyone else. The death of the fencing master had brought the espionage to an end. Nobody still alive was culpable. Ladies who had unwittingly yielded up intelligence about their husbands' work while they were in the arms of the Italian, were dupes rather than traitors. Christopher and Jonathan had agreed to remain silent about Maldini's main reason for coming to England.

    'Henry is well clear of the man,' said Christopher. 'Let's be grateful for that.'

    'You've been given a second chance, Henry,' observed his father. 'Do not waste it. Turn aside from the company of rogues and voluptuaries. Take your delight in the law of the Lord.'

    'I will, Father,' promised Henry. 'Newgate was my Damascus. Of one thing, you may be certain. Prison has made me a better man.'

    'I pray that it may be so.'

    'It is, it is.'

    'Yet the punishment was not wholly undeserved.'

    'Yes, it was,' argued Henry. 'I was innocent.'

    'Innocent of murder,' said the Dean, 'but guilty of sin. In thought and word, you wanted that man to die. You fell short only of the deed itself.'