'I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Redmayne,' he began solemnly.
'Not at all. I'm always glad to see friends.'
'I come on an errand.'
'So I assumed.'
'Thus it stands.' Jonathan did not linger over the social niceties. As soon as his host was seated opposite him, he gave him a brief account of the murder investigation and explained why he had such a personal commitment to it.
'You have a protective instinct,' remarked Christopher.
'Do I?'
'You guard that ward of yours like a mother hen watching over her brood.'
Jonathan was blunt. 'I won't stand for murder on my doorstep.'
'Nor should you, Mr Bale. But how can I help?'
'By speaking to your brother, Mr Redmayne.'
'Henry?'
'He may just have the answers I need.'
'Don't bank on that,' warned Christopher. 'Henry is not at his most approachable at the moment. He's rather preoccupied.'
'All I am asking is that you tell him the name of the deceased. I have a strong suspicion that the man may have been at Court. In which case, your brother might actually know him.'
'That's not impossible. Henry is a gregarious fellow. Inquisitive, too. He likes to keep abreast of all the Court gossip.'
'Will you take me to him, please?'
Christopher hesitated. 'It might be better if I passed on your request to him. My brother is indisposed. I'm the only visitor he'll permit. Will that content you?'
'It must.'
'Tell me name of the murder victim?'
'Gabriel Cheever.'
'Cheever!'
Christopher was stunned. Mouth agape, he sat there with his mind in turmoil. Could the man possibly be the estranged son of Sir Julius Cheever? If so, how would the latter react when he heard the news? But the question that really skewered its way through Christopher's brain was how the lovely Susan Cheever would respond. Her brother might have shaken the dust of Northamptonshire from his feet but she still recognised him as her sibling and, Christopher suspected cared for him a great deal. She would be devastated by the news and he hoped that he would be able to soften its impact by being the person to break it to her.
'Of course,' said Jonathan on reflection, 'that may turn out to be a false name. He certainly left a false address with his shoemaker. I found that out.'
'He gave his real name,' murmured Christopher
'What makes you think that?'
'I've heard of Gabriel Cheever and my brother knew him well.'
Jonathan brightened. 'Will he have an address for the man?'
'Perhaps.'
'How soon can you get it for me?'
'I'll walk to Bedford Street this morning, Mr Bale.'
'Are you all right?' asked Jonathan, peering at him with concern. 'You look pale, Mr Redmayne. Have these tidings come as a shock to you?'
'A profound shock,' admitted Christopher. 'When you arrived here, I was inspecting a site with a builder. I've been commissioned to design a house for a client called Sir Julius Cheever.'
'A relation?'
'His father, I believe.'
'The fog is starting to clear at last,' said Jonathan gratefully. 'The father deserves to be informed at once so he can identify the body for certain. Can you tell me how to find him?'
'He is probably on his way to London even as we speak, Mr Bale.'
'Good.'
'Though I can't guarantee that he'll shed too many tears over his son's demise,' said Christopher sadly. 'The two of them had fallen out, apparently. Sir Julius is a man of high principles. He was knighted by the Lord Protector for his services during the war.' Jonathan's eyes ignited with interest. 'You would have much in common with him, Mr Bale, but not, I would guess, with his son. Gabriel Cheever led the kind of existence that appalled his father so much that he virtually disowned him.'
'I see.'
'But grief might well dissolve their differences. I pray that it does. Every son deserves to be mourned.' He became thoughtful. 'Where is the body?'
'At the morgue.'
'Can you make sure that it remains there until the family has been told?'
'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'
'It would be a cruelty if they arrived to find that Gabriel Cheever had been buried in an unmarked grave because nobody came forward to claim the body. Even if Sir Julius himself does not wish to take responsibility, others in the family may do so.'
Jonathan got up. 'I'll return to the morgue at once and leave instructions.'
'Do that, Mr Bale,' said Christopher, rising from his own chair. 'Meanwhile, I'll repair to my brother's house to see what I can learn about the deceased. He and Henry sound as if they might have been birds of the same feather.'
