Edward Marston - The Amorous Nightingale

'The boy's fears are all too real,' he admitted, 'but he mustn't know that. We don't want him to spread the alarm or have his uncle and aunt getting anxious. Peter must think that his sister has gone out of London with Mrs Gow for a short while. Even though the plain truth is that she was most likely abducted from the house this afternoon.'

'Is that what the coachman said, sir?'

'He had no doubts about it.'

'Then the life of an innocent girl may be in danger.'

'Two lives are at risk here, Mr Bale,' corrected Christopher. 'I won't waste time arguing which of the ladies is the more innocent or guilty. Both need immediate help. The manner of their kidnap shows how bold and uncompromising the men who snatched them really are. They gave the coachman a sound thrashing.'

'I've changed my mind,' said Jonathan, getting up suddenly from his seat. 'I'm sorry that I had to refuse your invitation earlier on but matters are different now. I knew the Hibbert family well. I watched Mary and Peter grow up. Their father, Daniel, was a fine man and a good neighbour to us.' He thrust out his jaw. 'If his daughter is in the slightest danger, I'll help to rescue her.'

'That offer is music to my ears.'

'Just tell me what to do, Mr Redmayne.'

'The first thing is to calm young Peter down.'

'Leave that to me, sir.'

'It's a happy accident that you actually know one of the victims. You may be able to tell me things about her which supplement what I've already heard from Trigg.' He looked down at the table. 'Talking of whom, there's something you can do for me right now, Mr Bale.'

'What's that, sir?'

'Take a look at this map. It's rather crude, I fear, but I'm an architect and not a cartographer. Come over here – what do you see?'

Jonathan was impressed. 'A map of London, sir,' he said with a wheeze of admiration. 'As neat and tidy as you could wish. But that's London to the life, no question. You've moved one or two of the roads about by mistake and Fleet Street bends a trifle more than you've allowed. Otherwise, as far as I can judge, it's more or less accurate.'

'St James's Square would be up here in the corner somewhere,' said Christopher, marking the place with a cross. 'Now, if you had to drive a coach during the day from there to the Palace of Westminster, which route would you take?'

'The most direct one with the best roads.'

'And that would be?'

'Straight down to Charing Cross here,' said Jonathan, pointing with his finger, 'then south along King Street.'

'That was my feeling. Yet Harriet Gow was abducted when her coach was stopped in this narrow lane off the Strand – right here.' His own finger jabbed down. 'If Trigg was taking her to the Palace, why did he go by such a peculiar route?'

'Did he mean to call in at Drury Lane on the way?' suggested Jonathan. 'Perhaps she had business at The Theatre Royal.'

'The coachman assures me that she didn't. His mistress had an assignation with someone though he refuses to tell me with whom. Given the circumstances, I naturally assumed that it was with His Majesty.'

'I've no comment to make on that, sir.'

'He and Mrs Gow have been very close of late.'

'Please keep me ignorant of such detail.'

'But it's critical, Mr Bale. You agree with me that there's only one sensible way to travel from St James's Square to Westminster. That leaves us with two alternatives.'

'Does it?'

'The coachman may have misled me.'

'Or?'

Christopher looked up from his rudimentary map of London.

'Mrs Gow had a rendezvous with someone else entirely.'

Night brought a few concessions for Mary Hibbert. She was given a candle and provided with food and water. The man who untied her was wearing a mask but she did not have the courage to look up at him. Grateful to have some source of light in the dark cellar, she picked at the bread and cheese. Her captor waited until she had finished then he pointed to the truckle bed in the corner. When he went out, the door was locked behind him with an air of finality. Mary shuddered. During the previous night, she had slept in a fourposter at the house near St James's Square. Now she was reduced to a filthy mattress in a dank prison. The scuffling of the rat made her resolve not to lie down anywhere.

Huddled into the chair, she sat in the tiny circle of light and prayed that her ordeal would soon be over. No relief came, not even the cheering sound of a song from her mistress. It would be a long, lonely, unforgiving night for Mary Hibbert. Her wrists were chafed by her bonds, her whole body aching from its confinement in the chair. Her prospects were bleak. Trapped in her cellar, unable to reach the woman whom she served, unaware of the identity or purpose of her captors, uncertain of her future, she was more despondent than ever.

Eager to make full use of daylight, Lodowick Corrigan arrived on site with his men shortly after dawn. Under the builder's supervision, posts were hammered into the ground to mark out the different areas of the property and materials were unloaded from carts before being stacked carefully in designated places. By the time that Christopher Redmayne rode up, workmen were already starting to dig the foundations. Overnight rain had left the earth soft and pliable. The picks sank deep and true. Pleased by the flurry of activity, Christopher was frustrated that he would be unable to stay in order to watch progress. Corrigan ambled over to him with an ingratiating smile.

'You're late, sir,' he commented drily.

'I had things to do, Mr Corrigan.'

'We like an early start.'

'So I see. You've certainly brought sufficient men.'

'The best I could muster.'

'They seem to know their jobs,' said Christopher with approval. 'That's not always the case, alas. With so much building going on in London, there's a desperate shortage of trained men. Fresh labour has had to be brought in from outside the city. Some of the newcomers are very raw and inexperienced.'

'I only employ men who know their trade,' boasted Corrigan. 'I'll not have anyone blundering around on one of my sites. If they work for me, they know the rules. I'm a hard taskmaster but I pay well.'

'It's a clear enough message.'

Corrigan unrolled a drawing and Christopher dismounted to take a closer look at his own draughtsmanship again. The builder had a dozen or more questions ready, all delivered in a tone of studied politeness but each one framed in terms that implied criticism. Corrigan was flexing his muscles, trying to secure minor changes to the overall plan in order to establish a pattern of amendment. Christopher resisted each suggestion with a mixture of reason and firmness, aware that even one concession to the builder would be viewed as a sign of weakness on his part. Unable to make any headway, Corrigan became more blunt.

'Some alterations will have to be made, sir,' he warned.

'Why?'

'Because that's what always happens.'

'Is it?'

'Problems arise, a client demands changes, the faults of an untried architect are exposed. I've seen it all before, Mr Redmayne.'

'Have you ever encountered a builder who was unable to take simple instructions? He would be the biggest handicap of all.'

Christopher's remark was all the more effective for being delivered in a pleasant voice. Corrigan tensed but said nothing. Rolling up the drawing, he went off to relieve his anger by berating some of his men with unnecessary relish. Christopher was grateful to have shaken him off but a new problem now presented itself. As a coach rolled up, the face of Jasper Hartwell beamed out at him. Attired with his usual flamboyance and almost buried beneath the ginger periwig, his client beckoned his architect across.

'Isn't this exciting?' he said with a childlike grin.

'Yes, Mr Hartwell. The first day is always rather special.'