Frost Fair (16 page)

    'I long to hear it, Mr Redmayne.'

    Christopher sat back in his chair and gave him a succinct account of his respective visits to Sir Humphrey Godden and Martin Crenlowe. He did not pretend to like either man though he had found the latter far more pleasant. Jonathan listened intently and waited until his friend had finished before he offered any comment.

    'Sir Humphrey Godden was adamant that your brother is innocent?'

    'Yes, Jonathan.'

    'It did not appear so from your description of what was said.'

    'He was in something of a hurry when I questioned him.'

    'That should not prevent him from coming to the defence of a friend.'

    'Martin Crenlowe assures me that he and Sir Humphrey are of the same mind.'

    'But that's not quite the same thing as hearing it from the man himself,' said Jonathan. 'According to you, Sir Humphrey accepts that your brother had reason enough to kill Signor Maldini and even thinks him capable of murder. It's only the nature of the fatal wound that makes him believe the crime was the work of someone else.'

    'Sir Humphrey was with Henry that night. He knew my brother's frame of mind.'

    'Drink can have strange effects on a man.'

    'It left my brother tottering down the street.'

    "That's not the picture that I was given, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Oh?' 'When the watchmen found him on the ground, your brother was nowhere near the place that he claimed to be. He was able to walk better than you imagine.'

    'Are you certain?'

    'I can only tell you what Balthazar Pegge told me.'

    It was Jonathan's turn to present his findings. He talked about his conversation with Captain Harvest, the subsequent disappearance of the soldier from his lodging and the time spent in the company of the two old watchmen. His recital was more laboured and methodical than Christopher's but the salient facts were all there. They caused a shift of perspective in his friend's thinking.

    'Henry lied to me,' he complained. 'He swore that he was set upon by Signor Maldini, somewhere in Fenchurch Street. How did he get so close to the river?'

    'How did he lose his dagger?'

    'What do you mean?'

    'Could it be that he lied to you about that as well?'

    'No,' said Christopher, groping for an explanation. 'He was probably too drunk to remember the details with any clarity. The main part of his story is true. Let's give him credit for that. Henry was found by a watchman and sent home in a carriage. His servants confirm it.'

    'It's what happened earlier that matters, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I agree.'

    'Did you brother mention that he mistook the watchman for Jeronimo Maldini?'

    'No,' admitted Christopher.

    'Or that he wrestled with Mr Pegge and threatened to kill him? That, too, seems to have slipped his mind. Unless, as you say, drink blinded him so completely that he did not know what he was doing. It clearly left him with enough strength to attack an old man, I know that. If he can brawl with one person and forget all about it, could he not have done the same with Signor Maldini himself?'

    'I suppose so.'

    'Mr Pegge told me that your brother had obviously been in a fight of some sort. His hat was off, his wig askew, his clothes dishevelled. He seemed tired rather than dazed. As soon as he was lifted to his feet, he became violent.'

    "That does not sound like Henry.' 'How well do you know your brother?'

    'Not as well as I thought, it seems,' conceded Christopher. 'But it's this Captain Harvest who interests me. Did he flee from his lodging in order to avoid paying his rent or has he quit the city before the trial is held?'

    'Why should he vanish from London?'

    'Because he's afraid to be cross-examined in court by a barrister.'

    'He's already given sworn evidence that he heard your brother threaten the life of Signor Maldini. He was not too frightened to do that. I've met Captain Harvest. He's the sort of man who's not afraid of anything.'

    'Except paying his landlord.'

    Jonathan smiled. 'I fancy that he makes a habit of changing his lodgings.'

    Christopher was lost in thought for a moment. 'I still feel that he's more involved in this whole business than we realize,' he said at length. 'Everything you've told me agrees with Mr Crenlowe's view of the man and he knew him better than any of us. Could it really be the case that Captain Harvest arranged the encounter between Henry and the fencing master?'

    'To what end?'

    'Provoking them into a duel.'

    'But your brother would stand no chance against Signor Maldini.'

    'Unless the Italian were also drunk or disabled in some other way. Or perhaps,' Christopher went on, offering another possibility, 'this mischievous soldier brought the two enemies to the verge of a duel then took a hand in the proceedings himself.'

    Jonathan was startled. 'Captain Harvest may have been the killer?'

    'It would not be the first time he had blood on his hands.'

    'But he stood to lose most from Signor Maldini's death,' argued Jonathan. 'The two men were friends. Captain Harvest worked at the fencing school. He earned his keep there. Why murder a man who employed him and who often loaned him money?'

    "There has to be a reason, Jonathan.'

    'I fail to see it.'

    'Perhaps he wanted to take over the fencing school himself. Perhaps he had a disagreement with Signor Maldini. Perhaps he owed the man far more than he could ever repay. All kinds of motives may have impelled him,' said Christopher. 'What we do know is that he has no affection for my brother.'

    'He spoke very slightingly of him, Mr Redmayne.'

    'And is now openly proclaiming Henry's guilt. What better way to throw suspicion off himself than by accusing another man? That must be the answer.'

    'I have my doubts.'

    'Don't you see?' asked Christopher, excited by the idea. 'He instigated a duel between Signor Maldini and my brother to act as a shield for his own designs. Henry was used. Captain Harvest must have followed him that night, knowing that the Italian was lying in wait for him.' He was dismayed by Jonathan's obvious lack of enthusiasm for the theory. 'You must confess that it's possible.'

    'Anything is possible.'

    'You met the fellow. You said that he was untrustworthy.'

