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  The Amorous Nightingale

  ( Christopher Redmayne - 2 )

  Edward Marston

  Noted beauty and singer Harriet Gow has earned a position envied by every available women of the Restoration period: she is the King's favorite mistress. After seeing her perform, Christopher Redmayne is also captivated and the impression Harriet made is still lingering in his mind when he is summoned urgently by Charles II. Harriet has been kidnapped, and Redmayne, with the help of his friend Jonathan Bale - a Puritan constable - is engaged to resolve this delicate affair. The facade of elegance and gentility soon begins to crumble in the face of their investigations. Harriet is, indeed, an amorous nightingale; the fabric of her life entangled in jealousy, avarice and lust. Just as Redmayne and Bale start to question whether she is really the victim or the guilty party a brutal murder provides the answer...

  The Amorous Nightingale

  Edward Marston

  Copyright © 2000 Edward Marston

  To my own amorous nightingale

  Moll Davis performed the song (My Lodging is

  on the Cold Ground) so charmingly that, not

  long after, it raised her from a bed on the

  Cold Ground, to a Bed Royal.

  John Downes, Roscius Anglicanus

  Chapter One

  Christopher Redmayne found conversations with his elder brother rather trying at the best of times. When there was a mirror at hand, it was well nigh impossible to have a meaningful exchange with Henry for he was continually preening himself, adjusting his wig, fidgeting with his attire, experimenting with a series of facial expressions and generally ignoring the person or persons unfortunate enough to be in his presence at such a moment of total self-absorption. Though he found such behaviour extremely irritating, Christopher schooled himself to be patient.

  'What manner of man is this Mr Hartwell?' he asked.

  'Jasper?' said Henry dismissively. 'He's an arrant fool.'

  'I thought that he was a friend of yours.'

  'A mere acquaintance. I'd never list Jasper Hartwell among my intimates. It would damage my reputation.' He tried the wig at a slightly different angle and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 'How does this look?'

  'Fine,' said Christopher wearily. 'It looks fine.'

  'Does it make me handsome and faintly satanic?'

  'You look like Henry Redmayne and he is both of those things with many other distinctive traits besides. Could we put your appearance to one side for a moment and discuss this Mr Hartwell?'

  'But appearance is everything, my dear brother.'

  'I would dispute that.'

  'Well, do not do so in front of Jasper,' warned his brother, striking a peevish note. 'In fact, I would advise you to dispute nothing in the presence of your potential client. Agree with everything he says, however vapid or inane. Jasper is all outward show. If you think that your dear brother leans a little towards vanity - a crime I readily confess - wait until you meet Jasper Hartwell. He puts me in the shade. Jasper makes Narcissus seem like a martyr to modesty.'

  'What of his inner nature?'

  'He doesn't have one.'

  'He must, Henry.'

  'Why?'

  'Every man has a true centre to his being.'

  'Jasper is the exception to the rule.'

  Henry Redmayne decided that his waistcoat was not being displayed to the best advantage and fiddled with his coat for several minutes. Christopher suppressed a sigh and waited. They were in the hall of Henry's house in Bedford Street, preparing to leave for a visit to the theatre, a pleasurable occasion which also had a commercial purpose, since Christopher was to be introduced to someone who might well be interested in employing him as the architect to design his new London abode. The fact that he had to rely on his brother for the introduction brought a number of anxieties in its wake. When Henry turned his attention back to his wig, Christopher tried to probe for more detail.

  'I hope that Mr Hartwell proves a more reliable client,' he said.

  'Reliable?' echoed the other.

  'Profoundly grateful as I am for your help, I have to admit that your introductions have not always borne fruit.'

  'What do you mean?' returned Henry, rounding on him. 'Did I not secure a valuable commission for you from Sir Ambrose Northcott?'

  'You did, indeed.'

  'Was it not the start of your career as an aspiring architect?'

  'Undoubtedly.'

  'And were not your services generously rewarded?'

