The Frost Fair Part 27

'On that very table,' he said, pointing to it. 'But it was not so much designed as recreated to your mother's specifications. Lady Whitcombe is rare among clients in that she knows exactly what she wants.'

'Oh, I do,' said the older woman.

Christopher felt uncomfortable at the way that Let.i.tia was staring at him with a fixed grin on her face. Lady Whitcombe seemed to have brought her daughter there for his approval and it unsettled him. He sought a way out.

'I don't wish to be inhospitable,' he said, rising to his feet, 'but I have to visit my brother this morning. Is there anything else we need to discuss?'

'Not for the moment,' said Lady Whitcombe. 'Since we are in London for a few days, there'll be other opportunities for talking to each other.'

'Oh, yes!' agreed Let.i.tia.

'How is your brother, Mr Redmayne?' 'Bearing up well, Lady Whitcombe,' said Christopher.

'I must confess that I was shocked to hear of his arrest.'

'I'm grateful that you did not seize on it as an excuse to rescind our contract.'

'Heavens!' she protested. 'I'd never do that. My late husband taught me to be sceptical about the law. Justice is blind, he told me, and it often fails to see the truth. The guilty people are not always the ones who are locked up in prison. From what you say, your brother has been arrested by mistake.'

'Yes, Lady Whitcombe.'

'Innocence is its own protection.'

'It does need some help occasionally,' said Christopher. 'I've vowed to do everything in my power to restore his reputation.'

'That's very n.o.ble of you, Mr Redmayne,' said Let.i.tia.

'And just what I would expect of you,' added Lady Whitcombe. 'Your father must have heard the tidings by now. Have you had any response from him?'

'The clearest possible,' replied Christopher. 'Father is not a young man but he endured days in the saddle to get here in order to lend his support to Henry. Had you come earlier, you'd have met him.'

Lady Whitcombe was delighted. "The Dean of Gloucester is here? Then we must have the pleasure of meeting him.'

'Not for a while, perhaps. Circ.u.mstances are not entirely propitious.'

'Of course. He has other preoccupations at the moment.'

'When will your brother be set free?' asked Let.i.tia.

'As soon as we can arrange it.'

'I'd be thrilled to meet him as well.'

'Yes,' said her mother, getting up from her seat and motioning Let.i.tia up at the same time. 'We'd like to get to know all of your family, Mr Redmayne. It's not often that your father is in the city, I daresay, so we must not miss the opportunity.'

'I'll make sure that you don't,' said Christopher, anxious to be rid of them.

'Where is the reverend gentleman now?'

'At the prison, Lady Whitcombe. He's trying to comfort my brother.'

During his years as a priest, the Reverend Algernon Redmayne had often been called upon to visit parishioners who had fallen foul of the law and finished up in Gloucester gaol. It was part of his ministry and he discharged that particular aspect of it extremely well. What he did not envisage was that he would one day be obliged to visit one of his own sons in the most infamous prison in London. Its sheer size was forbidding, its history was a black and direful catalogue of the worst crimes ever perpetrated by the human hand. To realise that the name of Redmayne had been entered in the prison records made the old man quiver with indignation. It was a foul blot on the family escutcheon and he wanted it removed. When he was escorted through Newgate, therefore, he was in a mood of quiet determination. His composure was soon shaken.

'Saints above!' he exclaimed as he was let into the cell. 'This is worse than a pigsty! Can they find you no accommodation other than this, Henry?'

'No, Father. This is one of the better rooms.'

'Then I feel sympathy for the poor souls elsewhere. The place stinks.'

'Newgate does not have an odour of sanct.i.ty.'

'Do not be so blasphemous!'

'I was endeavouring to be droll.'

'Droll?' The Dean was aghast. 'In here?'

'I can see that my remark was misplaced.'

Wishing to greet his brother, Henry was startled when his father stepped into the inadequate confines of the prison cell. He backed away instinctively and yet he felt, after the initial shock had worn off, oddly rea.s.sured by the arrival of his visitor. He knew the effort it must have taken the old man to reach London and the embarra.s.sment there must have been when the Dean confided to his bishop the reason for his journey. His father plainly shared his suffering. Henry noted how stooped he had become.

'How are you, Father?' he asked.

'Wearied by travel,' replied the other. 'I'm far too old ride a horse across four or five counties.' He rubbed his back. 'It feels as if I've been in the saddle for a month.'

'See it as a form of pilgrimage.'

'If only I could, Henry! But this is a hardly a holy shrine.'

'No, Father.'

'What have you to say for yourself?'

Henry lowered his head. 'I'm deeply sorry about all this.'

'I did not come for an apology,' said the Dean, 'but for an explanation. Your brother a.s.sures me that you are completely innocent of the charge but I want to hear it from your own lips. Look at me, Henry.' The prisoner raised his eyes. 'Did you or did you not commit a murder?'

'I do not believe so, Father.'

'Is there the slightest doubt in your mind?'

'No,' said Henry, trying to sound more certain than he felt. 'The taking of a man's life is anathema to me. That was inculcated in me at an early age. I've obeyed all your precepts, Father. I've done my best to live a Christian life.'

"There's no room in Christianity for over-indulgence.'

