The Amorous Nightingale (5 page)

    'Jacob!'
he called.

    'Yes,
sir?' said the old man, materialising at his elbow like a spirit.

    'Do
we have any drink in the house?'

    'A
little, sir.'

    'Give
me a more precise inventory.'

    'One
bottle of brandy and six bottles of wine.'

    'Is
the wine of good quality?'

    'I
think so, sir,' said Jacob defensively, 'but your brother decided otherwise. I
fear that Mr Redmayne's tastes are rather exotic. On his last visit here, he
made disparaging comments about your cellar, but that did not stop him from
consuming a whole bottle of the wine on his own.'

    'Only
one? Henry must have been on his best behaviour.'

    'Mr
Redmayne is given to excess.'

    Christopher
grinned. 'It comes from being the son of a senior churchman,' he said. 'Forget
my brother. Fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar and set out three glasses. A
celebration is in order.'

    'Indeed,
sir?'

    'Yes,
Jacob. My design has been approved by my client and he is bringing the builder
here this morning to meet me. This is an important moment in my career. I have
finally reached the stage where a house of mine will see the light of day
and
be paid for in full.'

    'That
is cheering news, sir.'

    'Look
upon those bare shelves in the cellar for the last time. They will mock us no
longer with their emptiness. We may at last be able to afford to fill them once
again, if not with a vintage to Henry's taste, then at least with a tolerable
wine.'

    Jacob
nodded then scuttled out of the parlour. Christopher looked down at the
drawings laid out on the table in front of him. He had laboured long and hard
to turn Jasper Hartwell's requirements into bricks and mortar, and he was
pleased with the result. His fears about his client's unacceptable demands had
been largely illusory. The exterior of Hartwell's new home would not, after
all, reflect its owner's fantastical appearance in any way. He had been as
willing to take instruction as to give it, resting gratefully on Christopher's
superior knowledge of line and form, and eschewing any extravagance or
vulgarity. The architect had been given the freedom to express himself without
too much interference.

    Christopher's
visit to The Theatre Royal had borne rich fruit. Not only had he acquired a
wealthy and indulgent client, he had been able to marvel at the art of Harriet
Gow, an actress at the very height of her powers. It had been a memorable
experience. The melancholy song from
The Maid's Tragedy
still haunted him
and he hummed the tune aloud as he envisaged her singing the lament once again.
Jacob showed less fondness for the sound. Returning from the cellar with a
bottle of red wine in his grasp, he clicked his tongue at his master.

    'You
are doing it again, sir,' he commented.

    'Doing
what?'

    'Humming
that dirge.'

    'It
is no dirge, Jacob, but the most bewitching song I ever heard.'

    'Then
someone else must have been singing it.'

    'Indeed,
she was.'

    'She?'

    'A
nightingale among women.'

    'I've
no time for birds who keep me awake after dark,' said the other, eyes twinkling
beneath their bushy brows. 'Especially when they are so mournful. I prefer to
hear happy songs in daylight.' He set the bottle on the table. 'Three glasses,
sir?'

    'Yes,
please.'

    'Your
brother will not be joining us, then?'

    'Henry
will not even be up at this time of the morning, Jacob. His barber does not
call until eleven. Besides, he has already played his part in this business.
The rest is up to me.'

    'Yes,
sir.' Jacob took the wine into the kitchen, returning empty-handed to peer over
Christopher's shoulder at the drawings. Scratching his bald pate, he let out a
wheeze of admiration through his surviving teeth. 'Will there be anything else,
sir?'

    'Not
for the moment. Though I should perhaps warn you.'

    'About
what, sir?'

    'My
client's appearance.'

    'His
appearance?'

    'It
is rather overwhelming.'

    'I'm
not easily overwhelmed, sir.'

    'That
is what I thought until I encountered Mr Jasper Hartwell. Suffice it to say
that ostentation is his middle name. Prepare yourself, Jacob. When you open the
front door, you will be met by a blaze of colour such as you have never
witnessed before.'

    'I'll
bear that in mind, sir.'

    He
disappeared from the room and Christopher was left to examine his handiwork
once more. Aspatia's song soon returned to his lips. He wondered if Harriet Gow
really would attend a banquet at the house he had designed. It gave the
commission additional lustre. His mind toyed with memories of the visit to the
theatre and time drifted steadily by. The arrival of a coach brought him out of
his reverie. Jacob opened the front door before the guests even had time to
ring the bell. True to his boast, he was impervious to the vivid plumage before
him. After conducting the two men into the parlour, the servant vanished into
the kitchen to await the summons concerning the wine.

    Jasper
Hartwell was at his most flamboyant. Dressed in a suit of blue velvet adorned with
gold thread, he doffed his hat, displayed the ginger wig to full effect, gave a
token bow and offered a crooked smile.

    'Forgive
the delay, Mr Redmayne,' he said earnestly. 'Mr Corrigan arrived at my lodgings
on time but we were held up in Holborn by the traffic. I've never seen so many
carts and carriages fighting over so little space. It was quite unbearable.
Something should be done about it. I may need to raise the matter in
Parliament. Oh,' he added, extending a gloved hand towards his companion, 'let
me introduce the man who will construct my wonderful new house - Mr Lodowick
Corrigan, builder supreme.'

