The Repentant Rake cr-3

by Edward Marston

  'To call on Sir Marcus Kemp. He was as terrified as I was at first, especially when he heard that Gabriel had been murdered. He wanted to barricade himself in his house. But I put some steel into him,' said Henry, adopting a pose. 'I told him that we must stick together and defy the blackmail threats.'

  'You may soon have company.'

  'Company?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher. 'A person or persons capable of murder will be ruthless in extorting money from their victims. Compromising material may well exist about others in your circle, Henry. They, too, may receive anonymous demands.'

  'Poor devils!'

  'See what you can find out.'

  Henry was petulant. 'That will not be easy, you know. I can hardly go up to every one of my friends and ask them to their faces if they have had any unsavoury correspondence lately. It would be in the worst possible taste,' he said haughtily. 'They are bound to ask me why I frame such a question and I have no wish to expose my own wounds to the world.'

  'Your friends may come to you. Sir Marcus Kemp did.'

  'Only because one of the incidents mentioned involved the two of us.'

  'The four of you,' corrected Christopher.

  'One of those damnable women betrayed us.'

  'Unless Mrs Curtis was listening at the door.'

  'I would not put that past her, Christopher. She likes to make sure that her charges are giving satisfaction. I dare say that Mrs Curtis is no stranger to eavesdropping or to peeping through keyholes.' A thought struck him. 'Could she be party to this blackmail?'

  'You would be in a better position than me to discover that, Henry.'

  'Oh, no!' moaned his brother. 'I'll not go near her or any other woman again until this villain is caught. Sir Marcus and I both agreed on that.'

  'Then you are aping Gabriel Cheever.'

  'In what way?'

  'You are a repentant rake.'

  'I repent nothing!' declared Henry.

  'Not even your flagrant indiscretions?'

  'No, Christopher. Repentance takes the edge off pleasure. I'll none of it.'

  Christopher was glad to find his brother in more buoyant spirits but saddened that his predicament had not forced Henry to view his past actions with at least a modicum of shame. The first letter had contained lubricious details about his private life and he was embarrassed that Christopher had to see them, but he would make no effort to reform. When the crisis was over, Henry would become an impenitent voluptuary once more. That fact did not lessen his brother's urge to help him.

  'I'll to the morgue,' said Christopher.

  'Whatever for?' asked Henry with distaste.

  'To see if Sir Julius has been there to identify the body.'

  'Gabriel's wife could have done that, surely?'

  'No,' said Christopher. 'It would be far too harrowing for her.'

  'What if Sir Julius refuses to acknowledge his son?'

  'Oh, he will.'

  'You sound very certain of that,' Henry remarked.

  'My guess is that even his flinty old heart will melt,' said Christopher. 'Besides, if he refuses to go to the mortuary, someone else will go in his place.'

  'Someone else?'

  'His younger daughter, Susan.'

  Though the circumstances might have dictated a more sedate pace, Sir Julius Cheever insisted that the coachman keep his team of horses moving at speed. Not for him a funereal approach to the city. When they left Richmond, they almost tore through the countryside. It made for an uncomfortable journey. Susan Cheever and her father were jostled so violently that leisured conversation was well nigh impossible. They did not object to that. Sir Julius wanted to wrestle with his ambivalent feelings in silence and Susan was content to let fonder memories of her brother preoccupy her. When the city eventually rose up before them, however, they found their tongues again.

  'Where will we stay, Father?' asked Susan.

  'Anywhere but Serle Court. We go from one morgue to another.'

  'That's unkind. Brilliana and Lancelot did everything to make us feel welcome.'

  'Then why am I so relieved to quit the place?' said Sir Julius sourly. 'It will be late evening when we finally arrive. That's a wonderful excuse to stay away from Richmond for a night.'

  Susan winced. 'I'd not call Gabriel's death a wonderful excuse.'

  'Nor I,' he said, immediately contrite. 'Forgive me, Susan. I was trying to find some small glimmer of light in the darkness that has just descended on our family. I am quite lost. Gabriel is dead?' he said wonderingly. 'At such a young age? Why? What on earth did he do to deserve such a sorry end?'

