“Am I to be allowed no leisure?”
“Not until this case is solved. We have one villain behind bars but two others remain at liberty. Additional people may yet be involved but the person who interests me most is the wife.”
“Any man with red blood in his veins would be interested in her,” said Henry with a lewd grin. “A most bed-worthy lady in every sense. Tom Thynne was by no means her only suitor.”
“She must have preferred someone else.”
“I told you – she covets wealth and position.”
“Then give us the name of the man who offered it to her.”
The second arrest was made early that evening. Bribed by Christopher Redmayne, the landlord of the Black Bull had not merely supplied the name and whereabouts of Lieutenant’s Stern’s favourite prostitute. He had told them that the Swede’s closest friend was a Polish sailor called Borosky. Jonathan Bale went in search of him but not in the guise of a constable. He first returned to his house on Addle Hill to change into the clothing he had worn in his former life as a shipwright. Bale then worked his way through the various taverns frequented by sailors.
He was at ease in their company. Bale talked their language and shared their interest in a seafaring life. He met more than one man who had sailed with Stern and Borosky, but it was not until he called at the Blue Anchor, the fifth tavern on his list, that he actually came face to face with the Pole. Borosky was a sturdy man of middle height with a flat face and high cheekbones. He had clearly been drinking heavily and was off guard. Bale had no difficulty getting into conversation with him.
“Where do you sail next, my friend?” he asked.
“To the Baltic,” replied Borosky.
“Under which captain?”
“Captain Vrats of the Adventure.”
“I helped to build a ship of that name once,” confided Bale. “She was a frigate of thirty-two guns with a crew of a hundred and twenty. But your Adventure is just a merchant ship, I daresay. What do you carry?”
Borosky talked freely about the vessel and mentioned that it would be sailing in a few days. Bale acted promptly. He enticed his new acquaintance out of the Blue Anchor with the promise of a meal at another tavern. As soon as they stepped into the fresh air, however, Bale arrested him. There was a brief scuffle but Borosky was too drunk to offer much resistance. He was marched off to join Lieutenant Stern in a dank cell.
Buoyed up by his success, Bale went immediately to Christopher Redmayne’s house in Fetter Lane to tell him what had transpired. The architect was delighted to hear of the second arrest and, like Bale, guessed the name of the third suspect.
“Captain Vrats of the Adventure,” he said.
“The Polander talked of him with affection.”
“Did he say that the captain instigated the crime?”
“No,” admitted Bale, shaking his head, “he swore that the man had nothing to do with it. He told me over and over again that Captain Vrats was innocent.”
“What conclusion did you reach?”
“He was hiding something.”
“I think we should pay Captain Vrats a visit.”
“But he’s aboard his ship in the Thames.”
“So? You know how to row a boat, don’t you?”
“Of course, Mr Redmayne.”
“Then let’s go out to the Adventure,” said Christopher, reaching for his sword. “My instinct tells me that we’re getting closer to solving this crime. We are entitled to congratulate ourselves – all three of us.”
Bale was mystified. “All three?”
“Do not forget my brother.”
“What has he done to help us?”
“Henry discovered that Mr Thynne was a regular visitor to the Golden Fleece in Westminster. All that the villains had to do was to lie in wait nearby, knowing that he would eventually turn up there.”
“Reuben Hopkiss was far more use to us than that,” contended Bale. “He guided us towards Lieutenant Stern. With respect to your brother, sir, he has not pointed us towards any of the suspects.”
“But he has,” said Christopher, holding up a letter.
“What’s that?”
“A message from Henry. It arrived minutes before you did.”
“What does the letter contain?”
“The one thing that I wanted above all else.”
“And what was that, Mr Redmayne?”
“A name.”
The Adventure was anchored in the middle of the river, its masts pointing up into the clear night sky like giant fingers. Two watchmen had been left aboard but they were too busy playing dice by the light of a lantern to see the boat that was being rowed out to them. A call from below alerted them to the fact that their ship had visitors.
“Ahoy, there!” yelled a voice.
“Who’s below?” asked one of the men, leaning over the bulwark to peer at the boat. “Give me your name.”
“Christopher Redmayne.”
“What’s your business?”
“I wish to see Captain Vrats,” said Christopher. “I have news for him about a member of your crew – Lieutenant Stern.”
“Has something happened to him?”
“He’s been badly injured and cannot be moved. But he’s calling for your captain. We promised him that we’d convey the message.”
The watchman pondered. “You’d best come aboard,” he said at length. “The captain is in his cabin.”
Jonathan Bale secured the rowing boat then, in spite of his bulk, shinned up the rope ladder with consummate ease. Christopher found the ascent much more difficult and he was grateful that the ship was so stable. He clambered over the bulwark and stood on the deck. One of the watchmen held up a lantern so that he could study them carefully. Satisfied that they presented no danger, he led them to the captain’s cabin and introduced them. The watchman returned to his post.
Two lanterns burned in the cabin, illumining a room that was small, cluttered and filled with curling tobacco smoke. Captain Vrats took one more puff on his pipe before setting it aside. He appraised the visitors shrewdly.
“What’s this about Lieutenant Stern?” he asked.
“He was stabbed in a fight at the Black Bull,” replied Christopher. “It seems that he was drinking with a young woman named Jenny Teale when another man tried to take her away from him. There was a brawl and the lieutenant came off worst.”
“You don’t look like the sort of man who’d deign to enter the Black Bull,” said Vrats, suspiciously, looking at Christopher’s fine apparel. “It’s not for the likes of you, Mr Redmayne.”
“Too true, captain,” Bale put in, “but I drink there from time to time. And I saw the fight with my own eyes. I helped to carry the wounded man to Mr Redmayne’s house nearby and he sent for a surgeon. There was not much that could be done, sir.”
“Stern is dying?”
“He’ll not live through the night.”
“And he’s calling for me?”
“He has something important to tell you,” said Christopher. “He begged me to fetch you so I asked Mr Bale to row me out to your ship.”
“I see.”
Captain Vrats sat down behind a table that was littered with documents and maps. He watched them through narrowed lids. He was a handsome man with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His command of English was good though he spoke with a strong German accent. He pretended to search for something on the table.
“Lieutenant Stern and I are old shipmates,” he observed.
“That’s what he told us,” said Christopher.
“And he’s no stranger to tavern brawls.”
“He fought well,” claimed Bale. “Then a knife was pulled on him. He was stabbed in the stomach. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“You’ll lose some of your own if you tell me any more lies,” said Vrats, seizing a pistol from beneath a pile of papers. “I don’t believe that Stern is injured at all. This story is just a device to get me ashore.”