The Frost Fair cr-4

by Edward Marston

  Yet Jonathan had deliberately kept away from the prison. He sought to justify his decision.

  'It would be a waste of time, Sarah.'

  'Why?'

  'Henry Redmayne dislikes me. He'd never let me near him.'

  "Things may have changed since he's been in there. You've often told me how glad prisoners are to have any visitors. It means that someone is thinking about them.'

  'I'd not be there as a visitor. He'd see me as an enemy.'

  'Even though he knows you are a friend of his brother?'

  'Mr Redmayne might not wish me to go.'

  'Have you asked him?'

  'No, Sarah.'

  'Then why not do so? He might even want the two of you to go together.'

  "That would be different,' he conceded.

  'He'll not refuse the offer. Besides,' she went on, 'you are much more used to visiting a prison than he is. You've been to Newgate dozens of times. You know some of the turnkeys there. Talk to them about Mr Redmayne's brother.'

  Jonathan hesitated. His wife's advice was sound yet he found it difficult to accept. He was afraid that he would be spurned by Henry Redmayne and that his visit would simply widen the rift between him and the prisoner's brother. On the other hand, he knew the value of studying a man who was behind bars. The way that a suspect bore himself in custody could give a strong indication of his guilt or innocence. A word with the turnkeys who looked after Henry Redmayne might be profitable. It was worth trying. After making his decision, Jonathan stood up and wrapped his arms gratefully around his wife.

  'Where would I be with you to counsel me, Sarah?'

  'I do not do it for your benefit,' she said with a smile, 'but for my own. If you stay awake at night, then so do I. And we both need our sleep.'

  Exhaustion had finally got the better of Henry Redmayne. His body had been drained of all its powers of resistance. Even the pervading stench and nocturnal pandemonium of Newgate could not keep him awake. He lay on the straw and went off into oblivion. It was only when the turnkey shook him hard next morning that he opened his eyes.

  'Wake up, sir!' grunted the man. 'You've a visitor.'

  Henry was bewildered. 'Where am I?' he asked, looking around.

  'Where you belong - in Newgate.'

  'I'm in prison?'

  The realisation brought him fully awake and he sat up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. When the turnkey left the cell, Christopher stepped into it and the door was locked behind him. He was carrying a pile of clothing over his arm.

  'Good morning, Henry,' he said.

  'Is it morning? I've no sense of time in here.'

  'Do you not hear the bells chiming the hour?'

  'All I can here is the pounding of my own heart, Christopher.' He stared at the suit that his brother had brought. 'What do you have there?'

  'A change of apparel.'

  'I need none.'

  'Those things are filthy,' said Christopher. 'You must take them off.'

  'There's no call for fashion in here.'

  'But there is a call for self-respect. That's one of my favourite tenets. Come, now. You'll feel much better when you look something like your old self.'

  'I never expect to do that again,' moaned Henry.

  'We'll see. The turnkey will be back soon with warm water and a razor. Since you did not shave yesterday, I'll be your barber today. I've also turned valet. That's why I called at your house on the way here to pick up this fresh attire.'

  'I'll not wear it.'

  'Would you let Father see you in that state?'

  Henry quailed. The thought of meeting his father at all was unnerving. To receive him in a prison cell when he was soiled and unkempt would be to give the old man additional reasons for outrage and condemnation. A shaven chin and a smart suit would at least offer Henry a slight degree of protection. It would also remind him of whom he was. He thanked Christopher for his thoughtful- ness then bent down to retrieve something from the straw.

  'You'll not need a razor,' he said. 'I have one here.' 'Where did that come from?'

  'A friendly hand dropped it through the bars to help me escape.'

  'Escape?' said Christopher with alarm. 'You surely did not think that you could kill the turnkey and get out of here. That's madness, Henry.'

  'There's a simpler means of escape.'

  He pretended to slit his throat with the razor. Christopher was so appalled that he dropped the clothing on the straw and snatched the razor from him. Slipping it into his pocket, he grabbed his brother by the shoulders.

