The Frost Fair

    'That's a matter of opinion, Sir Humphrey.'

    'Jeronimo Maldini was a scheming Italian without a decent bone in his body. He was a fine swordsman, I grant him that. I've never seen a better one. But he did not respect his betters, Mr Bale.' His eyes ignited. 'He did not know his place.'

    'Who stabbed him in the back?'

    'It was not Henry Redmayne.'

    'Who else could it have been?'

    'I wish I knew, sir. I'd like to congratulate him.'

    'Do you condone an act of murder, then?'

    'I abhor the taking of life but applaud the result in this case.'

    'That's as much as to say you think the killing was justified.'

    'It rid us of a foul pestilence.'

    'Captain Harvest does not think so.'

    'Do not listen to James,' said Sir Humphrey, flushing with anger. 'He actually liked that execrable foreigner. That was his besetting sin. He could not discriminate. James liked almost everybody.'

    'He does not seem to like Henry Redmayne.'

    'James had a blind spot where Henry was concerned.'

    'Is that all it was?' asked Jonathan. There was no reply. 'Someone must pay the penalty for this crime, Sir Humphrey,' he resumed. 'Most people believe that the culprit has already been caught.'

    'Only because they do not know him as we do.'

    'If he's innocent, someone else must have wielded that dagger. I realise that Captain Harvest was a friend of the dead man but could he have been the killer?'

    "That's a ludicrous notion!'

    'Mr Crenlowe did not think so.'

    'James had no motive,' said Sir Humphrey. 'We all gain by the murder. He is the only one who stands to lose. Why search for a killer among the four of us who shared a meal that night? Nobody knows better than a constable how many hazards there are at night in the streets of London. There are hundreds of villains at large who'd stab a man in the back for the sheer pleasure of it.'

    'But they'd have their own weapons,' observed Jonathan. 'They'd not use a dagger that was owned by Mr Redmayne. How do you account for that?' There was another silence. 'And I have to disagree with your earlier comment, Sir Humphrey,' he continued. 'You do

    not all gain from this murder. As a result of it, Mr Redmayne may well lose his life.'

    Before he could respond, Sir Henry saw someone walking down the room and rose to welcome him. Martin Crenlowe was surprised to see the constable there. After an exchange of greetings, the two friends took their seats at the table.

    Sir Humphrey was abrupt. 'Will that be all, Mr Bale?'

    'For the moment,' said Jonathan. 'I may need to speak to you again.'

    'Do not dare to do so in here again. You have created a scene.'

    'That was not my intention, Sir Humphrey.'

    'What about me, Mr Bale?' asked Crenlowe, adopting a more helpful tone. 'Shall you require some more information from me? I'll be happy to furnish it.'

    Thank you, sir.'

    'I'm sorry if I was a trifle brusque with you at our last meeting.'

    'You were in a hurry, Mr Crenlowe. I understood that.'

    'Henry's welfare comes before my family obligations.'

    'I agree,' added Sir Humphrey. 'Now perhaps you'll leave us alone so that we can enjoy a cup of coffee. We have much to discuss.'

    Jonathan looked from one to the other. 'I'm sure that you have, Sir Humphrey.' He touched the brim of his hat. 'Good day to you, gentlemen.'

       Another day had been swallowed up with frightening speed by the crisis. Christopher Redmayne suddenly found that evening was already starting to chase the last rays of light out of the sky yet again. Much had been done but little had so far been achieved. After his visit to the prison, he had returned to the house in Bedford Street to hand over the discarded clothing to Henry's valet and to assure him, and the other servants who gathered anxiously around him, that their master would eventually be released without a stain on his character. They tried hard to believe him but Christopher could see that they feared the worst. Their own futures looked bleak. It would not be easy for the servants of a convicted murderer to find a new master.

    After dining early at home, Christopher went off for another meeting with the lawyer who would fight to save Henry's life in court. Indifferent to the legal costs that he was running up, he spent the whole afternoon with him but the man was able to hold out much hope of success. All that Christopher could offer him were hearsay evidence and intelligent speculation. The prosecution, by contrast, had a murder weapon with his brother's initials on it. He was irritated by the excessive caution of his legal advisor but he could do nothing to dispel it. A mood of pessimism hung over the whole discussion. By the time that he left, Christopher was forced to accept that, unless he and Jonathan Bale found an alternative killer, then Henry Redmayne's initials might already be on the hangman's rope as well.

    It was ironic. As prospects were brightening for one brother, they were rapidly deteriorating for the other. Christopher felt guilty about it because he was eternally grateful to Henry for helping him to launch his career as an architect. It was his brother who had secured the first vital commissions for him and whose connections at Court and elsewhere had brought Christopher so many valuable contacts. Now that he was more established, he did not need Henry's assistance but that did not weaken his profound feeling of gratitude. While the architect was about to earn a substantial sum of money from Lady Whitcombe, his brother was languishing in a prison with a possible death sentence hanging over him. The disparity in their fortunes could not have been greater.

    Christopher had arranged to call on Jonathan Bale that evening so that they could compare any new intelligence that had come to light. Before he did that, however, he felt the urge to visit Fenchurch Street to view the tavern where his brother had gone with friends on the fateful night. Setting a brisk pace, he walked along Cheapside and took note of the architecture on the way. It was encouraging to see just how much rebuilding had already been completed. Within three years of the Great Fire, almost three thousand new houses had been constructed in the ashes of the old ones. It was an astonishing feat. Christopher was proud to have designed a few of those properties. Taverns, ordinaries, guild halls, warehouses and civic buildings had also risen again and work was continuing on some of the many churches that had been destroyed in the blaze. Precautions had been enforced from the start. Streets were widened, thatch was replaced by tile and brick was the most common building material. Half-timbered houses had gone up like tinder in the blaze. London had learned its lesson.

    When he reached the tavern in Fenchurch Street, Christopher was reminded of that lesson once again. The Elephant was well- named. It was big, solid and indomitable. While neighbouring buildings crashed to the ground, its thick stone walls had withstood the fiery siege like an invincible fortress. Christopher was not there to admire the finer points of its construction and the growing darkness would have made it impossible to do so. He gazed around, feeling that conditions were very similar to those on the night when his brother had come out of the tavern. It was cold, murky and inhospitable. People who passed on the other side of the street were conjured out of the gloom for seconds before disappearing into it again. If Henry was too drunk to walk properly, it would have been simple to ambush him.

    After looking up and down the street, Christopher made his way towards the river. Jonathan Bale had told him the exact location where the two watchmen had chanced upon the fallen man. It was in an alleyway off Thames Street, too dark to explore without a lantern and too dangerous for any sensible person to enter late at night. Henry must have got himself there somehow but had no memory of the journey. As he stood there and tried to work out how his brother had ended up at that spot, Christopher could hear a strange noise. He soon discovered what it was. When he walked down to the river bank itself, he realised that the ice was still cracking up. Having thawed in the middle, it was now melting towards the banks, splitting into huge blocks that bobbed and jostled in the water. Directly below him, Christopher noticed, a small pond had opened up, still filled with jagged pieces of ice but clear evidence that the Thames was determined to obliterate all signs of the frost fair that had been held upon its back.