'I strive to be abstemious.'

'You have patently not striven hard enough. How often have I warned you about the danger of strong drink? It leads to all manner of lewd behaviour.'

'That's why I only touch wine in moderation, Father.'

'You should only ever taste it during communion.' He leaned forward. 'You do attend a service of holy communion every Sunday, I hope?'

'Unfailingly,' lied Henry. 'I've become very devout.'

'I see precious little sign of it.'

He peered at his son and noticed for the first time how pinched and sallow Henry was. There was a day's growth of beard on his face, his hair was unkempt and the clean apparel he had put on the previous day was already creased and soiled. Sympathy welled up in the old man. Putting his hands on Henry's shoulders, he closed his eyes then offered up a prayer for his son's exoneration and release. Henry was moved.

"Thank you, Father.'

'Bishop Nicholson is praying for you daily. He, too, has faith in you.'

'That's good to hear.'

'Christopher tells me that your friends are standing by you as well.'

'Some of them.' Henry became worried. 'What else has Christopher told you?'

'Far too little. I had a distinct feeling that he might be concealing certain facts from me out of consideration for you. I want nothing hidden. In order to make a proper judgement, I need to hear all the relevant information. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Father.'

"Then tell me what happened, in your own words.'

Henry had looked forward to his father's visit with trepidation. Now that the old man had actually arrived, however, it was not as bad as he had feared. Life in prison had stripped him of his sensibilities and habituated him to pain. What helped him was the fact that he felt sorry for his father. He could see the anguish in his eyes and the awkwardness with which he held himself. On this occasion, the Dean of Gloucester was too fatigued to carry his pulpit with him. Henry would be spared a full homily. With that thought in mind, he told his story with more honesty than he had ever used in front of his father before.

In the intimacy of the cell, Algernon Redmayne listened with the watchful attentiveness of a priest receiving confession from a sinful parishioner. Though he said nothing, his eyebrows were eloquent. When the recital came to an end, he let out a long sigh and searched Henry's face.

'Is that all?' he asked.

'It's all that I can remember.'

'I'm surprised that you remember anything after so much drink.'

'I was led astray, Father. It's unusual of me to imbibe so much.'

'At least, you now know what horrors can ensure. A sober man would not have behaved the way that you did, my son. He would not be under threat of death in a prison.'

'I know that,' said Henry. 'I rue the day when I picked up that first gla.s.s of wine.'

'You are too weak-willed.'

'It was an unaccustomed lapse, Father. I hope that you believe that.'

'I trust the evidence of my own eyes and they tell me that you are much too fond of the fruit of the vine. You look haggard and dissipated.'

'Even you would look like that after a few days in here.'

'No, Henry. I might pine and grow thin but I would not be so unwholesome.'

'If you saw me in my periwig, you'd think me the healthiest of men.'

'Never,' said the other. 'I've seen too much decadence to mistake the signs. If and when you are delivered from this h.e.l.lish place, you and I must have a long talk, Henry. The time has come to mend your ways.' His son gave a penitential nod. 'Thank you for what you told me. You spoke with a degree of sincerity that I had not antic.i.p.ated and it was a consolation. But there is one point on which you were not entirely clear.'

'What was that, Father?'

'Your reason for hating this Italian fencing master so much.'

'I told you,' said Henry. 'I heard that he cheated at cards.'

'Heard? Or did you sit opposite him at the card table and witness the act?'

'Drink, I admit to, Father, but gambling has never had much appeal for me.'

'So why were you so outraged that this fellow should cheat?'

'Because it's a dishonourable act.'

'It was not your place to correct him for it.'

'There was more to it than that,' conceded Henry. 'Jeronimo Maldini was not merely a cheat and a villain. He exposed me to ridicule at the fencing school by demonstrating his superiority with a sword.'

'That might anger you,' said his father, 'but it was surely not enough to implant murderous thoughts in your mind. And you did say that, in the middle of an argument, you threatened to kill the man.'

'I did, I did - to my eternal shame!'

'So what really made you despise this man?'

Henry blenched beneath his father's gaze. The cell suddenly seemed much smaller. In spite of the cold, sweat broke out on Henry's brow and his collar felt impossibly tight. There was no way that he could tell his father about the woman who had been stolen from him by his rival. The Dean of Gloucester would neither understand nor countenance the idea of s.e.xual pa.s.sion. It was something that he appeared never to have experienced and Henry had come to believe that he and Christopher had been conceived in random moments of religious ecstasy that had long been buried under years of monkish chast.i.ty. To explain to his father that he had loved and courted a married woman would be to show contempt for the bonds of holy matrimony. The name of Lady Patience Holcroft had to be kept out of the conversation altogether.

'Well,' pressed his father. 'I'm waiting for an answer.'

'I've already given it,' replied Henry. 'I was goaded by Jeronimo Maldini.'

'But why did he pick on you? There must have been a reason.'

'He took it with him to the grave, Father.'

The old man stepped back and nodded sagely. Henry had been let off the hook.

'I hope that you realise how much you have to thank your brother for,' said the Dean with solemnity. 'Christopher has dedicated himself to your cause.'

'I do not know what I would have done without him.'

'You came perilously close to finding out.'

'What do you mean?'