The Frost Fair cr-4

by Edward Marston

  Jonathan was impassive. 'Mr Redmayne has many good qualities,' he said. 'I respect him for that. But he and I live in different worlds. You may choose to forget that but I'm unable to do so. There is a gulf between us as wide as the Thames.'

  'Even when the river is frozen?'

  'Even then, Sarah.'

  An evening out with friends imposed a whole set of decisions on Henry Redmayne. He had to make up his mind where to go, how best to get there and what to wear in order to achieve the maximum effect. An hour at least was devoted to the selection of his apparel. Henry had a large wardrobe and, in spite of his tendency to leave his tailors' bills unpaid, he was always adding to it, desperate to keep abreast of the latest fashion. No less than four mirrors adorned the walls of his bedchamber and he examined himself meticulously in each one before settling on a particular garment. Thomas, his long- suffering valet, was a martyr to Henry Redmayne's vanity.

  'How does this look, Thomas?' asked his master, parading in a lime green coat.

  'It becomes you, sir.'

  'You said that about the red one.'

  'They suit you equally, sir.'

  'How can they,' complained Henry, 'when they are so different in colour, cut and finish? Damnation, man! Green and red are opposing hues. One must surely flatter my complexion more than the other.'

  'Then it must be the green, sir,' said Thomas, ready to agree with him on any choice. 'It makes you look handsome and elegant.'

  'Everything I wear does that.'

  'It goes without saying, sir.'

  'I'm reminded of it every time I court a looking glass.'

  Henry preened himself in front of the largest mirror, twisting around so that he could see himself from various angles and adjusting his coat as he did so. Thomas waited patiently. A short, neat, alert man in his fifties, the valet knew the ritual all too well. The secret was to watch his master get to the verge of a decision before applying the gentle pressure needed to help him actually make it. Having got him as far as the coat, Thomas felt that he was doing well.

  'No,' said Henry, clicking his tongue. 'I think that I prefer the blue one, after all.' He held out both arms. 'Take this one off, Thomas.'

  'Is that wise, sir?'

  'I can hardly put on a blue coat until a green coat has been removed. Would you have me wear two at the same time and be the laughing stock of London?'

  'No, sir,' said Thomas. 'I merely question the wisdom of dispensing with the green coat. The colour is ideal for you. Change to the blue and we have to replace both the shirt and the waistcoat for neither will match it.'

  'Could we not try the combination?'

  'We've already done so three times, sir.'

  'Ah,' said Henry. 'In that case, perhaps it's time to settle for the green.'

  'It was my choice from the start.'

  "Then why lead me astray by letting me try of every other coat in my wardrobe?'

  Henry appraised himself once more in the mirror. Now in his thirties, he was tall, slim and striking with a long face that was pitted with the signs of dissipation and hair that was vanishing so rapidly that its remaining wisps were hidden beneath an expensive periwig. Henry Redmayne shared little with his younger brother, Christopher, beyond a surname and one surviving parent. While the architect would spend the evening working on his drawings by the light of candles, Henry intended to sit at a gaming table with his friends and, in all probability, run up even more debts that he could not afford to pay. One brother lived for his profession but his older sibling dedicated himself exclusively and unashamedly to pleasure.

  'The green coat, it will be,' announced Henry, fiddling with his wig. 'All that remains is to choose a hat and cloak.'

  'I believe that they will choose themselves, sir,' said Thomas.

  'Every last detail must enhance the whole.'

  'Shall we descend?'

  Relieved to have come through another ordeal of indecision in the bedchamber, the valet led the way downstairs to the hall. The house in Bedford Street was large and its ornate furniture and rich hangings reflected the taste of its owner. Some of the paintings that covered the walls were by maritime artists but the majority featured buxom young women in a state of undress. Among ships and nude females, Henry felt supremely at home. In the spacious hall was a cupboard that contained a wide selection of hats, cloaks and canes as well as variety of swords and daggers. Thomas opened the doors so that his master could survey the possibilities. From the street outside came the sound of approaching horses.

