The Amorous Nightingale

    In an instant, the summons from the Palace had altered the whole perspective of his life. Instead of being engaged on site in the parish of St Martin's-in-the-Fields, he would have to begin the following day either by delaying work on the foundations or by yielding up control to Lodowick Corrigan. Neither course of action recommended itself. What excuses could he make? How would his absence be viewed? He blenched as he thought what sort of an impression his enforced disappearance would make on Jasper Hartwell. His client embodied a further complication. Here was a man, hopelessly in love with the very woman who had been abducted. What if Hartwell somehow caught wind of the kidnap? He would hardly thank Christopher for keeping such vital intelligence from him. It might sour their friendship beyond repair, perhaps even lose him the priceless commission to design the Hartwell residence.

    Wherever he looked, Christopher saw potential hazards. His search for the royal nightingale could be the ruination of him. With so little in the way of clues, it was an intimidating task. He was groping in the dark. His one hope lay in a speedy solution of the crime but that seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. Without the resourceful Jonathan Bale at his elbow, he was fatally-handicapped. It was an open question whether Henry would actually help, hinder or unwittingly subvert his enquiries.

    He was still wrestling with his problems as he turned into Fetter Lane at the lower end and nudged his horse into a trot. Gloom was slowly descending on the city now, wrapping up its buildings and its thoroughfares in a first soft layer of darkness. When he got closer to his own house, however, there was still enough light for him to pick out the shape of the coach that was standing there. His ears soon caught the sound of a loud altercation in which Jacob seemed to be involved. Christopher dropped from the saddle and ran to investigate.

    His arrival was timely. Jacob was trying to explain to his visitor that his master was not at home but the man became aggressive and started to hurl threats at the old servant, waving a fist and accusing him, in the ripest of language, of wilful obstruction. Unabashed, Jacob gave tongue to such stinging obscenities that his companion was momentarily silenced. Christopher leaped into the gap between expletives.

    'What on earth is going on here?' he demanded.

    'There you are!' said Roland Trigg, swinging around to confront him. 'I need to speak to you, sir, but this idiot of a servant is trying to send me packing.'

    'I'll send you packing if you can't speak more civilly, Mr Trigg. Anybody who abuses my servant must answer to me. Jacob is not an idiot. He's the most trustworthy man I know and he is waiting patiently for an apology from you.'

    Trigg glowered at Jacob who responded with a gap-toothed smile. The coachman used Christopher as his court of appeal.

    'But I've something important to tell you, sir.'

    'It can wait until you've apologised to Jacob.'

    'I came straight here when I found out about it.'

    Christopher held his ground. Hands on his hips, he waited with tight-lipped disdain while Trigg argued, whinged, pleaded and blustered. In the end, the coachman realised that the servant had to be appeased before the master would listen to him. A reluctant apology tumbled out, stinging his swollen lip in the process.

    'Thank you, Mr Trigg,' said Christopher evenly. 'Now that we've got that out of the way, perhaps you should step into my house. Stable my horse, please, Jacob. I'll not be going out again tonight.'

    'Very good, sir,' said the other.

    While his servant took charge of his horse, Christopher led his guest into the parlour. Trigg removed his hat to reveal the bandage. By the flickering light of the candles, he looked even more gruesome. Taking off his own hat, Christopher lowered himself into a chair and kept the coachman standing.

    'What is it that you wish to say to me?' he asked brusquely.

    'There's been more trouble, sir.'

    'Trouble?'

    'I didn't know who to turn to. Mr Chiffinch said I wasn't to bother him but I wasn't to talk to anyone else either. Apart from you, that is. He gave me this address so I come here.'

    'And picked a fight with my servant.'

    'I thought he was lying to me.'

    'Jacob never lies, Mr Trigg. As you saw, I was not on the premises when you called. Well, come on,' he prompted, 'let's hear it. What's all this about trouble?'

    'Someone else was took, sir.'

    'Someone else?'