  'They were, Henry. The fee was paid in full. Unfortunately, the house was never built so that all of my work went to waste.'

  'Don't blame me, Christopher. How was I to know that Sir Ambrose would be unguarded enough to let himself be murdered? It was an unforeseen hazard. The point is that, out of the kindness of my filial heart, I presented you with a golden opportunity.' He gave a loud sniff. 'A modicum of thanks is in order, I fancy.'

  'I have already said how deeply grateful I am, Henry. Grateful for the introductions to Sir Ambrose Northcott and, more recently, to that other friend, acquaintance, crony, drinking companion, associate, call him what you will, Lord Staines.'

  'Fulke is part of my inner circle.'

  'So I assumed.'

  'A man on whom I pattern myself.'

  'I deduced that from his air of dissipation.' '

  Henry stiffened. 'Fulke Rowett, tenth Baron Staines, is a splendid fellow in every particular. Had circumstances been more propitious, he could have looked to be the next warden of the Cinque Ports. You can surely not complain about Lord Staines. You designed a beautiful house for him and it stands to this day as a worthy example of your talent.'

  'The house was built,' agreed Christopher, 'but the architect's fee was never paid. Nor was that of the builder.'

  'A temporary problem in raising finance,' said Henry airily. 'I'm sure that Fulke will soon rectify this situation.'

  'Not while he is still on his Irish estates. For that is where he fled when we tried to seek payment. And we were two among many, Henry. The queue of his creditors would stretch from here to Land's End. Lord Staines may be a splendid fellow but he is also impulsive, extravagant, irresponsible and up to his neck in debt.'

  'Even the best horse stumbles at times.'

  'This one fell at the first jump.'

  'What are you saying?' demanded Henry, putting his hands on his hips as he went on the attack. 'Are you telling me that your brother should not put himself out to advance your interests, to honour the promise I gave to Father to lend all the help I could in your search for gainful and satisfying employment?'

  'No, Henry,' said Christopher with an appeasing smile, 'that is not my meaning at all. I simply wish to remind you that my experience has hitherto been somewhat chequered. My first client was killed and my second took to his heels when the question of payment was raised. All I am seeking to do is to establish that Mr Hartwell is more dependable.'

  'Have no worries on that score.'

  'How can I be sure?'

  'Jasper has no intention of being murdered, nor does he have any Irish estates which can act as a refuge from his creditors. Arrant fool he may be, but he is as rich as Croesus and more likely to pay you twice the fee you ask out of sheer benevolence. Does that answer your question?'

  'Not entirely.'

  'How do you like my new coat?' said Henry, courting the mirror once more. 'Does it not lend a certain dignity?'

  'Dignity and elegance.'

  'Truly, my tailor has ennobled me.'

  'You could pass for an earl, if not a duke.'

  'Dignity, elegance, nobility. The quintessence of Henry Redmayne.'

  'Coming back to Mr Hartwell…'

  'Now, w
hich hat shall I wear? The choice is crucial.'

  'What is your own position with regard to him?'

  'Jasper? We exchange polite nods of greeting. Nothing more.'

  'I was talking about your pecuniary relationship,' said Christopher, trying to catch his attention. 'If so be it, this afternoon's meeting does produce a commission for me, you are rightly entitled to a fee for effecting the introduction. I would prefer that you agreed the amount with me beforehand rather than with Mr Hartwell.'

  Henry was shocked. 'What I do, I do out of brotherly love.'

  'I'm delighted to hear it.'

  'I seek nothing in terms of monetary recompense.'

  'That is very altruistic of you, Henry,' said the other politely, 'but I am bound to recall the way that you brokered the deal with Sir Ambrose Northcott. Brotherly love was ever your cry on that occasion, too, but it did not stop you from arranging to have a percentage of my fee paid surreptitiously to you.'

  'Sir Ambrose thrust the money upon me. What could I do?'

  'Be more honest with your brother.'

  'I was, I am and evermore will be.'

