Frost Fair (26 page)

    "Thank you,' said Susan.

    'You'll be able to feed your passion for literature again.'

    'Will I?'

    'Yes, indeed. I'll take you to the best bookshops in London.'

    'I'd like that, Mr Cardinal,' she said warmly. 'I'd like that very much.'

    He gave her a shy smile. 'So would I.'

        Jonathan Bale insisted on accompanying his friend home. Christopher did not think that he needed a bodyguard but he was grateful for the concern that was shown. Over his arm was the apparel that was still damp from its dip in the river. On the walk back to Fetter Lane, they kept looking over their shoulder but saw nobody following them. Whoever had pushed Christopher into the water had fled from the scene and would have no idea what happened to the architect. For that evening at least, he was safe. At the door of the house, Jonathan tried to take his leave.

    'Step in for a moment,' invited Christopher.

    'No thank you, Mr Redmayne.'

    'But I can let you have your things back when I change.'

    "There's no hurry for that, sir. I have work to do. I must go.'

    'I'm so sorry to descend on you like that.'

    'We are pleased that you felt able to do so.'

    'Take a message to your wife,' said Christopher. 'Tell her how grateful I am to her and ask her what was in that remedy. It's revived me completely.'

    Jonathan nodded and they exchanged-farewells. Christopher let himself into the house, expecting to shed the garments he had borrowed in order to put on some that actually fitted him. He planned to spend a restful hour in front of the fire with a glass or two of brandy. When he entered the parlour, however, he saw something that swiftly rearranged his whole evening for him. The Reverend Algernon Redmayne was waiting for him.

    'Father!' he exclaimed. 'How nice to see you!' 'That's more than I can say for you,' returned the old man, looking at his baggy attire. 'What, in the name of God, are you wearing?'

    'I had to borrow these clothes from a friend.'

    'I did not imagine you had a tailor cruel enough to make them for you.'

    'They served their purpose,' said Christopher. 'But how are you, Father? How did you travel? When did you arrive? Has Jacob been looking after you?'

    'Yes,' said the servant, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of wine. 'I made your father a light meal then gave him some ointment.'

    'Ointment?'

    'It was very soothing,' said the Dean. 'I rode most of the way on horseback and the saddle took its toll. Jacob was kind enough to act as my physician.' He took the glass of wine. 'Thank you. I feel that I've deserved this.'

    'Shall I fetch a glass for you, Mr Redmayne?' asked Jacob.

    'Not yet,' said Christopher, handing him the wet clothes. 'In time, in time.'

    His servant backed out and left the two of them alone. Christopher studied his father. The journey had clearly taxed him. Dark circles had formed beneath his eyes and pain was etched into his face. Though he was sitting in a chair, he was doing so at an awkward angle so that one raw buttock did not come into contact with anything. His son bent over him solicitously but the old man waved him away. Only one subject interested him at that moment.

    'Has Henry been released yet?' he enquired.

    'No, Father.'

    'Why not?'

    'We have not established his innocence to their satisfaction.'

    'The burden of proof lies with the authorities.'

    'They feel they have enough evidence to hold him.'

    'What evidence?' said the Dean. 'Your letter was short in detail, Christopher.'

    'At the time of writing, I was not in full possession of the facts.'

    'And now?'

    "There's still much to learn, Father.'

    Christopher gave him the description of events that he had already rehearsed in his mind, omitting all mention of the fact that his brother was hopelessly drunk at the time when the crime was committed and saying nothing about Henry's impulse to commit suicide. His father was stern and attentive. He was also far too intelligent to be misled about his elder son.

    'You say that Henry does not remember what happened?'

    'No, Father.'

    'Why is that?'

    'It was late. He was confused. He believes that he was struck on the head.'

    'How much wine had he consumed?' asked the Dean, sipping from his glass. 'I've had occasion to warn him about excessive drinking. It dulls the mind and leads to moral turpitude.' He tapped his glass. 'I only ever touch it myself in times of crisis such as now. Jacob's ointment and your wine have refreshed me after that ordeal.'

    'I'm glad to hear it, Father.'

    'Was your brother drunk?'

    'It had been a convivial evening.'

    'He was ever a slave to conviviality,' grumbled the old man. 'I threatened to cut off his allowance if he did not keep to the strait and narrow path of righteousness, and he swore that he would. But righteous men do not end up in prison.'

    'What of John Bunyan and many like him?'

    The Dean was scornful. 'Do not talk to me of Puritans. They are the bane of my life. Your garb reminds me uncomfortably of the wretches. The point I am making is that Henry should not have put himself in a position where this appalling error could be made.' He closed one eye and stared at Christopher through the other. 'You are certain that it is an error?'

    'Yes, Father.'

    'I would rather know the truth, Christopher. If your brother did commit a murder, tell me honestly. I need to prepare myself before I meet him.'

    'Henry is a victim. Of that, I have no doubt. Someone took advantage of him in the most nefarious way. In short, the person who killed the fencing master made sure that suspicion fell on Henry.'

    'Then why has his name not been cleared?'

    'It takes time to gather evidence. We are working as hard as we can.' 'We?'

    'My friend, Jonathan Bale, is helping me,' said Christopher, glancing down at his clothes. 'He loaned me this strange garb.'

    'I did not think you had become a Puritan.'

    'I'd spare you that disgrace, Father.'

    'If only my other son showed me similar consideration,' said the Dean, wincing as he shifted his position. 'But why did you need to borrow those ill-fitting garments?'