  'He did not deserve it, Father.'

  'Only time will tell that.'

  She gazed through the window. 'Do you know a suitable inn?' she said.

  'There are dozens at our disposal.'

  'So you have nowhere particular in mind?'

  'No, Susan.'

  'Perhaps Mr Redmayne can recommend somewhere,' she suggested casually, still looking out at the passing fields. 'He lives in London. He will know where we might find some proper accommodation.'

  'I'm sure that he would.'

  'May we call on him?'

  'I meant to do so in any case.'

  'Did you?' She turned back to him. 'Where does he live?'

  'Fetter Lane.'~

  'We can visit him when our business is done.'

  'Before that,' he decreed.

  'Before?'

  'With Mr Redmayne's permission, I will leave you there while I go to the morgue to identify the body and make arrangements to have it moved.'

  'But I wish to be there with you, Father,' she protested.

  'No, Susan.'

  'Gabriel is my brother.'

  Sir Julius was peremptory. 'He's my son and I must take full responsibility. A morgue is no place for you, Susan. The stink of death would stay in your nostrils for weeks. After all my years as a soldier, I am used to it. You are not. Besides,' he continued as a distant grief finally started to break through, 'I want to be alone with Gabriel. I need to make my peace with him.'

  When Christopher finally got back to his house, Jacob was ready to look after him. After unsaddling and stabling his horse, the old servant prepared him some food, explained what had happened during his absence and generally fussed over him. Over an hour had passed before Christopher was able to set out his materials on the bare table and do some more work on the drawings of the new house. His hand moved with intermittent fluency. Dark thoughts kept invading him. What distracted him most was a consideration of how differently people had reacted to the news of Gabriel Cheever's unnatural death. Celia Hemmings had been rocked to the core, moving between anguish and disbelief. Susan Cheever had fainted, her father had turned away, her sister had made a callous remark and Lancelot Serle had been wholly unequal to the situation. Most astonishing, however, had been Lucy Cheever's response. She was a defenceless young woman who had made immense sacrifices to marry the man she loved and might have been expected to collapse totally when she heard that he was lost to her for ever. Yet she had shown a resilience that was extraordinary.

  Jonathan Bale had been impressed by it as well. The two men had no doubt that, when they left the house in Knightrider Street, the sorrow would be too much for her to bear and she would feel the full weight of her loss. While they were there, however, Lucy had borne up remarkably. There was an inner strength that sustained her and it must have been one of the qualities that attracted her husband to her in the first place. As he reflected on the character of the three women closest to the deceased, Christopher could see that Gabriel Cheever must have been a young man of unusual charm. His wife and his former mistress had almost nothing in common yet both loved him devotedly. Though his elder sister had rejected him, Susan patently adored him, providing, as far as she was able, the familial love that the others denied him. Three disparate characters each found something irresistible about Gabriel. They were now united by a shared pain.

  Christopher forced himse
lf to concentrate on the work in hand. It was, after all, the means by which he had been introduced to the Cheever family. Having visited Serle Court, he could see why Sir Julius was so anxious to have a house of his own. Brilliana would be a spiky hostess at the best of times. In the situation thrust upon them, her coldness and selfishness had come to the fore. Well intentioned as he was, Serle himself had hardly distinguished himself in the emergency. It was not a happy place to be. Sir Julius only went there out of a sense of family duty. Christopher was confident that he would insist that plans went ahead for the London abode. It would be his place of refuge from an unfeeling daughter and an irritating son-in-law. The architect applied himself to his task. A more refined version of the house began to appear slowly on the parchment before him.

  Lost in creation, he did not hear the coach pulling up outside in the street or even the ringing of the doorbell. Joseph scurried out to see who was calling. The voice of Sir Julius Cheever boomed out. Christopher felt as if he had been shaken forcibly awake. Jacob invited the visitors into the parlour. When Christopher joined them, his surprise at seeing his client was matched by his delight in observing that he had brought his younger daughter with him. For her part, Susan Cheever was at once pleased and discomfited, curious to see inside Christopher's house but embarrassed that they had descended on him without warning. He brushed aside all apologies.

