Whitcombe Manor was less than a mile from Sheen and, in a sense, it was an attempt to preserve a royal connection because it was so obviously and unashamedly inspired by the Queen's House in Greenwich. Those who had never seen the beautiful house that Inigo Jones had designed for one queen, and finished for another, were struck by the symmetrical perfection of Whitcombe Manor, with its long, low, clean outlines, its arresting Palladian features and its proportions so subtly altered that it no longer resembled the Italian villa on which it was based. Visitors who were familiar with the Queen's House, however, recognised a smaller version of the building, more compact, less chaste in its aspect and with enough minor variations to absolve the architect of simply copying his predecessor. As he rode up the long drive and through the formal gardens at the front, Christopher wondered why Lady Whitcombe had opted for plagiarism rather than originality, for it was she who had been the moving spirit behind the construction of the house. The new town house she had commissioned was also, in essence, a copy of an existing structure. Her notions of architectural excellence were always second-hand.
It was only when he dismounted from his horse than Christopher realised how tired he was. The sleepless night and the long ride had taxed his strength. It was an effort to keep his eyes open. Handing the reins to an ostler, he tried to shake off his fatigue and strode towards the front door of the house. He was soon conducted to the parlour and given plenty of time to examine its contents. It was his third visit to the house but it still had a strange novelty for him. Lady Whitcombe was an acquisitive woman. If she saw something that she liked, she was determined to have it, no matter what its cost. Christopher looked around at the array of gilt-framed paintings, rich tapestries, abundant statuary and all the other ornamentation that had been assembled. A vast, red, patterned, circular Turkish carpet occupied the centre of the room with furniture arranged carefully around its circumference. There was an abiding sense of order and balance.
When Lady Whitcombe finally swept into the room, her daughter was trotting obediently at her heels. Both women smiled when they saw their visitor.
'It is so reassuring to see you, Mr Redmayne,' said Lady Whitcombe, extending a hand for him to kiss. 'I began to fear that you'd forgotten us.'
'How could I possibly do that?' he said gallantly.
He kissed her hand politely then gave a token bow of acknowledgment to Letitia Whitcombe. She suppressed a giggle. Though almost twenty, Letitia had the manner of someone far younger. She was a desperately plain young lady with bulbous eyes, a snub nose and a pronounced jaw. Unsure whether a modest smile or a sly grin best suited her features, she kept shifting nervously between the two, however inappropriate they might be. Her mother, by contrast, had a natural dignity that gave her an almost regal air. Now approaching fifty, Lady Cecily Whitcombe had preserved some of the beauty that had made her such a catch in her younger days. What in other women might be considered an unbecoming plumpness looked, in her case, an attractive aspect of a Junoesque figure. Pink was Letitia's chosen colour but her mother wore a dress of pale blue with a row of darker blue bows adorning the front of the bodice. Both women had looped skirts that revealed petticoats with delicate embroidery. Anticipating his visit, they had taken great care with their appearance. Christopher felt untidy by comparison.
'Do sit down, Mr Redmayne,' said Lady Whitcombe, perching on a chair and adjusting her dress accordingly. 'The long ride must have wearied you.'
'I am fine, my lady,' replied Christopher, grateful to be able to take a seat himself. 'The sight of Whitcombe Manor revived me at once.'
Letitia gave an involuntary giggle before lowering herself on to a chair.
'We are so grateful for this milder weather,' said her mother. 'You'd have found it impossible to travel when there was snow on the ground.'
'It was the frost that caused the real problems,' he said. 'Until this week, the Thames was one long sheet of ice.'
'We heard about the frost fair, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia, venturing into the conversation. 'I wish that I could have seen it.'
Her mother gave a disapproving smile. 'It was far too vulgar an event for you to attend, Letitia. I'm sure that Mr Redmayne agrees.'
'The King did not feel it beneath him, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher. 'His Majesty joined the rest of London on the ice. The frost fair was a splendid sight.'
'We preferred our own sights, here at Sheen.'
'I do not blame you.'
'The last thing I wanted to do was to rub shoulders with the common people on the Thames. One has to set standards. Fairs are a licence for crime and bad behaviour.'
'And for enjoyment as well,' said Letitia wistfully. 'It must have been a wondrous experience to be there. Was it, Mr Redmayne?'
'Oh, yes,' he confirmed.
'There you are, Mother.'
'We had sufficient amusements of our own, Letitia,' said the older woman.
'Yet it would have been nice to visit the frost fair.'
'It was quite out of the question.'
Letitia gave a resigned nod. 'Yes, Mother.'
'London is at its least alluring in the winter,' declared Lady Whitcombe. 'My late husband often remarked upon it. Cold weather seems to bring out the worst in people. It makes them angry, unsettled and disrespectful. You must have noticed the changes that the season brings, Mr Redmayne. Winter somehow strips people of their finer feelings. They become tetchy and more inclined to violence. The streets of London are simply not safe to walk down.'
'They are if you take sensible precautions,' said Christopher.