'The thought had crossed my mind,' said Jonathan quietly.
'Let's about our business.' Christopher led the way to the door, arranged to meet his friend later on then sent him on his way. Having stabled the horse, Jacob was returning to the house.
'I have to go out again, Jacob,' Christopher told him.
'On foot?'
'In the first instance.'
'When shall I expect you back, sir?' asked Jacob.
'It's impossible to say. I may be some time. At all events, prepare no food for me. I'll not be dining at home today.'
'But I understood that you were to work on your drawings.'
Christopher winced. 'That project is in abeyance, I fear.'
Buoyed up by his brother's visit on the previous day, Henry Redmayne resolved to adopt a more positive attitude. He would no longer be cowed into submission by the threats of a blackmailer. Courage and forbearance were needed. It was important for him to resume his normal life in order to show his anonymous tormentor that he was not so easily alarmed. Instead of hiding himself away, therefore, he spent his usual daily eternity in front of the mirror, preening himself and adjusting his periwig, then selected a hat for his walk along The Strand. Before he could even reach the front door, however, the bell rang and it shattered his fragile confidence at once, sending him back into the dining room where he skulked in a corner. He heard the door open and, almost immediately, close again. His servant's footsteps approached the dining room. Henry made an effort to compose himself, one hand on the back of a chair and the other on his hip. When the man entered, he looked down his nose at him.
'Well?' he asked.
'A letter has come for you, Mr Redmayne.'
'Set it down on the table.'
The man did so and went out, shutting the door behind him. Henry's bold front collapsed again. It was a letter that had transformed his life so dramatically and he feared another from the same hand. Should he open it or should he send for Christopher to do so? If he read the missive, he risked inflicting further misery on himself. Yet, if he ignored it, he might imperil himself by disobeying orders. Eyes on the letter, he walked round the table as if skirting a dangerous animal that was liable to attack him. There was, he tried to tell himself, no certainty that it came from the blackmailer. It might be from a friend a colleague at the Navy Office, or even - the thought depressed him - from his father. One glance at the neat calligraphy eliminated the Dean of Gloucester from the list of potential correspondents. He could not identify the hand at all. It was reassuring. Whoever had written the letter, it was not the man who had issued the dire warnings.
Henry relaxed slightly. Summoning up the vestiges of his resolve, he picked up the missive. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter to read it, then reached out desperately for the support of the chair. Only one sentence had been written on the paper but it was as chilling as it was mystifying. Though penned by a different hand from the one responsible for the first letter, the second clearly came from the same source. Henry lowered himself into a chair and suffered an outbreak of prickly heat. He was still transfixed by the single sentence when the front door bell was rung again. It made him sit up guiltily, and he thrust the letter into his pocket.
When there was a knock
on the door he expected his servant to enter, but it was Christopher who came surging into the dining room. Henry almost swooned with relief.
'Forgive this intrusion,' said Christopher.
'You are more than welcome, brother!'
'I need your assistance, Henry.'
'Not as much as I need yours,' said the other, pulling the letter from his pocket. 'This came only minutes ago. Quite what it bodes I cannot tell, but it gave me a turn.'
'Why?'
'Read it for yourself.'
Christopher took the letter and unfolded it. The message jumped out at him. Pay what I ask or suffer the same fate as Gabriel Cheever.
'What does it mean?' asked Henry. 'How is Gabriel Cheever involved here? Has he been receiving blackmail demands as well?'
'If he did,' said Christopher, 'he refused to give in to them. Gabriel is dead.'
'Dead?'
'His body was found a few nights ago at Paul's Wharf.'
Henry quailed. 'He was murdered?'
'Strangled, apparently, then stabbed through the heart. It's the very matter that brought me here this morning, Henry. My friend Jonathan Bale stumbled upon the body with a fellow constable.'
