Chapter Five.

Devoted to a life of outward show, Henry Redmayne had never felt the need to look beyond his reflection in a mirror at the inner man. He was now forced to do so and found it a thoroughly disagreeable experience. It soon dawned on him that he had neither the character nor the strength to cope with the predicament in which he found himself. Gregarious by nature, he was lost when cut off from human company of the kind that he favoured. Yet he shuddered at the thought that any of his acquaintances should see him in such distress, locked away in a grimy cell, deprived of even the most basic comforts, drooping with fatigue and trembling with fear. In his fevered mind, the prospect of execution was a very real one. Henry knew that it would be preceded by a series of other humiliations. His name would be besmirched, his friends would fall away, his enemies would rejoice and his family would suffer horrendously. It was that same family which now preoccupied the prisoner.

While his brother, Christopher, was standing by him with unquestioning loyalty, his father would definitely take a more trenchant view of his plight. Henry was as terrified of the Dean of Gloucester as he was of the hangman. At least he would not have to endure a blistering sermon from the latter. Overcome with guilt, he could not bear the notion of being confronted by an outraged parent in homiletic vein, yet the truth could not be hidden from his father. One thing he had learned about the Church was its remarkable capacity for disseminating bad tidings. A messenger might already be on his way to Gloucester and he would not return to London alone. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne, stirred into action, would surely accompany him, armed with stinging rebukes and dire predictions about his elder son's reception at the Last Judgement. It would be worse than being flayed alive. Henry was unequal to it. Falling to his knees in the straw, he prayed, with a fervour he usually reserved for amorous encounters, that his father was kept away from him by whatever means.

The grating of a key in the lock made him jump to his feet and flatten himself against the wall, frightened that the Almighty had spurned his request and delivered the Dean of Gloucester to scourge him for his sins. When someone stepped into his cell, Henry did not dare to look. The door was locked behind the visitor.

'My dear fellow!' said a kindly voice. 'Look at the state of you!'

Henry peered at him. 'Is that you, Martin?' he asked, torn between grat.i.tude and embarra.s.sment. 'What are you doing here?'

'I came to see you and to bring you some sustenance.'

Martin Crenlowe was a fleshy man in his thirties with a reddish tinge to his nose and cheeks. A goldsmith by trade, Crenlowe had expensive tastes in clothing. His periwig framed a podgy face that was creased with sympathy. He was a fastidious man who had taken the precaution of carrying a pomander to ward off the stink of Newgate and the risk of infection. He had also brought a flagon of wine and some food. Unhappy at being seen in such a miserable condition, Henry was revived by the sight of the turkey pie, cheese and fruit. He accepted them with profuse thanks.

'It's good to know that one of my friends has not disowned me,' he said.

'Why should I disown you?'

'Because I'm held here on a charge of murder.'

'I know,' said Crenlowe, shifting his feet uneasily. 'I came to apologise for my part in that. I do not believe for one moment that you were the killer, Henry, but they put me under oath and I was compelled to speak the truth. I was there when it happened. I heard you threaten Signor Maldini.'

'I've never denied it.'

"The three of us had to bear witness against you. Sir Humphrey G.o.dden, Captain Harvest and myself. We had no choice.'

'I do not blame you for that, Martin.'

'But our evidence helped to land you in Newgate. Can you ever forgive us?'

'You spoke honestly. I did threaten to kill him.'

'Only because you were sorely provoked,' said Crenlowe. 'And there's all the difference in the world between a wild threat uttered in the heat of the moment and the determination to carry it out. Let them say what they will. I'll never accept that Henry Redmayne is a ruthless killer, nor will Sir Humphrey.'

'What of Captain Harvest?'

Crenlowe sighed. 'James has let you down badly, alas.'

'In what way?'

'He's convinced of your guilt and is telling everyone who'll listen to him that you are a dangerous man with a temper you could not control. Sir Humphrey and I are so appalled by his behaviour that we've cut him dead.'

"The villain!'

'Forget him, Henry. Lean on your friends.'

'I did not know that I still had any.'

'One stands before you,' said Crenlowe loyally, 'and there are others who do not doubt your innocence. If there's any way that we can help, you've only to ask.'

'Your visit has been a medicine in itself, Martin. It's cured my one malady - the fear that the whole of London had turned against me. As for help,' said Henry, 'the person you must turn to is my brother, Christopher. He's trying to marshal my defence and would welcome aid from any source. He lives in Fetter Lane.'

'You once pointed out the house to me.' He heard the key in the lock again. 'My time is up. I was only permitted a brief moment with you.'

'You've brought me more comfort than I can say.'