    'Mary,' said the other. 'Mary Hibbert. Mrs Gow's maidservant.'

    'Kidnapped, you mean?'

    'That's what it looks like, sir. Mary almost never stirs from the house except to go to the theatre with Mrs Gow. She should have been there. But when I got back, the door was open and the place was empty.'

    'Had anything been taken?'

    'Not so far as I could see.'

    'Were there any signs of a struggle?'

    'None, sir.'

    'Then how do you know that Mary Hibbert was kidnapped?'

    'It's the only explanation, sir,' gabbled Trigg. 'One of the neighbours told me he'd heard sounds of a scuffle and the noise of a coach being driven away fast. His wife thought she might have heard a woman's scream.'

    'Might have?'

    'Mary is in danger, Mr Redmayne. I know it.'

    'The evidence is hardly conclusive.'

    'She's such a dutiful girl, sir. Mary would never go out of the house when Mrs Gow was expected back. Nor would she leave the door wide open for anyone to walk in. Mrs Gow has many admirers,' he said with a touch of rancour. 'Too many for comfort. Some of them try to pester her at home. My job is to keep them at bay. If I'm not there to protect Mrs Gow, then Mary always is. Please, sir,' he begged. 'You must believe me.

    I wouldn't have bothered you without real cause. Mary's been took.'

    'Then it's a worrying new development,' conceded the other. 'You did right to bring the news to me, Mr Trigg. Thank you.'

    Though he could not bring himself to like the man, Christopher took pity on him. In the service of Harriet Gow, he had taken a severe beating. He was plainly distressed that both of the women he was employed to safeguard had been snatched away from him. Shuttling between anger and remorse, Trigg was like a distraught father whose daughters had been abducted.

    'When we met at the Palace,' recalled Christopher, 'you told me that you'd been coachman to Mrs Gow for over a year.'

    'That is true, sir.'

    'And before that?'

    'I held a similar post with Sir Godfrey Armadale.'

    'Why did you leave?'

    'I was offered the chance to work for Mrs Gow.'

    'How did that come about?'

    'A friend put in a kind word for me.'

    'You obviously take your duties seriously.'

    'It's the best position I've ever had, sir,' said Trigg earnestly. 'Until today, that is. Mrs Gow treats me very well and I've grown fond of Mary Hibbert. They're almost like a family to me. I can't tell you how upset I feel because I've let them down.'

    'Don't blame yourself, Mr Trigg.'

    'I should've saved Mrs Gow,' he insisted, beating his thigh with a fist. 'I should have been there to protect Mary Hibbert. It's my fault, Mr Redmayne, and there's no getting away with it. That's why I want to do all I can to find them. Use me, sir - please. Call on me at any time. I must be part of the rescue.'

    'You will be, Mr Trigg.'

    Christopher appreciated the offer of help though he was not quite sure how best to employ it. The coachman's strength might certainly be an asset, especially as Christopher did not have the reassuring bulk of Jonathan Bale alongside him. Yet the sheer physical power of Roland Trigg could also be a handicap if used in the spirit of vengeance. During their earlier meeting, the coachman had made his feelings about the kidnappers quite plain. Murder had danced in his eyes. Christopher did not wish to be party to acts of random homicide.

    'How are you now?' he asked, considerately.

    'Hurt and upset, sir.'

    'I was referring to your wounds. You were still somewhat dazed when we spoke at the Palace. You had difficulty collecting your thoughts.'

    'Not any more.'

    'Does that mean you've had time to think things over?'

    'I've been doing nothing else, Mr Redmayne.'

    'And?'

    'I believe I know who might be behind all this.'

    'You gave us a few possible names earlier.'

    'I forgot the most obvious one.'

    'And who's that?'

    'Mr Bartholomew, sir.'

    'Bartholomew?'

    'Yes,' said the other with conviction. 'Bartholomew Gow. If you ask me, he's more than up to a trick like this. That's who you should be looking for, sir. Mrs Gow's husband.'