    Christopher
exchanged a greeting with the newcomer then waved both men to chairs. Several
weeks had passed since their initial meeting and he had become habituated to
his client's mode of address. Jasper Hartwell lived in a world of superlatives.
Any architect he employed had, by definition, to be at the pinnacle of his
profession; any builder was, by extension, unrivalled in his craft. While
Hartwell burbled on excitedly about the project, Christopher sized up the man
charged with the responsibility of turning a bold vision into reality.

    Notwithstanding
his client's fulsome praise, Lodowick Corrigan did not inspire confidence. He
was a tall, wiry man in his forties, dressed like a gentleman but with more
than a hint of incongruity. Rough hands suggested hard work and his weathered
complexion was the legacy of long hours outdoors. Greying hair was divided by a
centre parting and fell either side of a mean, narrow face. High cheekbones and
a lantern jaw destroyed any sense of proportion and the obsequious grin was
unsettling. Corrigan said nothing but his dark eyes were loquacious: they spoke
of envy. Christopher sensed trouble ahead.

    It was
time to call for the wine.

    It
was no occasion for social niceties. Summoned to the inn by one of the
watchmen, Jonathan Bale took in the situation at a glance. A big, beefy man
with a red face had drunk too much too fast and become violent. Here was no
ordinary tavern brawl. Patient entreaty only fed the man's aggression. Having
knocked one customer unconscious, he beat the head of a second against a table
then hurled a bench at a third. When the innkeeper tried to remonstrate with
him, he was kicked in the stomach. The drunkard then went on the rampage,
overturning tables, heaving a huge settle to the floor and generally
terrorising everyone in the taproom. Watchmen were sent for but they arrived at
the moment when the man chose to discharge a pistol into the ceiling, creating
an impromptu snowstorm of plaster and extracting yells of rage from the couple
engaged in strenuous fornication in the bedchamber above.

    Jonathan
marched in on a scene of chaos. Sword drawn, the man was stumbling around the
room, swearing wildly, demanding a woman to take the edge off his lust and
swishing his weapon in all directions. The sight of the constable only turned
his tongue to even fouler language. Jonathan remained calm and waited for his
chance. It soon came. The man staggered unsteadily towards him and tried to
decapitate him with a vicious swipe of the sword. It was his last act of
defiance. Ducking beneath the blade, Jonathan flung himself hard at his
assailant, hitting him in the midriff and knocking every ounce of breath and
resistance from him. The man was toppled like a tree. There was a resounding
thud as the back of his head met the solid oaken floorboard then he plunged
into oblivion.

    A
grateful silence followed. It was broken by a gulping sound as the drunkard
began to vomit convulsively. Still nursing his stomach, the innkeeper walked
across to Jonathan.

    'Thank
you, Mr Bale,' he said with feeling. 'He went berserk.'

    'Do
you know the fellow?'

    'No,
he's a stranger. And he won't cross the threshold of the Brazen Serpent again,
that I can tell you.' '

    'If
he does,' advised one of the watchmen, 'call me. Had it not been for the
pistol, I'd have tackled the rogue myself.'

    'Then
he was lucky that he only had me to deal with, Abraham,' said Jonathan with an
affectionate smile. 'You and Luke Peach here would have torn him to pieces
between you and fed the scraps to the dogs. You are doughty watchmen.'

    Abraham
Datchett and Luke Peach did not hear the gentle irony in his voice. The two old
men were dutiful officers but age and infirmity limited their effectiveness as
agents of the law. They showed great bravery after the event but erred on the
side of discretion whenever a crisis occurred. Fond of them both, Jonathan
excused their obvious shortcomings and only ever assigned them tasks within
their compass.

    'Get
him out of here,' he ordered. 'He has an urgent appointment with the
magistrate. Lug him away so that this mess can be cleared up. I'll take
statements from all witnesses then overhaul you.'

    'Yes,
Mr Bale,' said Abraham, pleased to be called into action. He bent over the
supine figure. 'Grab his other arm, Luke. When I give the word, haul him
upright.'

    Jonathan
helped them to lift the miscreant to his feet. Getting a firm hold on him, the
two watchmen dragged him unceremoniously through the door, setting off a
communal sigh of relief. The constable was brisk in his work. After taking
statements from all who had been present during the outburst, he took possession
of the discarded pistol and sword, refused the innkeeper's offer of a free
tankard of ale and walked quickly after the others. The dazed offender was soon
being charged by the local magistrate.

    It
was the third incident to which Jonathan had been called that morning and he
knew that it would not be the last.

    Baynard's
Castle Ward, which he patrolled so sedulously, was an area rife with crime and
disorder. The Great Fire had temporarily burned out some of its worst offenders
but they were starting to trickle back now that rebuilding was under way in
earnest and fresh pickings were available. If the streets were to be kept safe,
Jonathan had to remain vigilant.

    As he
strode along Carter Lane with the sun on his back, he saw a figure emerge from
a house ahead of him. The sight of the young woman aroused ambivalent feelings
in him. Unsure whether she was a friend or a discarded acquaintance, he opted
for a muted greeting, tipping his hat solemnly and rising to a noncommittal
grunt.

    'Good
morning, Miss Hibbert.'

    Mary
Hibbert's pretty face lit up with unfeigned pleasure.

    'Good
morning, Mr Bale,' she said pleasantly. 'How nice to see you again! I hope that
I find you well?'

    'Very
well, thank you.'

    'How
is Mrs Bale?'

    'Extremely
well.'

    'I'm
pleased to hear it.'

    'You
have just been visiting your uncle, I see,' observed Jonathan with a nod at the
house. 'He has been ailing these past few weeks.'