The Amorous Nightingale

    'On what evidence?'

    'I can't rightly say, Mr Redmayne. But any man who lost a wife like Harriet Gow would be entitled to feel vengeful. Bartholomew always claimed that she slowly emptied his purse then cast him aside because he could no longer afford to keep her in such style.'

    'Have you seen the house where she lives?'

    'Once or twice.'

    'I take it that Mrs Gow neither owns nor rents it.'

    'No,' said the other smoothly, 'and it's none of my business who does. Acting is a precarious profession, Mr Redmayne.

    We all of us have to make concessions or reach compromises to stay afloat. Harriet Gow has earned everything she has, believe me. I admire her for it.'

    'Some of her colleagues at the theatre do not.'

    'Mindless envy.'

    'Would you describe Abigail Saunders as envious?'

    'I'm a gentleman, Mr Redmayne,' said the other pointedly, 'which means that I lack a vocabulary coarse enough to describe Abigail to you. We first acted together at The Duke's Playhouse and I took her to be my friend then. I gave her a lot of support but she chose to forget that in time. The kindest thing I can say about Abigail Saunders is that she is a pretty little bloodsucker.'

    'Would she be capable of sucking Mrs Gow's blood?'

    'To the last drop!'

    'You have a low opinion of the lady.'

    'The woman,' corrected the other. 'Harriet Gow is a lady; Abigail is the inferior version that we call a woman. But why sit here talking to me when you should be out trying to find Harriet?' he said with sudden desperation. 'What have you learned? Who have you talked to? Do you have no clues at all, Mr Redmayne?'

    'Several, sir.'

    'Then act on them. Harriet must be found!'

    'I appreciate your anxiety, Mr Eldridge, but I have the feeling that you may be able to help me rather more than you've so far been willing to do.' Christopher fixed him with a stare. 'I suspect that you and Mrs Gow were extremely close friends. She confided in you: that means you know things that are germane to this investigation, facts that might help to guide our footsteps.'

    'What more can I tell you?'

    'To begin with, you can be more precise about the date when you last saw Mrs Gow. A man as fond of a lady as you patently are would not be parted from her for too long. I think you know the day and the hour when the two of you last met.' An inquisitive smile. 'Don't you?'

    Martin Eldridge seemed relaxed to the point of nonchalance but his mind was working busily. He appraised Christopher for some time, noting his visitor's strong build and air of determination. He also eyed the sword and dagger that Christopher wore. The architect would not easily be sent on his way. Other measures needed to be adopted.

    'You're right, Mr Redmayne,' he admitted sadly. 'There are things that I've held back. From the best of motives, as you will see. Let me show you a letter from Harriet. It may explain a lot.' He moved to the door. 'Wait here a moment while I fetch it.'

    'Very well.'

    Eldridge went out of the room and left his guest to examine it with more care. It told him much about the character and habits of the actor. When he crossed to the table to pick up the printed text, he saw that the play was Shakespeare's Othello. Was Martin Eldridge planning a return to The Duke's Men? Only the company run by Sir William D'Avenant had the right to stage revivals of Shakespeare's plays. The sound of the front door opening alerted Christopher. Setting the play aside, he went swiftly over to the window and was just in time to see Martin Eldridge darting up Old Street before vanishing around a corner. Instead of going to fetch a letter, the actor had bolted.

    Christopher was furious with himself for being so easily duped. He hurried to the door, flung it open and descended the stairs at speed but he was not permitted to leave Mrs Lingard's house. Blocking his way and barking fiercely at him was a large, black, angry dog with its eyes ablaze and its fangs bared.

    'He doesn't like strangers,' explained the landlady helpfully.

    The physician completed his examination and stood up from the bed.

    'His condition is stable,' he announced.

    'Can you not be more specific, sir?' asked Algernon Redmayne.

    'Your son is neither better nor worse than when I was here earlier. Rest is the only true physician. He took a fearful beating and has several cracked ribs. They will take time to heal. As for the bruises,' said the old man, 'they will vanish more quickly. Give him a week and you may recognise your son once again.'

    'Unhappily, I'm not able to remain at his bedside for a week,' said the Dean of Gloucester, 'though I would willingly do so if it would be of any practical help to him. I'm just grateful that his dear mother never lived to see him in such dire straits. It would have broken her heart.' He addressed the physician with lofty condescension. 'When will Henry's mind clear enough for him to tell me the full details of the assault?'

    'Your guess is as good as mine, sir.'

    'A day? Two?'

    'I've known cases where memory has been affected much longer,' explained the physician. 'We are not talking about a happy experience here but one that brought untold pain. The mind is a strange organ. It sometimes blocks out unpleasant recollections in order to spare a victim having to relive the agony. Be patient with him.'

    'I am patient, man! I'm his father.'

    'Don't expect too much too soon.'

    'What are you telling me?' asked the other sharply.

    'Mr Redmayne must not be harried. It will only add to his distress and may even delay recovery. The simple truth is,' he concluded, 'that your son may never fully regain his memories of the assault.'

    Pretending to be asleep, Henry Redmayne heard every word and he could not stop himself responding to the physician's welcome words. His eyes remained firmly shut but his face gave him away. The Dean of Gloucester stared down at it with mild exasperation.

    'Good heavens!' he declared. 'He's grinning at us!'

    Smeek was sullen and uncooperative. Taken before a magistrate by Jonathan Bale, he was charged with felonious assault on a constable and held in custody, pending further charges that might well include kidnap and murder. Jonathan waited until they reached the gaol before he resumed his interrogation. Two hefty turnkeys went into the gloomy cell with the constable but Smeek was not intimidated. His years at sea had toughened him against all eventualities.

    'Who hired you?' demanded Jonathan.

    'I don't know.'

    'Someone paid your wages.'

    'Did they?' asked Smeek with a defiant smirk.

    'What was his name?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Why did he set you on to me?'

    'Nobody set me on to you.'

    'Then why did you attack me?'

    'Because I didn't like the look of you.'

    The prisoner gave another smirk. Bleeding had been stemmed from the wound on his skull but his coat was still stained with blood. Smeek's temples were pounding. He vowed to be as obstructive as he could when questioned by the man who had given him the headache.

    'Do you know what will happen to you?' said Jonathan.

    'Who cares?'