  'So no understanding has been reached with Mr Hartwell?'

  'None, Christopher. I give you my word.'

  'Then I will hold you to it.'

  'That will not be necessary.' He scrutinised his appearance in the mirror. 'Have you ever seen a finer sight? I do believe that I will outshine the King himself this afternoon. Henry Redmayne - Baron Cynosure.'

  Christopher let him twist and turn in admiration for a couple of minutes before speaking. He loved his elder brother. With all his faults and foibles, Henry Redmayne was an endearing man in many ways. Both of them were tall, slim and handsome but the resemblance ended there. While Christopher's face shone with health, Henry's pale and ravished countenance betokened a life of studied degeneracy. The former's luxuriant dark brown curling locks had a reddish hue, whereas the latter's rapidly thinning hair obliged him to seek the cover of an expensive periwig. The earnest manner of the younger brother was in complete contrast to the easy cynicism of his sibling. One was dedicated to his work as an architect, the other to a life of idle pleasure. They inhabited quite separate worlds.

  Christopher knew the futility of even attempting to reform his brother. He had grown so accustomed to Henry's sybaritic existence that he hardly recognised it as a vice any more. Someone else in the family, however, was less tolerant of Henry's shortcomings.

  'I had a letter from Father this morning,' said Christopher.

  'Why does the old gentleman always write to you, not to me?'

  'Because I always have the grace to reply.'

  'So do I,' retorted Henry petulantly, 'when his missives are civil. But that is all too rare, I fear. If only Father could forget - albeit briefly - that he is Dean of Gloucester. He will insist on treating a letter as a pulpit from which he can denounce me for my sins.'

  'Then do not give him cause for that denunciation.'

  'Would you have me betray my instincts?'

  'I would have you exercise a little discretion,' advised Christopher. 'Father wrote to tell me that he intends to visit London shortly and means to call on both of us. Especially on you.'

  'Why me?' gasped Henry, flying into a mild panic. 'Are there not sinners enough in the county of Gloucester to keep him busy? The last thing I need is a prying parent, watching over my shoulder, calling me to account. I'll not be judged, Christopher!' he declared, waving an arm. 'Keep the old gentleman away from me. Tell him that I have temporarily quit the city. Tell him that I am performing military service abroad on behalf of my country. Tell him that I am on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Tell him anything you choose, but save me from his damnable sermons!'

  'Father has a right to call on you.'

  'What about my rights?' wailed the other. 'And my freedom?'

  'It is the use to which you put that freedom which is bringing Father to London. I say no more,' added Christopher. 'I simply wished to give you fair warning.'

  Henry shivered involuntarily. 'Of impending catastrophe,' he moaned. 'They say that disasters come in threes. First we had the Great Plague. Then the Great Fire. Now we have the Great Visitation from the Dean of Gloucester, descending out of heaven in a blaze of righteous indignation like an avenging thunderbolt.'

  'You can hardly compare Father's visit with the plague and the fire. They were disasters that affected the whole city. The only person likely to suffer this time is you, Henry.'

  'I am already sweating as if I have the plague and smouldering as if I am trapped in the fire. Let us away, Christopher,' he ordered, pulling open the door of a closet to extract a broad-brimmed hat whose crown was bedecked with plumes. 'Father coming to London? How can I enjoy myself when I have this dire threat hanging over me? It has made every part about me quiver with apprehension.'

  He confronted the mirror for the last time in order to place the hat at the correct angle. Standing at his elbow, Christopher checked his own appearance. He was smart, well groomed and dressed in the latest fashion but his attire had nothing of the vivid colour and ostentation of Henry's. The latter favoured a vermilion coat, whose large cuffs were adorned with an intricate pattern, over a waistcoat of red and gold silk. The breeches were dark blue above a pair of mauve stockings. Even the butterfly bows on his shoes were a minor work of art. Christopher estimated that his brother had lavished more on his apparel for an afternoon at the theatre than the young architect spent in six months.

