Jonathan set off. After marching past the house, he turned swiftly down the side of it towards the stables. Sir Humphrey's coach stood in the yard, its horses unhitched and returned to their stalls. But it was another animal that caught the constable's eye. Its head was poking out over the stable door and there was something about it that was familiar. Jonathan took a closer look at the horse, peering into the stall to take note of its colour and conformation. A saddle was resting on the edge the manger at the rear of the stall. He felt a shock of recognition. It was the horse that had once knocked him flying outside a tavern in Whitefriars.
He heard a door open and shut at the back of the house. Dodging behind the coach, he crouched down and waited. Heavy footsteps came towards the stables. When Jonathan looked around the angle of the coach, he saw a big, solid, clean-shaven man in dark clothing that deceived him at first. But the man could not disguise everything. He still had the jaunty gait that Jonathan had noticed at their first encounter. It was the bogus Captain Harvest. When the man swaggered towards his horse, Jonathan leapt out and grabbed him from behind, trapping his arms against his sides.
'You'll not be needing your horse now, sir,' he said.
'Get off me!' yelled the other, struggling hard. 'Or I'll kill you!'
Jonathan did not hesitate. Pushing him forward, he rammed the man's head against the wall of the stables. There was a loud crack and a cry of pain. Jonathan released him, spun him round then punched him hard in the stomach. When his prisoner doubled up in agony, Jonathan deftly relieved him of his sword and dagger. Blood was gushing from a wound in the man's forehead and he was panting for breath. The arrest was over.
Sir Humphrey Godden was bristling with irritation when he came out into the hall. The news that Christopher Redmayne had called for the third time did not please him. He was anxious to get rid of him immediately.
'I'm sorry, Mr Redmayne,' he said. 'I'm not able to speak to you today.'
'I think you will when you hear why I've come, Sir Humphrey.'
'There's nothing more that I can tell about what happened that night.'
'But there is,' said Christopher. 'You've omitted the most important details. We've reason to believe that you were involved in the murder of Signor Maldini.'
Sir Humphrey gaped. 'Me?'
'With your accomplice.'
'What accomplice?'
'The man who claimed to be Captain James Harvest.'
'That's preposterous!' exclaimed the other. 'It's a monstrous allegation. I'll sue you for slander, Mr Redmayne.'
'Do you deny that you and the captain were confederates?'
'In the strongest possible terms.'
'You denied that you'd seen the man for some time,' Christopher reminded him, 'yet he came here yesterday to borrow money. Mr Crenlowe confirms it. Do you wish to sue him for slander as well?'
'Get out of my house!' roared Sir Humphrey.
'Not until we get the truth. My brother's life is at stake here. Henry could be hanged for a murder that you and your accomplice committed.'
'I had no accomplice.'
'Are you saying that you were solely responsible for the crime?'
Sir Humphrey was defiant. 'I'm telling you that I'm being wrongly accused and, whatever Martin Crenlowe might say, I haven't set eyes on that impostor we all knew as Captain Harvest.' He flung open the front door. 'Now, please leave at once!'
The words died in his throat. Standing in the open doorway was Jonathan Bale with his prisoner whose arms had been pinioned behind him. In spite of the blood on the man's face, Christopher recognised him as the counterfeit soldier.
'I caught him sneaking out of the back of the house,' said Jonathan. 'I'll need to take him before a magistrate. Can you manage here, Mr Redmayne?'
'Yes, Jonathan.' Christopher closed the door and turned to the red-faced Sir Humphrey. 'Perhaps we could discuss this elsewhere?' he suggested. 'Or do you still claim that your accomplice has never been near the house?'
'Come this way,' said Sir Humphrey.
He led Christopher into the parlour and shut the door after them. Exposed as a liar, he was much more subdued now. Christopher took the letters from his pocket.
'We know about your wife,' he said.
'What do you mean?'
'That's what spurred you on, Sir Humphrey. When you discovered that Lady Godden was involved with Signor Maldini, you were consumed with hatred of the man.'
'I was consumed with hatred,' said the other with indignation, 'but not for that reason. My wife never even met that slimy Italian.'
'We found letters that proved otherwise,' said Christopher, holding them up.
'Then they are forgeries, sir. Miriam loathes foreigners as much as I do. She'd never let that fencing master within a mile of her.' He snatched the two letters and read through them. 'These were not written by my wife,' he asserted.
'Are you certain?'
'Of course, I'm certain,' said Sir Humphrey, thrusting them back at him, 'and I resent the implication that my wife has been unfaithful to me. Miriam would never do such a thing.'
'But the letters bear the initial of her name.'
'Thousands of other women in London have names that begin with 'M'. Any one of them could have written those letters. No, wait,' he said as his memory was jogged. 'I saw Jeronimo Maldini when women were around. He could not resist using that oily charm on them. He always addressed a lady by the same name. Yes, there's the answer, Mr Redmayne,' he decided. 'That 'M' does not stand for Miriam. It stands for Madonna. That was what he always cooed in their ear.'
Christopher was disappointed. As a result of his talk with Pietro Maldini, vital new evidence had come to light and it was buttressed by Jonathan's discovery at the lodging once occupied by the man's brother. The two friends had come to the same conclusion yet now, it seemed, it was woefully wrong. Unwilling to believe anything that Sir Humphrey told him, Christopher pressed him time and again but the man remained adamant. In the end, Christopher was forced to accept the possibility that he was actually telling the truth. If his wife were not implicated, Sir Humphrey would have no compulsion to seek revenge.
'I did not kill Jeronimo Maldini,' affirmed Sir Humphrey, 'nor was I involved in any plot to do so. What I do know is that your brother is innocent and I want the real culprit caught. Apart from anything else, it will stop you from hounding me any more.'
Christopher was abashed. 'Who did write these letters, then?'
'Let me look at them again,' said the other, taking them from him.
'All that I saw before was that my wife could not have written them. It's not her hand.' He studied the looping calligraphy. 'But I fancy she might tell you whose hand it was.'
'You recognise it, Sir Humphrey?'
'I've seen something very much like it, though I could not be sure. I've only ever observed this looping style on invitation cards that we've received. Yes,' he said, studying each of the letters in turn. 'It's a distinctive hand, no question of that. My wife could be more certain about it but I could give you a possible name for the writer.'
'Who is the lady?'
'Rose Crenlowe,' said the other. 'She's Martin's wife.'
Rose Crenlowe was a short, slim, dark-haired young woman with a beautiful face that was distorted by suffering. Her brow was wrinkled, her eyes were bloodshot and her pretty mouth drooped at the edges. The last of her tears were still drying on her cheeks. Wearing a plain dress and with her hair unkempt, she sat huddled on the bed in the attic room. When she heard a key being inserted in the lock, she drew instinctively away. Her husband came into the room with a tray of food for her. His manner was curt.
