The Frost Fair cr-4

by Edward Marston

  'I can't have you standing over me like that.'

  'Would you prefer that I sat down?'

  'No!'

  'The questions are important, Sir Humphrey.'

  'So is drinking my coffee in peace.'

  'I won't disturb you.'

  Jonathan stood there obstinately with his feet wide apart. Other customers were glancing across at him and speculating audibly on why he was there. Though he felt incongruous among the moneyed and over-dressed habitues of the coffee house, he was determined not to budge. Sir Humphrey eventually capitulated.

  'Very well,' he snarled. 'Ask your questions then get out of here.'

  'My first question is this. Why are you so unwilling to assist your friend?'

  'I'll assist Henry in any way that I can.'

  'That was not his brother's opinion, Sir Humphrey, nor is it mine. Both of us have seen how you put your own interests before those of a man in a desperate situation.'

  'What more can I do?'

  'You might visit him in prison to offer your sympathy.'

  'Go to Newgate?' said Sir Humphrey, offended by the suggestion. 'The place is rife with disease, man. You'll not find me going into a fetid swamp like that.'

  'Mr Crenlowe had enough compassion to call on a friend.'

  'Then Martin will have spoken for both of us.'

  'Are you trying to disown Mr Redmayne?'

  'That's a scandalous suggestion, Mr Bale, and I resent it.' He made a visible effort to sound more reasonable. 'Look, man,' he said. 'Nothing can be achieved by my visiting Henry in prison. I know him. He'd be mortified to be seen in such dire straits. It's a kindness not to trouble him. But that does not mean I've forgotten the poor fellow. Only yesterday, I spent half an hour with the lawyer whom his brother has engaged to defend Henry. I spoke up strongly for him.'

  'Could you offer any firm evidence to prove his innocence?'

  'It does not need to be proved. Henry would never do such a thing. It's as simple as that. You do not spend so much time in the company of a friend without understanding his essential character.'

  'He's prone to lose his temper.'

  'Most of us are, Mr Bale,' said the other, glaring at him. 'When provoked.'

  'Were you sorry to hear that Signor Maldini had been murdered?'

  'Not at all. I was delighted.'

  'Did you dislike him so much?'

  'I dislike all foreigners, sir. They should be sent back where they belong.'

  'The Queen is a foreigner,' noted Jonathan, arching an eyebrow. 'Would you have Her Majesty sent back to her own country?' 'Of course not, you idiot! Royalty is above reproach.'

  'That's a matter of opinion, Sir Humphrey.'

  'Jeronimo Maldini was a scheming Italian without a decent bone in his body. He was a fine swordsman, I grant him that. I've never seen a better one. But he did not respect his betters, Mr Bale.' His eyes ignited. 'He did not know his place.'

  'Who stabbed him in the back?'

  'It was not Henry Redmayne.'

  'Who else could it have been?'

  'I wish I knew, sir. I'd like to congratulate him.'

  'Do you condone an act of murder, then?'

  'I abhor the taking of life but applaud the result in this case.'

  'That's as much as to say you think the killing was justified.'

  'It rid us of a foul pestilence.'

  'Captain Harvest does not think so.'

  'Do not listen to James,' said Sir Humphrey, flushing with anger. 'He actually liked that execrable foreigner. That was his besetting sin. He could not discriminate. James liked almost everybody.'

  'He does not seem to like Henry Redmayne.'

  'James had a blind spot where Henry was concerned.'

  'Is that all it was?' asked Jonathan. There was no reply. 'Someone must pay the penalty for this crime, Sir Humphrey,' he resumed. 'Most people believe that the culprit has already been caught.'

  'Only because they do not know him as we do.'

  'If he's innocent, someone else must have wielded that dagger. I realise that Captain Harvest was a friend of the dead man but could he have been the killer?'

  "That's a ludicrous notion!'

  'Mr Crenlowe did not think so.'

  'James had no motive,' said Sir Humphrey. 'We all gain by the murder. He is the only one who stands to lose. Why search for a killer among the four of us who shared a meal that night? Nobody knows better than a constable how many hazards there are at night in the streets of London. There are hundreds of villains at large who'd stab a man in the back for the sheer pleasure of it.'

