The Frost Fair cr-4

by Edward Marston

  'I was consumed with hatred,' said the other with indignation, 'but not for that reason. My wife never even met that slimy Italian.'

  'We found letters that proved otherwise,' said Christopher, holding them up.

  'Then they are forgeries, sir. Miriam loathes foreigners as much as I do. She'd never let that fencing master within a mile of her.' He snatched the two letters and read through them. 'These were not written by my wife,' he asserted.

  'Are you certain?'

  'Of course, I'm certain,' said Sir Humphrey, thrusting them back at him, 'and I resent the implication that my wife has been unfaithful to me. Miriam would never do such a thing.'

  'But the letters bear the initial of her name.'

  "Thousands of other women in London have names that begin with 'M". Any one of them could have written those letters. No, wait,' he said as his memory was jogged. 'I saw Jeronimo Maldini when women were around. He could not resist using that oily charm on them. He always addressed a lady by the same name. Yes, there's the answer, Mr Redmayne,' he decided. 'That 'M' does not stand for Miriam. It stands for Madonna. That was what he always cooed in their ear.'

  Christopher was disappointed. As a result of his talk with Pietro Maldini, vital new evidence had come to light and it was buttressed by Jonathan's discovery at the lodging once occupied by the man's brother. The two friends had come to the same conclusion yet now, it seemed, it was woefully wrong. Unwilling to believe anything that Sir Humphrey told him, Christopher pressed him time and again but the man remained adamant. In the end, Christopher was forced to accept the possibility that he was actually telling the truth. If his wife were not implicated, Sir Humphrey would have no compulsion to seek revenge.

  'I did not kill Jeronimo Maldini,' affirmed Sir Humphrey, 'nor was I involved in any plot to do so. What I do know is that your brother is innocent and I want the real culprit caught. Apart from anything else, it will stop you from hounding me any more.'

  Christopher was abashed. 'Who did write these letters, then?'

  'Let me look at them again,' said the other, taking them from him.

  'All that I saw before was that my wife could not have written them. It's not her hand.' He studied the looping calligraphy. 'But I fancy she might tell you whose hand it was.'

  'You recognise it, Sir Humphrey?'

  'I've seen something very much like it, though I could not be sure. I've only ever observed this looping style on invitation cards that we've received. Yes,' he said, studying each of the letters in turn. 'It's a distinctive hand, no question of that. My wife could be more certain about it but I could give you a possible name for the writer.'

  'Who is the lady?'

  'Rose Crenlowe,' said the other. 'She's Martin's wife.'

  Rose Crenlowe was a short, slim, dark-haired young woman with a beautiful face that was distorted by suffering. Her brow was wrinkled, her eyes were bloodshot and her pretty mouth drooped at the edges. The last of her tears were still drying on her cheeks. Wearing a plain dress and with her hair unkempt, she sat huddled on the bed in the attic room. When she heard a key being inserted in the lock, she drew instinctively away. Her husband came into the room with a tray of food for her. His manner was curt.

  'Eat this,' he said, putting the tray down on the table. She shook her head. 'Do as I tell you, Rose!' he warned. 'I'll stand no more of your games.'

  'I'm not hungry, Martin,' she whimpered.

  'You must keep body and soul together.'

  'Why? What's the point?'

  'You know very well. If this food is not eaten by the time that I come back, there'll be trouble, Rose. Do you hear?' She said nothing. 'Do you hear?' he repeated.

  'Yes, Martin.'

  "The man is dead. Forget him.'

  'I'll never do that,' she said with a show of spirit.

  Crenlowe raised a hand to strike her and she cowered on the bed. The blow never came. There was a loud banging on his front door and the sound echoed up through the house. The goldsmith went out on the landing and listened as a servant opened the door. When he heard who had called to see him, he locked the door of his wife's room and went quickly downstairs. With his hat in his hand, Christopher Redmayne was waiting for him in the hall.

  'Good day to you, Mr Crenlowe,' he said. 'I was told at your shop that I'd find you at home today. I crave a word with you, sir.'

  'Must it be here? I'd prefer to talk to you this afternoon at the shop.'

  'The matter is too serious to be postponed.'

