Frost Fair (13 page)

    'What on earth are you doing here, Mr Redmayne?' she asked indignantly.

    'I was hoping to see your sister.'

    'You came all the way from London for that purpose?'

    'No, Mrs Serle,' he explained. 'I was visiting a client in Sheen. As I was so close, I thought I would take the liberty of calling here.'

    'I suggest that you think twice before you do so again.'

    'All that I wanted was a chance to speak to Susan.'

    "That's impossible,' she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. 'She's not here.'

    'But your servant gave me the impression that she was.'

    'He was mistaken.'

    'Sir Julius talked of leaving London as soon as the weather improved.'

    Her eyes flashed. 'Pray, sir, do not concern yourself with the travel arrangements of our family. I should have thought that it was your own family that required your attention. As it happens, my father has indeed quit the city.'

    "Then Susan must have come to Richmond.'

    'I've told you she is not here and that is all I'm prepared to say.'

    Christopher could see that she was lying but he did not dare to challenge her. Brilliana's hostility was so blatant that she had obviously heard about the arrest of Henry Redmayne. Her response was no surprise to him and he sensed that it would identical to that of her father. Polite withdrawal was the only option for him.

    'As you wish,' he said, backing away. 'If, by any chance, your sister arrives this evening, be so good as to tell her that I'll be staying overnight at the Falcon Inn, a few miles from here.'

    'I'll do no such thing,' said Brilliana with vehemence. 'You are not welcome here, Mr Redmayne, for reasons that I need hardly explain. The next time you come knocking on our door, you'll not be admitted. My husband and I have no wish to see you and neither, I am sure, does my sister. I bid you farewell, sir.'

    When Christopher backed out, she closed the door firmly in his face.

Chapter Seven

    Balthazar Pegge was a retired brick maker with such a strong sense of civic duty that he took on the thankless task of being one of London's watchmen. While the majority of people were at home with their families, visiting friends or revelling in a tavern, Pegge and his companion spent the night trudging the streets of the capital in their distinctive garb. Each had a lantern and they took it in turns to carry the large bell that they used to warn citizens of their approach. Pegge also took a staff on his patrols but it was less a weapon than a means of steadying him on his spindly legs. Allan Kiffin, his fellow-watchman, always bore a halberd even though he had never been called upon to use it. Old, tired, slow and with failing eyesight, the two men were out in all weathers, admired by few, ridiculed by many and ignored by most, yet confident that their very presence helped to ensure a degree of safety in the city of their birth.

    When they turned into Fenchurch Street that evening, they were accosted by a burly figure that came out of the gloom ahead of them. Pegge rang the bell but the man stood his ground. Fearing confrontation, the watchmen slowed their pace but there was no danger. The stranger's voice was very friendly and their lanterns soon revealed him to be a parish constable.

    'A word with you, good sirs,' he said.

    'We've plenty to spare,' replied Pegge, weighing up the newcomer.

    'My name is Jonathan Bale and I need your help in the pursuit of a murderer.'

    'It's yours for the asking, Mr Bale.'

    'To whom do I speak?'

    'I'm Balthazar Pegge,' replied the other, turning to his colleague, 'and this is Allan Kiffin, as fine as fellow as you could hope to meet.'

    'Thank you, Balthazar,' said Kiffin.

    'How can we help, Mr Bale?'

    'Do you walk down this street every night?' asked Jonathan.

    'Without fail,' said Pegge proudly. 'Around this time, you'll always find us here or hereabouts. We know every inch of Fenchurch Street even though it's changed a lot since the Great Fire.'

    'Then you must be familiar with the Elephant.'

    The watchman gave a dry cackle. 'Everyone knows the Elephant, sir. Those who built it were schooled in their trade. The stone they used was so thick and solid that the Elephant did not fall to the fire. The Mitre did, more's the pity. I remember seeing Daniel Rawlinson, who owned it, crying as he stood in the ruins. Other taverns were turned to cinders as well.'

