'Signor Jeronimo Maldini.'

'The very same.'

'I would not have thought that you needed lessons, Captain Harvest. With your experience, you should have been a fencing master yourself.'

'Why, so I am when occasion serves,' said the other, tapping the hilt of his rapier. 'But I like to keep my art in repair and Jeronimo did that for me. He also employed me to practice with novices in return for a modest fee. I taught as I learned.'

'Did you ever teach Mr Redmayne?'

'He thought himself above that,' said Harvest, 'and spurned my offer. Jeronimo soon cut him down to size and made him look the arrant fool that he was.'

"The two men fell out, I believe.'

'They were never kindred spirits, Mr Bale.'

'Why not?'

'Because Henry was too irredeemably English. In other words, he was haughty, selfish and quite unable to turn his gaze beyond our narrow sh.o.r.es.'

'A common complaint, sir.'

'Henry seemed to think that he had a divine right to look down on other nations, especially Italy. His condescension knew no bounds. If he'd seen as much of the world as I have, he'd know that every country has valuable lessons to teach us.' Harvest took a step closer. 'Have you ever met Henry Redmayne?'

'Yes, Captain. A number of times.'

'What was your opinion of the man?'

'It's immaterial.'

'Nevertheless, I'd like to hear it.'

'He's not a person I could readily admire,' admitted Jonathan. 'But, then, nor am I the sort of companion that he would ever seek.'

'What was your trade before you became a constable?'

'I was a shipwright.'

'A good, honest, worthwhile occupation.' He gave a ripe chuckle. 'I could see from the size of your shoulders and the roughness of your hands that you were not a ladies' hairdresser. There's the difference between the two of you, Mr Bale. You served the Navy with the strength of your arm and sweat of your brow. Henry pretends to work at the Navy Office but spends most of his time at play.'

'I'm aware of his habits, Captain Harvest.'

'So why did you come to me?'

'For confirmation of certain facts. Mr Redmayne, as you know, is in prison.'

'And rightly so. He stabbed Jeronimo Maldini to death.'

"That remains to be proved in a court of law.'

'I need no lawyers to tell me who the killer was.'

'You supped with him that night.'

'So?'

'What state was he in when he left you?'

'Quivering with anger.'

'At Signor Maldini?'

'Who else?' asked Harvest. 'Henry loathed the man and made no secret of it. He claimed that Jeronimo once cheated at cards but his hatred went deeper. When two men are at each other's throats like that, there's usually only one reason for it.'

'A pretty woman?' said Jonathan.

'A beautiful woman, Mr Bale. A truly gorgeous and enchanting young lady who had every red-blooded man in London l.u.s.ting after her. Henry Redmayne was among them, convinced that she'd bestow her favours on him. Then Jeronimo Maldini joined in the hunt and that was that.'

'Was it?'

'Well, you've seen Henry. His good looks deserted him years ago. He could never forgive Jeronimo for being so young, dashing and handsome. Fencing is not the only skill in which the Italians are superior to us. They are also proficient in the arts of seduction.' He chuckled again. 'It was a terrible blow to Henry's self-esteem. He not only lost the lady in question. He surrendered her to a despised rival, who, in his opinion, came from a lower order of creation.'

'How can you be sure that he murdered Signor Maldini?'

'Because it was on his mind when he left the tavern that night.'

'Mr Redmayne claims that the man was lying in wait for him.'

Harvest gave a contemptuous snort. 'He would! It was the other way round, Mr Bale, mark my words. It was Henry who laid the ambush. He caught Jeronimo off guard. That was the only way he could have secured an advantage over him,' he said, thrusting his beard close to Jonathan's face. 'Henry could never hope to beat him in a fair fight so he stabbed him in the back then threw the body in the river.'

'What evidence do you have to support that belief?'

'The evidence of my own eyes,' affirmed Harvest, widening them for effect. 'Henry Redmayne is a killer. I'd stake my reputation on it.'

