Christopher swallowed hard. 'It's something that I intend to ask him.'

The first time they carried a litter past his cell, the corpse was not even covered. As he looked through the grill, Henry Redmayne saw the body of a woman, dressed in rags, misshapen by age and skeletal from hunger, being borne away by two of the turnkeys. Her face was so disfigured by disease that Henry turned away in disgust. Gaol fever had claimed another victim. On the second occasion, the body was hidden beneath a shroud that was sodden with blood around the neck and chest. Henry was at the grill again. Seeing his face, the bearers of the litter stopped briefly outside his cell so that he could look more closely at the cadaver.

'What happened?' asked Henry.

'He took the easy way out of Newgate,' replied one of the turnkeys.

'How did he do that?'

'With a razor. He cut his throat.'

Henry recoiled. 'Why?'

'He wanted to cheat the hangman.'

'And he took his own life?'

The turnkey grinned. 'You'll warm to the notion yourself before too long.'

They went on their way and left Henry to meditate on horror of what the other prisoner had done. He was sufficient of a Christian to know that suicide was an unforgivable sin. The dead man would be denied the privilege of being buried in hallowed ground and would never go to meet his Maker. What had forced the man to take such a wild and irrevocable step? What was his crime? How had he come by the means to kill himself? Did he have any family and friends to grieve for him? Henry was so preoccupied with the misery of another prisoner's lot that he all but forgot his own. Then a rat ran across his foot and made him yelp. He looked round the four bare walls that hemmed him in. The straw in his cell was clogged with filth and the prison stench was now so strong that it made him retch. His clothing was in an appalling state. The shirt on which he had spent so much money was caked with grime and his breeches were badly torn. He looked worse than the meanest beggar.

Henry curled up in a corner to reflect on the malignity of fate. An hour crawled slowly past. He was still cursing his misfortune when something was dropped through the grill on to the straw. He groped about in search of it then drew his hand away sharply as it made contact with the blade. Someone had tossed a razor into his cell but it was not to help him shave. It had already drawn blood from his finger and he licked it hard. On impulse, he picked the razor up and went to push it back through the bars then something stopped him. The razor was a weapon of last resort. He did not feel the need of it now but it would be foolish to spurn it altogether. Suicide would be less painful than execution. He understood that very clearly. One swift slice with the razor across his throat and he would bleed to death quietly in the privacy of his cell. If he slit his wrists first, he would die even more quickly. Set against the ignominy of a trial and the agony of a public hanging, suicide began to have a growing appeal.

Propped against the wall, he considered his future. It was grim.

He had been locked up for days like a common criminal with nothing to soften the wretchedness of his day. Those who were working for his release had obviously had no success and he had come to accept that perhaps he was, after all, the man who ended the life of Jeronimo Maldini. He had certainly been involved in a fight of some sort on the night in question and he did remember reaching for his dagger. How it had got into the Italian's back, he did not know. His fear was that he would go to his grave without ever learning the truth. His brother and two of his friends might believe in his innocence but they were not judge and jury in the case. Men had been hanged on less evidence than that presented against him. Henry was so dejected that he could not even entertain the vague possibility of release. What obsessed him was the image of a noose being put around his neck to strangle the life slowly and painfully out of him in front of a jeering crowd.

The razor was his only means of escape. He held it tentatively against his throat. Knowing in his heart that it was wrong, he nevertheless felt that it was necessary. His hand shook and the blade brushed gently against his skin. Henry steeled himself. Before he could discover if he had the courage to take his own life, however, he heard the sound of the key in the lock and dropped the razor into the straw. The door opened to admit his brother. Henry leapt to his feet to embrace him.

'Christopher!' he shouted. 'I thought you'd forsaken me.'

'I'd never do that, Henry,' said his visitor, lifting up the bag that he was carrying. 'I've brought you decent food and good wine. And I've bribed the prison sergeant to let you have fresh water to wash and shave.'

Henry ran a hand across his face. 'I'll not touch a razor while I'm in here,' he said, ashamed of his earlier impulse to commit suicide.

'Take a pride in your appearance. You always did in the past.'

'It's another world in here, Christopher.' He looked at the provisions. 'I thank you for these. When I tried the prison gruel, I thought they were trying to poison me.'

'I'll bring food every day from now on.'

'That means there's no chance of my release.'

'Not in the immediate future,' admitted Christopher, 'but I promise you that we are all working hard to that end.'

'We?'

'Myself, your lawyer and your friends.'

'Have you spoken with Martin Crenlowe?'

'Yes, he told me about his visit here. I called on Sir Humphrey G.o.dden as well.'

'What about Captain Harvest?'

'I left him to Jonathan Bale.'

'What!' exclaimed Henry, pulsing with anger. 'You let that sour- faced Puritan know about my disgrace? How could you? Keep him away, Christopher. I want none of the fellow. His solemnity oppresses me.'

'Jonathan is a good friend.'

'Not to me.'

'He's also a constable with a keen eye and a good brain.'

'Yes,' said Henry bitterly, 'but he employs them both in the prevention of harmless pleasures. If he had his way, we'd all be in a state of never-ending penitence, wearing sackcloth and ashes as we shuffle our way to church. Jonathan Bale is helping me?' he cried in disbelief. 'He's more likely to turn public executioner for the privilege of putting a rope around my neck.'

'You do not know the man.'

'I know what he thinks of me. I see it in that ugly face of his. Nothing will convince me that that gloomy constable has my best interests at heart. He despises all that I stand for. Be honest, Christopher,' he urged. 'Does the fellow really believe in my innocence?'

'Not entirely,' said his brother.

'So what have you done? Hired him to prove my guilt?'

