The Amorous Nightingale (34 page)

    Christopher
rode towards Shoreditch at a steady canter. Henry's condition had been a help
to his brother as well. Anxious about the state of his elder son, the Dean had
sent for the physician and insisted on remaining at the bedside until he came.
Christopher was released to continue with work which, his father assumed, would
take him to the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields. Instead, the
architect was heading in the opposite direction.

    Jonathan
Bale's advice was sound. It did not take Christopher long to find one of the
local constables. Jeremy Vye was as unlike Jonathan as it was possible to be. A
short, stumpy, jovial man in his forties with a red nose and bloodshot eyes, he
was drinking ale in a tavern when the visitor tracked him down. Vye was keen to
help.

    'So,
then,' he said cheerily, 'Jonathan Bale sent you?'

    'Yes,
Mr Vye.'

    'Give
him my compliments.'

    'He
sends his to you,' said Christopher. 'He also assured me that you would know
almost everyone who lived in Old Street.'

    'Know
them and love them, Mr Redmayne. I was born and brought up in Shoreditch. Never
been more than a few miles away from the place. Old Street? I can tell you the
names of every man, woman and child,' he bragged. 'I can even tell you what
they call their cats and dogs.'

    'I'm
not after a pet, Mr Vye.'

    'Then
who are you after?'

    'Mr
Martin Eldridge.'

    The
constable blinked. 'Eldridge? That name
is
new to me.'

    'This
man is an actor.'

    'We
have a few of them in Shoreditch, sir. Out of work, mostly.' He rubbed his nose
thoughtfully. 'But this Mr Eldridge of yours must be a stranger to the area or
I'd have met him.

    My
guess is that he lodges at the far end of the street, sir. Mrs Lingard took in
a lodger recently - her dog is called Blackie, by the way - and there's a
gentleman who's just taken a room with Mrs Passmore. Oldish fellow with a
squint.'

    'Then
he's not the man I want. Martin Eldridge is still relatively young and
handsome. He'd bear himself well.'

    'Then
he has to be Mrs Lingard's lodger. Be careful of that dog of hers when you call
there, sir. Blackie can give you a nasty bite.'

    He led
Christopher out of the tavern and gave him directions. After riding to the
address he had been given, Christopher dismounted and knocked on the door of a
neat house of medium size, owned by someone who evidently took a pride in it.
When he knocked, he heard a dog bark. The landlady soon answered the summons.
Mrs Lingard was a pleasant woman of middle years and ample girth. Keeping her
dog under control with an affectionate kick, she listened to her visitor's
request before inviting him in.

    'Mr
Eldridge has a lot of visitors,' she explained, leading the way up the stairs.
'I can see why. He's a most charming gentleman.' She tapped lightly on a door
and called, 'There's someone to see you, Mr Eldridge. A Mr Redmayne.'

    After
a short delay, the door opened and Martin Eldridge came into view. Christopher
recognised him at once as the actor who had played Lysippus, brother to the
King in
The Maid's Tragedy,
a comparatively small yet telling role and
one which allowed him the final cautionary lines. Mrs Lingard was hovering.
Eldridge dismissed her with a smile.

    'Thank
you, Mrs Lingard.' He stood back from the door. 'You'd better come in, Mr
Redmayne.'

    Christopher
went into a room that was large and well appointed. The actor was a man who
liked his comforts. Bottles of wine stood on a table beside the script of a
play. Eldridge was excessively courteous. He motioned his visitor to a chair
then spoke in a rich, cultured voice.

    'You
don't look like a man of the theatre,' he observed.

    'Nor
am I, Mr Eldridge.'

    'I
won't pretend that I'm not disappointed. You see before you a man who is, I
regret to say, temporarily separated from his art. I await the call, Mr
Redmayne. I hoped that you might have brought it.'

    'No,
sir,' said Christopher. 'As it happens, it was Mr Killigrew who drew my
attention to you, but not because he wished to engage you again.'

    'Killigrew
is a money-grubbing old lecher!'

    'Yet
not without a perceptive eye for talent. In a performance of
The Maid's
Tragedy,
I saw an actor give a most excellent account of the role of
Lysippus. My congratulations, sir.'

    'Why,
thank you,' said the other, warming to him. 'I flatter myself that I acted to
the limit of my ability in that play. Not that anyone would have noticed with
Harriet Gow alongside me. She dwarfed us all.'

    His
tone was affectionate and quite free of envy. Given his cue, Christopher took
it at once. He sat forward earnestly in his chair.

    'It
is about Mrs Gow that I've come,' he said.

    'Why?'

    'I was
wondering if you knew where I could find her.'

    'At
her home, I daresay.'

    'She
does not seem to be there, Mr Eldridge.'

    'Then
you'd better ask Tom Killigrew where she is.'

    'Mr
Killigrew is as puzzled as I am, sir. The lady has disappeared.'

    'Harriet
would never do that,' argued the other. 'Not without due warning, in any case.
She's wedded to her art. It's always come first with her. If you've seen her
act and heard her sing, you'll know how gloriously she blossoms on a stage.'

    'Oh,
yes,' agreed Christopher. 'She was captivating.'

    'Yet
you say she's disappeared?'

    'I'm
afraid so.'

    'Since
when?'

