The Amorous Nightingale

    'The words were like a hot brand.'

    'Then steel yourself for more pain, Mr Bale. The call has come.'

    'To you or to me?'

    'To both of us. His Majesty was most specific about that.'

    Great surprise. 'He remembered who I was?'

    'By deed, if not by name.'

    'But I'm only a humble constable.'

    'I know, Mr Bale. I'm a struggling architect but that doesn't stop His Majesty from selecting the two of us for this assignment. It's a bizarre choice, I grant you, but not without its reason.'

    'Reason?'

    Christopher leaned forward. 'Before I say anything else, I must impress upon you the importance of secrecy. We are dealing with a very delicate matter here. Nothing must be heard outside these four walls.'

    'You can rely on me,' came the brisk reply, 'and nobody will eavesdrop. When my wife comes downstairs, she'll go straight to the kitchen. You can trust Sarah. She understands.' His eyes narrowed. 'Now, sir, what exactly is this very delicate matter?'

    'It concerns a lady, Mr Bale. A rather special lady.'

    Christopher was succinct. He gave a clear account of the facts without embellishment. The effect on Jonathan was startling. He was, by turns, shocked, alarmed, scornful, interested, almost sympathetic then patently disgusted. One question burst out of him.

    'Was the lady alone when she was abducted?' he asked.

    'Apart from her coachman, Mr Trigg.'

    'There was no one else in the vehicle with her, then?'

    'Such as?'

    'A maid, a companion.'

    'No, Mr Bale. The coachman left us in no doubt about that. Mrs Gow was completely alone. That's what made her such an easy target.'

    'I see.' Jonathan relaxed visibly before coming to a quick decision. 'Find someone else, Mr Redmayne. I'm not your man.'

    'What are you saying?'

    'That I've no wish to be involved. Why should I be? This crime has no relevance to me. It didn't take place in my ward and I can bring no particular skills to the solution of it. Someone else might. Seek him out and press him into service.'

    Christopher was aghast. 'You are daring to refuse?'

    'On a point of principle.'

    'But this assignment comes with a royal command.'

    'That's what appals me,' said Jonathan levelly. 'I'm sorry to hear that the lady in question has been kidnapped and I hope that she can be rescued before any harm comes to her, but I've no wish to be part of a scheme which has one obvious purpose.'

    'And what's that?'

    'Retrieving someone for His Majesty's bed.'

    'You put it very bluntly, Mr Bale.'

    'Bluntly but honestly.'

    Christopher was stung. 'I make no comment whatsoever on the King's motives,' he said quickly, 'but this I can tell you. Harriet Gow's importance does not rest solely on her relationship with His Majesty. She is an actress of supreme talents, adored by all who have seen her perform or heard her sing.' He rose to his feet. 'I had the good fortune to witness her on stage myself and I've never been so moved by the sheer histrionic power. The lady is a genius. Let me nail my colours to the mast,' he said proudly. 'To save Harriet Gow, I'd go to the ends of the earth and endure any hazards. But I'll not succeed on my own. That's why I need your help.'

    'It's not at your beck and call.'

    'Nor even at His Majesty's?'

    'There are other constables in London.'

    'But none with your particular abilities, Mr Bale. How can you hold back, man? You're sworn to uphold the law. A dreadful crime has been committed and you're turning your back on the opportunity to bring the villains to justice.' Christopher was almost imploring him. 'Please consider your decision again. You simply must help me.'

    'It's out of the question, sir.'

    'But why?'

    'I told you earlier. It's a point of principle. You may trumpet the lady's virtues but she inhabits a world of vice. Theatre is a symbol of all that's wrong with this city. I'll not subsidise corruption.' He got to his feet, his broad shoulders straightening as he did so. 'Nor will I provide a missing favourite for the King's bed. That's not what I call upholding the law, Mr Redmayne. It's condoning a vile sin in order to solve a crime.'

    'The lady is in grave danger!' said Christopher angrily.

    Jonathan was unmoved. He crossed the room to open the door.

    'Then you'd better try to find her,' he said calmly.

Chapter Six

    'Why are you asking me all these questions about Harriet Gow?'

    'Idle curiosity.'

    'I know you better than that, Henry.'

    'The lady fascinates me.'

    'She fascinates every man with red blood in his veins,' said Killigrew, twitching a lecherous eyebrow, 'but that doesn't make them interrogate me like this.'

    Henry Redmayne dispensed his most charming smile. 'I ask purely in the spirit of friendship, Tom.'

    'Friendship with me - or with Harriet?'

    'Both, my dear fellow.'

    'You're an accomplished liar, I'll give you that.'

    'Then we have something in common.'

    Thomas Killigrew laughed. He was too old and too experienced to be easily taken in. Now in his mid-fifties, he was a man of medium height, running to fat and showing candid signs of a lifetime of sustained dissipation. Viewing the puffy face with its watery eyes and drooping moustache, Henry found it difficult to believe that he was looking at the same man as the one who had been painted almost thirty years earlier by no less an artist than Van Dyck, the premier choice of Charles I, the most single-minded connoisseur of portraiture in Europe. Thomas Killigrew had moved in high circles. As a Page to the King and Groom of the Bedchamber, he was entitled to call upon the artistry of a true master. Anthony Van Dyck's brush had been precise.

    Henry had seen the painting at Killigrew's house on a number of occasions. It showed a pale, slim, desolate young man in mourning over the death of his wife, Cecilia Crofts, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. A bare eighteen months of marriage had ended in tragedy. Attached to the sleeve of the bereaved man was a gold and silver cross engraved with the intertwined initials of his dead wife. Around Killigrew's other wrist was a black band from which Cecilia's wedding ring dangled dolefully. The widower's expression was a study in dignified suffering. It was impossible to look at the portrait without being moved. Even someone as cynical and indifferent as Henry Redmayne had been profoundly touched when he first laid eyes upon it.

    Van Dyck would paint a vastly different picture now. Tom Killigrew had lost his good looks in a steady flow of drink and debauchery. There had been hardship along the way. An unrepentant Royalist, he endured arrest, imprisonment and exile during the Civil War but he also contrived to find a second wife for himself, a rich lady