Christopher Redmayne spent the whole afternoon with the lawyer whom he engaged to take charge of his brother's defence but the man was unable to give him any grounds for optimism. By the time he left, Christopher was more worried than ever. It was early evening as he began the walk home and the light was fading. Frost and ice had been expelled from the city but the thaw had left the streets wet and slippery. Christopher moved along with due care.

He was so taken up with his brother's plight that he had neglected his own work. Drawings lay untouched on his table and he had forgotten about his demanding client. All of his energy was directed towards securing Henry's release from prison. He was suddenly struck by the thought that the murder of Jeronimo Maldini might have serious consequences for his career. n.o.body would be eager to employ the brother of a man who had been convicted of such an atrocious crime and his existing client, Lady Whitcombe, might wish to disown him in the light of recent developments. A contract had been signed but Christopher did not feel that it would be sufficiently binding to hold such a forceful woman. The dagger that ended the life of a fencing master might also have severed in two a valuable commission.

Lady Whitcombe was not the only person who had been ousted from his thoughts for the past couple of days. Susan Cheever, too, had faded to the back of his mind even though she had been at the frost fair with him when the body was discovered in the ice. He was too busy to contact her and too uncertain about the reception he would have got at the house in Westminster. Christopher hoped that he might count on sympathy from Susan but he sensed that her father would be much more censorious. Sir Julius Cheever had no respect whatsoever for Henry Redmayne and could hardly be expected to offer support to a man whom he considered to be a worthless rake. He would not scruple to prevent his daughter from getting in touch with Henry's brother.

The change in the weather meant that the truculent knight had probably left for Northamptonshire, which meant that Susan, in turn, would have withdrawn to Richmond. At the very moment when Christopher was starting to get closer to her, she had moved out of his reach. It was galling. In getting arrested and imprisoned, Henry had not simply endangered his brother's career as an architect, he might well have poisoned the dearest relationship in his life. There would no doubt be other appalling losses to come.

It all served to strengthen his resolve to establish his brother's innocence but he recognised that that would not be easy. The one person who was a.s.sisting him did so with grave misgivings. Jonathan Bale was too honest to pretend that he shared his friend's belief in a wrongful arrest. The constable had personal reasons for taking an interest in the case and was not impelled by any affection for the suspect. All that mattered to him was the weight of the evidence. He was far more accustomed to the processes of law than Christopher and that disturbed the latter. Hoping for uncritical a.s.sistance from his friend, he was settling for something far less. On the other hand, he told himself, Jonathan would certainly unearth some important new facts and he could only hope that they would be instrumental in helping to clear his brother's name.

He left the city through Ludgate and strode along Fleet Street.

Candlelight burned in windows or showed through the c.h.i.n.ks in shutters. People were going home on foot or on horseback. London was beginning to close down for another day. Within the hour, watchmen would begin their nocturnal perambulations. When he turned into Fetter Lane, he did so with a sense of guilt. While he would sleep beneath warm sheets that night, Henry would shiver, in the cold of Newgate. In place of a devoted servant like Jacob, his brother would have a coa.r.s.e and uncaring turnkey. Most important of all, Christopher could enjoy a freedom that was denied to the prisoner.

Jacob had an uncanny gift for antic.i.p.ating the return of his master. When the latter was within ten yards of the front door, it opened wide. Rubbing his hands together, Jacob put out his head to look down the street. Christopher's approach made him smile with quiet satisfaction.

'Good evening, sir.'

'How did you know that I was coming?'

'It was simply a guess.'

'I wish that my guesses were as accurate,' said Christopher, going into the house. 'When I chose a lawyer this afternoon, I guessed that he might send me home feeling more sanguine. That was not the case, Jacob.'

'Oh dear!'

The old man closed and bolted the door before following him into the parlour.

'It's been such a disappointing day.'

'Would a gla.s.s of wine lift your spirits, sir?'

