The Amorous Nightingale

    The arrival of his father clouded his mind and robbed him of valuable time. Christopher Redmayne had distractions enough without having to cope with the Dean of Gloucester. Much as he loved his father, he could not imagine a more untimely moment for the old man to descend on him. Paradoxically, the unexpected appearance of Algernon Redmayne might work to the advantage of his elder son. Swathed in linen and covered with bruises, Henry was able to draw heavily on his father's compassion. Had the visitor caught him in his more usual guise as a sybarite, the wounded man would have attracted abuse rather than sympathy.

    Christopher rode towards Shoreditch at a steady canter. Henry's condition had been a help to his brother as well. Anxious about the state of his elder son, the Dean had sent for the physician and insisted on remaining at the bedside until he came. Christopher was released to continue with work which, his father assumed, would take him to the site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields. Instead, the architect was heading in the opposite direction.

    Jonathan Bale's advice was sound. It did not take Christopher long to find one of the local constables. Jeremy Vye was as unlike Jonathan as it was possible to be. A short, stumpy, jovial man in his forties with a red nose and bloodshot eyes, he was drinking ale in a tavern when the visitor tracked him down. Vye was keen to help.

    'So, then,' he said cheerily, 'Jonathan Bale sent you?'

    'Yes, Mr Vye.'

    'Give him my compliments.'

    'He sends his to you,' said Christopher. 'He also assured me that you would know almost everyone who lived in Old Street.'

    'Know them and love them, Mr Redmayne. I was born and brought up in Shoreditch. Never been more than a few miles away from the place. Old Street? I can tell you the names of every man, woman and child,' he bragged. 'I can even tell you what they call their cats and dogs.'

    'I'm not after a pet, Mr Vye.'

    'Then who are you after?'

    'Mr Martin Eldridge.'

    The constable blinked. 'Eldridge? That name is new to me.'

    'This man is an actor.'

    'We have a few of them in Shoreditch, sir. Out of work, mostly.' He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. 'But this Mr Eldridge of yours must be a stranger to the area or I'd have met him.

    My guess is that he lodges at the far end of the street, sir. Mrs Lingard took in a lodger recently - her dog is called Blackie, by the way - and there's a gentleman who's just taken a room with Mrs Passmore. Oldish fellow with a squint.'

    'Then he's not the man I want. Martin Eldridge is still relatively young and handsome. He'd bear himself well.'

    'Then he has to be Mrs Lingard's lodger. Be careful of that dog of hers when you call there, sir. Blackie can give you a nasty bite.'

    He led Christopher out of the tavern and gave him directions. After riding to the address he had been given, Christopher dismounted and knocked on the door of a neat house of medium size, owned by someone who evidently took a pride in it. When he knocked, he heard a dog bark. The landlady soon answered the summons. Mrs Lingard was a pleasant woman of middle years and ample girth. Keeping her dog under control with an affectionate kick, she listened to her visitor's request before inviting him in.

    'Mr Eldridge has a lot of visitors,' she explained, leading the way up the stairs. 'I can see why. He's a most charming gentleman.' She tapped lightly on a door and called, 'There's someone to see you, Mr Eldridge. A Mr Redmayne.'

    After a short delay, the door opened and Martin Eldridge came into view. Christopher recognised him at once as the actor who had played Lysippus, brother to the King in The Maid's Tragedy, a comparatively small yet telling role and one which allowed him the final cautionary lines. Mrs Lingard was hovering. Eldridge dismissed her with a smile.

    'Thank you, Mrs Lingard.' He stood back from the door. 'You'd better come in, Mr Redmayne.'

    Christopher went into a room that was large and well appointed. The actor was a man who liked his comforts. Bottles of wine stood on a table beside the script of a play. Eldridge was excessively courteous. He motioned his visitor to a chair then spoke in a rich, cultured voice.

    'You don't look like a man of the theatre,' he observed.

    'Nor am I, Mr Eldridge.'

    'I won't pretend that I'm not disappointed. You see before you a man who is, I regret to say, temporarily separated from his art. I await the call, Mr Redmayne. I hoped that you might have brought it.'

    'No, sir,' said Christopher. 'As it happens, it was Mr Killigrew who drew my attention to you, but not because he wished to engage you again.'

    'Killigrew is a money-grubbing old lecher!'

    'Yet not without a perceptive eye for talent. In a performance of The Maid's Tragedy, I saw an actor give a most excellent account of the role of Lysippus. My congratulations, sir.'

    'Why, thank you,' said the other, warming to him. 'I flatter myself that I acted to the limit of my ability in that play. Not that anyone would have noticed with Harriet Gow alongside me. She dwarfed us all.'

    His tone was affectionate and quite free of envy. Given his cue, Christopher took it at once. He sat forward earnestly in his chair.

    'It is about Mrs Gow that I've come,' he said.

    'Why?'

    'I was wondering if you knew where I could find her.'

    'At her home, I daresay.'

    'She does not seem to be there, Mr Eldridge.'

    'Then you'd better ask Tom Killigrew where she is.'

    'Mr Killigrew is as puzzled as I am, sir. The lady has disappeared.'

    'Harriet would never do that,' argued the other. 'Not without due warning, in any case. She's wedded to her art. It's always come first with her. If you've seen her act and heard her sing, you'll know how gloriously she blossoms on a stage.'

    'Oh, yes,' agreed Christopher. 'She was captivating.'

    'Yet you say she's disappeared?'

    'I'm afraid so.'

    'Since when?'

    Christopher gave him a shortened version of events, leaving out any mention of the King, the ransom note and the murder of Mary Hibbert. The more he heard, the more alarmed Martin Eldridge grew. Christopher watched him carefully to see if the alarm was sincere and not simply called up by the skill of a trained actor. There was something about Eldridge that was faintly troubling. The man was too plausible, too ready with his responses, too expressive with his emotions. Christopher had the strong feeling that he was hiding something from him.

    'When did you last see Mrs Gow?' he asked.

    'Not for some time, Mr Redmayne. As Tom Killigrew must have told you, I'm no longer a member of the company. He dismissed me.'

    'Mr Killigrew said that you were a good friend of Mrs Gow's.'

    'I was and still am,' replied Eldridge with feeling. 'When she first joined the company, she turned to me for advice and I was able to help her a little. At that time, of course, she was still married to Bartholomew.'

    'Did you ever meet her husband?'

    'Regularly. He came to the theatre to collect her.'

    'How did you get on with him, Mr Eldridge?'

    'Tolerably well,' said the other. 'We all did at first. Then things began to turn sour between them and we saw the results. Bartholomew was spiky and resentful. He came to the theatre less and less.'

    'Was he a vengeful man?'

    'I think that he could be.'