'Enjoy the wine,' said Crenlowe as the door creaked open. 'And do not despair, Henry. We'll get you out of this somehow.'

'G.o.d bless you!'

The house was in Covent Garden and Christopher Redmayne spent several minutes admiring its exterior before he knocked on the door. It was typical of the properties that were being built in increasing numbers in the area, tall, imposing and elegant with a narrow frontage. Marble pillars supported the portico. Evidently, a considerable amount of money had been spent on the house by someone with firm views about architecture. A manservant opened the door and, after listening to the visitor's name and request, invited him into the hall while he went off to speak to his master. There was a long delay during which Christopher inspected the paintings on the wall. Like his brother, Sir Humphrey G.o.dden had an insatiable curiosity in the naked female form. Nudes of varying shapes and sizes abounded. In the one portrait where a young lady was fully dressed, she was raising an expressive eyebrow while exposing a rounded breast to the artist. Christopher was still studying a picture of a Baccha.n.a.lian orgy when footsteps clacked across the marble floor. He turned to see a tall, striking man in his forties with a black moustache that matched exactly the colour of his wig. Dressed to go out in a scarlet cloak, he was carrying a hat and cane. He eyed his visitor with frank displeasure.

'Sir Humphrey?' asked Christopher.

'You come at an inopportune moment, Mr Redmayne,' replied the other, putting on his hat. 'I was about to leave.'

'I'll not detain you long. I'm sure that you can guess why I'm here.'

'If it is to ask me to change my evidence, you are wasting your time. I spoke as my conscience dictated. Your brother threatened to kill Jeronimo Maldini and I heard him loud and clear. That's what I reported.'

'Henry admits it himself.'

'Then this conversation is superfluous.'

'Not so, Sir Humphrey,' said Christopher, wondering why the man was so unwilling to talk to him. 'I came here on my brother's behalf because I understood that Henry counted you among his friends.'

'We've shared many pleasurable times together.'

'In view of that, is it too much to ask that you might try to help him?'

'I have an appointment, Mr Redmayne.'

'So does Henry, unless he is cleared of the charge. I venture to suggest that his appointment is of more significance than yours since it would be with the hangman.'

'Very well,' said Sir Humphrey with undisguised irritation. 'Ask what you will.'

'Thank you.'

Christopher could see at a glance why his brother had befriended Sir Humphrey G.o.dden. They were birds of a feather, confirmed hedonists with a pa.s.sion for all the vices of the city. Like Henry, his friend wore ostentatious apparel and cultivated an air of suppressed boredom. The handsome features were marred by the clear signs of late nights and loose company. The difference between the two men was that Sir Humphrey had unlimited money to support his indulgences while Henry Redmayne did not, though that fact did not deter him in the least.

'What manner of man was Jeronimo Maldini?' asked Christopher.

'He was a confounded foreigner and we already have too many of those here.'

'Yet an accomplished swordsman, obviously.'

'Yes,' said Sir Humphrey. 'Give the fellow his due. He could handle any kind of blade with masterful skill. None of us could touch him.'

'You were a pupil of his, then?'

'We all were at some time or another, Mr Redmayne. Captain Harvest was first. Then I took lessons from him, followed by Martin Crenlowe. Henry was the last to seek instruction and the quickest to abandon it.'

'Why did he do that?'

'Because he found Signor Maldini too infuriating.'

'Infuriating?'

'He liked to humble us, to expose our weaknesses in front of others. Henry could not bear that. He felt that the man was there to improve our skills, not to demonstrate that his own were far superior. I left the fencing school for the same reason and so did Martin Crenlowe. The only person who could tolerate him was James.'

'James?'

'Captain Harvest.'

'My brother said he was a fine swordsman in his own right.'

'He was. Try as he might, even that mocking Italian could not make James look like a novice. Soldiers are trained to fight for their lives, not merely for pleasure. James had picked up too many tricks to be humiliated by a fencing master.'

'Why did he need the lessons in the first place?'

'You'll have to ask him that.'

'So you left the school because of Signor Maldini's habit of goading you?'

'That was only part of the reason,' replied Sir Humphrey, adjusting his cloak. 'I disliked the man intensely. He was vain, insolent, disrespectful and lacking in all the virtues of an English gentleman. In short,' he said with disgust, 'he was an Italian.'

'I have great respect for Italians,' said Christopher, responding to the other's manifest prejudice. 'No nation on earth has produced so many wonderful artists and architects. This house bears many traces of Cla.s.sical influence.'

'I need no lecture on architecture, Mr Redmayne.'

'Nor would I presume to give you one.'