    'My only interest is the Elephant.'

    'Why is that, Mr Bale?'

    'Because a certain person supped there some weeks ago,' said Jonathan. 'When he left the tavern, he went looking for a calash to take him home and claims that he was ambushed by a man who brandished a sword. All that he can remember after that is that he was picked up from the ground by a watchman.'

    'Drunk, sir?'

    'Very drunk, Mr Pegge.'

    'Then he could be any one of a dozen fellows we've helped to their feet.'

    'Cold weather drives people to drink,' observed Kiffin darkly.

    "This gentleman was in a bad state,' said Jonathan.

    'They always are after a night at the Elephant.'

    "The landlord serves good wine and strong ale,' added Pegge. 'Some people, alas, never know when they've had too much. We see them stumbling out of there as if their legs did not belong to them.'

    'I think you'll remember this particular gentleman,' said Jonathan.

    'Oh?'

    'The watchman who got him to his feet also found a carriage to take him home to Bedford Street. He'd never have got there otherwise.'

    'Bedford Street?' repeated Pegge, scratching his straggly grey beard. 'Now, that does sound familiar. Where have I heard that address before, Allan?'

    'Why ask me, Balthazar?' said Kiffin. 'It's new to my ears.'

    'I told a driver to go to Bedford Street. When was that?'

    'Who knows? We've put many a man into a carriage.'

    'This one would have been tall, slim and extravagantly dressed,' said Jonathan. 'He was probably wearing an expensive periwig. An arrogant fellow in every way. Even when drunk, he'd have had airs and graces.' 'They often do,' said Kiffin before spitting philosophically on to the ground.

    'His name was Henry Redmayne.'

    'Bless you, sir,' said Pegge, leaning on his staff. 'Most of the gentlemen that we help to their feet can barely remember what day it is. As like as not, they've forgotten their names and everything else about them.'

    'Mr Redmayne did manage to give his address.'

    'Yes, it's Bedford Street that sticks in my mind somehow. I wonder why that is.' He snapped his fingers. 'You are right, Mr Bale. I
did
ask a driver to take a gentleman back there one night.'

    'When?'

    'Weeks ago, I fancy.'

    'Where did you find him?'

    'Not here, sir,' said Pegge.

    'But if he came out of the Elephant,' argued Jonathan, looking towards the tavern, 'this is where he would have searched for a lift back home. He was in no condition to walk far from Fenchurch Street.'

    'You are mistaken there, sir.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'If it's the man I believe it was, we found him much nearer the river.'

    Jonathan blinked in surprise. 'Are you sure, Mr Pegge?'

    'Dead certain. Allan will bear me out.'

    'Will I?' asked Kiffin, mystified.

    'We found him in that alley off Thames Street,' recalled Pegge, nudging him. 'He was lying face down and we thought at first he'd been attacked by thieves. His hat had been knocked off and his wig was all askew, but he still had his purse about him.'

    Kiffin's face lit up. 'I think that I remember him now, Balthazar.'

    'Drunk as a lord, he was.'

    'I held your lantern while you got him off the ground.'

    'I soon began to wish I'd not bothered.'

    'Why?' asked Jonathan.

    'Because he tried to punch me,' said Pegge ruefully. 'When I got him upright, he lashed out at me with both fists. Drunk he might be, but he was still strong. I had a job to hold him and I'm no weakling, Mr Bale. Forty years of making bricks for a living has left some muscle in these old arms.'

    'So you overpowered him?' 'I had to. He'd else have knocked me down.'

    'I never took him for a violent man,' said Jonathan.

    'You'd not have called him peaceable that night. And the worst of it was, he kept calling me by this strange name. It was an odd, curious, foreign sort of name.'

    'Maldini, by any chance?'

    'Yes,' said Pegge. 'Or something very much like it. He swore he'd kill me.'

    'You or this fellow, Maldini?'

    'He took us for one and the same.'

    'What happened then?'

