The Repentant Rake

by Edward Marston

  'For whom?'

  'The people of this country, Susan. Taxes are bleeding us dry. And where does all the money go?' he asked wagging a finger. 'To the King. So that he can fight his wars abroad and keep his mistresses in style. Someone must speak out against him.'

  Susan said nothing. There was no point in stirring him up even more. Sir Julius was still fighting battles that had already been won and lost many years earlier. Rooted in the past, he wanted a say in the future, but his language was hortatory rather than persuasive. His fellow Members of Parliament would soon become familiar with the sound of his ranting. Susan let her mind drift to something else. When her father had calmed down enough to permit a civilised conversation, she put her thoughts into words.

  'Are you pleased with the design of the new house, Father?'

  'I should be. I more or less drew up the plans for it myself.'

  'With the help of Mr Redmayne,' she reminded him.

  'Well, yes,' he agreed. 'Redmayne actually did the drawings but they were based on ideas that were entirely my own. If I must have a house in London, it must conform exactly to my specifications. Redmayne appreciates that.'

  'He seems a most obliging young man.'

  'Obliging and capable.'

  'Have you seen anything that he designed?'

  'Only that bookshop of his,' said Sir Julius. 'It may be small but it's the finest building in Paternoster Row. Elijah Pembridge was thrilled with it and rightly so. He could not speak too highly of Christopher Redmayne.'

  'What else has he designed?' asked Susan.

  'A couple of houses in London, both far larger than the one I've commissioned.'

  'Where exactly are they?'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'I thought it might be amusing to take a look at them when I go into the city with Brilliana,' said Susan, trying to hide her curiosity. 'Mr Redmayne talked so fervently about his work that he aroused my interest.'

  'When was this? You hardly spoke to the man.'

  'I heard his voice through the door.'

  Sir Julius grinned. 'Eavesdropping, were you?'

  'Not at all,' she said without conviction. 'I just happened to be passing when the two of you were discussing the new house. It was impossible not to catch what he was saying about his work. Evidently, it's a labour of love.'

  'That's why I chose him. Redmayne has passion.'

  'Could you find out where these other houses are?'

  'Oh, I think you should do that for yourself, Susan.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I may be old,' he said with a paternal smile, 'but I've not lost all my faculties yet. Talk to the fellow in person. Why pretend to be interested in architecture when your real interest is in the architect himself?'

  Christopher arrived just in time. Celia Hemmings was on the point of leaving her house in Bow Street when he presented himself at her door. She was a slim woman of medium height, impeccably attired in a low-necked, full-sleeved dress of pink satin with a billowing skirt that opened at the front to reveal an underskirt of a darker hue. Her face was heart-shaped her lips red and her eyes sparkling. Christopher could see what had attracted Gabriel Cheever to her. After introducing himself, he asked her to give him a few minutes alone in private.

  She was cautious. 'I am not in the habit of inviting strangers into my house.'

  'The news I carry ought not to be divulged on a doorstep,' he explained.

  'Why not, sir?'

  'I fear that it is of too heavy a nature.'

  'What does it concern?' she said.

  'A friend of yours - Gabriel Cheever.'

  She tensed. 'You have bad tidings of Gabriel?'

  'The worst, alas.'

  Celia Hemmings was alarmed. She invited him into the house and took him into the parlour. Christopher suggested that she sat down before he broke the news. Still wearing her wide-brimmed hat, she perched on the edge of a chair and waited with trepidation. Christopher lowered his voice.

  'Gabriel Cheever has passed away, I fear.'

  'Never!' she cried, hands moving involuntarily to her throat.

  'It happened a few days ago, Miss Hemmings.'

  'But Gabriel was so strong and healthy.'

  Christopher tried to be gentle. 'He did not die a natural death.'

  'He was murdered?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  The woman was so shaken that he thought she was about to keel over, and he reached out a steadying hand. Seizing a handkerchief from her sleeve, she buried her face in it and sobbed uncontrollably Christopher was unable to console her. It was minutes before she dabbed at her eyes and looked up at him.

  'Forgive me, Mr Redmayne,' she said. 'Gabriel was a dear friend of mine.'

  'That is why I felt you had a right to know.'

  'What brought you to me?'

  'I came at my brother's suggestion. I believe you know Henry.'

