Christopher arrived back soon afterwards. Jonathan could see that he, too, was in a state of excitement. The architect explained why. Though highly uncomfortable, the talk with Pietro Maldini had been very worthwhile. Christopher felt that a significant connection had been made.

'If that jewellery was intended for Sir Humphrey G.o.dden's wife, we have a motive for murder,' he argued. 'Sir Humphrey must have learned of his wife's infidelity and sought revenge. He engaged the false Captain Harvest as his accomplice.'

'What shall we do, Mr Redmayne?'

'Challenge him at once.'

'Wait until you've heard my news,' said Jonathan, taking the ledger and the papers from under his arm. 'We are dealing with far more than a case of murder, sir.' He handed a sheet of paper to Christopher. 'Do you recognise any of those names?'

Christopher was jolted when he saw that the first name on the list was that of Sir Peregrine Whitcombe. Beneath that was the name of Sir Ralph Holcroft. Of the other seven on the list, he recognised most as senior members of the government. He reached the same conclusion as Jonathan.

'Signor Maldini was a spy,' he declared, remembering what Lady Holcroft had told him. 'He deliberately courted ladies who were married to leading politicians. While he was pleasuring them, he was also asking them about their husbands.' An image of Lady Whitcombe came into his mind. 'Yet I cannot think he was involved in that way with Sir Peregrine's wife.'

'He did not need to be,' said Jonathan, giving him some letters. 'His was the one name that I knew because Jacob told me you were designing a house for his widow. As you see, Sir Peregrine is number one. That means he wrote those letters.'

Christopher leafed through them, staggered by what he saw. Information about the country's naval and military defences was set out in neat columns. There were also reports of meetings of the Privy Council. His head reeled. He was being employed by a woman whose late husband had betrayed his country.

'Sir Peregrine was paid for his intelligence,' said Jonathan, holding the ledger up. 'Here's proof of it. Payments to number one are listed at the back. The man was a traitor, Mr Redmayne. He died before he could be caught.'

'We cannot pursue him beyond the grave,' said Christopher.

'And I'm certain that Lady Whitcombe knew nothing of this. She'd not be so proud of her husband's reputation if she had.' He took the ledger from Jonathan. 'Well, you've opened a door to h.e.l.l with this discovery. Did someone find out that Signor Maldini was a spy?' he wondered. 'Is that why he was killed?'

'It could be, Mr Redmayne.'

'How was he unmasked? No wife would dare to admit to her husband that she had been seduced by a foreign spy. That's why the arrangement was so clever.'

Jonathan gave a disapproving frown. 'I see nothing clever in seduction, sir.'

'When he had found out what he wanted to know, he abandoned one lady and moved on to the next. He knew that none of them would ever betray him. Although,' he added, as the words of Pietro Maldini came back to him, 'that's what happened to him in the end. A certain lady betrayed the spy by making him fall in love with her.'

'She wrote these letters,' said Jonathan, handing over the last two items he had found in the desk. 'I felt embarra.s.sed at reading them.'

'Why?'

'They are very fulsome, Mr Redmayne.'

'Are they signed?'

'Only with an initial - 'M" '.

'That stands for Lady Miriam G.o.dden,' said Christopher, glancing through the first letter, 'and there's no doubt that she loved Signor Maldini, or she'd not have been so indiscreet as to write to him. If her husband learned about this secret romance, he'd have been enraged.'

'It would certainly have given him a reason to go after Signor Maldini's blood.'

'Let's go and speak to him, Jonathan,' said Christopher, pocketing the two letters. 'I've a strong feeling that Sir Humphrey G.o.dden is our man.'

Sir Humphrey G.o.dden was grateful that his wife was not at home. It made it much easier to smuggle his unwanted guest into the house. At the top of the building was a small room that was used for storage. When he had stabled his horse, the former Captain Harvest was hustled upstairs to the room by his reluctant host.

'You're to stay here and keep quiet,' ordered Sir Humphrey.

'There's no mattress,' complained the other.

'One of the servants will soon bring one. He'll also bring you food and drink.'

'A manservant, eh?' said the other with a chuckle. 'I'd prefer to be looked after by a buxom chambermaid. It may get lonely up here.'

'You'll get a hiding place and nothing else.' Sir Humphrey looked at him. 'By the way, I still have no idea what your real name is.'

'I'd prefer to keep it that way. See me as an anonymous friend.'

Sir Humphrey was about to make a tart riposte but thought better of it. After issuing further warnings, he left the room. His guest immediately began to rearrange his accommodation, shifting some wooden boxes into a corner and stacking some bolts of material on top of them. The servant arrived with a mattress and placed it against a wall. He stayed long enough to light a fire in the grate then withdrew to fetch some blankets. The erstwhile Captain Harvest took stock of his surroundings. When the fire had warmed the room up, it would be snug. More important, his refuge would be safe. While he was being looked for in the more insalubrious parts of the city, he was enjoying the hospitality of a house in the heart of Covent Garden. He grinned at his good fortune.

Crossing to the window, he looked down into the street and watched the traffic go past. The grin then froze on his face. Two figures were walking purposefully towards the house. He could not believe that Christopher Redmayne and Jonathan Bale had tracked him so soon to his new lair. He had to get away at once.

They stopped well short of the house so that they could appraise it. Christopher was armed with sword and dagger but Jonathan carried no weapon, relying instead on his strength and experience. Both were alert to the potential danger of accosting a man whom they believed had committed a murder.

'When I confront him,' said Christopher, 'he may try to make a run for it. Go round to the back of the house, Jonathan, to cut off his escape.'

'Give me time to get into position, Mr Redmayne.'

'I will.'

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 G.o.dden 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 G.o.dden 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed the two letters and read through them. 'These were not written by my wife,' he a.s.serted.

'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 b.u.t.tressed 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.

'Eat this,' he said, putting the tray down on the table. She shook her head. 'Do as I tell you, Rose!' he warned. 'I'll stand no more of your games.'

'I'm not hungry, Martin,' she whimpered.

'You must keep body and soul together.'

'Why? What's the point?'

'You know very well. If this food is not eaten by the time that I come back, there'll be trouble, Rose. Do you hear?' She said nothing. 'Do you hear?' he repeated.

'Yes, Martin.'

"The man is dead. Forget him.'

'I'll never do that,' she said with a show of spirit.

Crenlowe raised a hand to strike her and she cowered on the bed. The blow never came. There was a loud banging on his front door and the sound echoed up through the house. The goldsmith went out on the landing and listened as a servant opened the door. When he heard who had called to see him, he locked the door of his wife's room and went quickly downstairs. With his hat in his hand, Christopher Redmayne was waiting for him in the hall.

'Good day to you, Mr Crenlowe,' he said. 'I was told at your shop that I'd find you at home today. I crave a word with you, sir.'

'Must it be here? I'd prefer to talk to you this afternoon at the shop.'

'The matter is too serious to be postponed.'

'Oh?' said Crenlowe guardedly. 'You have news for me?'

'Yes,' said Christopher. 'The man who pretended to be Captain Harvest has been arrested. My friend, Mr Bale, apprehended him at Sir Humphrey G.o.dden's house.'

'What was he doing there?'