  'I believe that the coach is here to pick you up, sir,' said Thomas.

  'Then it can wait.'

  'You were asked to be ready at eight o'clock, sir.'

  'I'll not be rushed into a wrong decision, Thomas,' said Henry, taking out the warmest cloak he could find and handing it to his valet. 'Put that around my shoulders so that I can judge its relation to the rest of my attire.'

  Thomas did as he was bidden. There was a loud knock at the door. A nod from Henry sent him off to open it. Expecting to see a friend on his doorstep, Henry swung round with a smile of welcome, only to find himself confronted by four officers of the law. Their grim expressions suggested that it was not a social visit. One of the men stepped past Thomas and waved a scroll at the master of the house.

  'Mr Henry Redmayne?' he enquired.

  'Away with you, man! How dare you enter my home like that?'

  'I have a warrant here for your arrest, sir.'

  'Is it a crime to choose a cloak that does not match this green coat?' asked Henry, removing the cloak with a flourish and hanging it back in the cupboard. 'For that is the only misdemeanour of which I've been guilty today.'

  "This is no occasion for levity, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Then take yourself off at once.'

  'You have to come with us, sir,' said the man with calm authority. 'I must warn you that we'll brook no delay.'

  'Is this some kind of jest?'

  'No, sir. I arrest you, Henry Redmayne, on a charge of murder.'

  'But that's utterly ludicrous!'

  'Reserve your protestations for the judge.'

  'Murder?' said Henry with disdain. 'You accuse a decent, honest, respectable, peace-loving, law-abiding man like me of murder? It's quite absurd. Who on earth am I supposed to have killed?'

  "The victim's name is Jeronimo Maldini.'

  Henry was struck dumb. His righteous indignation was quickly replaced by a mingled surprise and apprehension. His eyes filled with horror, his mouth was agape. Thomas had never seen his master tremble so violently before. When he saw him begin to sway, the valet rushed forward. He was just in time to catch Henry as the latter collapsed in a dead faint.

  Chapter Three

  Over the years, Christopher Redmayne had seen his brother in many embarrassing situations. He had watched Henry being pursued by creditors, harassed by discarded lovers, thrown out of gaming houses, afflicted by shameful diseases, mocked by his colleagues at the Navy Office and, on more than one occasion, so hopelessly drunk that he could barely recall his own name. There was also a time when Henry was subjected to a violent assault that put him in bed for a week and gave him the perfect excuse to whinge, whimper and feel thoroughly sorry for himself. He had been battered and bruised enough to arouse anyone's sympathy. Nothing he had seen before, however, prepared Christopher for the image that he beheld in Newgate prison that morning. Henry Redmayne was in despair.

  Locked in a tiny, dark, dank cell, he was sitting on the ground beneath a barred window with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around his shins. His face was drawn, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. In spite of the cold, he wore nothing but a shirt, breeches and stockings, all of them sullied with filth. Without his wig, he looked a decade older than his true age. Henry was so caught up in his tragedy that he did not seem to notice the stink that pervaded his cell nor the rat that was rustling the straw. When the turnkey showed the visitor in, the prisoner did not even raise his eyes. It was only wh
en the heavy door clanged shut that he came out of his reverie.

  'I want no food,' he declared. 'I'd sooner starve than eat that offal.'

  'Henry,' said his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'It's me, Christopher.'

  'Thank God!'

  'How came you to this sorry state?'

  'You may well ask!'

  'Your valet rushed to my house yesterday evening with news of your arrest, but they would not let me see you until this morning. I had to bribe the turnkey to be left alone with you for ten minutes.'

  'This whole place is run on bribes and favours.'

  'Tell me what happened,' said Christopher, shocked at his brother's condition. 'Your valet said that officers came to your house.'

  Henry put a hand to his brow. 'It's been like a descent into Hell.'

  'Have you been badly treated?'

