The Amorous Nightingale by Edward Marston

message.'
        'Balderdash!'
        'Mrs
Harriet Gow is unable to appear on stage at the moment. I felt that you should
know that at once. I must say that your reaction has been singularly
uncharacteristic.'
        'In
what way?'
        'Any
other man in receipt of such intelligence would be frothing at the mouth. To
lose any of your actresses would be a sorry blow. When the missing lady is
Harriet Gow, there is a whiff of disaster in the air.'
        'I've
grown rather used to disaster,' said the other wearily.
        'Aren't
you at least disturbed?'
        'Of
course. Highly disturbed. Harriet was to have performed once more in The
Maid's Tragedy tomorrow afternoon. I'll now be forced to rehearse someone
else in her place.'
        'How
can you be so calm about it?' asked Henry.
        'It's
the calm after the storm, my friend. Had you been here an hour ago, you'd have
caught me in mid-tempest.'
        'Why?'
        'That
was when I first heard the news.'
        'You knew already? But how?'
        'By
reading Harriet's letter.'
        Henry
gulped. 'She wrote to you?'
        'That's
what people usually do when they wish to send a letter. Hers was short but
unequivocal. Sickness is forcing her to withdraw from London for a brief time.'
        'Sickness?'
        'No
details were given.'
        'And
the letter arrived an hour ago?'
        'Yes.
Here at the theatre.'
        'Who
brought it?'
        'I've
no idea. It was left at the stage door for me.'
        'Are
you sure that it was written by Harriet Gow?' pressed Henry. 'Could it not have
been a clever forgery? Did you recognise her hand?'
        'Of
course. It's unmistakable.'
        'Was
there nothing else in the letter? No hint?'
        'Of
what?'
        'No
entreaty?'
        'None.'
        'No
second message between the lines?'
        'Why
should there be?'
        'Oh,
I just wondered, Tom.' Henry's tone was offhand but his mind was racing. A new
piece of evidence had suddenly come to light. 'I don't suppose that you have
the missive here, by any chance?'
        'As
it happens, I do.'
        'Where?'
        'It's
in my pocket.'
        'Ah.'
        'And
before you ask,' said Killigrew, anticipating his request, 'you may not view my
private correspondence. Anything that passes between Harriet Gow and me is our
business and nobody else's. Be assured of that. What you can do, Henry,' he
continued, impaling his visitor with a piercing stare, 'is to tell me what
brought you here in the first place. No lies, no evasions, no feeble excuses.
What, in God's name, is going on? Why these questions? Why this subterfuge? Why
come charging over to my theatre in order to apprise me of something I already
knew?' He stood inches away from his visitor and barked at him. 'Well?'
        Henry
shifted his feet. His mouth felt painfully dry.
        'Is
that a flagon of wine I see on the table?' he murmured.
        
        
        Christopher
Redmayne was in a quandary. The lonely ride back to Fetter Lane gave him the
opportunity to review its full extent. Clucked from a lucrative commission to
supervise the building of the house he had designed, he was asked to track down
and safely retrieve an actress who had been kidnapped in violent circumstances
and who might already be a long distance away from London by now. What little
information he had at his disposal had come from a coachman who had been beaten
senseless and who was still stunned by the assault. Christopher's only
assistant was his brother, Henry, erratic at the best of times, nothing short
of chaotic at the worst. Jonathan Bale, the constable selected by the King to
aid him in his search, had refused even to take a serious interest in the case
because of its moral implications. It was lowering. To all intents and
purposes, Christopher was on his own.
        In an
instant, the summons from the Palace had altered the whole perspective of his
life.