still had his purse about him.'
Kiffin's face lit up. 'I think that I remember him now, Balthazar.'
'Drunk as a lord, he was.'
'I held your lantern while you got him off the ground.'
'I soon began to wish I'd not bothered.'
'Why?' asked Jonathan.
'Because he tried to punch me,' said Pegge ruefully. 'When I got him upright, he lashed out at me with both fists. Drunk he might be, but he was still strong. I had a job to hold him and I'm no weakling, Mr Bale. Forty years of making bricks for a living has left some muscle in these old arms.'
'So you overpowered him?' 'I had to. He'd else have knocked me down.'
'I never took him for a violent man,' said Jonathan.
'You'd not have called him peaceable that night. And the worst of it was, he kept calling me by this strange name. It was an odd, curious, foreign sort of name.'
'Maldini, by any chance?'
'Yes,' said Pegge. 'Or something very much like it. He swore he'd kill me.'
'You or this fellow, Maldini?'
'He took us for one and the same.'
'What happened then?'
'Well, sir, when I'd got the better of him, I stood him against a wall and asked him where he lived. He mumbled what sounded like Bedford Street so that's where I sent him. To be honest, I was glad to see the back of him.'
'So was 1,' agreed Kiffin. 'Watchmen deserve more respect.'
'You'll get it from me,' promised Jonathan. 'You do a valuable job, my friends. As for this fight, it all took place some distance away from here, you say?'
'Close by Thames Street.'
'Could you show me the place?'
'We'll take you there now, Mr Bale,' volunteered Pegge, pleased that he might be able to furnish useful evidence in a murder enquiry. 'This way, sir.' Jonathan fell in beside them as they headed towards the river. 'What did you call the gentleman?'
'Mr Redmayne,' said the constable. 'Mr Henry Redmayne.'
Night was an unrelieved torment. Noises that were unsettling during the day became unbearable during the hours of darkness. Cries of pain and howls of anguish echoed throughout Newgate. Sounds of a violent argument would erupt when least expected and rise in volume until those involved in the brawl were beaten into submission by brutal turnkeys. Eerie silences then followed before a fresh clamor would arise. Female screams could last for an hour. Though he kept his hands over his ears, Henry Redmayne could not shut out the prison cacophony He began to think that he was locked in a madhouse. Money had bought him a flickering candle that he set in his lap, grateful for its tiny warmth as much as for its light. It was his only source of consolation.
Martin Crenlowe's visit seemed an eternity away now. Henry had eaten all the food that his friend had brought and drunk all the wine, hoping that the latter would dull his senses enough to allow him to sleep. It did not happen. Part of his punishment, he now understood, was being forced to stay awake, listening to the deafening protests of other prisoners and reflecting on his fate. He also came to realise how dependent he was on other people for his welfare. When Henry was in his own house, a servant woke him and brought him breakfast, a barber arrived to shave him and a valet helped to dress him. There were no servants, barbers or valets in Newgate. Henry was hungry, unshaven and wearing soiled clothes. A more immediate problem troubled him. Since he had no access to a privy, he had to relieve himself in a corner of the cell and share his space with his own excrement. Unaware how privileged he had been, he had taken for granted the perfumed elegance of his normal life. To be reduced to the level of a caged animal was a horrifying experience for him.
The longer he stayed in Newgate, the more certain he became that he would end his life on the gallows. His brother had sworn to work for his release but there had been no sign of Christopher for days. Martin Crenlowe might profess to believe in his friend's innocence yet his evidence had been partially responsible for Henry's incarceration. The same could be said of Sir Humphrey Godden, another member of his circle. Crenlowe had at least come to offer his sympathy and bring some welcome gifts. Sir Humphrey had done neither, nor had Captain Harvest, a man who was reportedly informing the world aloud of Henry's guilt. The last time he had seen the three of them, they had been sitting at a table with him at a tavern in Fenchurch Street, enjoying a delicious meal, albeit spiced with an argument. Now he was entombed in a cold, filthy, noisome prison with a rat as his only companion. Henry wondered what he had done to deserve such a reversal in his fortunes.
His trial was yet to come but the judge he feared most was his father. No leniency would be shown by the Dean of Gloucester, no appeals for mercy would be heeded. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne would surely have heard the grim tidings about his elder son by now. He would be on his way to London to administer his punishment. Henry could almost hear his voice and see his raised finger. The only way that he had remained on speaking terms with his father was to conceal from him the true nature of his life in London, giving him instead the impression that he was a model of Christian sobriety and industriousness. That illusion could no longer be sustained. His father would see him as the feckless and decadent spendthrift that he really was. Unable to defend or excuse himself, Henry would be exposed as a complete rake whose habit of drinking to excess had led him down the path to damnation. He shuddered so violently that the flame he nursed was blown out, plunging him into complete darkness. Shrieks and bellows from other cells reached a new pitch of intensity. Henry added his own impassioned yell to the general tumult.
'Christopher!' he shouted. 'Where are you?'
Having retired to bed early at the Falcon Inn, he fell asleep almost immediately. So deep was his slumber that the lusty crowing of the cock failed to rouse him at dawn, as did the sound of a cart rumbling out of the courtyard. It was only when the landlord's strong fist thundered on his door that he was brought awake.
'Mr Redmayne!' called a voice.
'Yes?' said Christopher, opening a bleary eye.
'You asked to be woken, sir.'
'Thank you.'
Annoyed that he had overslept, Christopher hauled himself out of bed and reached for his clothes. He had planned to be on the road at daybreak and had lost valuable time. His body might have needed the rest but his mind was full of self-reproach. Spurning breakfast, he gathered up his things, paid for his room then made for the stables. He was just leaving the inn when he heard the drumming of hooves behind him. Christopher turned to see a rider emerging from a copse nearby. When he recognised who it was, he could not believe his eyes. Riding sidesaddle and cantering towards him, Susan Cheever waved a hand in greeting. When she brought her horse to a halt beside him, her face was flushed with pleasure.
'Thank heaven I got here in time!' she said.
'Yes,' he agreed. 'I'd intended to be miles away by now.'
'I'll not hold you up. I just wanted to speak to you.'
'Detain me for as long as you wish, Susan.'
Christopher dismounted and helped her down from her own saddle. After tethering the horses to a fence that ran alongside the inn, they stepped into the shadow of one of the outbuildings. He feasted his eyes on her.
'Brilliana misled you,' she began.
'I knew that you were at the house.'
'I was in the parlour when you came and overheard you speaking to my sister. I could have joined you both there and then but that would have led to a fierce argument with Brilliana, and you would have been shown the door.'
Christopher smiled wryly. 'Your sister was a harsh porter,'
'When I heard you mention the Falcon Inn, I saw my opportunity'
'I'm so pleased that you took it.'
'Nothing would stop me. I
'Supposing that I'd already left?'
