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suggested that it was not a social visit. One of the men stepped past Thomas and waved a scroll at the master of the house.
        'Mr Henry Redmayne?' he enquired.
        'Away with you, man! How dare you enter my home like that?'
        'I have a warrant here for your arrest, sir.'
        'Is it a crime to choose a cloak that does not match this green coat?' asked Henry, removing the cloak with a flourish and hanging it back in the cupboard. 'For that is the only misdemeanour of which I've been guilty today.'
        "This is no occasion for levity, Mr Redmayne.'
        'Then take yourself off at once.'
        'You have to come with us, sir,' said the man with calm authority. 'I must warn you that we'll brook no delay.'
        'Is this some kind of jest?'
        'No, sir. I arrest you, Henry Redmayne, on a charge of murder.'
        'But that's utterly ludicrous!'
        'Reserve your protestations for the judge.'
        'Murder?' said Henry with disdain. 'You accuse a decent, honest, respectable, peace-loving, law-abiding man like me of murder? It's quite absurd. Who on earth am I supposed to have killed?'
        "The victim's name is Jeronimo Maldini.'
        Henry was struck dumb. His righteous indignation was quickly replaced by a mingled surprise and apprehension. His eyes filled with horror, his mouth was agape. Thomas had never seen his master tremble so violently before. When he saw him begin to sway, the valet rushed forward. He was just in time to catch Henry as the latter collapsed in a dead faint.
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Chapter Three
        
        Over the years, Christopher Redmayne had seen his brother in many embarrassing situations. He had watched Henry being pursued by creditors, harassed by discarded lovers, thrown out of gaming houses, afflicted by shameful diseases, mocked by his colleagues at the Navy Office and, on more than one occasion, so hopelessly drunk that he could barely recall his own name. There was also a time when Henry was subjected to a violent assault that put him in bed for a week and gave him the perfect excuse to whinge, whimper and feel thoroughly sorry for himself. He had been battered and bruised enough to arouse anyone's sympathy. Nothing he had seen before, however, prepared Christopher for the image that he beheld in Newgate prison that morning. Henry Redmayne was in despair.
        Locked in a tiny, dark, dank cell, he was sitting on the ground beneath a barred window with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around his shins. His face was drawn, his eyes rimmed with fatigue. In spite of the cold, he wore nothing but a shirt, breeches and stockings, all of them sullied with filth. Without his wig, he looked a decade older than his true age. Henry was so caught up in his tragedy that he did not seem to notice the stink that pervaded his cell nor the rat that was rustling the straw. When the turnkey showed the visitor in, the prisoner did not even raise his eyes. It was only when the heavy door clanged shut that he came out of his reverie.
        'I want no food,' he declared. 'I'd sooner starve than eat that offal.'
        'Henry,' said his brother, putting a hand on his shoulder. 'It's me, Christopher.'
        'Thank God!'
        'How came you to this sorry state?'
        'You may well ask!'
        'Your valet rushed to my house yesterday evening with news of your arrest, but they would not let me see you until this morning. I had to bribe the turnkey to be left alone with you for ten minutes.'
        'This whole place is run on bribes and favours.'
        'Tell me what happened,' said Christopher, shocked at his brother's condition. 'Your valet said that officers came to your house.'
        Henry put a hand to his brow. 'It's been like a descent into Hell.'
        'Have you been badly treated?'
        'I've been everything , Christopher. Manacled, fettered, browbeaten, bullied, interrogated, humiliated and even