  'Henry Redmayne?' she muttered. 'Yes, of course. I have met him on occasion.' She got up from the chair. 'But who committed this terrible crime? And why? Gabriel was the sweetest man in the world. Nobody could want to kill him. Has anyone been arrested? Tell me all.'

  Christopher gave her nothing but the details he had rehearsed on his way there, stressing the need for her help if the killer was to be brought to justice. Eyes still moist, she nodded her consent. The self-possessed young woman he had met at the door now looked weak and vulnerable. He persuaded her to resume her seat, and she removed her hat.

  'When did you last see Gabriel?' he asked.

  'Some months ago. We reached the parting of the ways.'

  'So I understand.'

  'It was not a sad event, Mr Redmayne,' she said. 'Gabriel Cheever was unlike any other man I know. There were no violent arguments or bitter recriminations. Thanks to him, it was almost painless. We parted on the most amicable terms.'

  'Did you keep in touch with him?'

  'Only through mutual friends. Then that suddenly stopped.'

  'Why?'

  'Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. He seemed to disappear completely. I wondered if he had gone back home to Northamptonshire,' she said wistfully. 'He always talked about being reconciled with his father one day.'

  'I know Sir Julius Cheever.'

  'Then you will understand why he disapproved of his son.' She gave a wan smile. 'He would certainly have disapproved of me as well, but that does not worry me. I loved Gabriel. When we were together, I'd gladly accept anyone's condemnation.'

  'Did he have any enemies, Miss Hemmings?'

  'None that I knew of.'

  'He must have had rivals.'

  'Dozens of them, but they sought to gain advantage over him at a card table, not in some dark alley. That was where he blossomed, Mr Redmayne. In a gaming house.'

  'So my brother tells me.'

  'Gabriel had the most uncommon skill at cards.'

  'Henry described it as damnable luck.'

  'It was much more than that, believe me,' said Celia loyally. 'Gabriel had expensive tastes. Since his father had cut him off without a penny, he had to find an income from somewhere. The card table was the making of him.'

  'It's been the ruin of my brother.'

  'Perhaps he should drink less and concentrate more.'

  'How true!' sighed Christopher. 'Henry will over-indulge. But coming back to Gabriel's family, I know that he and Sir Julius were not on speaking terms, but what about his relationship with his sisters?'

  'The elder one, Brilliana, was as stubborn as her father.'

  'And his other sister, Susan?'

  'He always spoke with such affection of her.'

  'I can imagine that,' said Christopher, conjuring up her face in his mind. 'Did he ever correspond with her?'

  'From time to time.'

  'How did he contrive that?'

  'His letters were sent to a neighbour and Susan retrieved them from there. It would have been far too dangerous to send them directly to the house. Had her father discovered the truth, Susan woul
d have been in serious trouble. She's very brave.'

  'Did you ever meet her?'

  'Alas, no,' she said, 'but Gabriel managed to see her when she came to London. She gave her sister the slip one afternoon and spent an hour with him. It meant so much to Gabriel,' she remembered 'though I suspect that Susan would have been given a stern reprimand for wandering away. Gabriel told me that Brilliana has a vicious tongue.'

  Once started, Celia Hemmings was willing to produce many fond recollections of her former lover and Christopher was able to build up a clearer picture of the man in his mind. Much of what she said accorded with Henry Redmayne's description, but she added an important new dimension to the portrait.

  'Gabriel hated farming,' she went on. 'He thought there should be more to life than running an estate in Northamptonshire. But that was not the only reason that he and his father fell out. Gabriel had ambitions that could only be fulfilled in London.'

  'It sounds to me as if he fulfilled them with zest.'

  'No, Mr Redmayne. You misjudge him. He was a much more serious person than anyone realised. The gaming houses may have provided him with his money but it was never frittered away. Gabriel saved it for a purpose.'

  'And what was that?'

  'To buy himself time.'

  'Time?'

  'Yes. In order to pursue his real interest.'

  'What was that, Miss Hemmings?'

  'Poetry,' she said. 'Gabriel wanted above all else to become a poet. He showed me some of his work. He had real talent. When we were together, he was also writing a play. In fact,' she confessed 'that's what I thought he might be doing when he vanished. Turning his back on us all so that he could write all the things that were bursting to come out of him. That was the true Gabriel Cheever,' she asserted. 'He was not just another unprincipled rake in search of pleasure but a conscientious author who would get back to his lodgings in the early hours of the morning and take up his pen. That's the man I shall remember.'