  Henry grimaced and stroked his wispy moustache.

  'I suppose that I will pass muster,' he said dully.

  'A moment ago, you were boasting that you would out- dazzle the King himself in your fine array.'

  'That was before I heard the tidings about Father.'

  'Are they so unsettling?' said Christopher.

  'Terrifying!' He swung on his heel and headed for the door. 'Still, there's no help for it. Come, brother. This afternoon's business may at least give me a chance to impress Father.' Sailing through the front door, he gave a curt nod to the servant who held it open for them. 'I'll secure that commission for you and Christopher Redmayne can continue his valuable work of helping to rebuild this ruined city.'

  'Nothing would please me more, Henry.'

  'Sing my praises to Father.'

  Christopher grinned. 'Like a heavenly choir.'

  He fell in beside his brother as they strolled towards Drury Lane, the one marching purposefully with a confident stride while the other strutted importantly and assumed an expression of total disdain.

  'We should have taken a carriage,' decided Henry.

  'For so short a journey? A needless indulgence.'

  'Indulgence is a mark of good character.'

  'And bad housekeeping,' argued Christopher. 'Why spend money on the unnecessary when it might be saved for the truly essential?'

  'Cutting a dash is truly essential.'

  'We must agree to differ on that, Henry. As on so many other things.' A thought struck him. 'By the way, you have not told me the name of the play we are about to see.'

  'It is irrelevant.'

  'Does it have no title?'

  'Who cares?'

  'I do,' said Christopher seriously.

  'Forget the play,' decreed Henry with a lordly gesture of his hand. 'Remember that you are not going to the theatre to watch a troupe of mangy actors, practising their craft. You are there to ensnare Jasper Hartwell in order to part the fool from as much of his undeserved wealth as you can. As for me,' he said, revelling in the attention he was getting from passers-by, 'I never visit a theatre for the purpose of seeing. I am there simply to be seen.'

  The two brothers moved on, linked by ties of blood but separated by almost everything else, walking side by side towards a critical meeting with a potential client, mixing hope with enjoyment, ambition with display, sensitivity with arrogance, serenely unaware of the perils that lay in wait for them at The Theatre Royal.

  Chapter Two

 
; Jonathan Bale looked up at the house and emitted a reverential sigh.

  'There it is,' he said, pointing a finger. 'Study it well, boys.'

  'Why?' asked Oliver.

  'Because this is where he once lived. Over twenty years ago, the Lord Protector, as he became, moved from Long Acre to Drury Lane and made his home right here. He sent for his family to join him from Ely. Think on that, Oliver,' he said, with a hand on his son's shoulder. 'The man whose name you bear graced this house with his presence.'

  'Was he a good man, Father?'

  'A great one.'

  'Then why didn't he become King?'

  'He did. In all but name.'

  'But we have a real King now.'

  Jonathan pursed his lips and nodded sadly.

  'What about me, Father?' piped up Richard Bale, the younger of the two brothers. 'You told me that I was named after a Cromwell.'

  'You were,' explained his father. 'You were so christened because the Lord Protector's son was called Richard. When his father died, he inherited his title and his power.'

  'Was he as great a man as his father?' wondered Richard.

  'Alas, no.'

  'Nobody was as great as Oliver Cromwell,' boasted the older boy. 'That's why I carry his name. I mean to be great myself.'

  'You already are,' teased Richard. 'A great fool.'

  Oliver bridled. 'Who are you calling a fool?'

  'Nobody,' said Jonathan firmly, quelling the argument before it could even begin. 'Now, look at the house and remember the man who once owned it. We must keep his memory bright in our hearts. England owes so much to him. He is sorely missed.'

  'What about his son, Richard?' said his namesake.

  'Well, yes…' Jonathan tried to keep disappointment out of his voice. 'Richard Cromwell is missed, too, but in a different way. His achievements fell short of his father's. That was only to be expected.'

  'Where is he now, Father?'

  'Somewhere in France.'

  'Why?'