The Amorous Nightingale (15 page)

    'The
maidservant taken as well?'

    'So
it seems.'

    'This
is a bad omen, Christopher.'

    'I
prefer to see it as a good one.'

    'What
goodness can there be in the kidnap of a young woman?'

    'A
little, I hope. I take it as a sign of consideration towards Harriet Gow. She
must be in a state of absolute terror. Her kidnappers are at least providing
her with some company to still her fears. She and Mary Hibbert are very close.
Trigg kept telling me that.'

    'He
told you a great deal, apparently.'

    'Some
of it was very revealing.'

    'If
the fellow can be trusted.'

    'Try
to get behind that forbidding appearance of his,' suggested Christopher. 'The
man might yet turn out to be a useful ally. Roland Trigg deserves the credit
for one thing at least.'

    'What's
that?'

    'Providing
us with a name to go at the very top of our list.'

    'Who
might that be?'

    'Bartholomew
Gow.'

    Henry
was chastened. 'Her husband?' he said, eyes glistening. 'I never even
considered him. He and his wife have lived apart for some time. I'm not even
sure that Bartholomew Gow is still in London.'

    'What
manner of man is he?'

    'An
odd one. A fellow of moderate wealth and peculiar disposition. Content to hug
the shadows while Harriet courted the light - at first, that is, but he grew
resentful. Never marry an actress, Christopher. They would tax the patience of
a saint and Mr Gow is assuredly no saint.'

    'Would
he stoop to the kidnap of his own wife?'

    'I
don't know him well enough to form a judgement about it.'

    'What
does your instinct tell you?'

    'Anything
is possible.'

    'Trigg
was quite antagonistic towards him.'

    'He'd
be antagonistic towards anyone. I've never met such a bellicose individual.
What did he have to say about Bartholomew Gow?'

    'Nothing
to the fellow's credit.'

    'Did
he tell you where the wandering husband was living?'

    'No,
Henry. But he has pointed us in the right direction.'

    'Has
he?'

    'I
think so,' said Christopher, indicating the list. 'Look at those names. They're
giving us a false start. Instead of beginning with a list of those who might or
might not have a motive to abduct Harriet Gow, we should work from the other
end.'

    'Other
end?'

    'The
lady herself, Henry. Examine her character and way of life. That's where the
clues will lie. Why, for instance, did she marry a man like Bartholomew Gow?
How did she become involved with His Majesty? What hopes did she have for her
future? In short,' said Christopher, getting up from the table, 'what sort of
person is Harriet Gow?'

    'You
saw her for yourself at The King's House.'

    'What
I saw there was a brilliant actress, thrilling our blood and working on our
emotions. She's in no position to do that now. Harriet Gow is no longer
floating along on a cloud of applause, Henry. She's a very frightened woman,
held against her will. How will she cope with that?'

    'Bravely,
I'm sure.'

    Crossing
to the window, Christopher peered out into the darkness.

    'I
hope so,' he said quietly. 'I sincerely hope so.'

    Mary
Hibbert was still in a state of abject terror. After the long, jolting ride in
the coach, she had been taken to a house and locked in a small cellar. Tied
firmly to a stout chair, she could scarcely move her limbs. The hood had been
removed from behind by her captors so that she caught not even the merest
glimpse of them as they slipped out of the room. The sounds of a key turning in
the lock and of heavy bolts being pushed into position had been further hammer
blows to her already bruised sensibilities. Too scared even to cry out, she sat
in her fetid prison and sobbed quietly to herself. Another noise made her sit
up in alarm. It was the snuffling of a rat in the darkest recess of the cellar.

    Mary
was beside herself with fear. Why was she being put through this ordeal, and by
whom? What had she done to deserve such cruel treatment? Would she ever leave
the building alive? It was at that point, when she was writhing in pain, being
slowly overwhelmed by her misery and about to slide inexorably into total
despair that a new sound penetrated the gloom of her dungeon. It was faint but
haunting. She strained her ears to listen.

    She
revived at once. It was extraordinary. A song about death had effectively
recalled her to life, had given her hope and sustenance. Only one woman could
sing as beautifully and movingly as that. Mary Hibbert was not alone in her
distress: Harriet Gow was sharing it with her. They were bonded by suffering.
The voice rose, strengthened and sang on with mournful clarity. It was
enchanting. Mary closed her eyes to listen to the strains of her beloved
nightingale.

    Henry
Redmayne made such a determined assault on the bottle of brandy that it took
the two of them to help him up into the saddle afterwards. He waved a perilous farewell
then set off slowly in the direction of Bedford Street. Jacob watched the
swaying figure merge with the darkness.

    'Will
he be safe, sir?' he said anxiously.

    Christopher
smiled. 'Have faith in the horse at least, if not in my brother,' he said
tolerantly. 'The animal is well accustomed to carrying his master home when he
has looked upon the wine at its reddest.'

    'It
was brandy this time.'

    'Yes,
and he had the gall to criticise its quality. I know, I heard him. That's
typical of Henry, I'm afraid. He'll abuse your cellar then drink it dry. No
matter, Jacob. He
is
my brother and his need was particularly urgent
this evening.'

    'So I
saw.'

