Frost Fair (44 page)

    Standing over his man, Christopher held the point of his weapon at his throat.

    'Now, Mr Crenlowe,' he said. 'Tell me what
really
happened that night.'

Epilogue

    Lady Whitcombe was overjoyed to receive the invitation to Fetter Lane. The thought of spending time with Christopher Redmayne was always a pleasant one but it held an even richer promise now that she had made her declaration to him. Feeling that she was in a position to exert influence over him, she had no hesitation in using it. Since his brother had now been released from prison, Lady Whitcombe had a double reason to rejoice with him. She could mark her closer relationship with the architect and celebrate the vindication of his family's name. Nothing could now prevent Christopher from resuming his work for her. Even her son, Egerton, albeit reluctantly, had accepted that. It was her daughter, however, who was now proving troublesome. They were in the house of the friends with whom they were staying. Lady Whitcombe was about to leave.

    'Let me come with you, Mother,' said Letitia, grabbing her arm.

    'Not this time,' replied the other, waving her away. 'Mr Redmayne and I have private business to discuss.'

    'But I wish to congratulate him on solving that crime.'

    'I'll pass on congratulations for you, Letitia.'

    'Mother!'

    'There's no point in arguing,' said the older woman. 'I'm going alone.'

    'I want to see Mr Redmayne,' protested the girl, stamping a foot in rebellion. 'I like him and he likes me. It's so unfair to keep me away from him like that.'

    'You'll be seeing a great deal of him in due course, I promise you.'

    Before her daughter could throw a tantrum, Lady Whitcombe swept out of the house and stepped into her carriage. During the drive to Fetter Lane, she rehearsed what she was going to say to the young man whose talent as an architect, and whose charm as a person, had so captivated her. When she arrived at the house, he opened the door to her himself and gave her a cordial welcome before taking her into the parlour. Lady Whitcombe had the distinct impression that they were the only people there and that added to her sense of excitement. She took a seat and beamed at him.

    'Let me say how delighted we all were to hear your good news,' she began. 'Your brother must be immensely proud of you for what you did on his behalf.'

    'I had a great deal of help, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher modestly. 'My good friend, Jonathan Bale, deserves much of the credit.'

    'But you are the chief architect of this triumph.' She chortled. 'Forgive me, Mr Redmayne. I did not mean to offer you such a feeble play on words. The point is that you were brave and resolute.' She became almost coquettish. 'In your letter, you said that you had something of importance to tell me.'

    'Yes, Lady Whitcombe.'

    'Well?'

    'It concerns your commission,' he said, sitting beside her. 'If I'm to continue in your employ, there's something that must be understood at the start.'

    'You must continue,' she insisted. 'I'll hold you to the contract.'

    'Yet you had doubts about me earlier on.'

    'Only for a brief moment. Be advised, Mr Redmayne,' she said with quiet authority, 'that I'd never release you from the contract. It's legally binding.'

    'In that case, we must talk about your late husband.'

    'Sir Peregrine?' she asked, quite baffled. 'Why?'

    'Something rather distressing has come to light,' he said.

    Christopher tried to break the news to her as gently as possible. He explained about Jeronimo Maldini's work as a spy and how certain documents had been found in a secret compartment of his desk. Lady Whitcombe angrily refuted the suggestion that her husband would have had anything to do with the man until she was shown letters in a hand that she identified immediately. There could be no doubting the fact that Sir Peregrine Whitcombe had been willing to betray his country in return for payment. She remembered that her son had talked of introducing his father to Maldini. That was how the connection between them had first been made. It threw her into a panic. If the truth about her husband were to become common knowledge, she would lose face completely and the memory of Sir Peregrine Whitcombe would be reviled. It would mean a dramatic loss of all the things she most prized. Realising the consequences of disclosure, she reached out to grasp Christopher's hand.

    'Who else knows about this?' she asked.

    'Only my friend, Mr Bale.'

    'Will he divulge it?'

    'No, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher. 'And neither will I, if we can come to an agreement. When the reputation of my family was in danger, you were kind enough to offer me your support. That meant a lot to me at a time when most people were looking askance at the name of Redmayne. I'd like to give you my support in return and prevent your family name from being sullied unnecessarily. Nothing will be served by digging up the mistakes of the past,' he decided. 'This unfortunate episode is now over. Signor Maldini is dead and so is Sir Peregrine. I believe that we should let their dark secrets die with them.'

    'That's so generous of you, Mr Redmayne,' she said, squeezing his hand.

    'My generosity comes at a price.'

    'Name it and you shall have it.'

    'I'll remain as your architect,' he said, withdrawing his hand, 'on condition that there's no suggestion of any personal relationship between us.' Her jaw dropped, her face went blank and she looked much older all of a sudden. 'I'm here simply to make sure that your house is built the way that it should be. It's the only basis on which I'll agree to proceed. Do I have your word on that, Lady Whitcombe?'

    The disappointment showed in her eyes but it was tempered with gratitude for what he had done. Christopher had the power to hurt her in the most comprehensive way yet he stayed his hand. Instead of being able to reap the benefits of being the widow of Sir Peregrine Whitcombe, she might be ostracised as the wife of a man who sold state secrets to a foreign country. Coping with the horror of what she had learned about her husband was devastating for someone who had trusted him implicitly. She did not want humiliation as well. Lady Whitcombe saw her folly. She had been driven by desire to seek a closer acquaintance with her architect and she had tried to manipulate the awkward situation in which he found himself to her advantage. She had now been hoist with her own petard and it left her in despair.

    '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.