'To
secure money, sir. Money to sustain her in the style that she prefers. We only
know of the ransom note to His Majesty. Suppose that some of her other
"benefactors" have received demands for lesser amounts? If only a few
of them were frightened into paying, Mrs Gow would make a handsome profit on
the scheme.' He sensed Christopher's disapproval. 'I know it's unjust to hold
someone I've never met in such low esteem, but she wouldn't be the first woman
to attempt such a cunning trick.'
'You're
forgetting two things, Mr Bale.'
'Am
I?'
'It's
not just Harriet Gow's disappearance that we investigate. There's your
erstwhile friend, Mary Hibbert, as well. Unless you think that she's in on this
conspiracy?'
'No,
sir. I'd absolve her of any duplicity.'
'Then
why was she snatched from the house?'
'Can
we be sure that she was, sir?'
'Roland
Trigg had no doubts.'
'I
have a few about him.'
'Then
there was Peter Hibbert.'
'He
was a frightened boy, thrown into a panic. I can see how it must have looked to
Peter and to Mr Trigg, but the open door of a house is not conclusive evidence
of a kidnap.'
'Granted.
But it's part of a distinct pattern.'
'Is
it?'
'You
remarked a moment ago how grand the house was. Would anyone be careless enough to
leave such a property unlocked and at the mercy of any passer-by?'
'No,
Mr Redmayne.'
'The
other factor you overlook concerns my brother.'
'I
knew nothing of his plight when I first had these thoughts.'
'Well,
you do now, so ask yourself a question. If this is all a game concocted by a
grasping woman to squeeze money out of her lovers, why does she need to have a
blameless individual like Henry battered to the ground?' Anger showed through.
'Another trick to convince us? That would be taking verisimilitude too far!'
'My
suspicions are obviously unfounded.'
'I
think they are, Mr Bale.'
'Pretend
I never put them into words.'
'Very
well. They annoy me greatly.'
'The
truth is that I've never encountered a lady like Mrs Gow before, sir. You can
guess at my views on the theatre. I revile it, hence I'm bound to have
prejudices against anyone who works in such a place. Unjust ones, I daresay,
but nonetheless real.'
'You
were right to tell me.'
'I
withdraw all that I said.'
'No
need.'
'I
was too quick to think the worst of her.'
'Harriet
Gow is no saint,' Christopher admitted with a sigh. 'That's what makes this
case so baffling. Most people are content to find one person to love them. Mrs
Gow obviously enjoys having several admirers at her feet. In fact, the more we
delve into her private life, the greater their number seems to be. Without
knowing it, Mr Hartwell may have coined the perfect name for her.'
'Mr
Hartwell, sir?'
'Jasper
Hartwell,' explained Christopher. 'The man for whom I've designed a house. If
only I had the time to watch it being built! He, too, has more than a passing
interest in Harriet Gow and his description may turn out to be the most apt.'
'What
was it?'
'He
called her a nightingale.'
'A
nightingale?'
'An
amorous nightingale.'
Harriet
Gow had never felt less amorous in her entire life. Locked in a dark cellar,
deprived of the comforts she had enjoyed before, shorn of the company of the one
person who had restored her spirits, she was now quite desolate. Uncertainty
about Mary Hibbert continued to plague her. The later it got, the more fearsome
her imaginings. Recriminations scalded their way through her mind. It was too
long a time. If Mary had managed to get away to raise the alarm, help would
surely have arrived by now. But none came. None might ever come. Wrapping her
arms tightly around her body, she sat in the chair and wondered who could be
inflicting such torture on her and to what end.
Did
someone really hate her so much? Who could it be? As she addressed herself to
the problem yet again, the same names flitted past. The men who bore them might
have cause to resent her, but would they subject her to such pain and
indignity? Harriet could not accept it. Accustomed to being loved and desired,
she could not believe that anyone could detest her enough to abduct and
imprison her. what was the next stage in her humiliation? How soon would it
come?
In a
vain attempt to cheer herself up, she tried to concentrate on happier times, on
the charmed life she led, on her status as Harriet Gow, actress and singer, on
her recurring triumphs in the theatre and her effortless conquests outside it,
on her reputation. She was the mistress of a King, his unsurpassed favourite.
She was at the height of her powers in the theatre. Such memories only served
to throw her present situation into relief. Instead of lying in the luxury of
the royal bed, she was sharing a cellar with the stink of damp and the
scrabbling of a rat. Had she risen so high to be hurled down so low?
Snatching
at her memories, she clung to the moment when she had been feted as Aspatia,
the forlorn lover in
The Maid's Tragedy.
The thunderous applause still echoed
in her ears. She had won the hearts of her audience. Her plaintive lament had
ensnared a King and enchanted scores of other men. Yet her beautiful voice was
meaningless now. This was something which brought the most anguish. Harriet
Gow, the theatre's own nightingale, had a horrid fear that she would never be
able to sing again.
William
Chiffinch's lodging was close to the Privy Stairs, the usual mode of access for
ladies on clandestine excursions to the Palace. Meeting them as they alighted
from their boat, Chiffinch could conduct them discreetly into the building and
along to His Majesty's apartments, next to which his own were conveniently set.