    'That's a far cry from accusing him of murder.'

    'Why is he the only one of the three who is not supporting my brother?'

    'I prefer to ask another question, Mr Redmayne,' said Jonathan calmly. 'Why has neither Sir Humphrey nor Mr Crenlowe suggested that Captain Harvest is involved in some way? I only met him once. They've shared his company many times. So has your brother, for that matter. Did he tell you that he was the victim of a plot that was hatched by the captain?'

    Christopher heaved a sigh. 'No, Jonathan,' he confessed, 'he did not. And I apologise for letting my imagination run away with me. I'm so desperate to help my brother that I'm confusing possibility with proof. However,' he continued, 'I do think that Captain Harvest will bear more examination.'

    "That's why I went in search of him again.'

    'I'd like to speak with the gentleman myself.'

    'He's an affable character, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Yet rather slippery.'

    'Captain Harvest is a man who lives on his wits.'

    'So I gathered,' said Christopher. 'But I'd like your opinion of the other witnesses as well. Mr Crenlowe is an approachable man. I'm sure that he'd be prepared to talk to you about the case.'

    'What of Sir Humphrey Godden?' 'Choose the time you call on him with care.'

    'You'll need to furnish me with their addresses.'

    'And I'll require some guidance to find Captain Harvest. Where might he be?'

    'In one of his favourite taverns, I daresay.'

    'Give me a list of them before you go.'

    'I will, Mr Redmayne. Did you say that you'd visit your brother today?'

    'I must,' replied Christopher. 'Henry is suffering badly in Newgate. There are no friendly faces to comfort him in prison. I'll take food and drink, and do my best to instil some hope into him.'

    'Will you tax him about his hatred of Signor Maldini?'

    'In what way?'

    'Well,' said Jonathan, getting to his feet, 'your brother told you that it was because the Italian cheated at cards.'

    'Sir Humphrey Godden supplied another reason. He said that Henry was ridiculed at the fencing school by Signor Maldini. That would inflict a terrible wound on his pride.'

    'Captain Harvest took a different view.'

    'So you said.'

    'He insisted that a third party was involved. According to him, a certain lady was the real cause of dissension between the two men.' There was a note of profound disapproval in Jonathan's voice. 'I wonder why your brother never even mentioned her.'

    Christopher swallowed hard. 'It's something that I intend to ask him.'

    The first time they carried a litter past his cell, the corpse was not even covered. As he looked through the grill, Henry Redmayne saw the body of a woman, dressed in rags, misshapen by age and skeletal from hunger, being borne away by two of the turnkeys. Her face was so disfigured by disease that Henry turned away in disgust. Gaol fever had claimed another victim. On the second occasion, the body was hidden beneath a shroud that was sodden with blood around the neck and chest. Henry was at the grill again. Seeing his face, the bearers of the litter stopped briefly outside his cell so that he could look more closely at the cadaver.

    'What happened?' asked Henry.

    'He took the easy way out of Newgate,' replied one of the turnkeys.

    'How did he do that?'

    'With a razor. He cut his throat.'

    Henry recoiled. 'Why?'

    'He wanted to cheat the hangman.'

    'And he took his own life?'

    The turnkey grinned. 'You'll warm to the notion yourself before too long.'

    They went on their way and left Henry to meditate on horror of what the other prisoner had done. He was sufficient of a Christian to know that suicide was an unforgivable sin. The dead man would be denied the privilege of being buried in hallowed ground and would never go to meet his Maker. What had forced the man to take such a wild and irrevocable step? What was his crime? How had he come by the means to kill himself? Did he have any family and friends to grieve for him? Henry was so preoccupied with the misery of another prisoner's lot that he all but forgot his own. Then a rat ran across his foot and made him yelp. He looked round the four bare walls that hemmed him in. The straw in his cell was clogged with filth and the prison stench was now so strong that it made him retch. His clothing was in an appalling state. The shirt on which he had spent so much money was caked with grime and his breeches were badly torn. He looked worse than the meanest beggar.

    Henry curled up in a corner to reflect on the malignity of fate. An hour crawled slowly past. He was still cursing his misfortune when something was dropped through the grill on to the straw. He groped about in search of it then drew his hand away sharply as it made contact with the blade. Someone had tossed a razor into his cell but it was not to help him shave. It had already drawn blood from his finger and he licked it hard. On impulse, he picked the razor up and went to push it back through the bars then something stopped him. The razor was a weapon of last resort. He did not feel the need of it now but it would be foolish to spurn it altogether. Suicide would be less painful than execution. He understood that very clearly. One swift slice with the razor across his throat and he would bleed to death quietly in the privacy of his cell. If he slit his wrists first, he would die even more quickly. Set against the ignominy of a trial and the agony of a public hanging, suicide began to have a growing appeal.

    Propped against the wall, he considered his future. It was grim.

    He had been locked up for days like a common criminal with nothing to soften the wretchedness of his day. Those who were working for his release had obviously had no success and he had come to accept that perhaps he was, after all, the man who ended the life of Jeronimo Maldini. He had certainly been involved in a fight of some sort on the night in question and he did remember reaching for his dagger. How it had got into the Italian's back, he did not know. His fear was that he would go to his grave without ever learning the truth. His brother and two of his friends might believe in his innocence but they were not judge and jury in the case. Men had been hanged on less evidence than that presented against him. Henry was so dejected that he could not even entertain the vague possibility of release. What obsessed him was the image of a noose being put around his neck to strangle the life slowly and painfully out of him in front of a jeering crowd.