  'But they'd have their own weapons,' observed Jonathan. 'They'd not use a dagger that was owned by Mr Redmayne. How do you account for that?' There was another silence. 'And I have to disagree with your earlier comment, Sir Humphrey,' he continued. 'You do

  not all gain from this murder. As a result of it, Mr Redmayne may well lose his life.'

  Before he could respond, Sir Henry saw someone walking down the room and rose to welcome him. Martin Crenlowe was surprised to see the constable there. After an exchange of greetings, the two friends took their seats at the table.

  Sir Humphrey was abrupt. 'Will that be all, Mr Bale?'

  'For the moment,' said Jonathan. 'I may need to speak to you again.'

  'Do not dare to do so in here again. You have created a scene.'

  'That was not my intention, Sir Humphrey.'

  'What about me, Mr Bale?' asked Crenlowe, adopting a more helpful tone. 'Shall you require some more information from me? I'll be happy to furnish it.'

  Thank you, sir.'

  'I'm sorry if I was a trifle brusque with you at our last meeting.'

  'You were in a hurry, Mr Crenlowe. I understood that.'

  'Henry's welfare comes before my family obligations.'

  'I agree,' added Sir Humphrey. 'Now perhaps you'll leave us alone so that we can enjoy a cup of coffee. We have much to discuss.'

  Jonathan looked from one to the other. 'I'm sure that you have, Sir Humphrey.' He touched the brim of his hat. 'Good day to you, gentlemen.'

  Another day had been swallowed up with frightening speed by the crisis. Christopher Redmayne suddenly found that evening was already starting to chase the last rays of light out of the sky yet again. Much had been done but little had so far been achieved. After his visit to the prison, he had returned to the house in Bedford Street to hand over the discarded clothing to Henry's valet and to assure him, and the other servants who gathered anxiously around him, that their master would eventually be released without a stain on his character. They tried hard to believe him but Christopher could see that they feared the worst. Their own futures looked bleak. It would not be easy for the servants of a convicted murderer to find a new master.

  After dining early at home, Christopher went off for another meeting with the lawyer who would fight to save Henry's life in court. Indifferent to the legal costs that he was running up, he spent the whole afternoon with him but the man was able to hold out much hope of success. All that Christopher could offer him were hearsay evidence and intelligent speculation. The prosecution, by contrast, had a murder weapon with his brother's initials on it. He was irritated by the excessive caution of his legal advisor but he could do nothing to dispel it. A mood of pessimism hung over the whole discussion. By the time that he left, Christopher was forced to accept that, unless he and Jonathan Bale found an alternative killer, then Henry Redmayne's initials might already be on the hangman's rope as well.

  It was ironic. As prospects were brightening for one brother, they were rapidly deteriorating for the other. Christopher felt guilty about it because he was eternally grateful to Henry for helping him to launch his career as an architect. It was his brother who had secured the first vital commissions for him and whose connections at Court and elsewhere had brought Christopher so many valuable contacts. Now that he was more established, he did not need Henry's assistance but that did not weaken his profound feeling of gratitude. While the
architect was about to earn a substantial sum of money from Lady Whitcombe, his brother was languishing in a prison with a possible death sentence hanging over him. The disparity in their fortunes could not have been greater.

  Christopher had arranged to call on Jonathan Bale that evening so that they could compare any new intelligence that had come to light. Before he did that, however, he felt the urge to visit Fenchurch Street to view the tavern where his brother had gone with friends on the fateful night. Setting a brisk pace, he walked along Cheapside and took note of the architecture on the way. It was encouraging to see just how much rebuilding had already been completed. Within three years of the Great Fire, almost three thousand new houses had been constructed in the ashes of the old ones. It was an astonishing feat. Christopher was proud to have designed a few of those properties. Taverns, ordinaries, guild halls, warehouses and civic buildings had also risen again and work was continuing on some of the many churches that had been destroyed in the blaze. Precautions had been enforced from the start. Streets were widened, thatch was replaced by tile and brick was the most common building material. Half-timbered houses had gone up like tinder in the blaze. London had learned its lesson.