  'Do take a seat,' he said. 'Jacob will bring refreshment.'

  'I cannot stay, Mr Redmayne,' warned Sir Julius. 'I must visit the morgue. Susan was kind enough to travel with me from Richmond but I'll not put her through the ordeal. You have already shown your consideration. May I be so bold as to trespass on your kindness again and ask if my daughter might remain here while I am away?'

  Christopher was quietly thrilled. 'The request is unnecessary, Sir Julius. Please take my hospitality for granted. Miss Cheever is most welcome in my home.'

  'Thank you,' she said.

  'I will return for her in due course,' announced her father, moving to the door.

  'Do not hurry,' said Christopher. 'Your daughter will be safe here.'

  'I'm most obliged.'

  Sir Julius swept out and Jacob went after him to close the front door in his wake. The coach was heard trundling away. Susan refused the offer of food but was grateful to sit on a comfortable chair after her bumpy journey. Jacob withdrew discreetly to leave them alone. Christopher was nervous. Sitting opposite his guest, he saw how pale and strained she looked. He cleared his throat.

  'It pains me to see you in such distress,' he said.

  'Father was wrong to foist me on you like this, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Not at all, Miss Cheever. I regard it as a stroke of good fortune.'

  Her face clouded. 'I'd hardly call it that.'

  'The words were ill-chosen,' he confessed quickly, 'and I withdraw them at once. What I meant was that I'm glad of the opportunity to confide something that would have been impossible to tell you in your father's presence.'

  'You've seen Gabriel's wife?' she said, interest lighting up her features.

  'This afternoon.'

  'How did she receive the news?'

  'With great stoicism,' he told her, remembering the way that Lucy had borne up. 'Your sister-in-law is an unusual young lady, Miss Cheever. She looks delicate but she is very brave.'

  'That was how Gabriel described her in his letters to me,' she said.

  'They were obviously happy together.'

  Christopher gave her a full account of the visit that he and Jonathan Bale had made to the house. Susan was grateful for each new detail. It irked her that she had been unable to meet the young woman who had brought such joy and stability into her brother's life. Everything that she heard about Lucy Cheever accorded with the information that the fond husband had given in his letters to his sister. There was, however, one thing that her brother had not explained.

  'Why did they keep the marriage secret?' she asked.

  'I think that your brother wished to make a fresh start, Miss Cheever. That meant cutting himself off completely from his former friends. My brother, Henry, was among them,' admitted

  Christopher, 'and he was astounded to hear that Gabriel had a young bride. Others would have mocked him unmercifully.'

  'There must be more to it than that.'

  'I agree. The real answer may lie with your sister-in-law.'

  'In what way, Mr Redmayne?'

  'I am not sure,' said Christopher, 'but she clearly has good reasons of her own to keep the marriage secret. She was not even using your brother's name.'

  'How strange!'

  'She is concealing the truth from her own family.'

  'Why should she need to do that?'

  'Lucy - Mrs Cheever, that is - did not tell us. She bore up well but the strain on her was starting to tell. Jonathan Bale and I left her to mourn in private.' He lowered his voice. 'The facts will have to come out now.'

  'I understand that.'

  'She will want to attend the funeral as his wife. Sir Julius will have to be told that he has a daughter-in-law he did not know existed. However,' he added tactfully, 'your own part in all this is perhaps better suppressed.'

  Susan was defiant. 'I'm not ashamed of what I did.'

  'I know,' he said, 'and I admire you for it. But it might be unwise to let your father know that you deceived him all this while. You have to live with him, Miss Cheever. It might cause unnecessary strife if he were to learn that you exchanged letters with your brother. I'll not breathe a word on the subject.'

  'That's very considerate of you.'

  'What you have told me in confidence will remain sacrosanct.'

