The Amorous Nightingale (13 page)

    'It's
in my pocket.'

    'Ah.'

    'And
before you ask,' said Killigrew, anticipating his request, 'you may not view my
private correspondence. Anything that passes between Harriet Gow and me is our
business and nobody else's. Be assured of that. What you can do, Henry,' he
continued, impaling his visitor with a piercing stare, 'is to tell me what
brought you here in the first place. No lies, no evasions, no feeble excuses.
What, in God's name, is going on? Why these questions? Why this subterfuge? Why
come charging over to my theatre in order to apprise me of something I already
knew?' He stood inches away from his visitor and barked at him. 'Well?'

    Henry
shifted his feet. His mouth felt painfully dry.

    'Is
that a flagon of wine I see on the table?' he murmured.

    Christopher
Redmayne was in a quandary. The lonely ride back to Fetter Lane gave him the
opportunity to review its full extent. Clucked from a lucrative commission to
supervise the building of the house he had designed, he was asked to track down
and safely retrieve an actress who had been kidnapped in violent circumstances
and who might already be a long distance away from London by now. What little
information he had at his disposal had come from a coachman who had been beaten
senseless and who was still stunned by the assault. Christopher's only
assistant was his brother, Henry, erratic at the best of times, nothing short
of chaotic at the worst. Jonathan Bale, the constable selected by the King to
aid him in his search, had refused even to take a serious interest in the case
because of its moral implications. It was lowering. To all intents and
purposes, Christopher was on his own.

    In an
instant, the summons from the Palace had altered the whole perspective of his
life. Instead of being engaged on site in the parish of St
Martin's-in-the-Fields, he would have to begin the following day either by
delaying work on the foundations or by yielding up control to Lodowick
Corrigan. Neither course of action recommended itself. What excuses could he
make? How would his absence be viewed? He blenched as he thought what sort of
an impression his enforced disappearance would make on Jasper Hartwell. His
client embodied a further complication. Here was a man, hopelessly in love with
the very woman who had been abducted. What if Hartwell somehow caught wind of
the kidnap? He would hardly thank Christopher for keeping such vital
intelligence from him. It might sour their friendship beyond repair, perhaps
even lose him the priceless commission to design the Hartwell residence.

    Wherever
he looked, Christopher saw potential hazards. His search for the royal
nightingale could be the ruination of him. With so little in the way of clues,
it was an intimidating task. He was groping in the dark. His one hope lay in a
speedy solution of the crime but that seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. Without
the resourceful Jonathan Bale at his elbow, he was fatally-handicapped. It was
an open question whether Henry would actually help, hinder or unwittingly
subvert his enquiries.

    He
was still wrestling with his problems as he turned into Fetter Lane at the
lower end and nudged his horse into a trot. Gloom was slowly descending on the
city now, wrapping up its buildings and its thoroughfares in a first soft layer
of darkness. When he got closer to his own house, however, there was still
enough light for him to pick out the shape of the coach that was standing
there. His ears soon caught the sound of a loud altercation in which Jacob
seemed to be involved. Christopher dropped from the saddle and ran to
investigate.

    His
arrival was timely. Jacob was trying to explain to his visitor that his master
was not at home but the man became aggressive and started to hurl threats at
the old servant, waving a fist and accusing him, in the ripest of language, of
wilful obstruction. Unabashed, Jacob gave tongue to such stinging obscenities
that his companion was momentarily silenced. Christopher leaped into the gap
between expletives.

    'What
on earth is going on here?' he demanded.

    'There
you are!' said Roland Trigg, swinging around to confront him. 'I need to speak
to you, sir, but this idiot of a servant is trying to send me packing.'

    
'I'll
send
you
packing if you can't speak more civilly, Mr Trigg. Anybody who
abuses my servant must answer to me. Jacob is not an idiot. He's the most
trustworthy man I know and he is waiting patiently for an apology from you.'

    Trigg
glowered at Jacob who responded with a gap-toothed smile. The coachman used
Christopher as his court of appeal.

    'But
I've something important to tell you, sir.'

    'It
can wait until you've apologised to Jacob.'

    'I
came straight here when I found out about it.'

    Christopher
held his ground. Hands on his hips, he waited with tight-lipped disdain while
Trigg argued, whinged, pleaded and blustered. In the end, the coachman realised
that the servant had to be appeased before the master would listen to him. A
reluctant apology tumbled out, stinging his swollen lip in the process.

    'Thank
you, Mr Trigg,' said Christopher evenly. 'Now that we've got that out of the
way, perhaps you should step into my house. Stable my horse, please, Jacob.
I'll not be going out again tonight.'

    'Very
good, sir,' said the other.

    While
his servant took charge of his horse, Christopher led his guest into the
parlour. Trigg removed his hat to reveal the bandage. By the flickering light
of the candles, he looked even more gruesome. Taking off his own hat, Christopher
lowered himself into a chair and kept the coachman standing.

    'What
is it that you wish to say to me?' he asked brusquely.

    'There's
been more trouble, sir.'

    'Trouble?'

    'I
didn't know who to turn to. Mr Chiffinch said I wasn't to bother him but I
wasn't to talk to anyone else either. Apart from you, that is. He gave me this
address so I come here.'