    'Well, sir, when I'd got the better of him, I stood him against a wall and asked him where he lived. He mumbled what sounded like Bedford Street so that's where I sent him. To be honest, I was glad to see the back of him.'

    'So was 1,' agreed Kiffin. 'Watchmen deserve more respect.'

    'You'll get it from me,' promised Jonathan. 'You do a valuable job, my friends. As for this fight, it all took place some distance away from here, you say?'

    'Close by Thames Street.'

    'Could you show me the place?'

    'We'll take you there now, Mr Bale,' volunteered Pegge, pleased that he might be able to furnish useful evidence in a murder enquiry. 'This way, sir.' Jonathan fell in beside them as they headed towards the river. 'What did you call the gentleman?'

    'Mr Redmayne,' said the constable. 'Mr Henry Redmayne.'

        Night was an unrelieved torment. Noises that were unsettling during the day became unbearable during the hours of darkness. Cries of pain and howls of anguish echoed throughout Newgate. Sounds of a violent argument would erupt when least expected and rise in volume until those involved in the brawl were beaten into submission by brutal turnkeys. Eerie silences then followed before a fresh clamor would arise. Female screams could last for an hour. Though he kept his hands over his ears, Henry Redmayne could not shut out the prison cacophony He began to think that he was locked in a madhouse. Money had bought him a flickering candle that he set in his lap, grateful for its tiny warmth as much as for its light. It was his only source of consolation.

    Martin Crenlowe's visit seemed an eternity away now. Henry had eaten all the food that his friend had brought and drunk all the wine, hoping that the latter would dull his senses enough to allow him to sleep. It did not happen. Part of his punishment, he now understood, was being forced to stay awake, listening to the deafening protests of other prisoners and reflecting on his fate. He also came to realise how dependent he was on other people for his welfare. When Henry was in his own house, a servant woke him and brought him breakfast, a barber arrived to shave him and a valet helped to dress him. There were no servants, barbers or valets in Newgate. Henry was hungry, unshaven and wearing soiled clothes. A more immediate problem troubled him. Since he had no access to a privy, he had to relieve himself in a corner of the cell and share his space with his own excrement. Unaware how privileged he had been, he had taken for granted the perfumed elegance of his normal life. To be reduced to the level of a caged animal was a horrifying experience for him.

    The longer he stayed in Newgate, the more certain he became that he would end his life on the gallows. His brother had sworn to work for his release but there had been no sign of Christopher for days. Martin Crenlowe might profess to believe in his friend's innocence yet his evidence had been partially responsible for Henry's incarceration. The same could be said of Sir Humphrey Godden, another member of his circle. Crenlowe had at least come to offer his sympathy and bring some welcome gifts. Sir Humphrey had done neither, nor had Captain Harvest, a man who was reportedly informing the world aloud of Henry's guilt. The last time he had seen the three of them, they had been sitting at a table with him at a tavern in Fenchurch Street, enjoying a delicious meal, albeit spiced with an argument. Now he was entombed in a cold, filthy, noisome prison with a rat as his only companion. Henry wondered what he had done to deserve such a reversal in his fortunes.

    His trial was yet to come but the judge he feared most was his father. No leniency would be shown by the Dean of Gloucester, no appeals for mercy would be heeded. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne would surely have heard the grim tidings about his elder son by now. He would be on his way to London to administer his punishment. Henry could almost hear his voice and see his raised finger. The only way that he had remained on speaking terms with his father was to conceal from him the true nature of his life in London, giving him instead the impression that he was a model of Christian sobriety and industriousness. That illusion could no longer be sustained. His father would see him as the feckless and decadent spendthrift that he really was. Unable to defend or excuse himself, Henry would be exposed as a complete rake whose habit of drinking to excess had led him down the path to damnation. He shuddered so violently that the flame he nursed was blown out, plunging him into complete darkness. Shrieks and bellows from other cells reached a new pitch of intensity. Henry added his own impassioned yell to the general tumult.