  When he reached the tavern in Fenchurch Street, Christopher was reminded of that lesson once again. The Elephant was well- named. It was big, solid and indomitable. While neighbouring buildings crashed to the ground, its thick stone walls had withstood the fiery siege like an invincible fortress. Christopher was not there to admire the finer points of its construction and the growing darkness would have made it impossible to do so. He gazed around, feeling that conditions were very similar to those on the night when his brother had come out of the tavern. It was cold, murky and inhospitable. People who passed on the other side of the street were conjured out of the gloom for seconds before disappearing into it again. If Henry was too drunk to walk properly, it would have been simple to ambush him.

  After looking up and down the street, Christopher made his way towards the river. Jonathan Bale had told him the exact location where the two watchmen had chanced upon the fallen man. It was in an alleyway off Thames Street, too dark to explore without a lantern and too dangerous for any sensible person to enter late at night. Henry must have got himself there somehow but had no memory of the journey. As he stood there and tried to work out how his brother had ended up at that spot, Christopher could hear a strange noise. He soon discovered what it was. When he walked down to the river bank itself, he realised that the ice was still cracking up. Having thawed in the middle, it was now melting towards the banks, splitting into huge blocks that bobbed and jostled in the water. Directly below him, Christopher noticed, a small pond had opened up, still filled with jagged pieces of ice but clear evidence that the Thames was determined to obliterate all signs of the frost fair that had been held upon its back.

  There were lots of people passing by and he felt in no danger. He leaned over and peered into the darkness. It was a grave mistake. A hand was suddenly placed in the middle of his back to give him a hard shove. Christopher lost his balance. Unable to stop himself, he tumbled helplessly through space until he hit the cold, swirling, merciless water with a loud splash.

  Chapter Eleven

  Susan Cheever was not looking forward to receiving the guests at Serle Court. Since her sister's avowed objective had been to find her a husband, she shuddered at the notion that she would be on display. Her first thought was to plead illness and avoid meeting any of the visitors but Brilliana would not be tricked that way. Nor could Susan wear her oldest and least appealing dress as a form of armour to ward off any romantic interest in her. Brilliana insisted on going through her sister's wardrobe to choose the attire that would accentuate her best features. By the time that the first coach rolled up to Serle Court that evening, Susan was dressed in her finery and gritting her teeth.

  'Smile,' urged her sister. 'Men like to see you smile.'

  'Then they'll need to give me something to smile about, Brilliana.'

  'You are being perverse.'

  'I'm being serious. I do not intend to smile for the sake of it.'

  'It's what men expect of us.'

  "Then their expectations will not be met.'

  'Susan!'

  'This was your idea, Brilliana, and not mine.'

  'Need you be so obstructive?'

  'And why invite them this evening?' asked Susan with exasperation. 'Had they come to dinner, they would be on their way home by now and I'd feel safe.'

  'Safe from what? Meeting someone worthy of you at last?'

  'That will not happen today, I promise you.'

  'We may surprise you. As for my choice of time, the reason I wanted them here this evening was that Mrs Cardinal will be too weary to return home in her coach and will therefore have to spend the night here.' Brilliana gave a knowing grin. 'And so, of course, will her son.'

  Susan groaned. 'I'm to endure their company for breakfast as well?'

  'It will give you the opportunity to get to know them better.'

  'I may sleep until late tomorrow.'

  Brilliana was resolute. 'No, you will not!'

  Her face blossomed into a regal smile as the first guests came through the front door. They were four in number and swiftly followed by an elderly married couple from a neighbouring estate. They all received a cordial welcome from Brilliana and her husband. Susan, too, was uniformly polite. Looking around the visitors, she saw that they were exactly what she had anticipated. They were, in their various ways, alternative versions of her sister and her brother-in-law. The latecomers most certainly were not. When Jack Cardinal and his mother finally arrived in a flurry of apologies, Susan was taken aback. The woman caught her eye first. She was an obese lady with a surging bosom, bulging cheeks and tiny pig-like eyes. Hanging on her son's arm for support, she explained that they had been delayed because she had had one of her attacks. Susan was amazed. Mrs Cardinal looked uncommonly healthy to her.

