The Frost Fair cr-4

by Edward Marston

  '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 lusting 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. Nobody 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 assisting 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 assistance 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 chinks 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 coarse and uncaring turnkey. Most important of all, Christopher could enjoy a freedom that was denied to the prisoner.

  Jacob had an uncanny gift for anticipating 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 glass 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 gratitude,' 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 assumption.

  '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 drawing
s 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 glass 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.

  Brilliana Serle was older, taller and more ambitious than her sister. She had the kind of porcelain beauty that defied the passage of time and dressed with such exquisite style that she always stood out in a crowd. When she was younger, Susan had resented her sister's ability to monopolise male attention but she came, in time, to appreciate its advantages. It rescued her from the wooing of a whole gallery of unappealing suitors, who made a fool of themselves over her sister instead. Marriage to Lancelot Serle had shaken off the chasing pack but it had not dulled Brilliana's fondness for dominating a dinner table or for being the cynosure at any gathering. She crossed the room to look over Susan's shoulder.

  'What are you reading?' she demanded.

  'It's a book about Italy, full of the most charming drawings.'

  'Why on earth should you wish to read about Italy?'

  'Because my interest was aroused by Mr Redmayne,' replied Susan. 'He's visited the country to study its architecture. He made me want to know more about Italy.'

  'I think that you should know less about Mr Redmayne.'

  'Brilliana!'

  'It's high time that you removed him from your list of acquaintances.'

  'Christopher is a friend of mine.'

  'He's also the brother of a killer.'

  "That's not true.'

  'Father's letter was very exact on that point. Henry Redmayne is a dangerous criminal who has brought shame and ignominy on his entire family. You are to have nothing to do with them forthwith.'

  'I prefer to make my own decision in that regard.'

  'Not as long as you're in this house.'

  Susan winced. Serle Court was turning out to be a luxurious version of Newgate to her, a place where she was confined against her will and kept deliberately apart from the company of the person she most wanted to see. Every decision that affected her was made by someone else. It was demeaning but Susan knew that she had to endure it. Apart from the fact that she would inevitably lose any argument with her sister, she did not wish to upset Brilliana. In due course, she hoped, she would persuade her sister to take her to London, ostensibly to visit the shops but really to be back in the city where her dearest friend lived, so that she could somehow contrive a meeting with him. If she so much as challenged Brilliana on the, subject of Christopher Redmayne, she would not get within a mile of him. Putting the book in her lap, Susan looked up with a patient smile.

  'What plans have you for today, Brilliana?'

  'My dressmaker is due to call this afternoon.'

  'Good,' said Susan, thinking that she would have at least three hours of escape from sisterly vigilance. 'Has she finished that new dress you told me about?' 'She's not coming for my benefit, but for yours.'

  'Mine?'

  'Yes,' said Brilliana airily. 'Your wardrobe has grown so stale and dowdy. If you want to catch a rich husband, as I did, you must look the part. That's why I intend to take your appearance in hand.'

  'I've no wish to have it changed.'

  'Wait until you've spoken to my dressmaker. She'll transform you.'

  'Brilliana, I have dresses enough of my own.'

  'But none of any real quality.'

  "There's no need to insult me.'

  'It was meant in the kindest possible way, Susan. You choose your apparel for comfort rather than effect. It's a habit that no young woman in your position can afford.'

  'My position?' echoed Susan, trying to maintain her composure.

  'A spinster in search of a husband.'

  'But that's not my position at all.'

  'Of course, it is,' said her sister with a brittle laugh. 'What do you think we were put on this earth for, Susan? It was not to read books about ridiculous countries like Italy, that much is certain. It was to make a good marriage. Yours is already long overdue.'

  'That's a very unkind remark.'

  'Strike now while you still have your beauty. It will not last forever.'

  'Some men prize other qualities above beauty.'

  'Not the ones that you need to attract.'

  'And who might they be?'

  'Men like Lancelot. Wealthy, cultivated and infinitely obliging.'

  'Nothing could be further from my mind at the moment than marriage.'

  'Then you are betraying your womanhood,' said Brilliana, 'and will live to regret it before very long. Since Mother died, I've tried to take her place and offer you the love and advice that I know she would have given you.'

  Susan did not trust herself to reply. There was not even the faintest resemblance between the roles of her mother and that of her sister. Brilliana had shown her precious little love and showered her with the sort of cynical advice that a kind and caring woman like their mother would never dream of foisting on any of her daughters.

  Susan found her sister's comments offensive. She was grateful when Lancelot Serle came into the library to interrupt their conversation. His face was reddened by an hour in the saddle and his eyes glistening. He stood in the doorway and beamed.

  'So, here you are!' he declared, noting the book in Susan's lap. 'Have you found my library to your taste?'

  'Yes, thank you,' said Susan.

  'I think that I may call it a library now that I have over seventy volumes on my shelves. Many were inherited from my father, of course, for he was a learned man but I have bought several on my own account. Brillia
na will vouch for that.'

  'Books are so tedious,' said his wife.

  'You did not always think so, my love.' He turned to Susan. 'There was a time when Brilliana liked me to read poetry to her. John Donne was her favourite.'

  'Those days have gone, Lancelot.'

  'You were fond of Shakespeare's sonnets as well.'

  'I slept through most of them.'

  Serle laughed. 'Brilliana will tease,' he said.

  'Did you enjoy your ride?' asked Susan.

  'It was not so much of a ride as an errand. Has your sister not told you?'

  'Told me what?'

  'Brilliana wanted me to invite some friends over to meet you. We could have dispatched a servant, naturally, but I felt that a personal touch was needed.'

  'That's why I sent you,' said his wife crisply. 'Is everything in hand?'

  'It is, my love. All is arranged and the cook is standing by for your instructions. It promises to be an interesting evening, Susan,' he went on, still beaming happily 'You'll have the pleasure of meeting a very special gentleman.'

  It sounded ominous. Susan felt a warning tremor.

  After a long but profitable night at work, Christopher Redmayne set out with his drawings finished and packed away safely in his satchel. An accomplished horseman, he looked forward to the ride and found the keen morning air very bracing. Once clear of London, he discovered that the ground was firm and dry but not frozen. It enabled his horse to maintain a steady canter. Fear of ambush would have made most riders seek company before they set out but Christopher felt confident that he could repel or outrun any highwaymen who might be lurking along the way. In the event, he encountered no hazards on the road to Sheen apart from a stray dog that pursued them for a while and tried to bite the horse's fetlocks. A warning swish from Christopher's sword had got rid of the animal.

  The village itself looked rather insignificant now that it had lost its royal and monastic associations. Sheen Palace, in various forms, had served generations of kings and queens before and well after its name was changed to Richmond Palace. Largely destroyed by the Parliamentarians, it had, after the Restoration, been partially repaired by the King for his mother but she found it far too bleak to live in. Christopher was saddened to see that it looked more ruin than royal place. He was even more dismayed when he rode past the dilapidated remains of the priory, a fine building that had been allowed to crumble over the years. As an architect, Christopher felt a profound sense of loss when noble edifices were reduced to shadows of their former glory.