Henry was not interested in the details. The fact that Gabriel Cheever had been killed was enough to throw him into a panic. Leaping to his feet, he wrung his hands in despair and darted to and fro like a trapped deer waiting for the huntsmen to strike. The letter contained no idle threat. It was not only Henry's reputation that hung in the balance: his life was now at risk. When he had worked himself up into a lather of apprehension, he flung himself at Christopher and grabbed him by the coat.
'He's going to kill me!' he cried.
'Calm down, Henry.'
'How can I be calm when someone is plotting my murder?'
'It could be an empty threat,' argued Christopher. 'If you were to die, he loses all hope of getting any money out of you. Why sacrifice that? No, Henry. I spy a ruse here. It is simply a means of frightening you into complying with his demands.'
'Cheever was murdered,' said Henry, releasing him to circle the room. 'If he can be killed, then so can I. This is no ruse, Christopher. Do you want a constable to find my dead body on Paul's Wharf?'
'Of course not.'
'Then take the letter seriously.'
'I do,' said Christopher, setting it down on the table. 'It's valuable evidence. With your permission, I'd like to show it to Jonathan Bale.'
Henry was outraged. 'Never!'
'But it's relevant to his enquiries.'
'It's much more relevant to my life, Christopher!' shouted his brother. 'I don't want that narrow-minded constable prying into my personal affairs. You swore that you'd divulge my situation to nobody and I hold you to that vow.'
'Circumstances have changed, Henry.'
'Yes, I've been threatened with murder.'
'Come and sit down,' soothed Christopher, taking him by the arm. 'Nothing will be gained by this frenzy. Take a deep breath and sit still while you hear me out.' He lowered Henry on to a chair. 'We have to look at this dispassionately.'
'Someone is after my blood!' howled Henry.
'I doubt that very much. Now, be still. We're in a position to help each other.' He held up a hand to stifle Henry's rejoinder then sat beside him. 'That letter does much more than threaten you,' he said reasonably. 'It gives us a vital clue to the identity of Gabriel Cheever's killer. Don't you see, Henry? Murder and blackmail are the work of the same man.'
Henry was sarcastic. 'Am I supposed to draw comfort from that?'
'No,' replied Christopher. 'You're supposed to realise that, by helping to snare a killer, you will get rid of the menace of blackmail. The two crimes are linked. Solve one and we solve them both. In short, take Jonathan Bale into your confidence.'
'No. I'll not have a Puritan sitting in judgement on me.'
'He's a dedicated officer of the law. Look what he has achieved in the past.'
'Only because you worked beside him.'
Christopher was determined. 'I intend to do so again, Henry,' he insisted. 'The three of us are in this together. You have received threats of blackmail. Jonathan is investigating a murder. And I am employed by a man whose son has been killed in the most brutal fashion.'
Henry shrank back. 'Spare me the details.'
'Let me at least tell you how I was drawn into this.' Christopher gave his brother a succinct account of the constable's visit to his house and stressed the need for further information about Gabriel Cheever. He was gently persuasive. Slowly but surely, he began to break down Henry's resistance. One point was made with particular emphasis.
'I am not suggesting for one moment that you show Jonathan that first letter. The fact of its existence will be enough for him to know. Details of your private life will not be disclosed, Henry. They would, in any case, be superfluous.'
'What do you mean?'
Christopher smiled. 'Jonathan is unlikely to mistake you for an ascetic.'
'The pursuit of pleasure is the aim of every man.'
'Perhaps,' agreed his brother, 'but we do not all derive pleasure from the same things. Mine comes from my work and Jonathan Bale's from doing his duty. Your pleasures are more unashamedly sensual.'
'Why else were we put upon this earth?'
'If you seek a theological dispute, talk to Father.'
'Keep the old gentleman out of this,' begged Henry, clutching at his chest. 'I have had scares enough for one day.'
'Then let us dispose of the first,' said Christopher, indicating the letter. 'A serious threat has been issued. I believe it to be groundless but I understand that you wish to take no chances. So,' he went on, 'adopt sensible precautions. You're safe enough here with your servants about you and you would hardly be attacked on the street in daylight. This killer works by night. That much we do know.'
