'Hence the fact that you are relegated to the outer fringes of this inquiry. Remain there in silence, please. Otherwise, you delay us.'
'Tell us about the abduction,' urged Christopher. 'Where exactly did it take place? How violent were the kidnappers? Was Mrs Gow hurt?'
'We hope not.'
'Yet the King said the coachman was overpowered.'
'No question of that,' said Chiffinch with a sigh.
'What do you mean?'
'Let the fellow speak for himself.'
He crossed to a door in the corner and opened it to admit a big, brawny man of middle years in a torn coat that was spattered with blood. The coachman's craggy features were disfigured by bruises, and heavy bandaging encircled his forehead. A split lip throbbed visibly with pain.
'This is Roland Trigg,' introduced Chiffinch. 'He has been Mrs Gow's coachman for over a year now. His duties include more than simply conveying her from place to place. Mr Trigg is familiar with her movements and with those in her intimate circle. But let us return to the abduction itself. Hear it from one who was actually there. Mr Trigg?'
Roland Trigg ran a purple tongue over his swollen lip.
'She was took, sirs,' he said with a mixture of sadness and anger. 'Stolen from me in broad daylight. I fought hard to save her but I was outnumbered. Four of them in all. One with a pistol and three with cudgels. They left their trademark all over me, but no matter for that. Help me to find them, sirs, for I have a score to settle with that quartet.'
'A score?' echoed Christopher.
'Yes,' vowed the other, bunching his fists. 'I mean to kill each one of them with my bare hands. Slowly. Just for the pleasure of it.'
Chapter Five
It was an afternoon of mixed fortunes for Jonathan Bale. Though he cleverly apprehended the thief who broke into unoccupied premises in Knightrider Street, he failed to catch the man's accomplice, a nimble youth who got away with appreciable takings. The constable went on to stop a fight between two irate neighbours, adjudicate in a marital dispute over a dead cat and give evidence before the magistrate in three separate cases. When a breathless Abraham Datchett accosted him with the news that a corpse was bobbing about in the river, Jonathan rushed down to the wharf, only to discover that the watchman's failing eyesight had confused a piece of driftwood caught up in some tarpaulin with human remains. There were further examples of success and failure during his patrol of Baynard's Castle Ward. It was a typical day.
When his feet took him close to Addle Hill once more, he slipped home to see his wife and to take some refreshment. Sarah Bale was in the kitchen as he let himself into the house. Bare arms deep in water, she was washing some clothes for regular clients. Among the jobs she took on in order to supplement their finances was that of tubwoman, receiving filthy sheets and returning them with an almost pristine whiteness. It was hard work but Sarah revelled in it, singing to herself as she laboured and building up a steady rhythm in the tub.
Jonathan came up behind her to plant a kiss on her cheek.
'Are you still doing that, my love?' he said.
'It will keep me busy for a couple of hours yet.'
'You take on too much, Sarah.'
'I never refuse good, honest work.'
'You should.'
'We need the money, Jonathan.'
'We'll manage somehow.'
'You always say that.'
'Only because it's the truth.'
She broke off to dry her hands and to appraise her husband.
'You look tired,' she noted.
'It's been a tiring afternoon.'
'Have you called in here to moan about it?'
'I never do that, Sarah, and you know it,' he said solemnly. 'My work is left behind the moment I step through that door. This is my refuge. My place of sanctuary.'
'I wish I could say the same.'
She glanced at the washing with a wry smile. Sarah Bale was a plump woman with a round face that was full of kindness and character. His wife was almost twice the weight she had been when she married him but Jonathan was quite unaware of the transformation that had taken place. The happiness of their union imposed a benign form of blindness on him. Looking at her now, he marvelled yet again at her comely features and her youthful vitality.
Though he resented the amount of work she accepted, Jonathan saw the practical advantages. Apart from bringing a steady trickle of additional money into the home, taking in washing, sewing or doing other chores gave Sarah an insight into the lives of many families in the locality. Most of what she picked up was idle gossip but some of the information was extremely useful to her husband. Jonathan prided himself on the fact that he knew everyone in his parish by name but it was his wife who often provided significant detail about some of the people he nominally protected.
Jonathan poured himself a mug of beer to slake his thirst.
'Whose washing is that?' he asked, indicating the tub.
'Mrs Calcart of Thames Street.'
'When is her baby due?'
'You're behind the times, Jonathan,' she said, poking his ribs with an affectionate finger. 'She brought a lusty son into the world over a fortnight ago. There'll be even more work from Mrs Calcart from now on.'
'That sounds like bad news.'
'Not to me,' she said brightly. Sarah folded her arms and became serious. 'I've been thinking about what you said earlier.'
'Earlier?'
'That meeting you had with Mary Hibbert.'
'Yes,' he admitted, 'it's been preying on my mind as well.'
'Oh? Why?'
'Because I feel I was rather stern with her. Without cause. I tried to be friendly but my words were somehow tinged with disapproval. Why deceive myself?' he asked with a shrug. 'I
'That was my view as well.'
'I'm sorry I spoke out of turn to Mary.'
'She's still very young.'
'Young and vulnerable.'
'You should have been more considerate.'
'Should I?'
'More understanding.'
'About what?'
'Her situation. This position she managed to secure. Most people would think that Mary Hibbert has done very well for herself.'
'I'm not one of them, Sarah.'
