The Amorous Nightingale by Edward Marston Page A

church of St Martin's-in-the-Fields was triumphantly
what it set out to be - a solid, soaring paean of praise to the Almighty,
rising above the community it inspired yet remaining essentially part of it,
friendly, familiar, welcoming. Time had mildewed its stone and generations of
birds had subtly altered its texture but it carried these signs of age lightly.
Over eighty churches perished in the Great Fire. It was not only the
parishioners of St Martin's-in-the- Fields who gave thanks that their church
had been spared. Here was a symbol of hope. A beacon of renewal in the area of
Westminster.
        When
he had gazed his fill, Christopher nudged his horse forward. He was still
suffering from the effects of the monstrous dinner. Having helped to carry
Jasper Hartwell out to the latter's coach, he had walked back to Fetter Lane,
collected his mount, given Jacob some idea of his movements then set off to
examine once again the site of the new house. It was only a few minutes' ride
from the church. Occupying a corner, the site ran to the best part of an acre
and offered a series of interesting challenges to both architect and builder.
Christopher believed that he had met those challenges with some flair.
Fortunately, his client agreed with him. Reaching the plot of land, he
dismounted in order to walk over every part of the site while it was still
virgin territory. Before long, he mused, a splendid new house and garden would
rise up to take their place among the exclusive residences all around them.
        Swelling
with pride, Christopher was also assailed by doubts. It was one thing to create
a series of remarkable drawings for a client but quite another to translate
them into reality. Did he have the correct proportions, the ideal materials,
the most suitable style? Had he made best use of the corner site? More to the
point, could he control a difficult builder? Before he could even begin to
answer the questions, he was diverted by the clatter of a horse's hooves and by
a yell of brotherly rage.
        'Christopher!
Damnation, man! Where have you been ?'
        Henry
Redmayne arrived at a canter, reined in his horse and leaped to the ground.
Face perspiring beneath his wig, he lurched across to Christopher and pointed
an accusing finger.
        'It
has taken me an age to find you.'
        'I've
not been hiding from you, Henry.'
        'When
I called at your house, that lame-brained servant of yours told me that you
were dining with Jasper Hartwell, though he had no idea where. It was
maddening!'
        'Jacob
is not lame-brained,' said Christopher loyally. 'He is the shrewdest servant I
know. Do not blame him. When I left with my client, I had no idea where we were
going.'
        'No!'
wailed Henry. 'That meant I had to work my way through Jasper's favourite
haunts one by one. By the time I finally reached the Dog and Partridge, the pair
of you had left so I returned once more to Fetter Lane. The ancient fool who
looks after you at least gave me some idea of where you might be, although he
could not supply the exact location of the site. The net result is that I have
been charging around Westminster in search of you and getting more flustered by
the minute.'
        'Was
it so important to find me?'
        'Important
and imperative.'
        'Why?'
asked the other. 'What has happened?'
        'I
received a royal summons.'
        Christopher
smiled. 'A promotion at last? A well-deserved reward for your years of service
at the Navy Office? Ennoblement, even? Tell me, Henry - are congratulations in
order?'
        'No!'
growled his brother.
        'I am
sorry to hear it.'
        'Though
I should perhaps be congratulated on tracking you down. It has taken me hours
and, as you see, vexed me beyond measure.'
        Henry's
appearance bore out the description. He was panting with exasperation. His face
was white with anger, his eyes bulging with resentment. The long, largely
unproductive search had left