  Jonathan Bale was not looking forward to his assignment. He headed for Holborn without enthusiasm. The constable was much more accustomed to breaking up brawls in rowdy taverns than to venturing into the privileged world of a coffee house. When he found the place, he hesitated at the door, reluctant to enter an establishment where men with whom he would not normally consort were consuming a liquid that he disdained to touch. The smell of tobacco smoke was another deterrent to him but he forced himself to go on. The coffee house was large and well appointed. It buzzed with conversation. Smoking pipes and dispensing gossip, fashionably dressed men lounged at their tables over cups of coffee. Jonathan, patently, did not belong. He collected several disapproving stares and a few unflattering comments, but he was in luck. When he spoke to the owner, he learned that Arthur Lunn was actually there. Seated alone at a table, the man was sipping a cup of coffee while he waited for a friend. When Lunn was pointed out to him, Jonathan went over to introduce himself.

  'Whatever's brought you here?' asked Lunn cheerily. 'Am I under arrest?'

  'No, sir, but I'm hoping that you may be able to give me information that may in time lead to an arrest. Mr Henry Redmayne said that I might find you here.'

  Lunn was surprised. 'You're a friend of Henry's?'

  'Not exactly,' said Jonathan. 'I know his brother.'

  'Ah, the aspiring young architect.'

  'He thought that you might be able to help me.'

  'Very well,' said Lunn offhandedly, 'but at least sit down. You're attracting far too much attention, Mr Bale, and I hate it when someone looms over me like that.'

  Jonathan lowered himself uneasily into the seat and glanced around. He was an outsider and the other customers were letting him know it in all manner of subtle ways. He turned back to Lunn.

  'I believe that you knew Gabriel Cheever,' he said.

  'Yes. A wonderful fellow. Why do you ask?' Lunn chuckled. 'Has the law finally caught up with Gabriel? I knew that it would one day.'

  'Mr Cheever has been murdered.'

  'What?' Lunn was startled. 'Can you be serious?'

  'I was there when the body was found, sir.'

  'When was this?'

  'Earlier in the week.'

  'Where?'

  'Paul's Wharf.'

  'What on earth was Gabriel doing there?'

  'We have no idea as yet, Mr Lunn. Can you offer any opinion?'

  'No,' said the other, still dazed by the news. 'To be frank, I rather lost sight of Gabriel. It must be months since we last met. He was living in Covent Garden then but he quit his lodgings one day without telling anyone where he was going.'

  'How well did you know him, sir?'

  'Extremely well. We were good friends. In the circumstances, that was a miracle.'

  'A miracle?'

  'Yes, Mr Bale. Gabriel Cheever was the king of the card table. I must have lost a small fortune to him over the years but I never resented it somehow. Gabriel had such charm. He made you feel that it was a kind of honour to lose to him.'

  'Is that how he made his money?' said Jonathan with a note of censure. 'By playing games of chance?'

  'There was no chance when Gabriel was at the table.'

  Arthur Lunn launched into some rambling reminiscences. Jonathan was torn between curiosity and revulsion. Valuable facts about the murder victim were emerging but the world in which he had moved was anathema to the constable. He schooled himself to memorise the information without making any moral judgement. Whatever kind of existence he had led, Gabriel Cheever deserved to have his killer caught and punished. Lunn was in full flow. Most of his revelations were shocking to the ears of a Puritan but he did not even notice the effect he was having, and surged on regardless. As other names surfaced, Jonathan tried to make a mental note of them in case one or two were not on the list that Christopher Redmayne had acquired. Every tiny scrap of information needed to be hoarded. It might all be relevant. By the time Lunn stopped, his voice was maudlin. His affection for the dead man was apparent. Jonathan seized on the name that had been repeated most often.

  'You mentioned Sir Marcus Kemp, sir.'

  'He and I spent much time in Gabriel's company.'

  'I would value a word with him.'

  'Sir Marcus will be horrified when he hears the news.'

  'Is he here at the moment?' asked Jonathan, looking around.