"The most sensible precaution is to stay away. Everyone who has been there recently comes back with tales of woe. They complain of fraud, theft, assault and affray. And, as everyone knows,' she went on, turning a pair of large, blue, searching eyes on him, 'the most gruesome murders are always committed in London.'
Christopher shifted uneasily in his seat. Lady Whitcombe's face was so impassive that it was difficult to tell if she was referring to the crime that involved his brother or not. He hoped that she might still be unaware of the murder but that set up the possibility of a revoked contract at a later stage when the news did trickle into her ears. He was certainly not going to volunteer any information on the subject. She stared at him for some time as if trying to communicate something. Relaxing slightly, she glanced at the satchel he had brought with him.
'Is the design for my new house finished?'
'It is, my lady.'
'Let me see it,' she said, rising to her feet. 'I've been looking forward to this moment for weeks. So has Letitia.'
'Yes,' agreed her daughter, getting up. 'It's very exciting.'
Christopher opened his satchel. 'I hope that the drawings meet with your approval,' he said, taking them out and unfolding them. 'Shall I put them on the table?'
'Please do, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia.
'Did you include the modifications?' asked Lady Whitcombe.
'Every suggestion you made has been followed to the letter,' he said.
Christopher went over to the table under the window. When some ornaments had been moved off it, he set out his drawings. The women were either side of him, bending over to study the designs and brushing his legs with their skirts as they did so. He caught a whiff of the most enchanting perfume. Letitia giggled with pleasure at what she saw but her mother inspected every detail in silence. Eventually, she gave a murmur of assent. Letitia pointed to an upstairs window in one drawing.
'Is this my bedchamber, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.
'It is, indeed,' he said, 'and it overlooks the river, as you see.'
'Which is Egerton's room?'
'Here at the front of the house,' said her mother, tapping the spot with her finger. 'You've not met my son yet, have you, Mr Redmayne?'
"That's a pleasure still to come.'
'He's due back from France very soon. It was Egerton who kept agitating for a house in London. Life in Sheen is idyllic in some respects but our opportunities
for entertaining are rather limited. In London, our table will be more readily supplied with guests.' She straightened up to look at him. 'I trust that you'll be one of them.'
'How could I refuse such an invitation?'
'We look upon you as rather more than our architect, Mr Redmayne.'
'I'm very flattered, Lady Whitcombe.'
'Your company is so congenial.'
'I hope that my work brings satisfaction as well.'
'Oh, it does. I cannot fault it.'
'Nor can I, Mr Redmayne,' said Letitia, still surveying the drawings. 'How on earth did you conjure such a beautiful house out of your imagination? It is magical.'
"Thank you,' he said.
'I have always wanted to live in the city.'
'It is only an occasional residence for us, Letitia,' her mother reminded her. 'This will always remain our principal home. Egerton will spend most of his time in London because he needs the society of young men. Country pleasures are no longer enough for him. You and I, however, will be more selective in our visits.'
'Yes, Mother.'
'We'll certainly not spend winter months in the capital.'
'You'll be warm enough, if you do so, my lady,' promised Christopher. 'I took especial care to give you large fireplaces in every room. Italian marble.'
'That was exactly what I required. Well,' she said, taking a final look at the drawings, 'I think that you deserve our congratulations, Mr Redmayne.'
'It was a labour of love, Lady Whitcombe.'
'We, too, have found it a most pleasurable experience.'
'Yes,' said Letitia with a grin.
'All that remains,' added her mother, 'is to get the house built. Who was the fellow you recommended?'
'Mr Popejoy,' replied Christopher. 'I've worked with him before. He built the house in Westminster that you admired so much. I'd recommend Sidney Popejoy without the slightest reservation. There are few more conscientious builders in London.'
'Would he be available?'
'I took the liberty of speaking to him about the project at the very start.'
"Then engage him forthwith.'
'Will your son need to approve the designs first?'
'Egerton?' she asked. 'No, he has no interest in architecture. His only demand was for a large house in London where we could entertain a much wider circle of friends than is possible here in Sheen. My son will be very grateful for what you've done, Mr Redmayne. His needs are simple and you've met every one of them.'
Christopher would never have described the house in terms of simple needs. It was a large property that would occupy a site overlooking the river and contain features that bordered on extravagance. Cost had been incidental. Lady Whitcombe had not merely inherited her husband's substantial wealth, she had independent means of her own. She was ready to lavish a huge amount of money on a house that she would only occupy at certain times of the year. It was her son, Egerton, who would derive most benefit from the place. As a wave of fatigue hit him, Christopher's legs buckled slightly.
'Are you hungry, Mr Redmayne?' asked his hostess.
'I am, Lady Whitcombe.'
'We shall dine very shortly.'
"Thank you.'
'It will give you time to get used to sharing our table.'
'I regard that as a privilege.'
'And we regard you as a friend, Mr Redmayne,' she said, bestowing her sweetest smile on him. 'Letitia made the same observation only this morning. We have not seen all that much of you and yet it feels as if you are one of the family.'
Letitia gave a nervous giggle. Christopher's legs wobbled again.
Jonathan Bale walked along the riverbank that afternoon until he was roughly opposite the point where the body had been found.