    The
servant led the way back into the house, clearing away the two glasses and the
almost empty bottle into the kitchen. When he came into the parlour again, he
saw that Christopher was unrolling some paper on the table. There was mild
reproof in the servant's tone.

    'You're
not going to start work now, are you, sir?' he said.

    'Bring
me more light, Jacob.'

    'You
need your sleep.'

    'Not
when something is preying on my mind. I have to put my thoughts on paper. It's
the only way that I can make sense of them.'

    Jacob
sighed but refrained from further comment. Lighting two more candles, he set
them on the table with the others so that they threw a vivid rectangle of light
on to the paper.

    Christopher's
charcoal was poised for action. He sensed that Jacob was hovering.

    'I
shan't require anything else now,' he said. 'You go to bed.'

    'Not
until you're ready to retire, sir.'

    'There's
no point in the two of us staying up.'

    'There's
every point,' returned the servant with a prim smile. He retreated towards the
kitchen. 'Call me when you need me.'

    'You
may be in there a long time.'

    'I've
plenty to keep me occupied, sir.'

    Jacob
vanished from sight. Sounds of activity soon came from the kitchen as he began
to clean some of the silverware. Christopher heard nothing. He was too absorbed
in his project, drawing swiftly from memory and writing the occasional name on
the paper. He was far too stimulated by the visits of Roland Trigg and of his
brother even to consider going to his bed. In his own way, each man had sparked
off Christopher's imagination. It was the coachman's evidence which guided his
charcoal the most. Christopher was immersed for the best part of an hour before
he sat up to stretch himself and massage the back of his neck. He was puzzled.
As he stared down at what he had drawn, he felt that something was amiss but he
could not decide exactly what it was.

    The
decision was taken out of his hands by the ringing of the doorbell. Jacob
emerged at once from the kitchen as if his whole evening had been structured
around this one particular duty. Christopher heard him open the door before
engaging in a short dialogue with a man who had a deep, firm, resonant voice.
The sound made Christopher rise with curiosity. He wondered why Jonathan Bale
was calling on him- No visitor could be less likely in Fetter Lane. When the
servant came back into the room, Christopher saw that he had, in fact, two
guests with him. The burly constable was accompanied by a wiry, tousle-haired
youth of no more than fifteen. Even in that light, Christopher could see the
anguish in the boy's face.

    Jacob
sidled off to the kitchen again, leaving Jonathan to make an uneasy apology and
to effect an introduction.

    'I'm
sorry to disturb you so late, Mr Redmayne,' he began, 'but this is something
that wouldn't keep until morning. It may have some bearing on what we talked
about earlier.' He turned to the boy. 'This is a young friend of mine, Peter
Hibbert.'

    'Hibbert?'

    'His
sister, Mary, is in service with Mrs Gow.'

    'Then
I'm pleased to meet you,' said Christopher with interest. He gave a kind smile.
'I'm Christopher Redmayne. You're welcome to my home, Peter. Do sit down for a
moment.'

    Peter
Hibbert glanced at Jonathan as if requiring his permission. When the constable
lowered himself on to the oak settle, his companion chose the stool in the
corner. Perched on its edge, he looked smaller and more frail than ever.

    'Peter
has something to tell you, sir,' said Jonathan.

    'Does
he?'

    'It's
about his sister.'

    'Then
I'm eager to hear it.'

    There
was a long wait. Peter Hibbert was far too nervous to speak at first. Over-awed
by Christopher and the fine house in which he lived, Peter's confidence dried
up completely. He began to lose faith in the tale he had to tell. His eyes
darted wildly. Jonathan tried to rescue him from his tongue-tied embarrassment.

    'Go
on, Peter,' he nudged. 'Say your piece.'

    'You've
come all this way to do it,' encouraged Christopher. 'I'll be interested to
hear what you have to tell me about your sister.'

    Hands
knotted together, the boy stared at the floor and tried to summon up enough
courage to speak. When the words finally came out, they did so in an irregular
dribble.

    'Mary
- that's my sister, sir - is in service with Mrs Gow - Mrs Harriet Gow - she's a
famous actress. They live in a big house near St James's Square. Mary is very
kind to me, sir. She looks out for me.'

    He
came to a halt and shot a look of apprehension at Jonathan.

    'Tell
the truth, Peter,' said the other. 'Exactly as you told me.'

    The
boy nodded. 'I'm apprenticed to a tailor, sir,' he continued, aiming his words
at Christopher via the carpet. 'It was my father's occupation though I'm afraid
that I lack his skill. I'm poorly paid for my work so I get into debt quite
often. Mary gives me money. I'll pay it back one day,' he said with a touch of
spirit, 'but it may take time. Anyway, I arranged to call on Mary this
afternoon, to collect some money from her. But when I got there, the door of
the house was wide open and there was no sign of my sister.'

    'A
most unusual circumstance,' observed Jonathan. 'When her mistress is absent,
Mary has responsibility for the security of the house. She would never leave it
unguarded.'

    Christopher
had heard a version of the story from Roland Trigg, but he was grateful for
corroboration. Peter Hibbert had come to the same conclusion as the coachman.
Mary Hibbert was in some kind of terrible predicament. A creature of habit, if
she made an arrangement to meet her brother, she never let him down. Mary knew
how much he needed the regular gifts of money from her.