  Their eyes locked for a second and he saw the first sign of her affection for him. An answering glint in his own eyes seemed to unsettle her. She looked away guiltily.

  'It was wrong of us to impose on you, Mr Redmayne.'

  'There is no imposition, I promise you.'

  'You were simply engaged to design a house,' she said shifting her gaze back to him, 'not to become embroiled in our family affairs.'

  'That was unavoidable, Miss Cheever. I make no complaint.'

  Christopher did not want to discuss his brother's problems with her nor reveal that he was involved in a parallel investigation to hunt a blackmailer. It was enough for her to know that he was committed to helping in the search for her brother's killer. It sparked off a sudden show of concern.

  'You will be careful,' she warned.

  'Of course.'

  'I would hate you to put yourself at risk on our account.'

  Christopher smiled. 'I am well able to look after myself.'

  'The man you are after is a vicious killer:'

  'I have an advantage that your brother lacked,' he pointed out. 'Jonathan Bale will be watching my back. He has done that before and I trust him implicitly.'

  She relaxed slightly. 'Good. That reassures me somewhat.'

  'I'm touched that you are worried on my account,' he said. Another flicker of affection appeared in her eyes. 'Thank you, Miss Cheever.'

  There was a long silence. He left it to Susan to break it.

  'You told me that Lucy knew all about Gabriel's past,' she resumed.

  'That is what she claimed.'

  'Did she mention what he had written?'

  'Of course,' said Christopher. 'She thought his poetry was wonderful. I suspect that some of it was dedicated to her. It's a small consolation, I know, but she will still have those poems to remember him by. Lucy also talked about the play he was working on.'

  'Did she refer to anything else?'

  'Not that I recall.'

  'No memoirs that he was writing?'

  'Memoirs?'

  'Yes, Mr Redmayne,' she explained, 'Gabriel had a conscience. Though he enjoyed the life that he led in London, he did so at a price. His conscience tormented him. He was never really comfortable in that world and he found a way to deal with it.'

  'What was that?' asked Christopher.

&
nbsp; 'He kept a diary. A detailed memoir of everything that happened during those long nights at the card tables and… her voice faltered… and in the other places he visited. Gabriel did not spare himself,' she went on. 'He listed all his vices and named all of his friends. That diary was a form of confession. He was trying to purge himself.' She leaned forward. 'Do you think that Lucy is aware of that diary?'

  'Yes,' said Christopher, mind racing. 'I suspect that she is.'

  'If she is not, it would be painful for her to stumble on it unawares.'

  'There is no possibility of that, Miss Cheever,' he said, thinking of the blackmail threats. 'The diary is no longer at the house.'

  Chapter Eight

  When he had read a passage from the Bible to his two sons, Jonathan Bale said prayers with them, gave them a kiss then came downstairs to join his wife in the kitchen. Sarah was neatly folding one of the sheets that she had washed earlier in the day.

  'Are you still working?' he complained.

  'I'm almost done, Jonathan,' she said, putting one sheet aside and taking up another. 'The washing dries so quickly in this weather. I could take in much more.'

  'You do enough as it is, Sarah.'

  'I like to keep busy.'

  'Too busy.'

  'Would you rather that I sat around and did nothing all day long?'

  'No, my love,' he said, brushing her forehead with a kiss. 'You would die of boredom in a week. Whatever else people say about Sarah Bale, they will never be able to accuse you of laziness.'

  'While I have health and strength to work, I will.' She noticed a small tear in the sheet she was folding. 'Ah, that will need a stitch or two.'

  'Let the person who brought it here do that, Sarah. They only pay you to wash their bed linen, not to repair it.'

  She smiled tolerantly. 'This load is from old Mrs Lilley in Thames Street,' she said. 'The poor woman has rheumatism. She can barely move her fingers, let alone sew with them. It will not take me long, Jonathan.'

  'I did not realise that it was an act of Christian kindness.'

  'Mrs Lilley needs all the help that she can get.'

  'Of course. Well,' he said, moving away, 'you carry on. I have to go out again.'