  'I do not believe that you even contemplated such a thing,' he said.

  'It seemed the only way out.'

  'Of what?'

  'This unbearable misery, Christopher.'

  'But that will not last forever.'

  'No,' said Henry mournfully. 'It will end on the gallows when I dance on fresh air to amuse the crowd. I did not think that I could face that.'

  'You'll not have to, Henry. Your case may not even come to trial.'

  'I feel that it already has. That's why the razor had a gruesome appeal for me.'

  'Then I'll make sure it's not left in the cell,' affirmed Christopher, 'and I'll speak to the prison sergeant. He needs to know that someone is encouraging one of his charges to commit suicide. Has it really come to this?' he asked, shaking his brother vigorously. 'Taking your own life is an unpardonable sin, Henry. It's a crime against God and an act of cruelty against those who love you. How could you even think about it?'

  'I was desperate.'

  'Then pray for deliverance.'

  'There's no hope of that, Christopher.'

  'Yes, there is,' rejoined the other. 'You are innocent of the charge against you.'

  Henry was bemused. 'Am I?'

  'When the real killer is apprehended, they'll have to release you.'

  'When will that be?'

  'Soon, I trust. Very soon.'

  'But not before Father reaches London.' 'Perhaps not.'

  'Do not tell him about the razor,' begged Henry. 'Spare me that.'

  'I'd not dare tell him,' said Christopher, 'for I know how hurt he'd be. Father is on his way here in order to comfort you, Henry. How do you think he would feel if he learned that you had committed suicide? He'd be utterly destroyed. He'd see it, as everyone else would see it, as an admission of guilt.'

  'But I may be guilty. That's what torments me.'

  'You were guilty of drinking too much and losing your temper. Nothing more than that. Bad behaviour is not a crime. You were foolish but you are no killer.'

  'Yet I wanted that villain dead. I own that freely.'

  The door was unlocked and the turnkey handed Christopher a razor and a bowl of warm water. Christopher thanked him then the door was shut again. He looked at Henry with a sympathy that was tempered with disgust. At least, he told himself, his brother had confessed to the thoughts of suicide. That was a positive sign. But it did not take away his sense of shock. The razor suddenly felt hot in his hand.

  'I'd never have done it,' Henry assured him. 'I was not brave enough.'

  'A brave man would never even have considered it.'

  'I'm sorry, Christopher.'

  'Sit down under the window so that I can see to shave you.'

  Henry was contrite. He put the stool where it would catch the best of the light then lowered himself on to it. Christopher had never shaved anyone else before, and these were hardly the ideal conditions in which to try it, but he did his best. After using the water to wash the grime from his brother's face, he plied the razor with great care.

  'I've brought more food as well,' he said. 'I left it with the prison sergeant.'

  'You are very kind to me, Christopher.'

  'Kinder than you are to yourself, it seems.'

  'I had a moment of weakness.'

  'Your life is a succession of them,' said Christopher harshly. 'This is by far the worst. I thank God that you stayed your hand. Now, hold still,' he ordered as Henry moved his head. '
You may wish to cut your throat but I do not.'

  When his beard had been slowly scraped away, Henry felt considerably better. He stripped off his dirty clothing and put on the clean apparel. Christopher had been right. His brother looked something like his old self and that instilled a new confidence in him. Henry told himself that was no longer a condemned man in grubby attire. He was the victim of a dreadful error.

  'Thank you, Christopher,' he said, embracing him warmly.

  'You thank me best by believing in yourself.'

  Twill, I will.'

  'Then let's have no more moments of weakness.'

  'I give you my word.' Henry became afraid. 'When shall I expect Father?'

  'That depends on how fast he travels from Gloucester,' said Christopher, folding up his brother's discarded clothing. 'The most he could manage in a day is thirty miles and only that if the roads are clear.'

  'I thought he'd come down from heaven like a bolt of lightning.'

  'You've already been struck by that.'

  'Too true, brother!'

  'Father will bring you more solace than stricture.'

