The Amorous Nightingale

    'Those days have gone.'

    'They're sorely missed.'

    Christopher did not rise to the bait of his implication. Instead, he tried to make use of the other's much vaunted experience. After discussing what would be done on site that day, he surprised his companion by resorting to some mild flattery.

    'You know your trade, Mr Corrigan,' he said. 'I took the trouble to look at some of the houses you've put up in the city. Soundly built, every one of them. They're a credit to you.'

    'Why, thank you, Mr Redmayne.'

    'And a credit to the architect who designed them, of course.'

    'They were all amenable men,' said Corrigan.

    'Amenable?'

    'To my suggestions.'

    'Nobody is more amenable than I. Any suggestion of yours is always welcome. The problem is that I've not heard one yet that I thought worth taking seriously.'

    'That's because your head's still in the clouds, sir.'

    'Oh?' 'You're a true artist. All that concerns you is your reputation.'

    'Naturally.'

    'Other architects had a sharper eye for the possibilities.'

    'Of what, Mr Corrigan?'

    'Profit. Gain. Advancement,' said the builder slyly. 'Take your insistence on the use of Caen stone. It'll be expensive to buy and difficult to transport. The quarry in which I have a stake could provide stone that's similar in type and colour but costs half the price. Mr Hartwell doesn't know that, of course. Persuade him to change his mind about the portico and you could pocket the difference between the Caen stone and the kind I supply.'

    'What's in it for you?'

    'The pleasure of teaching a young man the ways of the world.'

    'The ways of your world, Mr Corrigan. Mine is very different. It includes quaint concepts like honesty, fair dealing and mutual confidence. Proffer any more lessons in cheating a client,' he warned, 'and I'll be forced to report the conversation to Mr Hartwell.' The builder's smirk vanished at once. 'Now, give me some advice that I can use.'

    'I don't follow,' said the other resentfully.

    'Have you ever built a house in the vicinity of St James's Palace?'

    'Two in Berry Street and one in Piccadilly.'

    'What interests me are some properties in Rider Street.'

    'Why?'

    'I'd like to know who built them. I understand that there's only a small row of houses there at present, but they're well designed and neatly constructed. How could I find out who put them up?'

    'By asking the man who owns them.'

    'They're leased out, then?'

    'If it's the houses I'm thinking of, yes.'

    'Do you happen to know who the landlord is?'

    'It used to be Crown land, Mr Redmayne,' said the other with a knowing grin. 'So the King must be getting an income from them. If you want to live in one of those houses, you'll have to kiss His Majesty's arse.' A crude cackle. 'Watch out for those royal farts, sir, won't you?'

    Jonathan Bale's day also began at dawn. After breakfast with his wife and children, he went off to acquaint Peter Hibbert with the sudden death of his sister. He was not looking forward to the assignment but someone had to undertake it and his link with the family made him the obvious choice. That was why he had volunteered so assertively in front of William Chiffinch. Horrified by Mary's death, Jonathan hoped that he might in some small way alleviate the distress that the tidings were bound to create. Peter was not the most robust character and his uncle was still very sick. Both would need to be helped to absorb the shock that lay in wait for them.

    The boy was apprenticed to a tailor in Cornhill Ward and it was there that the constable first presented himself. Peter Hibbert was already at work, cutting some cloth from a bolt. After an explanatory word with his master, Jonathan took the boy aside and broke the news as gently as he could. Peter burst into tears. It was minutes before the boy was able to press for details.

    'When was this, Mr Bale?' he whimpered.

    'Some time yesterday.'

    'Where did it happen?'

    'Her body was found in Drury Lane. It seems that she was struck by a coach as it careered along out of control. Mary had no chance. It was all over in seconds.'

    'What was my sister doing in Drury Lane?'

    'I don't know.'

    'I thought she and Mrs Gow had left London.'

    'They must've returned without warning. My guess is that Mary was on her way to The Theatre Royal.'

    'Where's the body now?'

    'Lying in a morgue,' said Jonathan. 'I saw it late last night and identified it. This was the earliest I could make contact with you.' He saw the boy about to topple and gave him a hug. 'Bear up, Peter. This is a terrible blow, I know. Mary was a good sister to you.'

    'She was everything, Mr Bale.'

    'For her sake, try to be strong.'

    'How can I?'

    'Try, Peter. Mary is with the angels now, where she belongs.'

    'That's true,' mumbled the boy.

    Informed of the circumstances, the tailor gave permission for his apprentice to take the day off and Jonathan accompanied him to Carter Street, where he had to mix fact with deception again. The uncle was numbed into silence by the news but his wife let out a shriek, sobbing loudly and bemoaning the loss of her niece. She laid responsibility for the death squarely on Mary Hibbert's involvement in the tawdry world of the theatre. Jonathan was able to agree with her heartily on that score but he did not labour the point, preferring to soothe rather than allot blame, and anxious to leave Peter in the reassuring company of his relatives. Uncle and aunt soon rallied. Grateful to the constable for telling them the news, they willingly accepted his offer to speak to the parish priest in order to make arrangements for the funeral.

    'Will you come back, Mr Bale?' asked Peter meekly.

    'In time.'

    'I'd like that.'

    Jonathan gave him a sad smile. It was outside that very house that he had last seen Mary Hibbert and he was still prodded by uncomfortable memories of their conversation. He was determined to be more helpful and less censorious towards her brother. Peter had now lost a mother, a father and only sister in the space of two short years. He needed all the friendship and support he could get.

    Jonathan's next visit was to the vicar, a white-haired old man who had lost count of the number of funeral services he had conducted. Mary Hibbert no longer lived in the parish but the fact that she was born there gave her the right to be buried in the already overcrowded churchyard. After discussing details with his visitor, the priest went scurrying off to Carter Lane to offer his own condolences to the bereaved. Jonathan felt guilty at having to give them only an attenuated version of the truth but he was relieved that he had not confronted them with the full horror of the situation. Peter Hibbert, in particular, would not have been able to cope. It was a kindness to spare him.

    Having discharged his duties regarding Mary Hibbert, the constable could now begin the pursuit of those who murdered her. He left the city through Ludgate, walked along Fleet Street then quickened his pace when he reached the Strand, the broad thoroughfare that was fringed on his left by the palatial residences of the great, the good and the ostentatiously wealthy. Jonathan was too caught up in his thoughts to accord the houses his usual