  'No, Mr Bale,' said Lunn. 'It's far too early for him to be up and about. Sir Marcus carouses until dawn as a rule. My guess is that he's still asleep in his bed.'

  Sir Marcus Kemp ignored the bell and pounded on the door with his fist. He was a tall, stooping, lean individual in his thirties with a long, sallow face and large, mournful brown eyes. With his periwig resting on his shoulders like huge hairy ears, he had the appearance of an oversized spaniel suffering from distemper. When the door did not open immediately, he attacked it with more vigour. It swung back on its hinges. Pushing the servant aside, he stormed into the hall.

  'Where is Henry?' he demanded.

  'Mr Redmayne is not receiving visitors today, Sir Marcus,' said the servant.

  'He'll receive me.'

  'I have instructions to let nobody in.'

  'Damn it, man! Do I have to search the house myself?'

  The servant weakened. 'Let me speak to him, Sir Marcus.'

  'Just tell me where he is.'

  'Mr Redmayne is dining at home, but-'

  Sir Marcus Kemp cut him off in mid-sentence by thrusting him aside for the second time. He strode to door of the dining room and flung it open. Seated at the table, Henry was picking at the meal set out before him. He looked up in surprise as his visitor descended on him. The hapless servant appeared in the doorway to signal his apologies.

  'There you are, Henry!' said the newcomer. 'Thank heaven!'

  'This is an inopportune moment, Marcus,' said Henry.

  'I do not care two hoots for that, man. I am in despair.'

  He sank into a chair. Henry waved his servant away and the man closed the door behind him. Se
eing the look of terror in his friend's face, Henry poured him a glass of wine and passed it across to him. The visitor downed it in one eager gulp.

  'What is the matter?' asked Henry.

  'I'm staring death in the face.'

  'In what way?'

  'The worst possible way, Henry,' said the other. 'Do you recall a night we spent some months ago, enjoying the hospitality of Mrs Curtis?'

  'We spent many such nights together.'

  'This one was rather special. Two young ladies obliged us in the most wonderful fashion. All four of us shared such harmless delight in that bed.' His voice darkened. 'But it was not as harmless as I thought, Henry,' he said, extracting a letter from his pocket. 'This came for me this morning. It's a demand for money. Among other things, that glorious night we all spent together in the same bed is described in frightening detail.'

  'Do not remind me,' said Henry. 'I have seen that particular description.'

  'I'm being blackmailed!'

  'You are not alone, Marcus.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Henry heaved a sigh. 'Have some more wine.'

  The ride to Richmond on the following morning gave Christopher Redmayne the chance to review the situation in depth. Events had moved fast. Having returned to London with a prized commission in his pocket, he was now faced with the task of breaking news of a family tragedy to the very person who employed him. The death of Gabriel Cheever was unlikely to stop the new house from being built in Westminster but he did not relish his role as a messenger. Sir Julius was a proud and implacable man. Christopher anticipated trouble both from him and from his elder daughter. The tidings that he carried might well meet with a frosty reception at Serle Court. Gabriel Cheever only had one remaining friend in his family and she was the person Christopher was most anxious not to upset. Yet that was unavoidable. As he thought of Susan

  Cheever, he was not sure if he wanted her to be at Serle Court or not. Any pleasure that her presence might give him would be offset by the pain he inflicted on her.

  The information garnered from Celia Hemmings had been invaluable. She had confirmed that Susan had maintained contact with her brother, albeit under difficult conditions. It only served to increase Christopher's respect for the beguiling young lady he had met in Northamptonshire. Celia Hemmings had also revealed things about her former lover that nobody else had even suspected, and he had been forced to adjust his view of the dead man. Life on a country estate was not the ideal milieu for someone with ambitions to publish his poetry and write plays for the theatre. Nor would Sir Julius Cheever have looked kindly on activities that had a Cavalier tinge to them. He had willingly supported the closure of all theatres during the Commonwealth. That his only son rejected him and his principles so totally must have rankled with the old man. To a lesser extent, it was a situation replicated in Christopher's own family and he was very conscious of the fact. Henry Redmayne's private life was an act of defiance against the Dean of Gloucester but he was careful to hide it from his father. If sordid details of his sybaritic existence were made public, as threatened, there would be severe repercussions inside one of England's most stately cathedrals.