    'I was pushed into the river.'

    Christopher told him what had happened without suppressing any of the facts. His father was alarmed at the news and in no way reassured by his son's claim that he was attacked because he was breathing down the neck of the real killer. All that the old man could think about was Christopher's safety.

    'You must not stir abroad alone,' he warned.

    "There's no danger if I keep my wits about me.'

    'But there is, Christopher,' urged his father. 'This incident has proved it. You should not have walked home on your own this evening.'

    'I did not, Father. Jonathan bore me company to my front door. I had the protection of a constable all the way here. And as you see,' he added, tugging at his coat, 'he's a much bigger man than me.'

    'And this constable is helping you?'

    'Well, yes. He's trying to gather evidence about the crime.'

    'I sense a hesitation in your voice, my son. Why is that?'

    Christopher licked his lips. "There's a slight problem here.'

    'Problem?'

    'Jonathan Bale is not as persuaded of Henry's innocence as I am.'

    The Dean was shaken. 'But you said that he was your friend.'

    'My friend, yes,' said Christopher, 'but not my brother's.'

    'This is very worrying. There's obviously room for genuine doubt here. Why does Mr Bale believe that Henry committed this wicked crime? Does he have access to proof that's been denied to you?'

    'No, Father. He relies on instinct.'

    'Then it's even more disturbing.'

    'Not at all.'

    'He mixes with criminals every day. He understands their character.'

    'He does not understand Henry,' said Christopher, 'or he would know that his arrest is a gross mistake. I know it, his friends know it, and, in your heart, you must know it as well, Father. Surely, you never questioned your son's innocence?'

    'Not until I came here.'

    'At a time like this, he needs our support and not our suspicion.'

    'I'll visit him first thing in the he morning.'

    'Let me come with you.'

    'No, Christopher,' affirmed the old man. 'I'll go alone. There's only room in a prison cell for the three of us - Henry, myself and God.'

    They talked for the best part of an hour but the Dean of Gloucester was patently tired and in discomfort. After saying a prayer with his son, he retired to bed early with a supply of Jacob's ointment. When his father was safely out of the way, Christopher felt able to relax for the first time.

    'It has been an eventful evening, Jacob,' he said ruefully. 'I was shoved into the river, dried off at Jonathan Bale's house and put into these clothes, then confronted by my father at a time when I was least ready for him. When I've had a glass of brandy, I do believe that I'm entitled to take to my bed as well.'

    'I have to deliver the message first, sir.'

    'Message?'

    'I did not dare to tell you while your father was here,' said Jacob, 'because you had enough to contend with then. I fear that I've some bad tidings for you.'

    'About Henry?'

    'No, sir. They concern Lady Whitcombe. The message arrived earlier on.'

    'Well?'

    'Lady Whitcombe is in London and intends to call on you tomorrow.'

    Christopher felt as if he had just been pushed into the River Thames again.

Chapter Twelve

    In spite of her protestations of ill health, Mrs Cardinal arose early next morning, got herself downstairs alone, devoured a hearty breakfast and prepared for her departure unaided. She was noticeably less dependent on her son, leaving Jack Cardinal to pay more attention to Susan Cheever. As the two of them waited beside the coach for his mother to join them, he ventured a first compliment.

    'May I say how resplendent you look today?'

    "Thank you, Mr Cardinal,' she replied, 'but I do not feel it. Winter is the enemy of fashion. When we choose our clothing, we have to think about warmth rather than style.'

    'You would be elegant in whatever you wore.'

    'Do not tell that to Brilliana. She thinks my wardrobe is dowdy.'

    He was tactful. 'Your sister has somewhat different tastes.'

    'Are you sure that you do not mind my joining you in London?' she asked. 'I'd hate to feel that I was intruding in any way.'

    'Dear lady, you could never intrude on anyone.'

    'What about the friends with whom you intend to stay?'

    'Lord and Lady Eames will be as delighted to have you there as we are to take you,' said Cardinal. 'My only fear is that Mother will take up all of your time in the city.'

    'I enjoy her company.'

    'Do not let her lean too heavily on you.'

    'Mrs Cardinal is a most interesting lady. I long to know her better.'

    'Mother said exactly the same of you.'

    He gave a nervous laugh. In spite of the shortness of their acquaintance, Susan had come to admire Jack Cardinal. He was affable, sincere and self-deprecating. He loved his mother enough to tolerate her many eccentricities. Cardinal also had a keen interest in poetry and his knowledge of it was wide. Susan and he had spent the whole breakfast in a discussion of the merits of Ben Jonson's poems. Subdued for the most part, Cardinal had later spoken with such passion about Izaak Walton's
The Compleat Angler
that he made Susan want to read it so that she could judge for herself. Lancelot Serle had been the only person able to contribute to their debate and his involvement was short-lived. His wife had dragged him unceremoniously off so that her sister was left alone with Cardinal.

    The two of them were still standing beside the coach when Mrs Cardinal came out of the house on Serle's arm. Her massive bulk was draped in voluminous clothing and her face reduced to a third of its size by a vast, green, feathered, undulating hat that was secured under her three chins by a thick white ribbon.

    'Have I kept you waiting?' she asked. 'I do beg your pardons, my dears.'

    'There's nothing to pardon, Mother,' said her son, helping her into the coach. It wobbled under her weight. He offered his hand to Susan. 'Miss Cheever?'