The Amorous Nightingale (33 page)

    'Yes,'
said his brother. 'I can only remember bits of it.'

    'Tell
us what they are,' encouraged the Dean.

    'It
was the last place I would have expected an attack, Father.'

    'What
was?'

    'The
church.'

    Astonishment
registered. 'You were in a
church?'

    'I
visit it every day.'

    'Which
one?'

    'That's
the strange thing,' said Henry, manufacturing his story as he went along. 'I don't
know. All that I can recall is that I was kneeling in prayer when I felt a tap
on my shoulder. I thought it was probably the churchwarden, wanting a quiet
word with me, so I followed him down the nave. Suddenly, I felt something
strike me across the back of the head and I pitched forward. The blows came
thick and fast after that.' There was a shrug in his voice. 'My purse was taken
and so were my rings. That's what the villains were after. But to have it
happen on consecrated ground!' he concluded, with a passable stab at
indignation. 'It was sacrilege!'

    The
Dean of Gloucester's face was impassive. When he leaned in close to his elder
son, however, his eyes gleamed knowingly.

    'The
injuries have patently affected your memory,' he said quietly. 'Wherever else
you received them, it was not in a church. I have had time to look around your
house and note the inordinate amount of wine and brandy in your cellars. I also
took the liberty of inspecting your wardrobe. Nothing I saw even hinted at a
man of religious conviction. Indeed, if you dared to wear any of that garish
apparel in Gloucester Cathedral, Bishop Nicholson would call the verger and
have you ejected for mockery.'

    'Henry
looks tired, Father,' interrupted Christopher, coming to his brother's aid.
'Perhaps we should leave him to rest.'

    'Of
course,' agreed the other. 'Let me just say one last thing to him. Listen very
carefully, Henry.'

    'I
will, Father,' croaked the patient.

    'Make
use of this dreadful experience. Reflect on your life and wonder whether these
injuries were not inflicted on you by way of just deserts. I am deeply
sympathetic,' he emphasised. 'As your father, I am also upset to see you in
such a condition. But your ordeal may yet have a curative effect. When you have
recovered your strength and regained your memory, you may be ready to own that
your tale about the church was a pretty fable devised to invite my approval.
Next time I ask you what really happened,' he said firmly, 'I would like the
truth.'

    Henry
Redmayne quivered and took refuge once more in sleep.

    As he
made his way home on foot from Clerkenwell, Jonathan Bale reflected on the
caprices of Fate. Bartholomew Gow had been a man of comfortable means, living in
a fine house with a beautiful young wife and looking towards a future of
uninterrupted happiness. Everything had changed dramatically. He was now
embittered, short of money, living in a dingy abode with nothing more than a
freakish servant for company and facing a bleak and lonely future. Jonathan
could still not understand exactly how it had happened, but he did feel sorry
for the man. The story had come out in fits and starts and it was only now that
the constable was able to piece it together properly.

    In
his own estimation, Gow was a casualty of his wife's ruthless ambition. Since
so much of it was activated by self- pity, Jonathan did not believe all that he
had heard from the man. What interested him was Bartholomew Gow's ambivalent
attitude towards his wife. Angry at her for the way she had treated him, he was
genuinely concerned at the news of her abduction and fearful that she might be
hurt in some way. Yet that concern was itself tempered by the feeling that
justice may somehow have been done, that Harriet Gow was getting no more than
she deserved for the way she had behaved. At one point, an almost complacent
smile had touched Gow's lips.

    Jonathan
was baffled. His insight into a turbulent marriage upset him. He could not
comprehend how two people who came together out of love and who took sacred
vows at the altar could part with such enmity. Harriet Gow should certainly not
take all of the blame herself. As he listened to the husband's meandering
account of events, Jonathan saw the man's defects revealing themselves. Gow was
spiteful, envious of his wife's talents, boastful about himself, mean-
spirited, capable of bursts of temper and quite unable to accept that he had in
any way been in the wrong. Though his visitor came to see how an outwardly
personable man like Gow could have attracted an inexperienced girl to marry
him, he also noted some of the shortcomings in the husband that must in time
have irritated his spouse beyond measure.

    When
he turned into Addle Hill, he felt a surge of love for his own wife, a deep
gratitude that he and Sarah had not bickered and battled with each other in the
way that Bartholomew Gow and his wife clearly had. Jonathan and Sarah Bale had
a different kind of partnership. It might lack the luxuries and the excitements
that the other marriage had enjoyed at the start but it had endured. It was the
core of Jonathan's life, the immoveable base from which he set out each day and
to which he could return with the confident expectation of a warm smile and a
loving welcome. A long conversation in Clerkenwell made him count his own
blessings. He was not given to impulsive gestures as a rule, but when he let
himself into the house and found Sarah in the kitchen, he wrapped her in his
arms and gave her a resounding kiss.

    'What
have I done to deserve that?' she said, laughing.

    'You're
here,
Sarah.'

    'Well,
of course I'm here. I've sheets to wash and clothes to mend and a dozen other
chores to get through. I can't stir from the house until all that's done.'

    'That
wasn't what I meant, my love.'

    'Then
what did you mean?'

    'Nothing,'
he said.