    'And
picked a fight with my servant.'

    'I
thought he was lying to me.'

    'Jacob
never lies, Mr Trigg. As you saw, I was not on the premises when you called.
Well, come on,' he prompted, 'let's hear it. What's all this about trouble?'

    'Someone
else was took, sir.'

    'Someone
else?'

    'Mary,'
said the other. 'Mary Hibbert. Mrs Gow's maidservant.'

    'Kidnapped,
you mean?'

    'That's
what it looks like, sir. Mary almost never stirs from the house except to go to
the theatre with Mrs Gow. She should have been there. But when I got back, the
door was open and the place was empty.'

    'Had
anything been taken?'

    'Not
so far as I could see.'

    'Were
there any signs of a struggle?'

    'None,
sir.'

    'Then
how do you know that Mary Hibbert was kidnapped?'

    'It's
the only explanation, sir,' gabbled Trigg. 'One of the neighbours told me he'd
heard sounds of a scuffle and the noise of a coach being driven away fast. His
wife thought she might have heard a woman's scream.'

    'Might
have?'

    'Mary
is in danger, Mr Redmayne. I
know
it.'

    'The
evidence is hardly conclusive.'

    'She's
such a dutiful girl, sir. Mary would never go out of the house when Mrs Gow was
expected back. Nor would she leave the door wide open for anyone to walk in.
Mrs Gow has many admirers,' he said with a touch of rancour. 'Too many for
comfort. Some of them try to pester her at home. My job is to keep them at bay.
If I'm not there to protect Mrs Gow, then Mary always is. Please, sir,' he
begged. 'You must believe me.

    I
wouldn't have bothered you without real cause. Mary's been took.'

    'Then
it's a worrying new development,' conceded the other. 'You did right to bring
the news to me, Mr Trigg. Thank you.'

    Though
he could not bring himself to like the man, Christopher took pity on him. In
the service of Harriet Gow, he had taken a severe beating. He was plainly
distressed that both of the women he was employed to safeguard had been
snatched away from him. Shuttling between anger and remorse, Trigg was like a
distraught father whose daughters had been abducted.

    'When
we met at the Palace,' recalled Christopher, 'you told me that you'd been
coachman to Mrs Gow for over a year.'

    'That
is true, sir.'

    'And
before that?'

    'I
held a similar post with Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

    'Why
did you leave?'

    'I
was offered the chance to work for Mrs Gow.'

    'How
did that come about?'

    'A
friend put in a kind word for me.'

    'You
obviously take your duties seriously.'

    'It's
the best position I've ever had, sir,' said Trigg earnestly. 'Until today, that
is. Mrs Gow treats me very well and I've grown fond of Mary Hibbert. They're
almost like a family to me. I can't tell you how upset I feel because I've let
them down.'

    'Don't
blame yourself, Mr Trigg.'

    'I
should've
saved
Mrs Gow,' he insisted, beating his thigh with a fist. 'I
should have been there to protect Mary Hibbert. It's my fault, Mr Redmayne, and
there's no getting away with it. That's why I want to do all I can to find
them. Use me, sir - please. Call on me at any time. I must be part of the
rescue.'

    'You
will be, Mr Trigg.'

    Christopher
appreciated the offer of help though he was not quite sure how best to employ
it. The coachman's strength might certainly be an asset, especially as
Christopher did not have the reassuring bulk of Jonathan Bale alongside him.
Yet the sheer physical power of Roland Trigg could also be a handicap if used
in the spirit of vengeance. During their earlier meeting, the coachman had made
his feelings about the kidnappers quite plain. Murder had danced in his eyes.
Christopher did not wish to be party to acts of random homicide.

    'How
are you now?' he asked, considerately.

    'Hurt
and upset, sir.'

    'I
was referring to your wounds. You were still somewhat dazed when we spoke at
the Palace. You had difficulty collecting your thoughts.'

    'Not
any more.'

    'Does
that mean you've had time to think things over?'

    'I've
been doing nothing else, Mr Redmayne.'

    'And?'

    'I
believe I know who might be behind all this.'

    'You
gave us a few possible names earlier.'

    'I
forgot the most obvious one.'

    'And
who's that?'

    'Mr
Bartholomew, sir.'

    'Bartholomew?'

    'Yes,'
said the other with conviction. 'Bartholomew Gow. If you ask me, he's more than
up to a trick like this. That's who you should be looking for, sir. Mrs Gow's
husband.'

    Sarah
Bale had long ago learned to read her husband's moods. It enabled her to offer
succour when it was needed, advice when it was welcome and understanding when
it was appropriate. Jonathan wanted none of these things now. Having retreated
into a reflective silence, he was temporarily beyond her reach. His wife
respected his mood. When her work was finally done, she adjourned to the
parlour to sit with her husband and to mend a pair of Richard's breeches by the
light of the candle. Her needle was slow and unhurried. Though she was eager to
hear what had passed between Christopher

    Redmayne
and him, she did not dare to raise the subject with Jonathan while he was
preoccupied.

    It
was a long time before he even became aware of her presence.

    'Have
you finished your work?' he said, looking up.

    'It's
never entirely finished, I'm afraid.'

    'But
you're done in the kitchen.'