'I'll not stir from the house until he is caught.'
'That would be foolish. Go armed and keep your wits about you.'
'Gabriel Cheever was a finer swordsman than me yet he was struck down.'
'Only because he was taken unawares, Henry You will be more watchful.'
'Even I do not have eyes in the back of my head.'
'Take a servant with you, then. Or walk abroad with a friend. Now,' he said earnestly, 'tell me all you know about Gabriel Cheever. Where does he live?'
Henry looked blank. 'I have no idea.'
'I thought he was an acquaintance of yours.'
'He was. We saw a lot of each other at one time; Gabriel had lodgings in Covent Garden in those days. That was before he disappeared.'
'Disappeared?'
'Yes,' said Henry.' 'It was quite strange. Nobody sought pleasure more ardently than Gabriel Cheever. Yet, all of a sudden, he seemed to vanish. He spurned all of his favourite haunts. I remember commenting on it to Arthur Lunn.'
'Why to him?'
'Because he knew Gabriel better than anyone.'
'What did he say?'
'Arthur was as baffled as the rest of us. For some reason, Gabriel quit his lodging and went to ground. Arthur wondered if he had left London altogether.'
'Did nobody see any sign of him?'
'No.' Henry shook his head. 'Sir Marcus Kemp thought he caught a glimpse of him in Knightrider Street but he could easily have been mistaken. Sir Marcus does not have the keenest eyesight.'
'Knightrider Street?' said Christopher. 'That might put him in Jonathan's ward.'
'Sir Marcus would not swear that it was Gabriel.'
'But it could have been?'
'Conceivably.'
'When he was in Covent Garden, did he live alone?'
'His bed was rarely empty,' said Henry enviously, 'but his guests did not usually stay for any length of time. The only woman with whom I saw him on anything like a regular basis was Celia Hemmings and that association broke up some time ago.'
'Might she know the address to which he moved?'
'It would be worth asking her. I can tell you
where to find her.'
'Thank you,' said Christopher. 'I'll want to meet anyone who knew Gabriel well.'
Henry smirked. 'Celia knew him as well as his Maker.'
'What manner of man was he, Henry? You told me that he was a rakehell but there must have been other sides to his character. Have you any notion what brought him to London in the first place?'
'Oh, yes. The same thing that brought me here, Christopher.'
'The lure of pleasure?'
'No,' said Henry. 'Fear of a tyrannical father.'
'You must not let him intimidate you so,' said Brilliana, snipping another rose to place in her basket. 'Stand up to him for once.'
'Sir Julius has such a strong personality,' complained her husband.
'At your age, you should not be afraid of the sound of thunder.'
'It's the flashes of lightning that disturb me.'
Lancelot Serle was a tall, thin, nervous man in his thirties with a handsome face stained by a small red birthmark on his cheek that looked like a permanent dribble of strawberry juice from his mouth. He dressed fashionably but his apparel always seemed faintly too big for him. His wife, Brilliana, had no visible defects. A striking woman with a beauty that kept time at bay, she was wearing the plain dress she reserved for any exploits in the garden. While gathering flowers, she did not even spare her husband a glance. Serle hovered ineffectually at her side.
'They could be here as early as tomorrow,' he opined.
'They?'
'Well, I have every hope that Sir Julius will bring your sister with him. Susan is a godsend on such occasions. She knows how to cope with your father.'
'Nobody copes with him better than I do, Lancelot,' said his wife peevishly 'Susan is too inclined to let him have his own way I challenge him at every turn.'
'I know, but it does make for a lot of discord, my dear.'
She rounded on him. 'Are you censuring me?'
'Heaven forbid!'
'Father only respects those who argue with him.'
Serle gave a sigh. 'Whenever I try to argue, he beats me down.'
'Offer your opinions with more force, Lancelot.'
'I prefer a quiet life.'
The Repentant Rake cr-3 Page 7
