The Amorous Nightingale

agitate him. He's already made his contribution to this enquiry. Henry deserves a rest.'

    The physician held the vessel carefully to his lips and made sure that he drank all of the potion. Henry grimaced at the bitter taste. He mouthed a protest then sank back on the pillow. The old man turned to the servant who was hovering at the bedside.

    'He's taking a turn for the worse,' he said softly.

    'Yes, sir.'

    'See that he has another draught of the medicine this evening.'

    'Yes, sir.'

    'What he most needs is rest.'

    'We'll make sure that Mr Redmayne gets it.'

    'Don't rouse him. Let him wake in his own time.'

    'Yes, sir.'

    'If he seems to dwindle, call me back at once.'

    The servant nodded and showed the visitor out. Henry Redmayne heard nothing of their exchange. The potion had been unpleasant to swallow but its effect was immediate. His eyes closed, his body sagged, his mind emptied. He slid gently back into a deep and restorative sleep.

    Sitting astride his horse, the man remained hidden under the trees, anxious to watch the departure but equally anxious that there was no chance of his being seen by Harriet Gow. The possibility was remote. When she was brought out of the house by Arthur Oscott and his wife, Harriet was blindfolded and her wrists were tied together. She had to be guided into the waiting coach. While his wife remained inside with the prisoner, Oscott climbed up into the driving seat. The man was satisfied. Everything had gone smoothly. When the coach drew away, he followed it at a safe distance. Harriet Gow was being transferred to some alternative accommodation. Tied up and unable to see, she would be increasingly anxious during the trip. The man escorting the coach had no sympathy for her. He wanted her to suffer. It was all part of his revenge.

    Instead of pursuing his investigations in Shoreditch at once, Christopher Redmayne elected to return to Fetter Lane to snatch his first meal of the day, give instructions to Jacob then ride on to Bedford Street to check on his brother's condition. Going home was a serious mistake. Within minutes of his arrival, he had the first of three unexpected and unwanted visitors. Jasper Hartwell was in a frenzy of despair.

    Clad in blue and gold, he leaped out of his coach with his ginger periwig swaying so wilfully that it all but parted company with the broad-brimmed hat that was balanced atop it. Christopher caught a glimpse of him through the window, gaining a few vital seconds to prepare his alibi. When Hartwell was conducted into the parlour by Jacob, therefore, the architect was bent studiously over the drawings he had just laid out on the table with such speed. He looked up nonchalantly.

    'Why, Mr Hartwell,' he greeted. 'Good day to you, sir.'

    'So this is where you are skulking,' complained the other.

    'Not skulking, sir. Working on my designs, as you observe. Putting the last few finishing touches to your house.'

    'I went to the site but you were nowhere to be seen. Mr Corrigan was deeply upset. There are a number of issues he needs to raise with you, Mr Redmayne.'

    'He had an opportunity to do so earlier on,' said Christopher, 'when I rode over to the site to inspect progress not long after dawn. From what I saw, Mr Corrigan can manage very well without me.'

    'Your place is in St Martin's.'

    'That's exactly where I am, sir. In my mind's eye.'

    Jacob suddenly came out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine. Without the slightest hint of gratitude, Hartwell took one of them, drank it down in a series of noisy gulps then handed the glass back to the servant. Jacob withdrew once more. The drink only seemed to intensify the visitor's apprehensions.

    'Where is she?' he gasped.

    'Who?' asked Christopher.

    'Harriet, of course. My future wife.'

    'According to report, the lady is unwell.'

    'It's a lie, Mr Redmayne. I've spoken twice about her to Tom Killigrew and he didn't give me a satisfactory answer on either occasion. The truth is that he doesn't know where Harriet is. Neither does anyone else in the company. Think on that,' he said with a scandalised yelp. 'Harriet disappears and her own manager has no idea where she is or what drove her to be there. I fear skulduggery.'

    'Never, Mr Hartwell.'

    'I do. I felt it in my water.'

    'An illusion.'

    'Something untoward has happened to my beloved.'

    'Surely not,' said Christopher, rising to his feet. 'Who could want to hurt such a beautiful woman as Mrs Gow? It's inconceivable.'

    'Is it?' countered Hartwell. 'Who would want to hurt such an amiable fellow as your brother? Yet I gather from Killigrew that he was viciously assaulted yesterday outside the theatre. Beauty and affability are no protection against naked villainy. If a harmless man like Henry Redmayne can be picked on by bullies, then Harriet, too, may be marked out as a victim.'

    'At whose behest, sir?'

    'She has her share of enemies.'

    'Do you know who they are?'

    'They're too numerous to list, Mr Redmayne. Envy breeds many foes. My worry is that it may not be her enemies who are at work here but mine.' Hartwell plopped down into a chair. 'Sensing that I'm determined to make her my wife, someone has lashed out at me from sheer spite. It could be that husband of hers, of course, or it may just be a rival for her hand, consumed with chagrin because I've made her mine.'

    'But you haven't, sir,' Christopher reminded him, delicately.

    'How can I when she's vanished?'

    'Mrs Gow has merely withdrawn. To recuperate.'

    'From what?'

    'That will become clear in time.'

    'But she was a picture of health when I last saw her,' argued the other. 'At the start of the week, Harriet was singing her heart out for me on stage. Where is my nightingale now?'

    'Resting, sir. Leave her be.'

    'I must find her, Mr Redmayne.'

    He went on at length, expressing his love for the missing actress and working himself up into a state of wild-eyed hysteria. Christopher was alive to the paradox. Having been engaged by the King to rescue Harriet Gow, he was now forced to pretend that she was not in any danger. Instead of continuing his search, he was being held back by the swirling infatuation of his client. Jasper Hartwell was luxuriating in his distress. Christopher wondered if the visit might yet have some practical value for him.

    'Henry tells me that you're a connoisseur of the theatre,' he interrupted.

    'It's my second home,' Jasper agreed.

    'Then you'll know all the members of the company.'

    'Both at The King's House and at The Duke's Playhouse,' he said proudly.

    'I'm only interested in Mr Killigrew's company.'

    'So am I since Harriet joined it,' said Hartwell wistfully. 'I can recall the very moment when she first stepped on to that stage. And as for that voice! Heaven has never fashioned such an instrument before.'

    'What of the actors around her?'

    'I never notice any of them when she is there.'

    'Oh, come, sir. You cannot fail to notice men like Michael Mohun or Charles Hart. They're masters of their