The Amorous Nightingale

    'Where would he go if he wanted to lie low?' asked Christopher.

    'Who cares?'

    'Please, Mr Killigrew. I need your help.'

    'The only person I'm interested in finding is Harriet Gow,' said the manager, banging on the table. 'Harriet is the one you should be after, not a damnable actor who's too lazy to learn his craft properly.'

    'Martin Eldridge might lead me to Mrs Gow.'

    'What gave you that idea?'

    'He's involved in some way,' said Christopher firmly. 'I know it. He was so evasive when I talked to him. He was hiding something.'

    'Well, it wasn't his talent because he doesn't have any.'

    Hoping for good news from his visitor, Thomas Killigrew was downcast when Christopher admitted that they still had no clear idea where the missing actress could be. The enquiry about Martin Eldridge only served to enrage the irascible manager.

    'You shouldn't have let him trick you like that, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I know.'

    'He's a cunning devil, Martin. I wouldn't trust him for a second.'

    'But some people do. His landlady told me how many friends he has. They are always calling at his lodging in Shoreditch. What I want from you is the name of those friends,' explained Christopher. 'My guess is that he'll stay with one of them in order to hide from me.'

    'Then you'll never find him.'

    'Why not?'

    'Because it would take you weeks to get round all of Martin's friends. There are scores of them. Mostly women, of course, because a man with that silvery tongue and those good looks is bound to make the best of them. Martin Eldridge could charm the clothes off a countess. Yes,' he said enviously, 'and he could probably charm some money out of her into the bargain. That would be typical of him. He gives all his best performances in the bedchamber. If only he could act that well on stage!'

    'I thought he was well cast as Lysippus.'

    'He did rouse himself for The Maid's Tragedy,' confessed Killigrew, 'but only because Harriet Gow was in the play. For her sake, Martin always made an effort. When she was not in a cast, he'd simply walk through his part. Forget him, Mr Redmayne. He's not your man.'

    'Then why did he take to his heels?'

    'Perhaps you said something to upset him.'

    'I'm serious, Mr Killigrew.'

    'And so am I, sir,' retorted the manager. 'Harriet's been gone for days now. The company is getting nervous. My patrons are starting to turn nasty. They disrupted the performance this afternoon. That lean-witted booby Jasper Hartwell even had the audacity to storm in here and threaten to sue me unless I brought her back instantly. He said he wanted to hear his nightingale sing again.'

    'Mr Hartwell has an obsession, I'm afraid.'

    'So do I, Mr Redmayne. And my obsession is more immediate than his. Not to put too fine a point on it, Harriet Gow is my bread and butter. She sets food on my table. Without her, my takings will plummet.'

    'Then help me to find her.'

    'You'll not do that by means of Martin Eldridge. He adored Harriet. She's probably the only woman he ever really cared for. What would he stand to gain by her abduction?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Nothing!'

    'I wonder.'

    'Look elsewhere, sir.'

    'Such as?'

    'At her husband, for a start. Bartholomew Gow.'

    'He's already been cleared of involvement.'

    'Then I can do the same for Martin. Painful as it is to do him a favour, I can give you my assurance that he's not the villain here.'

    'I reserve my judgement on that.'

    Christopher would not be deflected from his purpose. He wanted to speak to the actor again. Unable to get assistance from one theatre manager, he decided to turn to another. He bade farewell and headed for the door. Killigrew had a rush of sympathy and called out to detain him.

    'How is your brother?'

    'Recovering very slowly.'

    'I'll try to make time to call on him.'

    'Thank you, Mr Killigrew,' said Christopher, fearing an encounter between his father and the disreputable manager. 'Not for a day or two, please. Henry can receive no visitors at present. His physician has forbidden it.'

    'Tell him I asked after him.'

    'I will.'

    'What of the men who cudgelled him?'

    'There's brighter news on that front. One is already in custody and the other may soon join him. In fact,' he recalled, 'a colleague of mine is attending to that matter right now.'

    Ben Froggatt was in constant pain. His broken arm was in a splint, his eyes blackened, his head covered in lumps and crisscrossed with deep gashes. His hair was matted with dried blood. Every part of his body seemed to ache. Propped up on a mattress in the dingy, airless room, he swigged from a stone bottle and vowed to get his revenge. A mouse came out of its hole and ran across to search for crumbs on the platter beside him. Froggatt spat at the creature to send it on its way. There was a tap on the door. He tensed at once. Putting the bottle aside, he used his free hand to reach for the cudgel under the sheets.

    'Who is it?' he growled.

    'Lucy,' she answered.

    'What kept you?'

    'I've brought a friend of yours, Ben.'

    She opened the door to lead in Jonathan Bale. His friendly manner vanished at once. He dashed across to the wounded man, caught his wrist as the cudgel was lifted and twisted the weapon out of his hand. Froggatt howled with rage at Lucy, who backed against the wall in alarm. Jonathan showed no compassion for the man's injuries. He was standing over someone who had sent Mary Hibbert to an agonising death. When his prisoner tried to punch him, Jonathan dodged the blow and took the dagger from his belt. The point was held at Ben Froggatt's throat.

    'Smeek sent me,' he said.

    'He'd never do that. He's a friend.'

    'Not any more. Since we locked him up in gaol, he doesn't feel quite so loyal towards you any more. Smeek says that you murdered that girl all on your own.'

    'That's a lie! He was there as well.'

    'But you did the damage.'

    When the dagger pricked his throat, Froggatt drew back. 'Who are you?' he hissed.

    'I'm the man who arrested Smeek,' said Jonathan. 'I think it's high time that you joined him, don't you?'

    The pangs of hunger were too strong to resist. Henry Redmayne was famished. Having feigned sleep in the hope that his father would leave, he realised that he could not dislodge the Dean of Gloucester so easily. There was something intimidating about the old man's presence. It was not merely the odour of sanctity which he gave off, nor even the sort of oppressive piety with which he filled the room.