  'They are one and the same thing to him,' said Henry with a shiver. 'Father always travels with a pulpit.' He thought of his tattered reputation. 'What do they say about me, Christopher? How am I proclaimed in the city?'

  'I do not listen to any hostile comment.'

  'My enemies must be dancing with delight at my predicament.'

  'Think only of your friends,' advised Christopher. 'They do not doubt you. I've spoken with Martin Crenlowe and with Sir Humphrey Godden. Both of them swear that you could never have committed this crime.'

  'Martin was good enough to visit me.'

  'Do not rely on the same consideration from Sir Humphrey. Though he supports you to the hilt, he is too full of his own affairs to come and see you. I had the impression that he was a fastidious man who'd never dare to let the stink of prison enter his nostrils.'

  'Sir Humphrey has a fondness for perfumes and powders.'

  'And an even greater fondness for himself.'

  'He's good company when you get to know him properly, Christopher. Sir Humphrey Godden is cheerful, amusing and generous to a fault. I've lost count of the number of times his purse has bailed me out.'

  'He loaned money to Captain Harvest as well, I believe.'

  'Most people in London have done that,' said Henry with a cynical smile. 'A few of them have even had it repaid. James is a worthless hanger-on. This business has shown him in a true light.'

  'He's the only one of the three who's turned against you.'

  'Good riddance to him!'

  'Sir Humphrey seemed to think him a likeable rogue,' said Christopher. 'Having met the captain myself, I saw a more sinister streak in him. Of the four of you who shared a meal that night, Captain Harvest was the most likely back-stabber.'

  Henry was astonished. 'Do you believe that he killed Jeronimo Maldini?'

  'Someone did, Henry, and it was not you.'

  'But James and the Italian were on friendly terms.'

  'How reliable is Captain Harvest's friendship? You've seen how quickly he's turned against you. Martin Crenlowe and Sir Humphrey were both disgusted by that.'

  'No,' said Henry. 'I refuse to accept that James was involved. He had somewhere else to go that night. I watched him stride off down Fenchurch Street. Martin, too. He was eager to go home to his wife.'

  'What of Sir Humphrey? Does he have a wife?'

  'Oh, yes. And a comely creature she is.'

  'Why did you not travel in his coach when he went back to Covent Garden that night?' wondered Christopher. 'His house is not far from Bedford Street and I understand that he offered you a lift. Why turn him down?'

  'Because he was not going back home,' said Henry. 'Sir Humphrey wanted us to go elsewhere in order to carouse until dawn. I was in no mood for that. I preferred to make my own way back to Bedford Street.'

  'But you were intercepted by Signor Maldini.'

  'Yes, Christopher. Not far from the tavern.'

  'That was in Fenchurch Street. How do you explain the fact that you were found by two watchmen much closer to the river?'

  Henry blinked. 'Was I?' he asked in surprise. 'How did I get there?'

  'I was hoping that you could tell me that.'

  'It's all so vague. The truth is that I'm not sure what I remember about that night beyond the fact that I was seething with rage at that glib Italian.'

  Christopher did not press him. Whether from drink or as a result of a blow he might have received to the head, his brother was genuinely confused about events. It made the task of defending him that much more difficult. The door was unlocked as a signal that it was time for the visitor to leave. Christopher gathered up the discarded clothing and made sure that the two razors were not left in the cell.

  'Thank you for everything,' said Henry, embracing him again. 'I'm sorry that you've been dragged into this mess. It must perforce have dulled your own lustre.'

  'Do not worry about me.'

  'But I do. One act of folly from me will inflict damage on your career as well. Instead of being a successful architect, you'll be pointed at as the brother of a killer.'

  'Not by people whose opinion I value,' said Christopher. 'I'll admit that I had fears in that direction but they've proved groundless. My latest commission is quite unthreatened by what's happened to you.'

  "Then your client must not yet know about my disgrace.'

  'I believe that she does, Henry. She hinted as much to me.'

  'Oh?'

