Edward Marston - The Frost Fair

'Yes, Mother.'

'We'll certainly not spend winter months in the capital.'

'You'll be warm enough, if you do so, my lady,' promised Christopher. 'I took especial care to give you large fireplaces in every room. Italian marble.'

'That was exactly what I required. Well,' she said, taking a final look at the drawings, 'I think that you deserve our congratulations, Mr Redmayne.'

'It was a labour of love, Lady Whitcombe.'

'We, too, have found it a most pleasurable experience.'

'Yes,' said Letitia with a grin.

'All that remains,' added her mother, 'is to get the house built. Who was the fellow you recommended?'

'Mr Popejoy,' replied Christopher. 'I've worked with him before. He built the house in Westminster that you admired so much. I'd recommend Sidney Popejoy without the slightest reservation. There are few more conscientious builders in London.'

'Would he be available?'

'I took the liberty of speaking to him about the project at the very start.'

"Then engage him forthwith.'

'Will your son need to approve the designs first?'

'Egerton?' she asked. 'No, he has no interest in architecture. His only demand was for a large house in London where we could entertain a much wider circle of friends than is possible here in Sheen. My son will be very grateful for what you've done, Mr Redmayne. His needs are simple and you've met every one of them.'

Christopher would never have described the house in terms of simple needs. It was a large property that would occupy a site overlooking the river and contain features that bordered on extravagance. Cost had been incidental. Lady Whitcombe had not merely inherited her husband's substantial wealth, she had independent means of her own. She was ready to lavish a huge amount of money on a house that she would only occupy at certain times of the year. It was her son, Egerton, who would derive most benefit from the place. As a wave of fatigue hit him, Christopher's legs buckled slightly.

'Are you hungry, Mr Redmayne?' asked his hostess.

'I am, Lady Whitcombe.'

'We shall dine very shortly.'

"Thank you.'

'It will give you time to get used to sharing our table.'

'I regard that as a privilege.'

'And we regard you as a friend, Mr Redmayne,' she said, bestowing her sweetest smile on him. 'Letitia made the same observation only this morning. We have not seen all that much of you and yet it feels as if you are one of the family.'

Letitia gave a nervous giggle. Christopher's legs wobbled again.

Jonathan Bale walked along the riverbank that afternoon until he was roughly opposite the point where the body had been found.

His sons would not be able to skate on the ice now. Cracks had been turned into deep crevices and thinner patches had broken up altogether. Blocks of ice floated in open water, melting gently in the sun. As the Thames slowly reasserted itself, the frost fair had been abandoned. Jonathan was glad. The city might be deprived of its winter merriment but the constable's younger son would be spared the visible reminder of the discovery he had made in the ice. There was a secondary reason why Jonathan was pleased at the thaw. Many of his friends earned their living from the river. In places like Shadwell, Ratcliffe, Poplar and Wapping, something like six out of ten men worked either as sailors, watermen or lightermen, occupations that had been frozen out of the Thames. Fishermen, too, had suffered. Sole, cod, herring, sprat and whitebait had continued to be caught in the estuary but those whose income depended on the smelt, eels, salmon and other fish they netted in the shadow of London had been badly hit.

As he gazed out of the river, Jonathan tried to work out where the body had been thrown in and how it had reached the spot where the ice had formed around it. He knew that the current could do strange things with any object tossed into the water. Human and animal bodies had been carried several miles downstream from the point where they had been hurled into the Thames. In this case, however, he sensed that the corpse had not drifted very far. Indeed, it might well have entered the water no more than a few hundred yards from where he stood. Jonathan looked up and down the riverbank, estimating the nearest point to the tavern that Henry Redmayne and his friends had visited on the night when the murder had probably taken place.

After pondering for some time, he moved away and walked along Thames Street in the direction of his home. His thoughts turned to his meeting with the jovial Captain Harvest. Before he met the soldier, Jonathan had been convinced that the killer had already been arrested and imprisoned in Newgate. Yet when his judgement had been buttressed by the confident assertions of Captain Harvest, he began to have doubts. There was something about the man that provoked distrust. He was too glib, too plausible and far too hasty to condemn Henry Redmayne. Harvest claimed to have been a friend of the murder victim. Jonathan asked himself why, if Henry had had left the tavern that night in such a vengeful mood, Harvest had not tried to restrain him or at least have gone off to warn Jeronimo Maldini of the imminent danger. The constable still believed in Henry's guilt but with far less certainty than before.

When he got back to Addle Street, he found his wife cleaning the house with a broom. After collecting a kiss from him, Sarah passed on her news.

'Jacob called here earlier on,' she said.

'Jacob?'

'Mr Redmayne's servant.'

'Oh,' said Jonathan. 'That Jacob. What did he want?'

'To give you a message. Mr Redmayne had to go out of London today. He'll not be back until tomorrow but is anxious to speak to you then.'

'I'm just as eager to talk to him, Sarah, and hoped to do so this evening.'

'Jacob saved you a wasted journey to Fetter Lane.'

'So it seems.' He looked around. 'Where are the boys?'

'Oliver is in the kitchen and Richard is upstairs. I had to separate them.'

'Why?'

'For the usual reason,' she said, leaning on her broom. 'They were arguing over who first saw that body in the ice. Oliver insists that it was him even though he knows perfectly well that it was Richard.'

'They must try to forget the whole thing, not argue about it.'

"That's what I told them, Jonathan.'

'I'll speak to Oliver later,' he decided, crossing to the staircase. 'Richard is the one who needs most attention. I'll not be long.'

As he ascended the steps, they creaked under his weight. Jonathan went into the little room at the rear of the house where his sons slept. Richard was huddled in a corner with his collar turned up against the cold.

'It's warmer downstairs by the fire,' said his father, kneeling beside him.

'I was sent up here.'

'Only because you and Oliver were bickering again. I warned you about that.'

'I'm sorry.'

'We both know that you were the first person to see that poor wretch in the ice,' said Jonathan, slipping an arm around the boy. 'Nobody can dispute it. I'll make sure that Oliver understands that. But it's time to put it behind you, Richard.'

'I've tried, Father. I've tried so hard.'

'Does it still prey on your mind?'

'Day and night.'

Jonathan gave him an affectionate squeeze. 'The memory will fade away in time.'

'Not until it's all over.'

'Over?'

"That man was murdered. Someone has to pay for that.'

'He will, Richard.'

'When he does, I may stop thinking about it.'

'I hope so, son.'

The boy looked up at him. 'Do you know the man?'

"The victim?'

'No, the one who killed him. Mother says he's in prison.'

'Yes,' said Jonathan. 'He's locked away in Newgate so you need have no fears about him. And I do know the man slightly, though he's no friend of mine.'

'What's his name?'