'No, Henry.'

'Then what?'

'I need to lean on his experience.'

'Even though loathes me?'

'Henry-'

'Why must you torment me like this?'

He burst into tears and flung himself into his brother's arms. Henry was more despondent than ever now. Hoping that some progress had been made towards securing his release, he had learned of major setbacks. Christopher waited until the sobbing had stopped before he spoke. He eased his brother gently away from him.

'The person who can help you most is yourself,' he said.

'Me?'

'Any new detail you can remember about that night may be crucial.'

'I've tried and tried,' said Henry, wiping tears away with the back of his hand. 'But my mind is a very blur. This is no place for contemplation, Christopher. It's worse than Bedlam.'

'Is there nothing that you can recall?'

'Nothing at all. But I must tell you this,' said Henry, grabbing him by both arms. 'It may help in my defence. Granted, I could have killed that posturing Italian. But I'm sure that I did not because I feel no remorse. Do you see what that means? If I'd done the deed, I'd have felt sorry afterwards, when my anger had subsided. But I feel nothing. I neither rejoice in his death nor regret it. Explain that, if you will,' he demanded, releasing Christopher. 'How can a person of high emotion like me feel nothing whatsoever?'

'No twinges of conscience?'

'None.'

'No satisfaction that a despised enemy was killed?'

'That would only come if I'd been the one lucky enough to kill him.'

Christopher was alarmed. He hoped that his brother would never have to go to trial but it was a contingency that had to be taken into account. Henry's comments might persuade him of his own innocence but they would hardly sway a jury in his favour. His last remark had made his brother blench. Uttered in the courtroom, it would suggest a heartless man with a burning hatred of the murder victim. Christopher knew that he had to mix strictness with his sympathy.

'You did not tell me the whole truth, Henry,' he chided.

'I did. I told you all.'

'Not according to Sir Humphrey G.o.dden.'

'Does he call me a liar?'

'No,' said Christopher, 'he merely doubted that his alleged cheating at cards was enough to make you turn against Signor Maldini. Apparently, you were exposed to scorn at the fencing school.'

'I prefer to forget that shameful episode.'

'It's important, Henry.'

'Is it?' 'It provides you with a motive. Tell me what happened.'

'Must I?'

'Yes,' insisted his brother. 'If I'm to help you, I must know everything.'

'Very well,' said Henry with a sigh of reluctance. 'I was the victim of the most dreadful act of spite at that fencing school one day. It was utterly humiliating. I'm no mean swordsman, as you know. I've worked hard to master all the accomplishments of a gentleman - fencing, dancing, drinking and gambling.'

Christopher was sardonic. 'Not to mention the arts of the bedchamber.'

'I had a natural excellence in that direction.'

'What did Signor Maldini do?'

'He set me up so that he could cut me down, Christopher. He waited until the school was full then chose me for a demonstration. I was flattered at first. That illusion did not last,' he said with rancour. 'While I had a rapier, Jeronimo Maldini seemed to have a magic wand in his hand. It did whatever he wished. He slashed my sleeves open, hacked off my b.u.t.tons and made me look such a blundering clown that everyone jeered at me. It was quite insupportable.'

'Why do you think he did that?'

'To prove that he was the superior swordsman.'

'That was evident before you started. Why pick on you, Henry?'

'To vent his dislike of me.'

'Was there not another reason as well?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Think again.'

'He simply wanted to shame me.'

'And we both know why,' suggested his brother. 'You talked of cheating at cards and Sir Humphrey G.o.dden mentioned this bout at the fencing school, but there was another cause of strife between you.' He lowered his voice. 'What was her name?'

Henry was shaken. 'I've not the slightest idea of what you are talking about,' he said, trying to muster some indignation. 'This conversation has taken an unsavoury turn.'

'Who was the lady, Henry?'

'What lady?'

'The one who came between you and your fencing master.'

"There's no such person.' 'Who was she?'

Henry faltered. 'That's a personal matter and has no relevance here.'

'So you confess that there was someone?'

'Place what construction you will on my statement.'

"Then I can only believe that you actually welcome trial and conviction,' said Christopher levelly, 'for you shun what might be significant evidence in your favour. Does it not occur to you that this lady may be in a position to save your life?'

'She'd be more inclined to break my heart.'

'Is that what she did when she went off with Signor Maldini?'

'He tricked her,' yelled Henry turning on him. 'He used every foul device he knew to woo her away from me. When he'd done that, when he'd lured her with false promises, when he'd sneaked his way into her bed and taken his evil pleasures, he cast her aside like a broken doll.' His face went blank. 'I loved her, Christopher,' he said in a hollow voice. 'I loved her as I've never loved anyone else. Yes,' he went on before his brother could interrupt, 'I know you've heard me say that before but this time it was different. It was not mere l.u.s.t disguised as love. It was true pa.s.sion of a kind I'd not felt before.' He bit his lip and shook his head. 'I loved her, I swear it.'

'What was her name?'

'Forget her. Please. It's all in my past.'

'But she may be able to have some influence on your future as well,' reasoned Christopher. 'She'll have intelligence about your rival that n.o.body else has. It may help you. And, I daresay, the lady will be overcome with regret at the way she treated you. Let me speak to her, Henry.'

'It would serve no purpose.'

'Are you afraid of what she might tell me?'

Henry sagged. 'I still care, Christopher. I want to spare her any more pain.'

'That's a laudable objective but not a very practical one. It was Captain Harvest who revealed the existence of the lady. He would not divulge her name but he'll have no choice if he's put under oath in the witness box.' Christopher put a hand on his arm. 'Who is she, Henry, and where do I find her?'

'I dare not tell you.'