'Not unless I could share it with Henry and toast his release.'

"That moment will come in due course,' said Jacob confidently.

'Is this another of your guesses?'

'I merely offer it as my opinion.'

'Then I accept it with grat.i.tude,' said Christopher, taking off his coat and hat before handing them to Jacob. 'It's comforting to be with someone who believes in my brother's innocence. Jonathan Bale does not and, more to the point, neither does Henry himself.' He lowered himself into a chair. 'Has anything happened while I was away?'

'A gentleman called, sir. Mr Martin Crenlowe.'

'One of Henry's friends.' 'He visited your brother in Newgate and urged you to call on him for any help.'

"Then I'll certainly take up that offer. Any other news?'

'A letter arrived for you, sir.'

'A letter?' said Christopher, hoping that it was from Susan Cheever.

'Here it is,' said Jacob, taking it from the table to hand to him. 'It was delivered by one of Lady Whitcombe's servants.'

'Oh, I see.'

Christopher lost all enthusiasm for opening the missive. A single line from Susan would have rallied him but he could expect no such inspiration from his client. As he studied the neat calligraphy on the front of the letter, he feared that he knew exactly what it would contain. News of his brother's arrest must have found its way to the home of Lady Whitcombe. She was writing to dismiss her architect summarily. Seeing the distress in his master's face, Jacob made the same a.s.sumption.

'There'll be many other houses to build, sir.'

'And many other architects to design them.'

'Your reputation will stand you in good stead.'

'I begin to doubt that, Jacob.'

Breaking the seal, he opened the letter and braced himself for the loss of a lucrative commission. Miraculously, it did not come. Instead, he was simply reminded of his promise to deliver his final drawings to Lady Whitcombe that week. His client had either not heard of Henry's disgrace or chosen to ignore it. Whichever it might be, Christopher was placed in an awkward situation. Time that should have been spent at his work had been mortgaged elsewhere. Long hours were still required for the drawings to be in a presentable state. Christopher leapt to his feet.

'Jacob!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Light more candles. I must work.'

'Will that gla.s.s of wine be needed now?'

'Only brandy will suffice,' said Christopher. 'I'll have to ride to Sheen tomorrow morning and I need to take the drawings with me. They'll keep me up all night.'

'You're going to Sheen, sir?'

'Yes, Jacob.'

"Then you'll not be far from Richmond.' 'How true!' said Christopher with a slow grin, realising that he might be able to meet Susan Cheever after all. "Thank you for pointing that out, Jacob. I may have two calls to make tomorrow.'

'I thought you might, sir.'

'Fetch that brandy.'

Christopher was soon poring over the table with renewed enthusiasm.

Chapter Six.

Now almost two centuries old, Serle Court was a fortified manor house, complete with towers, turrets and crenellation. It was set on the brow of a hill and surrounded by rolling parkland. A delightful prospect met the eye from every window of the property and the rear gardens, in particular, were a work of art. Since there was no other building in sight, the occupants had a wonderful sense of isolation, of being untroubled by the presence of neighbours and free to explore the extensive acres that comprised the estate without any danger of meeting strangers. For all its size, Susan Cheever always found the house uncomfortably small but that was less to do with its design than with the necessity of being under the same roof as her sister. However large a house, Brilliana would somehow contrive to shrink it in size. Though she loved her sister dutifully, Susan often had difficulty in actually liking her, especially when she felt, as now, that she was being watched over by Brilliana. She was seated in the parlour that morning when her sister sailed into the room.

'What are you doing?' asked Brilliana.

'Reading a book,' replied Susan, looking up from the volume in her hands.

'I never read anything these days. It's such a pointless exercise, I always think. When we were first married, Lancelot used to read poetry to me but his voice started to irritate me after a time.'

'You are too easily irritated, Brilliana.'

'I hate being bored.'

'Then find something that excites your mind.'

'I'll not find it on a bookshelf!' said the other with disdain.