The Amorous Nightingale by Edward Marston Page A

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