  'Oh?' said Crenlowe guardedly. 'You have news for me?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher. 'The man who pretended to be Captain Harvest has been arrested. My friend, Mr Bale, apprehended him at Sir Humphrey Godden's house.'

  'What was he doing there?'

  'Causing profound embarrassment, by the look of it. He'll not be in a position to do that again for a very long time. I need to raise a sensitive matter with you,' he went on, lowering his voice, 'and it may help if your wife is present.'

  'My wife is not at home.'

  'Your servant just assured me that she was.'

  'Rose is not available,' said Crenlowe sharply. You have my word on it. If you wish to speak to me, then perhaps you'll step in here,' he added, taking his visitor into the parlour. 'I hope that your stay will be brief. I need to get back to my work.'

  'Then let me broach that delicate subject, Mr Crenlowe,' said Christopher, watching him closely. 'Were you aware of any connection between Signor Maldini and your wife?'

  Crenlowe paled. 'Of course not! What are you suggesting?'

  'That you had the best motive of all to see the fencing master dead.'

  "This is nonsense, Mr Redmayne!'

  'If you'd been cuckolded by the man -'

  'No!' howled the other, bunching a fist. 'That's not true!'

  'I have letters from your wife that Signor Maldini kept at his lodging. They leave no room for doubt, Mr Crenlowe.' He took them from his pocket. 'Do you wish to see them?'

  'Put them away! Rose could never have written them.'

  'I'd need your wife's confirmation of that.'

  'I've told you, Mr Redmayne. She's not here.'

  'Yes,' said Christopher, 'but I've reached the stage where I do not believe a word that you tell me. You visited Henry in prison to give the impression that you were concerned about him when, in point of fact, you were the man responsible for putting him there. When you heard that I was trying to clear Henry's name, you offered to help so that you could keep an eye on any progress that I made. Then we come to the jewellery that Signor Maldini commissioned from you,' he continued, putting the letters back in his pocket. 'You refused to admit that it ever existed and I think that I know why. The fencing master played a cruel trick on you.'

  'Be quiet!' shouted Crenlowe.

  'He wanted you to design a piece of jewellery that he'd give to your own wife.'

  Crenlowe went berserk. Rushing at Christopher, he pushed him back with both hands before darting across the room to snatch up a rapier that stood in the corner. He came forward again with murder dancing in his eyes.

  'He mocked me, Mr Redmayne,' he said, taking up his stance. 'He was not content with stealing my wife's affections from me, he mocked my trade by getting me to fashion some jewellery that he'd give to her in secret. Can you think of anything more despicable than that?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher. 'Stabbing a man in the back then letting my brother go to the gallows for the crime. That's what I call despicable, Mr Crenlowe.'

  The goldsmith lunged at him. Stepping back out of reach, Christopher threw his hat into his assailant's face. It gave him time to draw his own sword. The two men circled each other in the middle of the room. Christopher gave a grim smile.

  'Let's see what Signor Maldini taught you, shall we?'

  Crenlowe lunged again but his blade was parried. When he slashed wildly at Christopher's head, the latter ducked out of harm's way. Roused to a pitch of desperation, the goldsmith attacked again and again but e
very stroke was parried or rendered ineffective by neat footwork. Their blades clashed once more then locked together. Christopher's face was inches from that of the goldsmith. Crenlowe strained his sinews to force him back but he was up against someone who was younger, stronger and impelled by an urge to vindicate his brother. With a concerted effort, Christopher shoved him away so violently that his opponent tripped and fell to the floor. Before he could even move, Crenlowe felt a searing pain in his wrist as Christopher's rapier drew blood and made him drop his sword with a clatter.

  Standing over his man, Christopher held the point of his weapon at his throat.

  'Now, Mr Crenlowe,' he said. 'Tell me what really happened that night.'