  'Lady Whitcombe is given to impulses. When she sets her heart on something, she means to get it whatever the obstructions. I feel secure in her employ. She is so eager for me to design her new house in London that I fancy she'd not dismiss me even if my brother had assassinated the entire royal family.'

  'But how can you attend to her needs when you are entangled with mine?'

  'Forget her,' soothed Christopher. 'Lady Whitcombe is in Sheen and unlikely to stir from there until building gets under way. That will not happen until the Thames unfreezes completely, for the stone we require for the house will have to come by water. No,' he said confidently, 'I do not expect to see Lady Whitcombe for weeks.'

  The coach moved slowly along the rutted track so that the occupants were not bounced about too much. Supported by cushions,

  Lady Cecily Whitcombe sat in the coach with a blanket over her knees. Her daughter, Letitia, also wrapped up in warm clothing, was seated beside her. In spite of their discomfort, the two women were excited.

  'I'm so pleased that Egerton has come back at last,' said Lady Whitcombe. 'He's been away too long. I've missed him terribly.'

  'So have I, Mother. Life is so dull without Egerton to brighten our day. But I'm even more pleased that he wishes to stay in London,' said Letitia with a giggle. 'It gives us an excuse to visit him there.'

  'Egerton is not the only person we'll visit, Letitia.'

  'I know. I have every hope that we'll see your architect again.'

  'Be assured of that.'

  'Will I be able to meet him?'

  'I'll insist on it.'

  "Thank you, Mother.'

  'Do you like Mr Redmayne?'

  'Very much.'

  'I could see that he's taken to you,' said the older woman complacently. "Though you must strive for more composure in his presence. You giggle far too much. That's irritating. It shows a lack of maturity. Mr Redmayne is a serious young man. Try to impress him.'

  'It's he who impresses me. What an imagination he must have!'

  'That's why I chose him, Letitia.'

  'He's so clever and yet so modest. I love being close to him.'

  'Good,' said Lady Whitcombe, patting her hand with maternal approval. 'That's as it should be. I'm sure that Egerton will get on with him as well.'

  'Nobody could take a dislike to Mr Redmayne.'

  'Precisely. He is truly exceptional. There are lots of people we shall call on w
hile we are in London and Christopher Redmayne will certainly be among the first.'

  The coffee house was in a street behind Charing Cross. Jonathan Bale had walked past it many times without daring to venture in but he had no choice on this occasion. One of the customers was just arriving in a sedan chair. He was an elderly man with a walking stick and a servant had to help him up the stairs. The constable followed them. Before he even stepped into the room itself, he could hear the babble of voice and smell the aroma of coffee mingling with that of tobacco smoke. Jonathan was relieved to see that the place was half-empty at that time of the morning. It lessened the degree of discomfort he felt and made it easier to pick out the man he sought. The room was long and narrow with tables set out in parallel lines along both walls. It was an exclusively male preserve for fashionable Londoners. He could see why coffee was sometimes called politicians' porridge for the snippets of conversation he heard from nearby all concerned the affairs of the day. Christopher Redmayne had given him an accurate description of the customer he was looking for so Jonathan soon identified Sir Humphrey Godden. Seated alone at a table in the corner, the man was taking snuff from a silver box.

  Jonathan approached him, introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit. Sir Humphrey was not pleased to be accosted by a parish constable.

  'How did you know that I'd be here?' he said with indignation.

  'I called at your house,' explained Jonathan. 'I was told that you always visited this coffee house at a certain time of the morning.'

  'I come here to see friends, not to be interrogated.'

  'I thought that Henry Redmayne was one of those friends.'

  'Well, yes,' said the other,' he is. More often than not, he'd be sitting in that chair opposite me. Henry is a fine fellow. But, like me, he loathes any interruptions.'

  'He needs your help, Sir Humphrey.'

  'He has it, man. He knows that I'll speak up for him in court.'

  'There are a few questions I wish to put to you first.'

  'This is not a convenient moment,' said Sir Humphrey testily. 'I've arranged to meet someone and he'll be here at any moment.'

  Jonathan folded his arms. 'Then I'll wait.'