Speed of entry and secrecy of movement were assured. When opportunity presented
itself, Chiffinch was not above making use of the route for his own purposes. A
man so dedicated to the King was bound to ape him in some ways.
He
was not lurking near the Privy Stairs now. When the coach at last arrived, he
intercepted it at the Palace Gate and took charge of its occupants. Accompanied
by two servants with torches, the three men walked past the Banqueting Hall and
briskly on towards the Chapel. Unhappy at being back on what he felt was
polluted ground, Jonathan maintained a sullen silence. He left it to
Christopher to tender their joint apologies.
'You're
unconscionably late, sirs,' said Chiffinch sharply.
'We
were delayed.'
'That
much is obvious, Mr Redmayne.'
'The
cause may not be,' said Christopher. 'My brother, Henry, was the victim of a
violent assault today. When the message arrived at my house, I was away in
Bedford Street.'
'That's
no excuse, sir.' Chiffinch was unmoved by the mention of the attack on Henry
Redmayne. 'You should have made more haste.'
'Mr
Bale took some persuading to come.'
'Indeed?'
'But,
as you see, he is here. As am I, Mr Chiffinch. We're sorry for any delay but it
could not be helped. I do hope that His Majesty will forgive us.'
'His
Majesty is in no position to do so.'
'Why
not?'
'He
is not here at present.'
'But
the letter was signed by him.'
'At
my request.'
'We
haven't been brought here to see His Majesty, then?'
'You
were summoned,' said the other. 'That was enough.'
Reaching
the Chapel, they shed the two servants and stepped into an anteroom that was
lit by candles and perfumed with frankincense. Jonathan was ill at ease.
Chiffinch scrutinised him for a moment.
'So
you are Constable Bale,' he said at length.
'Yes,
sir.'
'And
you have misgivings about coming here?'
'Several,
sir.'
'Don't
waste my time by telling me what they are, Mr Bale, for they would bore me to
distraction. They are, in any case, irrelevant.' He inhaled deeply and tried to
bring his guest to heel. 'You're here at my behest. I serve the interests of
His Majesty. They are paramount here.'
'I
disagree,' said Jonathan.
'It
is not a permitted option.'
'I'd
have thought the safety of two women came before all else, Mr Chiffinch. With
respect, that's what brought me here tonight. Not the interests of His
Majesty.'
'Those
interests are bound up with the abduction.'
'That's
a private matter, sir.'
'Is
he always so quarrelsome?' asked Chiffinch, turning to his other visitor. 'I
wonder that you managed to get him into the coach.'
'It
took some doing,' said Christopher with an affectionate glance at Jonathan. 'Mr
Bale has a poor memory. He has to be reminded who sits on the throne of
England.'
'I've
no need to be told that!' retorted Jonathan mutinously.
'I
spoke in jest.'
'It
was out of place,' reprimanded Chiffinch. 'Indeed, bandying words like this is
somewhat unseemly in the circumstances. I'm sure you've realised that only an
event of some magnitude would oblige me to bring the two of you here like this.
We have heard from the kidnappers.'
'So
did my brother.'
'I'm
sorry to learn of his beating, Mr Redmayne. Please convey my sympathy to him -
though I cannot imagine why they should single out a man who is not engaged in
this investigation beyond the status of a go-between.' An eyebrow rose
enquiringly. 'Unless, of course, he'd been promoted against my instructions to
a higher position?'
'He
was attacked. That is all that concerns me.'
'Quite
rightly. You're his brother. However,' he said, looking from one man to the
other, 'we're not here to listen to a report on Henry Redmayne's condition,
distressing as it may be. Something even more disturbing confronts us. A
message has been sent.'
'May
we read it?' said Christopher.
'It
did not come in the form of words, I'm afraid. Their calligraphy was rather
more vivid this time. Follow me, gentlemen.'
He
crossed to a door, opened it gently then led them through into a small chamber.
Even on a warm night, the place felt chill. There was a stone slab in the
middle of the room. Lying on top of it, covered in a shroud, was a dead body.
Candles had been set at the head and foot of the corpse. Herbs had been
scattered to sweeten the atmosphere. A compassionate Jesus Christ gazed down
sadly from His cross on the wall.
'The
body was delivered at the Privy Stairs,' said Chiffinch.
'It
came here by boat?' asked Christopher.
'So
we assume.'
'Did
nobody see it arrive?'
'We've
yet to locate a witness.'
Jonathan
stared at the slab. 'Is it Mrs Gow?'
'No,
thank heaven!'
'Then
who?'
'We
don't rightly know, Mr Bale. That's why I sent for you and Mr Redmayne. I hoped
that you might throw some light on her identity.'
Jonathan
exchanged a worried look with Christopher.
'Her?'
he repeated.
'It's
the body of a young woman.'
Chiffinch
was too squeamish a man to view the corpse himself. Taking the edge of the shroud
fastidiously in his fingers, he drew it back to expose the head of the victim.
Christopher was shocked to see such an attractive young woman on a slab in a
morgue but he had no inkling who she might be. Jonathan recognised her
immediately.