  Epilogue

  Lady Whitcombe was overjoyed to receive the invitation to Fetter Lane. The thought of spending time with Christopher Redmayne was always a pleasant one but it held an even richer promise now that she had made her declaration to him. Feeling that she was in a position to exert influence over him, she had no hesitation in using it. Since his brother had now been released from prison, Lady Whitcombe had a double reason to rejoice with him. She could mark her closer relationship with the architect and celebrate the vindication of his family's name. Nothing could now prevent Christopher from resuming his work for her. Even her son, Egerton, albeit reluctantly, had accepted that. It was her daughter, however, who was now proving troublesome. They were in the house of the friends with whom they were staying. Lady Whitcombe was about to leave.

  'Let me come with you, Mother,' said Letitia, grabbing her arm.

  'Not this time,' replied the other, waving her away. 'Mr Redmayne and I have private business to discuss.'

  'But I wish to congratulate him on solving that crime.'

  'I'll pass on congratulations for you, Letitia.'

  'Mother!'

  'There's no point in arguing,' said the older woman. 'I'm going alone.'

  'I want to see Mr Redmayne,' protested the girl, stamping a foot in rebellion. 'I like him and he likes me. It's so unfair to keep me away from him like that.'

  'You'll be seeing a great deal of him in due course, I promise you.'

  Before her daughter could throw a tantrum, Lady Whitcombe swept out of the house and stepped into her carriage. During the drive to Fetter Lane, she rehearsed what she was going to say to the young man whose talent as an architect, and whose charm as a person, had so captivated her. When she arrived at the house, he opened the door to her himself and gave her a cordial welcome before taking her into the parlour. Lady Whitcombe had the distinct impression that they were the only people there and that added to her sense of excitement. She took a seat and beamed at him.

  'Let me say how delighted we all were to hear your good news,' she began. 'Your brother must be immensely proud of you for what you did on his behalf.'

  'I had a great deal of help, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher modestly. 'My good friend, Jonathan Bale, deserves much of the credit.'

  'But you are the chief architect of this triumph.' She chortled. 'Forgive me, Mr Redmayne. I did not mean to offer you such a feeble play on words. The point is that you were brave and resolute.' She became almost coquettish. 'In your letter, you said that you had something of importance to tell me.'

  'Yes, Lady Whitcombe.'

  'Well?'

  'It concerns your commission,' he said, sitting beside her. 'If I'm to continue in your employ, there's something that must be understood at the start.'

  'You must continue,' she insisted. 'I'll hold you to the contract.'

  'Yet you had doubts about me earlier on.'

  'Only for a brief moment. Be advised, Mr Redmayne,' she said with quiet authority, 'that I'd never release you from the contract. It's legally binding.'

  'In that case, we must talk about your late husband.'

  'Sir Peregrine?' she asked, quite baffled. 'Why?'

  'Something rather distressing has come to light,' he said.

  Christopher tried to break the news to her as gently as possible. He explained about Jeronimo Maldini's work as a spy and how certain documents had been found in a secret compartment of his desk. Lady Whitcombe angrily refuted the suggestion that her husband would have had anything to do with the man until she was shown letters in a hand that she identified immediately. There could be no doubting the fact that Sir Peregrine Whitcombe had been willing to betray his country in return for payment. She remembered that her son had talked of introducing his father to Maldini. That was how the connection between them had first been made. It threw her into a panic. If the truth about her husband were to become common knowledge, she would lose face completely and the memory of Sir Peregrine Whitcombe would be reviled. It would mean a dramatic loss of all the things she most prized. Realising the consequences of disclosure, she reached out to grasp Christopher's hand.

  'Who else knows about this?' she asked.

  'Only my friend, Mr Bale.'

  'Will he divulge it?'

  'No, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher. 'And neither will I, if we can come to an agreement. When the reputation of my family was in danger, you were kind enough to offer me your support. That meant a lot to me at a time when most people were looking askance at the name of Redmayne. I'd like to give you my support in return and prevent your family name from being sullied unnecessarily. Nothing will be served by digging up the mistakes of the past,' he decided. 'This unfortunate episode is now over. Signor Maldini is dead and so is Sir Peregrine. I believe that we should let their dark secrets die with them.'

  'That's so generous of you, Mr Redmayne,' she said, squeezing his hand.

  'My generosity comes at a price.'

  'Name it and you shall have it.'