    The
second kiss was brief but tender. Sarah busied herself with getting a meal for
him. Eating times were irregular in the Bale household because she never knew
when his duties would allow him to slip back to the house. She never carped
about the fact. Though she might tease him at times, she rarely chided him
about anything. What she had married was a good, honest, loving man who worked
as a shipwright in their early years together. Her commitment was total. Sarah
did not question his decision to become a constable even though it meant that
less money would come into the house and that he would be exposing himself to
constant physical danger. She was content to support him in whatever he chose
to do.

    'I
hoped you might be back earlier,' she said, putting the food on the table.
'Where have you been?'

    'Far
afield.'

    'Oh?'

    'What
about you, my love?'

    'I've
been far afield myself,' she joked. 'I went into the parlour, back into the
kitchen, upstairs to clean the rooms, down again to start the washing in here
then out to the garden to peg it on the line. You're not the only person who's
travelled today, Jonathan Bale.'

    He
munched his slice of ham and smiled. She knew instinctively that he was engaged
in a serious investigation but she did not press for details. Sarah would be
told what was going on when her husband was ready to confide in her and not
before. As she babbled on about the customers who had called at the house that
morning, Jonathan felt sorry that he had to keep her in ignorance, but the case
required absolute secrecy and there were some elements in it that he could
never divulge. From the speed with which he gobbled his meal, Sarah could see
how anxious he was to get back to his work. Collecting a kiss of thanks, she
saw him to the door.

    'When
will you be back?' she asked.

    'I've
no idea, my love.'

    'In
time to read to the children?'

    'I
hope so.'

    'They
like to hear their father read,' she said. 'Though they did enjoy listening to
Mr Redmayne, too. Oliver loved that story about Samson. Do tell that to Mr
Redmayne, if you chance to see him again.'

    'We
may have other things to discuss,' Jonathan murmured.

    He
walked up Addle Hill towards Carter Lane, intending to resume his task by
following up some of the lines of enquiry suggested to him by Bartholomew Gow.
Since the husband could now be excluded from the list of suspects, attention
had to centre on someone else. Jonathan did not get far before he realised that
he was being followed. The man must have been lurking not far from his home,
waiting for the constable to emerge before trailing him. Jonathan did not look
round for fear of frightening the stalker away. If someone had a reason to dog
his steps, he wanted to know what it was, regardless of the hazards that might
be involved.

    The
pursuit was relentless. Though he led the man on a twisting route, he could not
shake him off. Jonathan eventually walked into Ave Maria Lane, part of the area
around St Paul's Cathedral that had been stricken by the Great Fire and rebuilt
in accordance with the new specifications. The lane had been widened to
eighteen feet and some of its character had been lost in the process but the
change had been necessary. Having helped to fight the fire himself in the
previous year, Jonathan recalled how destructive and undiscriminating it had
been. Not even the towering magnificence of St Paul's had been spared. He had
taken a close interest in the reconstruction and had an intimate knowledge of
every inch of the district. That knowledge was now put to practical use.

    Swinging
right into Paternoster Row, he headed for a narrow passage that led off to a
tavern. It would be an ideal place for an attack. If his shadow were waiting
for his opportunity, this is where he would take it. Jonathan was ready for
him. Ambling along with apparent unconcern, he turned calmly into the passage
then flattened himself immediately into the first doorway. Footsteps quickened
and a stocky man came running around the corner with a cudgel in his hand,
ready to strike. With no quarry in sight, he came to a halt and gazed around in
astonishment, unaware that the constable was directly behind him. Relaxing his
grip on the weapon, he let it dangle by his side.

    Jonathan
was on him at once. Leaping out of his hiding place, he threw one arm around
the man's neck and used the other hand to grab the wrist that held the cudgel.
The man struggled fiercely and it was all that Jonathan could do to hold him.
He managed to twist the cudgel from the man's grasp and it fell to the ground
but his adversary was wily as well as strong. Unable to dislodge the constable,
he gave a sudden heave backwards and slammed him against the wall of a house.
The impact made Jonathan release his grip and the man wrenched himself free. He
retrieved his cudgel and raised it to hit out but Jonathan parried the blow
before it gained any real force.

    They
grappled, punched and lurched violently to and fro. Jonathan had to take a
couple more painful blows from the cudgel but he was not deterred. The man in
his arms was most probably one of the assailants who had beaten a coachman,
assaulted Henry Redmayne and, worst of all, helped to murder a defenceless
girl. The thought of Mary Hibbert lying on a slab put extra strength and
urgency into the constable. Bringing a knee up sharply into the man's groin, he
made him double up with agony. Jonathan seized him by the neck and swung him
headfirst against the nearest wall, splitting open his skull and depriving him
of all interest in continuing the brawl.

    It
was Jonathan's turn to hold the cudgel now. He hauled the man upright, pinned
him roughly against the wall and held the weapon at both ends so that he could
press it against his adversary's throat. Dazed and bleeding, the man spluttered
helplessly. His eyes began to bulge. Jonathan applied more pressure on his
windpipe.

    'Who
sent you?' he demanded.

    The
arrival of his father clouded his mind and robbed him of valuable time.
Christopher Redmayne had distractions enough without having to cope with the
Dean of Gloucester. Much as he loved his father, he could not imagine a more
untimely moment for the old man to descend on him. Paradoxically, the
unexpected appearance of Algernon Redmayne might work to the advantage of his
elder son. Swathed in linen and covered with bruises, Henry was able to draw
heavily on his father's compassion. Had the visitor caught him in his more usual
guise as a sybarite, the wounded man would have attracted abuse rather than
sympathy.