  'I've been everything, Christopher. Manacled, fettered, browbeaten, bullied, interrogated, humiliated and even threatened with torture. Had I not had sufficient money to buy a room of my own, they'd have tossed me in with the sweepings of London. Can you imagine that?' he asked with a flash of his old spirit. 'Me, Henry Redmayne, a man of delicate sensibilities, locked up with a seething mass of thieves, cutthroats and naughty ladies, all of them infected with maladies of some kind or another. They'd have torn me to shreds as soon as look at me.' He stared down at his stockinged feet. 'I had to give my best shoes to the prison sergeant - the ones with the silver buckles - so that he'd spare me from being chained to the wall.'

  'I'll protest strongly on your behalf.'

  "There's no point.'

  'Even a prisoner has certain rights.'

  'Not in Newgate.'

  'It's not as if you're a convicted felon,' argued Christopher. 'You're simply on remand. When this whole business is cleared up, you'll be found innocent, released and able to resume your normal life.'

  'Normal life!' echoed Henry gloomily. 'Those days are gone.'

  'Take heart, brother.'

  'How can I?'

  'We'll help you through this nightmare.'

  'It's too late, Christopher. The worst has already occurred. The very fact of my arrest has blackened my name and, I daresay, cost me my sinecure at the Navy Office.'

  'Not if you are completely exonerated.'

  'Nothing can exonerate me from the torment I've suffered so far,' moaned Henry, running his fingers through the vestigial remains of his hair. 'I was arrested in front of my valet, taken by force from my house, questioned for hours by rogues who had patterned themselves on the Spanish Inquisition, deprived of my wig and most of my apparel, then flung into this sewer. By way of a jest, the turnkeys pretended to lock me next door.'

  'Next door?'

  'Can you not smell that noisome reek?'

  Christopher nodded. 'It's the stench of decay.'

  'They made me see where it came from,' said Henry, glancing at the wall directly opposite. 'In the next cell are the quartered remains of three poor wretches who were executed earlier this week. They are being kept there until their relatives can get permission to bury what's left of them. The turnkeys took a delight in pointing out that there were no heads in the cell. They'd been parboiled by the hangman with bay-salt and cummin seed so that they would not rot. Those heads have now been set up on spikes for all London to mock.' He grabbed his brother. 'Do not let that happen to me, Christopher. Save me from that disgrace.'

  'Only those found guilty of treason suffer that indignity.'

  'They'll do their best to pin that crime on me as well.'

  'Nonsense!'

  'There's nothing they like more than to see a gentleman brought down,' wailed Henry. 'I'm like one of those bulls they had at the frost fair, a noble animal forced to its knees by a pack of sharp-toothed mongrels. I can feel the blood trickling down my back already.'

  'Enough of this!' said Christopher, determined not to let his brother wallow in self-pity. 'Our main task is to get you out of here today.'

  'There's no chance of that.'

  'Yes, there is. I'll speak to the magistrate who committed you.'

  'I'm more worried about the judge who'll condemn me.'

  'The case will not even come to trial, Henry.'

  'It must. The law will take its course.'

  'Only if there's enough evidence against you,' argued Christopher, 'and, clearly, there is not. A gross miscarriage of justice has taken place here. You'll be able to sue for wrongful arrest.'

  'Will I?'

  'Yes, Henry. The charge against you is preposterous.'

  'They do not seem to think so.'

  'Only because they do not know you as well as I do. What better spokesman is there than a brother? You have your faults, I grant you - and I've taken you to task about them often enough - but you are no murderer, Henry. I've never seen you swat a fly, still less raise your hand against another man.' 'I do not always reign in my temper,' confessed Henry.

  'All of us have lapses.'

  'Not of the kind that lead to arrest.'

  'I'd be surprised if you even knew the murder victim.'

  'But I did, that's the rub. I knew and loathed Jeronimo Maldini.'

  'Maldini? Who was he?'

  'The man they found in the river.'

  Christopher was startled. "The fellow they had to cut out of the ice?'

  'According to report.'

  'But I was there at the frost fair when the body was discovered. Good Lord! What a bizarre coincidence we have here! Is that what has brought you to this pass? I did not even realise that the man had been identified yet. It was one of Jonathan Bale's sons who actually stumbled on the corpse. The lad was frightened to death.'