His sons would not be able to skate on the ice now. Cracks had been turned into deep crevices and thinner patches had broken up altogether. Blocks of ice floated in open water, melting gently in the sun. As the Thames slowly reasserted itself, the frost fair had been abandoned. Jonathan was glad. The city might be deprived of its winter merriment but the constable's younger son would be spared the visible reminder of the discovery he had made in the ice. There was a secondary reason why Jonathan was pleased at the thaw. Many of his friends earned their living from the river. In places like Shadwell, Ratcliffe, Poplar and Wapping, something like six out of ten men worked either as sailors, watermen or lightermen, occupations that had been frozen out of the Thames. Fishermen, too, had suffered. Sole, cod, herring, sprat and whitebait had continued to be caught in the estuary but those whose income depended on the smelt, eels, salmon and other fish they netted in the shadow of London had been badly hit.
As he gazed out of the river, Jonathan tried to work out where the body had been thrown in and how it had reached the spot where the ice had formed around it. He knew that the current could do strange things with any object tossed into the water. Human and animal bodies had been carried several miles downstream from the point where they had been hurled into the Thames. In this case, however, he sensed that the corpse had not drifted very far. Indeed, it might well have entered the water no more than a few hundred yards from where he stood. Jonathan looked up and down the riverbank, estimating the nearest point to the tavern that Henry Redmayne and his friends had visited on the night when the murder had probably taken place.
After pondering for some time, he moved away and walked along Thames Street in the direction of his home. His thoughts turned to his meeting with the jovial Captain Harvest. Before he met the soldier, Jonathan had been convinced that the killer had already been arrested and imprisoned in Newgate. Yet when his judgement had been buttressed by the confident assertions of Captain Harvest, he began to have doubts. There was something about the man that provoked distrust. He was too glib, too plausible and far too hasty to condemn Henry Redmayne. Harvest claimed to have been a friend of the murder victim. Jonathan asked himself why, if Henry had had left the tavern that night in such a vengeful mood, Harvest had not tried to restrain him or at least have gone off to warn Jeronimo Maldini of the imminent danger. The constable still believed in Henry's guilt but with far less certainty than before.
When he got back to Addle Street, he found his wife cleaning the house with a broom. After collecting a kiss from him, Sarah passed on her news.
'Jacob called here earlier on,' she said.
'Jacob?'
'Mr Redmayne's servant.'
'Oh,' said Jonathan. 'That Jacob. What did he want?'
'To give you a message. Mr Redmayne had to go out of London today. He'll not be back until tomorrow but is anxious to speak to you then.'
'I'm just as eager to talk to him, Sarah, and hoped to do so this evening.'
'Jacob saved you a wasted journey to Fetter Lane.'
'So it seems.' He looked around. 'Where are the boys?'
'Oliver is in the kitchen and Richard is upstairs. I had to separate them.'
'Why?'
'For the usual reason,' she said, leaning on her broom. 'They were arguing over who first saw that body in the ice. Oliver insists that it was him even though he knows perfectly well that it was Richard.'
'They must try to forget the whole thing, not argue about it.'
"That's what I told them, Jonathan.'
'I'll speak to Oliver later,' he decided, crossing to the staircase. 'Richard is the one who needs most attention. I'll not be long.'
As he ascended the steps, they creaked under his weight. Jonathan went into the little room at the rear of the house where his sons slept. Richard was huddled in a corner with his collar turned up against the cold.
'It's warmer downstairs by the fire,' said his father, kneeling beside him.
'I was sent up here.'
'Only because you and Oliver were bickering again. I warned you about that.'
'I'm sorry.'
'We both know that you were the first person to see that poor wretch in the ice,' said Jonathan, slipping an arm around the boy. 'Nobody can dispute it. I
'll make sure that Oliver understands that. But it's time to put it behind you, Richard.'
'I've tried, Father. I've tried so hard.'
'Does it still prey on your mind?'
'Day and night.'
Jonathan gave him an affectionate squeeze. 'The memory will fade away in time.'
'Not until it's all over.'
'Over?'
"That man was murdered. Someone has to pay for that.'
'He will, Richard.'
'When he does, I may stop thinking about it.'
'I hope so, son.'
The boy looked up at him. 'Do you know the man?'
"The victim?'
'No, the one who killed him. Mother says he's in prison.'
'Yes,' said Jonathan. 'He's locked away in Newgate so you need have no fears about him. And I do know the man slightly, though he's no friend of mine.'
'What's his name?'
'Never mind about that.'
'I want to know, Father.'
'You know too much already.'
It was not the only reason that he held back the name of Henry Redmayne from his son. Both boys were very fond of Henry's brother. Christopher had been very kind to them and, on one occasion, even read to them from the Bible when they were in bed. To tell them that the murder suspect was his elder brother would be to destroy their faith in the architect and Jonathan did not want to do that. If and when Henry was convicted, it might be impossible to keep the name from them. Until that time, however, Jonathan wanted the suspect to remain anonymous.
'Did you help to catch him, Father?' asked the boy.
'No, Richard.'
'But you're helping in some way?'
'That's part of my job.'
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