    Christopher
gave him a shortened version of events, leaving out any mention of the King,
the ransom note and the murder of Mary Hibbert. The more he heard, the more
alarmed Martin Eldridge grew. Christopher watched him carefully to see if the
alarm was sincere and not simply called up by the skill of a trained actor.
There was something about Eldridge that was faintly troubling. The man was too
plausible, too ready with his responses, too expressive with his emotions.
Christopher had the strong feeling that he was hiding something from him.

    'When
did you last see Mrs Gow?' he asked.

    'Not
for some time, Mr Redmayne. As Tom Killigrew must have told you, I'm no longer
a member of the company. He dismissed me.'

    'Mr
Killigrew said that you were a good friend of Mrs Gow's.'

    'I
was and still am,' replied Eldridge with feeling. 'When she first joined the company,
she turned to me for advice and I was able to help her a little. At that time,
of course, she was still married to Bartholomew.'

    'Did
you ever meet her husband?'

    'Regularly.
He came to the theatre to collect her.'

    'How
did you get on with him, Mr Eldridge?'

    'Tolerably
well,' said the other. 'We all did at first. Then things began to turn sour
between them and we saw the results. Bartholomew was spiky and resentful. He
came to the theatre less and less.'

    'Was
he a vengeful man?'

    'I
think that he could be.'

    'On
what evidence?'

    'I
can't rightly say, Mr Redmayne. But any man who lost a wife like Harriet Gow
would be entitled to feel vengeful. Bartholomew always claimed that she slowly
emptied his purse then cast him aside because he could no longer afford to keep
her in such style.'

    'Have
you seen the house where she lives?'

    'Once
or twice.'

    'I
take it that Mrs Gow neither owns nor rents it.'

    'No,'
said the other smoothly, 'and it's none of my business who does. Acting is a
precarious profession, Mr Redmayne.

    We
all of us have to make concessions or reach compromises to stay afloat. Harriet
Gow has earned everything she has, believe me. I admire her for it.'

    'Some
of her colleagues at the theatre do not.'

    'Mindless
envy.'

    'Would
you describe Abigail Saunders as envious?'

    'I'm
a gentleman, Mr Redmayne,' said the other pointedly, 'which means that I lack a
vocabulary coarse enough to describe Abigail to you. We first acted together at
The Duke's Playhouse and I took her to be my friend then. I gave her a lot of
support but she chose to forget that in time. The kindest thing I can say about
Abigail Saunders is that she is a pretty little bloodsucker.'

    'Would
she be capable of sucking Mrs Gow's blood?'

    'To
the last drop!'

    'You
have a low opinion of the lady.'

    'The
woman,' corrected the other. 'Harriet Gow is a lady; Abigail is the inferior
version that we call a woman. But why sit here talking to me when you should be
out trying to find Harriet?' he said with sudden desperation. 'What have you
learned? Who have you talked to? Do you have no clues at all, Mr Redmayne?'

    'Several,
sir.'

    'Then
act on them. Harriet must be found!'

    'I
appreciate your anxiety, Mr Eldridge, but I have the feeling that you may be
able to help me rather more than you've so far been willing to do.' Christopher
fixed him with a stare. 'I suspect that you and Mrs Gow were
extremely
close friends. She confided in you: that means you know things that are germane
to this investigation, facts that might help to guide our footsteps.'

    'What
more can I tell you?'

    'To
begin with, you can be more precise about the date when you last saw Mrs Gow. A
man as fond of a lady as you patently are would not be parted from her for too
long. I think you know the day and the hour when the two of you last met.' An
inquisitive smile. 'Don't you?'

    Martin
Eldridge seemed relaxed to the point of nonchalance but his mind was working
busily. He appraised Christopher for some time, noting his visitor's strong
build and air of determination. He also eyed the sword and dagger that
Christopher wore. The architect would not easily be sent on his way. Other
measures needed to be adopted.

    'You're
right, Mr Redmayne,' he admitted sadly. 'There are things that I've held back.
From the best of motives, as you will see. Let me show you a letter from
Harriet. It may explain a lot.' He moved to the door. 'Wait here a moment while
I fetch it.'

    'Very
well.'

    Eldridge
went out of the room and left his guest to examine it with more care. It told
him much about the character and habits of the actor. When he crossed to the table
to pick up the printed text, he saw that the play was Shakespeare's
Othello.
Was Martin Eldridge planning a return to The Duke's Men? Only the company run
by Sir William D'Avenant had the right to stage revivals of Shakespeare's
plays. The sound of the front door opening alerted Christopher. Setting the
play aside, he went swiftly over to the window and was just in time to see
Martin Eldridge darting up Old Street before vanishing around a corner. Instead
of going to fetch a letter, the actor had bolted.

    Christopher
was furious with himself for being so easily duped. He hurried to the door,
flung it open and descended the stairs at speed but he was not permitted to
leave Mrs Lingard's house. Blocking his way and barking fiercely at him was a
large, black, angry dog with its eyes ablaze and its fangs bared.

    'He
doesn't like strangers,' explained the landlady helpfully.

    The
physician completed his examination and stood up from the bed.

    'His
condition is stable,' he announced.

    'Can
you not be more specific, sir?' asked Algernon Redmayne.

    'Your
son is neither better nor worse than when I was here earlier. Rest is the only
true physician. He took a fearful beating and has several cracked ribs. They
will take time to heal. As for the bruises,' said the old man, 'they will
vanish more quickly. Give him a week and you may recognise your son once
again.'