"Then do not try to excuse the faults of Jeronimo Maldini by citing the artistic achievements of his countryman. I knew the man for what he was - a low, cunning, deceitful rogue with a rare skill as a fencing master. I'll not mourn him,' he a.s.serted, wagging a finger. 'I think he deserved to die.' He moved across to the front door. 'And now, I fear, you must excuse me. I've given you all the time I can.'

'One last question, Sir Humphrey.'

'Well?'

'Do you believe that my brother killed Signor Maldini?'

'Of course not,' said the other, opening the door. 'Henry Redmayne would not stab anyone in the back. He's like me. He would have run the man through with a sword so that he could have enjoyed the look of horror in the eyes of that odious Italian. What's the point of revenge if you cannot savour it to the full?'

Captain James Harvest proved to be an elusive quarry. Jonathan Bale did not track him down until well into the following day. When the man was not at his lodgings, Jonathan pursued him through his various haunts, guided by the advice of Harvest's landlord and a succession of tavern keepers, all of whom seemed to be on close terms with the ubiquitous soldier. It was almost as if the man knew that the constable was on his tail and kept one step ahead of him. Jonathan was not to be shaken off. A combination of patience and dogged determination eventually brought a result. Captain Harvest was run to ground at the Peac.o.c.k Inn. Located in Whitefriars, it was at the heart of a lively district, inhabited by people of contrasting fortunes. While the area attracted lawyers, doctors and members of other professions, some of its streets were warrens of poverty and neglect.

Jonathan paused to study a row of houses that had been rebuilt the previous year. During the Great Fire, he had helped to pull down the properties that stood there before in order to create a firebreak but the inferno scorned his efforts by vaulting over the empty s.p.a.ce with ease. Whitefriars had a cosmopolitan feel to it. In its noisy streets, English was not the only language that drifted into his ear. Jonathan lost count of the number of taverns and ordinaries that he pa.s.sed. The area seemed to have its fair share of bookshops as well. The Peac.o.c.k Inn was a popular establishment, occupying a corner site. When he heard the clash of steel and the sound of raised voices, Jonathan went around to the courtyard at the rear of the premises and saw two men engaged in a sword fight, encouraged by a handful of spectators with tankards of beer in their hand. The constable did not stop to notice that the younger of the two combatants was having difficulty in fending the other one off.

'Stop!' he ordered, rushing forward. "The law forbids duels.'

'This is no duel,' explained the older man, lowering his rapier. 'I was merely giving this young fellow a lesson in how to defend himself.'

'You've taught me enough for one day,' said his opponent, glad of the interruption and sheathing his weapon. 'Come inside and I'll honour my promise.'

'I'll hold you to that, my friend.'

The young man went into the inn with the onlookers and Jonathan was left alone with a st.u.r.dy individual in his forties whose face was half-hidden by a red beard and further obscured by an pair of enormous eyebrows that all but met on the bridge of his nose. The stranger had the ready grin and easy manner of a born adventurer. He wore a bright red coat that was frayed slightly at the edges and a wide-brimmed hat that he doffed with a flourish.

'Captain James Harvest, at your service, sir,' he announced.

'Good,' said Jonathan, relieved that he had finally caught up with him. 'My name is Jonathan Bale and I've been searching for you all morning.'

'A not unusual situation, alas. Constables are forever barking at my heels.'

'I only came to ask a few questions, sir.'

'Then I shall endeavour to provide you with a few answers, Mr Bale.' Replacing his hat, Harvest scrutinized him for a moment. 'You were a military man, I think.'

'I've borne arms, Captain Harvest, it's true.'

'For whom did you fight? King and country?'

'I fought for a just cause.'

'Then I applaud you, sir,' said Harvest. 'A soldier who is driven by belief in a cause is worth ten whose swords can be hired for money. So, you were one of Noll's men, were you? He was a doughty commander. I fought against him three times and was thrice hounded from the battlefield.' He nodded towards the inn. 'Shall we step inside?' he suggested, sheathing his sword. 'That little bout has made me thirsty and my pupil owes me a drink.'

'I'd rather speak to you out here where we have some privacy.'

'As you wish, Mr Bale.'

'I believe that you were a friend of Mr Henry Redmayne.'

'I knew him,' conceded Harvest with a frown, 'but I'd hardly describe myself as a friend. I always found him too smug and self-satisfied to merit my friendship. Henry was a silly man at bottom. I did not care for him at all.'

'Yet you spent time with him.'

'Only when it was necessary.'

'How did you meet Mr Redmayne?'

'By chance. We were taught by the same fencing master, not far from here, as it happens. When it comes to swordsmanship, Whitefriars has some of the finest tutors in London. We were fortunate to study with the best of them.'