hostile glare. He came to a halt at the place where the ambush had taken place, wondering yet again why that route had been taken by the coachman. Walking to the top of the lane, he found the landlord of the Red Lion supervising the unloading of barrels from a cart.
'Good morning to you,' said Jonathan.
'Good morning, sir.'
'There's no room for anything to get past while this cart is here.'
'They'll have to wait,' said the other cheerily. 'We must have our beer or I'll lose custom. I daresay you don't have lanes as narrow as this in your ward. Not since the fire, that is.'
'Every street, lane and alley that was rebuilt had to be wider, sir, by order of Parliament. It's a sensible precaution. Fire spreads easily when properties are huddled so closely together.'
'Then keep it away from us.'
The innkeeper was a short, stout, red-faced man with a bald head that was encircled by a tonsure of matted grey hair. There was nothing monastic, however, in his coarse appearance and rough voice.
'So what brings you back to the Red Lion?' he said.
'Something you told me yesterday.'
'I think I told you quite a lot, sir.'
'You gave me a list of people who live in the lane.'
'That I did, Mr Bale.'
Jonathan was surprised. 'You remember my name, then?'
'A good memory is an asset in my trade, sir. People like to be recognised. It makes them feel welcome. I always remember names.'
'The one that interests me is Bartholomew Gow.'
'Ah, yes. He wasn't a regular patron of my inn but he did come in often enough for me to get to know him a little.'
'How would you describe him?'
'Pleasant enough, sir. Kept himself to himself. He always moved on if things became a bit rowdy. Mr Gow was too much of a gentleman to put up with that.'
'What age would you put him at?'
'Well below thirty still, I'd say,' replied the man, exploring a hirsute ear with his little finger. 'Handsome fellow. The tavern wenches were all keen to serve Mr Gow. He had a way with him, see. My wife remarked on it a few times.' He gave an understanding chuckle. 'She wouldn't admit it to me, of course, but I think she misses him.'
'Misses him?'
'He hasn't been in to see us for weeks.'
'Why not?'
'Who knows? Maybe he found somewhere more to his taste, sir. The Red Lion can get a bit lively when drink has flowed. Mr Gow was never at ease when that happened.'
'Where exactly does he live?' said Jonathan, glancing back down the lane. 'Do you know which house?'
'No, sir, but it's towards the bottom. That's where the best lodgings are to be found and I told you he was a gentleman.'
'Lodgings? He doesn't own the house, then?'
'Oh, no. He had a room, that's all.'
Jonathan squeezed every detail he could out of the man before thanking him for his help and moving off. When he got to the lower end of the lane, he began knocking on doors systematically in his search for Bartholomew Gow. The fourth house was owned by a big, fleshy woman in her thirties with a prominent bosom taking attention away from a podgy face that was pitted by smallpox. She opened the door with reluctance and was clearly displeased to see a constable standing there.
'Good morning,' said Jonathan politely.
She was wary. 'What can I do for you, sir?'
'I'm looking for a Mr Bartholomew Gow.'
'Then you've come too late. He moved out.'
'When?'
'Week or so ago.'
'But he did lodge here?'
'Yes.'
'What sort of man was he?'
'The kind that pays his rent. That's all I cared about.' She gave him a basilisk stare then tried to close the front door.
'Wait,' he said, putting out a hand to stop her. 'I need to ask you something. A couple of days ago, there was an incident right outside your door involving a coach. It scraped along the front of your house.' He pointed to the marks in the brickwork. 'Were you in the house at the time?'
'No, sir.'
'Was anyone else here? Anyone who might have heard the noise and rushed out to see what was going on?'
'Nobody, sir.'
'What of your neighbours? Did they see anything?'
'I don't think so or they'd have told me.'
'There must have been
'I wouldn't know,' she said sourly.
Jonathan became aware that he was being watched from the upper room. It was the second time he had been under surveillance from that standpoint. When he stepped back to look up, he saw a figure move smartly away from the window.
'Did Mr Gow have the room at the front?' he wondered.
'Yes, sir.'
'Who lodges there now?'
'Another gentleman.'
And she closed the door this time before he could stop her.
'You've saved me a journey, Mr Redmayne. I was just about to come calling at your house in order to see you.'
'Why?'
'Because I wish to get to the bottom of this once and for all.'
'What do you mean, Mr Killigrew?'
'Something is afoot, sir,' said the manager waspishly. 'A worrying turn of events has occurred. First of all, I get a letter from Harriet Gow to say that she's temporarily indisposed. Then your brother, Henry, barges in here with the same news and does his best to pump me about the members of my company. Word somehow leaks out about her absence and I'm harried to death by her admirers, that moonstruck idiot, Jasper Hartwell, among them. Next minute, I find your brother peering over my shoulder while I'm taking a rehearsal then he springs the biggest surprise of all by turning up at my theatre, covered in blood.'
'It was good of you to convey him back to his home, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher. 'That's one of the main reasons I called. To thank you for coming to Henry's aid and to give you a report on his condition.'
'How is he?'
'Weak but slowly recovering from his ordeal.'
'I thought we'd lost him when he was carried in here. Let me be brutally honest, sir. There've been times in my life when I could willingly have taken a cudgel to your brother myself. Henry can irritate so. But I repented my urge when I saw him lying there,' he said, recalling the gruesome image. 'No man deserves to be battered to a pulp like that.'
Thomas Killigrew was in a peppery mood when Christopher met him at the theatre. His visitor noted the