  Jack Cardinal was the real surprise. He was a neat, compact man of medium height with a shock of black hair that rose up from a high-domed forehead. Only his mother could have deemed him handsome. His face was craggy in repose and slightly comic when he was animated. Susan was completely disarmed. Cardinal was no threat to her. If anything, she felt sorry for him. Even at a glance, the man was so burdened by a demanding mother that he looked years older than his true age. When he was introduced to Susan, he was too shy to do more than give her a token bow. She began to relax. The evening might not be as onerous as she had feared.

  It was an hour before she had a conversation alone with Cardinal. Before the meal was served, Brilliana contrived to divert the majority of the guests by inviting them to see the recent portrait of her that hung at the top of the staircase. Serle had been primed to assist Mrs Cardinal up the steps and to listen to the endless litany of her symptoms. Susan found herself in the parlour with Jack Cardinal. He examined the bookshelves.

  'Lancelot has tastes not unlike my own,' he remarked.

  'In what way?'

  'I, too, am fond of poems. I read them to Mother sometimes.'

  'Can she not read them to herself, Mr Cardinal?'

  'Not when her eyes trouble her,' he replied. 'Poor sight is one of her many problems. What about you, Miss Cheever?' he asked, turning to look at her. 'Are you interested in poetry?'

  'I am, sir.'

  'May I know whom you admire?'

  'Many of those you'll find on those same shelves,' said Susan. 'But the poet I revere most is not in my brother-in-law's collection.'

  'And who might that be?'

  'Mr Milton.'

  He was astounded. 'John Milton?'

  'I know of no other.'

  'I'd not have thought he'd appeal to a young lady such as you.'

  'He certainly does not appeal to my sister,' confessed Susan, 'and Lancelot has strong political objections against him. Mr Milton, as you know, was Latin Secretary to the Lord High Protector.'

  "That's wh
at makes him so intriguing, Miss Cheever.'

  'Intriguing?'

  'Poetry transcends political affiliation,' he said solemnly. 'Because I do not agree with a man's politics, I am not unaware of his poetic skills. I take John Milton to be a man of infinite genius. I'm proud to call myself a Royalist but that does not stop me from telling you that Paradise Lost is the finest poem I've ever read.'

  'You are a religious man, I see.'

  'Far from it.'

  'Then wherein lies its appeal?'

  'In its scope, its ambition and its sheer intelligence.'

  'You have surely not read it to your mother.'

  'No,' he replied with a rare smile. 'Mother has no time for John Milton or anyone of his persuasion. She believes that he should have been beheaded as a traitor. That attitude does not put her in the ideal frame of mind for appreciating his work.'

  Susan warmed to him. 'Lancelot tells me that you are a prodigious reader.'

  'I know of no greater pleasure.'

  'What about shooting and fencing? You excel at both, I hear.'

  'They are manly accomplishments and nothing more.'

  'You are too modest, Mr Cardinal. I understand that you are an expert.'

  'Hardly! What has Lancelot been saying about me?'

  'He talked of a duel that you had with Egerton Whitcombe.'

  'Oh, that,' said Cardinal, his face clouding. 'It was a big mistake.'

  'But you were the victor.'

  "The bout should never have taken place.' 'According to Lancelot, the other man goaded you into it.'

  'He did, Miss Cheever, and I was foolish to go along with it.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I did not realise how seriously my opponent was taking the whole thing. Egerton Whitcombe was so confident that he would get the better of me that he'd made a number of wagers with friends.' He gave an apologetic shrug. 'Losing the bout cost him a sizeable amount of money.'

  'No wonder he was so embittered.'

  'He keeps asking for a return meeting to recoup his losses but I'll not measure swords with him again. Too much rides on it for Egerton - and for his mother, of course.'

  'Lady Whitcombe?'

  'She was there to cheer her son on the last time,' he said. 'Lady Whitcombe was so outraged that I proved the finer swordsman that she's not spoken to me since.'