Frost Fair (6 page)

    She took a step back. 'You talked to Mr Redmayne about me?'

    'Yes.'

    'Why did you not say?'

    'It was a private matter between the two of us.'

    'Not if it concerns me,' she said, hands on hips. 'I'm not sure that I like the idea of anyone keeping an eye on me. Am I a child that needs to be assigned to a new parent whenever my own goes away on his travels?'

    'No, Susan. You misunderstand the situation.'

    'I understand it all too well. You do not trust me to fend for myself.'

    'That's not the case at all.'

    'I'm wounded by this news. It's galling enough to be packed off to Richmond to stay with Brilliana when I could just as easily remain here.' 'Not on your own.'

    'There are servants in the house.'

    'They are hardly adequate companions.'

    'I've friends in London on whom I can call.'

    'That's my fear. Mr Christopher Redmayne is one of them.'

    'A few days ago, you were urging him to look after me.'

    'That was before I learned the ugly truth about his family,' said Sir Julius. 'It changes everything. Tomorrow, I depart for home but not before I've delivered you into Lancelot's hands. His coach will arrive by mid-morning at the latest.'

    'You do not have to stand over me like that, Father.'

    'I do it by choice. That imbecile of a brother-in-law will hardly be entertaining company but Lancelot will at least get you safely back to Richmond. I've written to Brilliana to tell her what's afoot here.'

    'There was no need to do that.'

    'Brilliana is your sister. She has a right to know what's going on.'

    'She's too critical of Mr Redmayne.'

    'With just cause, it seems.'

    'This will only feed her misconception.'

    'Brilliana will take a dispassionate view of it all.'

    'She'll only interfere.'

    'Precisely,' he said with a cold smile that signalled the end of the conversation. 'Brilliana will agree with me and her husband will, as usual, do what she tells him. That contents me. Between the two of them, they'll keep you well away from Mr Redmayne and that murderous brother of his.'

    Susan felt helpless. She could do nothing but smoulder in silence.

    The first thing that Christopher Redmayne did when he left the prison was to fill his lungs with fresh air. It helped to clear his head and rid his nostrils of the abiding stench of Newgate. His visit had been deeply disturbing. It was bad enough to find his brother in such an appalling state. To learn that there were genuine grounds for suspecting Henry Redmayne of murder was truly shocking. What made it even worse was that Henry himself could neither deny nor confirm his guilt, making it almost impossible for Christopher speak up in his defence. On previous occasions when he had been arrested, Henry had been fined for being drunk and disorderly before being discharged. He had never spent a night in a prison cell before, especially one as cramped and fetid as the bare room that he now occupied. Unused to squalor, he was having it rubbed in his face and his ordeal seemed likely to continue until he went to trial for murder.

    Christopher walked away from Newgate then turned back to study it. Razed to the ground in the Great Fire, the prison had been rebuilt and work was still continuing on it. As an architect, Christopher had to admire the magnificent facade, decorated, as it was, by emblematic figures and statues. Among other civic worthies of the past, Richard Whittington and his cat looked down on the hordes of people going in and out of the city. Behind the sumptuous exterior of Newgate, however, was a grim prison that retained all the faults of its hated predecessor. Bad ventilation, an inadequate water supply and serious overcrowding made it a breeding-ground for disease. Those who survived the brutal regime imposed upon them often fell victim to gaol fever. In one way or another, Newgate left an indelible mark on anyone incarcerated there.

    Fearing for his brother, Christopher heaved a sigh and turned his steps homeward. The stroll back to Fetter Lane gave him an opportunity to reflect on the situation. Henry Redmayne had mourned the loss of his job and of his reputation but there was another potential loss, so great and so frightening that Henry had not even been able to address his mind to it. Out of consideration to his brother, Christopher had said nothing but the dilemma now had to be faced. What of their father, the eminent Dean of Gloucester? Should he be informed of the disgrace brought upon the family by his elder son or should he be kept in the dark in the hope that Henry would be found innocent and set free? It was a thorny problem.

    Christopher's first instinct was to keep his father ignorant of the events in London but he soon came to accept how unfair and unwise that would be. If, by any chance, Henry were convicted of the murder, the Reverend Algernon Redmayne would never forgive his younger son for holding back information about the arrest. He would see it as the ultimate betrayal. There was another consideration. Even if Christopher remained silent, others would not. The Dean of Gloucester had enemies in the Church hierarchy and they would revel in the situation, taking an unholy delight in telling him that one of his sons faced execution. Given the name of the murder suspect, Archbishop Sheldon himself might be moved to write to their father. The truth could not be hidden indefinitely.

    Christopher accepted that it was his duty to pass on the sad tidings. He knew that the Dean would travel immediately to London. It would be an additional blow for the prisoner. Henry would view a visit from his father as worse punishment than being stretched on the rack but it could not be helped. In a time of crisis, the Redmayne family needed to come together. When he got home, Christopher went straight to the parlour and sat down at the table.

    He began to compose the most difficult letter that he had ever written.

