The Amorous Nightingale (7 page)

    It
was the worst possible time to interrupt him. Henry Redmayne was enduring the
morning ritual with his barber when the servant burst into the room. Henry sat
up in surprise, the razor slipped and blood spurted from a cut in his cheek.
Henry's shriek was worthy of an amputated limb. It sent the barber into
retreat.

    'You're
supposed to shave me,' he howled. 'Not execute me!'

    'I'm
sorry, sir,' mumbled the barber.

    'It
was your fault,' said Henry, turning upon the servant who had charged into the
bedchamber. 'What on earth possessed you to come racing in here like that? Have
you taken leave of your senses, man?'

    'No,
sir,' muttered the other.

    'Then
what other explanation is there?'

    'An
urgent message has come for you, sir.'

    'Nothing
is so urgent that it cannot wait until I have been shaved. Heavens!' he said,
applying a fingertip to the wounded area to test the flow of blood. 'I might
have had my throat cut. Look, man.' He displayed a reddened forefinger. 'I am
bleeding to death here. Your master is close to extinction - and all that you
can talk about is an urgent message. Damn and blast you! Take your hideous
visage away from me.'

    The
servant held his ground. 'The messenger awaits a reply.'

    'Let
the villain wait.'

    'But
he is bidden to return to the Palace at once, sir.'

    'The
Palace?' Henry's self-pity gave way to alarm. 'The message has come from the
Palace? Why did you not say that, you dolt?'

    He
snatched the missive from the servant's hands and broke the royal seal. It took
him only a second to read the message. Jumping from his seat, he issued a
stream of instructions before permitting the barber to stem the flow of blood
from the cut on his face. Ten minutes later, he was mounting the horse which
had been saddled for him and riding at a steady canter towards the Palace of
Westminster. A royal summons demanded an immediate response. It swept
everything else aside. Henry Redmayne was needed by his King. That was all that
mattered.

    When
they dined at the Dog and Partridge in Fleet Street, it seemed to Christopher
that dogs and partridges were almost the only creatures that were not served as
part of their meal. Fish, fowl and meat of every description were brought to
their table in strict rotation so that Jasper Hartwell could inspect, admire,
decry, sample, spit out, order or reject, according to his whim. He was a
generous host, encouraging his guest to eat heartily and drink deeply. Hartwell
set the tone, gourmandising shamelessly and barely pausing to allow one course
to be digested before forcing another down his throat. Rich food made him more
talkative, fine wine took him to the verge of hysteria. Hartwell's bizarre
appearance already made him the unrivalled centre of attention. His wild laugh
and excitable gestures ensured that everyone in the inn watched him with
ghoulish curiosity.

    Christopher
Redmayne was at once pleased and dismayed. He was glad to be invited to dine by
his client, especially as Lodowick Corrigan, the troublesome builder, had been
deliberately excluded from the invitation. At the same time, however, he was
worried by Hartwell's readiness to blur the line between employer and
architect, to treat the latter as a friend with the same gluttonous appetite
and the same vices. Christopher could simply not cope with such a huge meal on
a regular basis. Nor could he show anything but polite interest in Hartwell's
merry tales of his nightly visits to brothels and gaming houses. The suggestion
that he might accompany his host on a nocturnal escapade was deftly deflected
without giving any offence. It was an art he had perfected by dint of refusing
similar blandishments from his brother, Henry, a man of rakish inclination with
the money and the leisure time to indulge the wanton urges that were his
constant companions.

    Eager
to keep his relationship with Jasper Hartwell firmly on a professional basis,
Christopher tried to guide him around to the subject of the house. It was not
easy. Concentration had long since deserted Hartwell. He had reached the stage
of giggling uncontrollably for no apparent reason. Stupor was only a few
glasses of wine away.

    'Why
did you choose Mr Corrigan?' asked Christopher.

    'Who?'
replied Hartwell, pulling a face.

    'Lodowick
Corrigan.'

    'Never
heard of the fellow.'

    'Mr
Corrigan is your builder.'

    Blank
amazement. 'Is he?'

    'You
know he is, Mr Hartwell. You brought him to my home this morning so that I
could meet him. We passed a pleasant hour or two together. Mr Corrigan seemed
to be…' Christopher searched for a word to cloak his disapproval of the man.
'He seemed to be sound. Very sound.'

    'The
soundest man in the building trade.'

    'You
remember who he is, then?'

    'Of
course, of course,' said Hartwell, before guzzling some more wine. 'Lodowick
Corrigan came with the highest recommendation. As did my architect. I pay for
the best so I expect the best. If I had sufficient Latin, I'd translate that
sentence and use it as my family motto. But I am no Classicist, alas. Latin
baffles me almost as much as Greek. But the point holds, regardless of the
language in which I express it. Only the finest of its kind is good enough for
Jasper Hartwell. Well,' he said, chewing a mouthful of venison, 'you are living
proof of the fact.'

    'I'm
flattered to hear you say so.'

    'I
recognise quality when I see it.'

    'Thank
you.'

    'The Hartwell
eye is unerring in its accuracy. Why, look at my apparel. Am I not the most
elegant gentleman alive? I have the gift of selection. As with my clothing, so
with my choice of employees. Pure instinct. No sooner did I catch sight of you
at the theatre that afternoon than I thought, This young architect, Christopher
Redmayne, is the man for me. That is why you are here.'

    'I am
deeply grateful, Mr Hartwell.'