  'I'll remain as your architect,' he said, withdrawing his hand, 'on condition that there's no suggestion of any personal relationship between us.' Her jaw dropped, her face went blank and she looked much older all of a sudden. 'I'm here simply to make sure that your house is built the way that it should be. It's the only basis on which I'll agree to proceed. Do I have your word on that, Lady Whitcombe?'

  The disappointment showed in her eyes but it was tempered with gratitude for what he had done. Christopher had the power to hurt her in the most comprehensive way yet he stayed his hand. Instead of being able to reap the benefits of being the widow of Sir Peregrine Whitcombe, she might be ostracised as the wife of a man who sold state secrets to a foreign country. Coping with the horror of what she had learned about her husband was devastating for someone who had trusted him implicitly. She did not want humiliation as well. Lady Whitcombe saw her folly. She had been driven by desire to seek a closer acquaintance with her architect and she had tried to manipulate the awkward situation in which he found himself to her advantage. She had now been hoist with her own petard and it left her in despair.

  'Well?' he prompted. 'I still await an answer.'

  'Yes, Mr Redmayne,' she said with an effort. 'You have my word.'

  Henry Redmayne was so grateful to be back in his own home again that he kept touching his possessions for reassurance and admiring himself in every mirror that he passed. Jonathan Bale was a mute guest, standing in a corner of the parlour and feeling distinctly out of place. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne was a much more censorious visitor, describing some of the paintings on the walls as far too lewd for public display and wondering why his elder son had such a well-stocked wine cellar when he claimed to lead a life of sobriety. The house in Bedford Street, he insisted, did not bear the marks of an owner with true Christian purpose. Henry endured the criticism with a patient smile. Back in his finest apparel again and wearing his periwig, he felt that he could withstand any parental assaults with equanimity.

  When Christopher finally joined them from his meeting with his client, a bottle of wine was opened in celebration of Henry's release. Jonathan refused to touch it but the Dean was coaxed into taking a small cup of the liquid. After the toast, the old man became very solemn.

  'Learn from this experience, my son,'
he said, pointing a finger at Henry. 'A man is judged by his friends and yours were found cruelly wanting. On that shameful night, you broke bread with three vile individuals whose company you should have shunned.'

  'Sir Humphrey Godden committed no crime,' said Henry defensively.

  'He did, in my estimation,' said Jonathan.

  'Yes,' agreed Christopher. 'He withheld information from us. Even when he knew that Captain Harvest was an impostor, he still gave him money and offered him a refuge. In short, he was protecting a wanted man. The law will require him to say why.'

  'I can tell you why,' said Henry, sipping his wine. 'Sir Humphrey made the mistake of letting the fellow stay at the house while Lady Godden was away. A party was held there one night at which certain indiscretions took place. James - as we all knew him - was able to lean on Sir Humphrey to buy his silence.'

  How do you know all this?' demanded his father with suspicion. 'I hope that you were not present at this night of degradation, Henry.'

  'No, no, Father.'

  'Would you swear to that?'

  'I was there at the start of the evening,' admitted Henry, deciding that a half-truth was better than a downright lie, 'but I left before any impropriety occurred. It was Sir Humphrey who confided to me that he was guilty of a peccadillo.'

  'Murder, theft, fraud, drunkenness and sexual licence!' The Dean threw both hands up to heaven in supplication. 'How did a son of mine become embroiled in it?'

  'By sheer accident, Father.'

  'Henry is right,' said Christopher, jumping in to save his brother from another homily. 'His real fault lay in choosing the wrong friends.'

  'And consuming far too much wine and brandy with them,' added his father.

  'I confess it,' said Henry. 'Because I'm so unused to strong drink, it blinded me to what was going on. I thought I was in Fenchurch Street when I was accosted by Jeronimo Maldini that night, but I'd staggered almost all the way to the river.'

  'Signor Maldini followed you,' explained Christopher, 'waiting for his chance to attack. What the Italian did not know, however, was that he, in turn, was being shadowed by Martin Crenlowe, who had seen him come out of his hiding place in Fenchurch Street. You walked on in search of a carriage to take you home. Although it was a bitterly cold night, there were still people abroad. Signor Maldini had to bide his time until you reached an alley near Thames Street. Then he challenged you.'