Chapter Four

    Jonathan Bale was in a quandary. The news that Henry Redmayne was being held as a chief suspect in the murder investigation was profoundly troubling to him. Having met Henry a number of times, he had no affection at all for the man and even less respect. In his estimation, the elder of the two Redmayne brothers was a symbol of all that was wrong with the country since a venal King had returned to rule over it. Henry Redmayne was conceited, egotistical and corrupt. He was a confirmed sybarite whose circle included some of the most blatant voluptuaries in London. Since Henry was guilty of so many deplorable sins, Jonathan had no difficulty in believing him capable of a heinous crime. That was how the quandary arose. It was a murder that the constable was helping to investigate. What exercised his mind was whether or not he should get in touch with Christopher Redmayne. He agonised over the decision for hours. It was his wife who finally helped him to make it.

    'Go to him, Jonathan,' she advised. 'Mr Redmayne needs you.'

    'He may not want me near the house, Sarah.'

    'How will you know unless you offer your sympathy?'

    'I'm not sure that I feel any,' he admitted. 'Henry Redmayne never struck me as a violent man but there's evidence enough to arrest him. That speaks volumes. You can hardly expect me to feel sorry for a man I think might well be a killer.'

    'Put yourself in his brother's place. How do you think he feels?'

    'Low and dispirited.'

    'Is that all?'

    'No, I daresay that he's been badly shaken by this business. Mr Redmayne is a decent man who deserves better than to have something like this happen within the family. It will cause him great pain. He'll be mortified.'

    "That's why you must call on him.'

    'It's not my place to do so, Sarah.'

    'You're his
friend
.'

    They were in the kitchen of their little house in Addle Hill. Sarah was seated at the table, sewing a pretty blue dress with deft fingers. In warmer weather, she took in washing to help the family finances but winter found her leaning much more on her skills as a needlewoman. It was something she fitted in around running the house, looking after two children and caring for a husband whom she loved dearly even when she disapproved of his actions. Her opinion on the matter in hand was dictated by her fondness for Christopher Redmayne. She simply could not accept that any brother of his would commit such a terrible crime as murder. Notwithstanding the arrest, she clung to the belief that he must somehow be innocent.

    Still sewing away, she raised questioning eyes to Jonathan.

    'Did you hear what I said?'

    'Yes, Sarah.'

    'I know what Mr Redmayne would do in your place.'

    'Do you?'

    'He'd be knocking on our door to offer you his help.'

    'What possible help can I give?'

    'You're an officer of the law. You can advise him.'

    'I doubt if he'd even agree to see me.'

    'How do you know if you refuse to call on him?'

    'It's not as simple as that,' he said, running a ruminative hand across his chin. "There's more to this than you understand, Sarah. If it was merely a question of going to a friend in need, I'd be there now. But his brother is accused of murder.'

    'Does that make Mr Redmayne a criminal as well?'

    'No, but it does oblige me to think carefully.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'I'm deeply involved in this investigation. It was our son who found that body in the first place. Richard keeps asking me when I'm going to arrest the killer.'

    'That should not stop you going to Fetter Lane.'

    'But it does, Sarah,' he argued. 'Don't you see? I'm gathering evidence that may lead to the conviction of Henry Redmayne. What will people think if I'm seen helping the brother of the accused man?'

    'Since when did
you
worry about what people thought?'

    'I have to keep an open mind.'

    'Mr Redmayne would expect no less of you, Jonathan.'

    'Then it would be safer if I kept well away from him.'

    'Why?' 'Because there'd be no complications then.'

    Sarah put her sewing aside. 'You disappoint me, I must say.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'I never thought that you could be so selfish.'

    'It's not selfishness, Sarah. It's commonsense.'

    'Oh, is that what it is?' she said with light mockery in her voice. 'It sounds more like putting your own needs first, Jonathan Bale, and I'm ashamed of you for doing so.'

    'I have to do my duty.'

    'And don't you have a duty towards a friend as well?'

    'It's not the same thing.'

    'So it seems.'

    'I'm in an awkward position,' he explained. 'I'm searching for evidence that will lead to the prosecution of Henry Redmayne and you want me to go running off to the one person in London who is trying to defend him.'

    'You see it your way, I see it mine.'

    'If I arrived on his doorstep, Mr Redmayne would feel embarrassed.'

    'No, Jonathan.
You
would. And that's what really holds you back.'

    'It would be wrong and it would be foolish.'

    'My parents once told me it was wrong and foolish of me to marry a shipwright named Jonathan Bale,' she recalled with a wistful smile. 'But I listened to my heart instead.'

    His tone softened. 'Do you have any regrets?'

    'None at all - until now.'

    'Sarah!'

    'Yes, I know. I'm a woman. I couldn't possibly understand.'

    'That's not what I was going to say.'

    'What's the point in talking about it?' she asked, taking up her sewing again. 'You tell me that you must keep an open mind but it's shut tight against sympathy or reason. You pay no attention at all to me.'

    'I do, I promise you.'

    'I see precious little sign of it.'

    'There are some decisions I can only make on my own.' He gave a smile. 'Did your parents really say that it was wrong and foolish of you to become my wife?' 'They thought it would never last.'

    'We proved them wrong.'

    'In some ways,' she conceded. 'Prove me wrong, Jonathan.'

    'You?'

    'Show me that you're not the fair-weather friend that you seem.'

    'Now, that's unjust!' he protested.

    'Is it?'

    'Yes.'

    'Mr Redmayne is waiting for you.'

    "Then he must wait in vain.'

    'Why is that?' she challenged. 'Are you going to let him down?'

    When she plied her needle again, Jonathan felt as if it were piercing his brain.