    'You
are here but Corrigan, being of a lower order of creation, is not. A builder
cannot enjoy the same privileges as an architect. He is a mere employee whereas
you are also a friend. I will give the fellow a ride in my coach but I would
not condescend to break bread with him. Apart from anything else, he has the
most appalling hands. Did you notice all that dirt under his fingernails? No,'
he continued, letting out a sudden laugh, 'Lodowick Corrigan is a prince among
builders but he will never aspire to occupy a place among my intimates.'

    'Who
recommended him?'

    'Several
people. He has a fearsome reputation.'

    'For
what, Mr Hartwell?'

    'Maintaining
the dirtiest fingernails in Europe.' He shook with mirth and banged the table
with both fists. 'Forgive me, Mr Redmayne. I am in humorous vein today. Let me
be serious for a moment,' he said, making an effort to control himself.
'Lodowick Corrigan is renowned for building houses on time and to his clients'
exact specification.'

    'I'm
glad to hear it.'

    'You
will have no problems whatsoever with him.'

    'Good.'

    Christopher
was not as reassured as he sounded. The meeting with the builder had disturbed
him profoundly. Instead of being able to work harmoniously with the crucial
figure in the enterprise, he feared that he would have to fight every inch of
the way to have his wishes fulfilled. Further discussion with Hartwell was
pointless. The man now lapsed into maudlin reminiscence and all that
Christopher could do was to compose his features into a semblance of concern
and nod at regular intervals. Hartwell suddenly reached out to grab him by the
wrist.

    'I
must confide in you, Mr Redmayne!' he gasped.

    'About
what, sir?'

    'Affairs
of the heart.'

    'But
you have been doing that for some time,' said Christopher.

    'Those
were mere trivialities. Passing acquaintances. The joyful conquests that all
men need to remind them of their manhood. I speak now of true love, of
devotion, of - dare I say it? - commitment. Nay, I would go even further and
talk, for the first time in my life, of holy matrimony. That is how stricken I
am. How ensnared. How desperate. I am even ready to contemplate the surrender
of my bachelor life.'

    'You
have my warmest congratulations!'

    'Sadly,
they are premature.'

    'Does
not the lady in question requite your love?'

    'She
is not even aware of it as yet.'

    'Have
you not declared yourself?'

    'Only
with my eyes and with my palms. I have applauded her until my hands have been
stinging with pain. She deserves it. She is sublime, Mr Redmayne. A saintly
creature. Everything I could possibly want in a wife.' He gave an elaborate
shudder. 'But there are certain drawbacks.'

    'Drawbacks?'

    'The
lady is already married.'

    'Ah,
I see.'

    'And
she is beset by other suitors.'

    'Does
not her wedding ring keep them at bay?'

    'No,
it only seems to excite them all the more. A thousand wedding rings would not
deter one particular lover. Indeed, were she not already in possession of a
husband, the cunning fellow would certainly provide her with one forthwith then
cuckold him mercilessly.' His whole body sagged. 'Do you catch my drift, Mr
Redmayne?'

    'I
believe that I do.'

    'A
right royal obstacle blocks my path to happiness.'

    'Then
I can guess at the lady's name.'

    'Is
she not all that I have said?'

    'She is,
indeed!' said Christopher with enthusiasm. 'No woman could be more worthy of
your love.'

    'Or
of the house I am having built. It would be a fitting place for such beauty and
grace. She could fill it with song. Bring it to life. Enlarge it with purpose.
Tell no one of this,' he said, slurring the words. 'Jasper Hartwell does not
wear his heart on his sleeve. I am too much a slave to fashion for that. But
you know the truth, my friend. I worship her.'

    'I
can understand why.'

    Hartwell
spread his arms wide in a gesture of submission.

    'I
love Harriet Gow!' he confessed.

    Then
his arms dropped, his eyes closed, his head lolled and his whole body hunched
forward. Jasper Hartwell's face rested gently on the plate in front of him.
Christopher found himself sitting opposite a vast mountain of ginger hair. From
somewhere deep in its interior came a series of resolute snores. The meal was
comprehensively over.

    The
parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was one of the largest and most prosperous
in London. Though not without its darker areas, it was, for the most part,
distinguished by the luxurious residences of aristocrats, courtiers, gentry and
their dependents, alongside the neat houses of respectable tradesmen and
successful businessmen. Situated next to the Palace of Whitehall, the parish
was the favoured address of ministers and civil servants alike. It had status
and grandeur. In the church which gave it its name, it also had a magnificent
edifice as its focal point.

    Christopher
Redmayne took a moment to appraise the church. Built over a century earlier, it
had survived civil war, plague and fire intact, serving its parishioners
faithfully and acting as a magnet to ambitious clerics once they realised what
financial rewards could be reaped by the occupation of its pulpit. The spacious
church had seating for a congregation of four hundred but, on the single
occasion that Christopher had attended a service there, he estimated that at
least twice that number were crammed inside St Martin's. It was a centre for
urgent Christianity or for those who felt the need to be seen at prayer.

    Critical
of some Tudor architecture, Christopher had nothing but admiration for this
example of it. The parish church of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was triumphantly
what it set out to be - a solid, soaring paean of praise to the Almighty,
rising above the community it inspired yet remaining essentially part of it,
friendly, familiar, welcoming. Time had mildewed its stone and generations of
birds had subtly altered its texture but it carried these signs of age lightly.
Over eighty churches perished in the Great Fire. It was not only the
parishioners of St Martin's-in-the- Fields who gave thanks that their church
had been spared. Here was a symbol of hope. A beacon of renewal in the area of
Westminster.