  'So was I when four constables came knocking at my door.'

  'What was name again?'

  'Maldini. Jeronimo Maldini.'

  'And you disliked him?'

  'I detested the greasy Italian,' said Henry petulantly. 'At one time, I made the mistake of going to him for fencing lessons but we soon fell out. Our enmity began there and grew out of all proportion.'

  'You said nothing of this to me.'

  'If I told you about every acquaintance of mine with whom I have a disagreement then it would take up an entire week. Life is a process of constant change, Christopher. We learn to see through people. Friendships fall off, antagonism takes over.'

  'How antagonistic were you towards Signor Maldini?'

  'Very antagonistic.'

  'Could you give me more detail?'

  There was a pause. 'I'd prefer not to.'

  'But this is important,' said his brother. 'If I'm to help you, I need to be in possession of all the facts. I had no idea that there was any connection between you and the man they hauled out of the Thames. When I heard that you'd been arrested, I assumed that some grotesque error had been made.'

  'It has!' Henry looked up at him in dismay. 'At least, I hope that it has.' 'Why did they issue a warrant against you?'

  'Judicial spite.'

  'They must have had some grounds for suspicion.'

  'Witnesses had come forward.'

  'Witnesses?' repeated Christopher, feeling anxious. 'What sort of witnesses?'

  'Ones who were there at the time.'

  'At what time? There's something you're not telling me, Henry.'

  'I despised Maldini. I admit that freely.'

  'Did you quarrel with him?'

  'Several times.'

  'And did you do so in public? In front of witnesses?'

  Henry bit his lip. 'Yes,' he murmured.

  'What was the nature of the argument?'

  'It was a heated one, Christopher.'

  'Did you come to blows?'

  'Almost. His insults were too much to bear.'

  'And how did you respond?' Henry put his head in his hands. 'Please,' said his brother, leaning over him. 'I must know. I came to Newgate in the confident belief that some appalling mistake had been made and that, when I'd spoken up for you, I'd be in a position to take you home or
, at the very least, to set your release in train. Yet now, it seems, there were grounds for suspecting you. Is that true, Henry?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Heavens, man! Your life may be at stake here. We need more than supposition.'

  'It's all I can offer,' bleated Henry, looking up at him once more. 'For a number of reasons, there was bad blood between Jeronimo Maldini and me. It came to a head one evening when we had a chance encounter. His language was so vile that he provoked me beyond all endurance.'

  'So what did you do?'

  'I expressed my anger.'

  'How?'

  'I said something that, on reflection, I should not perhaps have said.'

  'And what was that, Henry?'

  'Does it matter?'

  'It matters a great deal,' insisted Christopher. 'I've known you make incautious remarks before but never ones that might land you in a prison cell. Now let's have no more prevarication, Henry. What did you say?'

  'I threatened to kill him.'

  Christopher was staggered. It had never occurred to him for a moment that his brother was guilty of a crime serious enough to justify arrest and imprisonment. He knew his brother's defects of character better than anyone and a homicidal impulse was certainly not among them. Or so he had always believed. Now he was forced to look at Henry through very different eyes. Strong drink could corrupt any man and few indulged as frequently as his brother. Whole weeks sometimes passed without his managing more than a few hours of sobriety. Such a life was bound to takes its toll on Henry. The thought made Christopher put a straight question him.

  'Did you murder Jeronimo Maldini?' he asked.

  'I don't know,' replied Henry with a forlorn shrug. 'I may have done.'

  Word of the arrest spread throughout London with remarkable speed. Within a couple of days, it was the talk of every tavern and coffee house in the city. Since she had been there when the murder victim was found, Susan Cheever took a keen interest in the case and seized on every scrap of information related to it. She was astonished to hear that Henry Redmayne was the chief suspect. Her father, an unforgiving man, was plainly disgusted.

  'He should be hanged by his scrawny neck at Tyburn,' he announced.