'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.'
'So late in the evening?'
'I'll not be long, Sarah.'
'But you are not supposed to be on duty tonight.'
'No,' he agreed, 'but I want to knock on a few more doors.'
'I would have thought you'd had enough of that for one day.'
He grinned. 'Yes, my knuckles are a bit raw. Tom Warburton and I spent hours on the doorsteps in Knightrider Street and all to no avail. I'm going back there now.'
'Why?'
'To make amends, my love.'
'For what?'
'I let myself down,' he explained. 'I like to keep an eye on everyone who comes and goes in my ward. After all this time, I know most people by sight and many by name, especially in Knightrider Street. But a man and his wife slipped past me.'
'Have you found them now?'
'Only because of Mr Redmayne. It irks me, Sarah. I have to rely on someone who does not even live here to tell me what's going on under my nose.'
'You should be grateful to Mr Redmyane.'
'Oh, I am,' he said. 'I just wish that I could have ferreted out the truth myself. When we called at the house earlier, the maidservant fobbed us off with a lie. I should have known she was hiding something.'
'Are you going back there?'
'No, it's a house of mourning. It would be cruel to intrude. What I want to do is to speak to the neighbours about the two young people who lived there. They may have seen something of value.'
'Is this to do with the murder?' she asked.
'Yes, Sarah.'
'Did the dead man live in Knightrider Street?'
'Briefly.'
'Where?'
'Close to Sermon Lane.'
'Then you ought to speak to Mrs Runciman,' she suggested.
'Who?'
'She lives on the corner of Sermon Lane, near the house you're talking about. I take in washing from Mrs Runciman quite often. Please remember me to her.'
'I will.'
'The Buswell family live opposite and Mrs Gately is somewhere close.'
Jonathan laughed. 'Do you take in washing from the whole street?'
'No. The only person I work for is Mrs Runciman but she always invites me into the house. I've met Mrs Buswell and Mrs Gately there. You'll get little help from them, I'm afraid. Mrs Buswell is almost blind and Mrs Gately is a little slow-witted. Go to Mrs Runciman first,' she advised. 'She has a sharp eye. If anyone can help you, it will probably be her.'
'Thank you!' he said, kissing her again.
'You should have spoken to me earlier.'
'I can see that now, my love.'
'If you took in washing, you'd be surprised how much useful gossip you could pick up.'
'I think I'll hold on to my present job.'
'Are you afraid of hard work?' she teased.
'No, Sarah,' he replied. 'I thrive on it. Nobody works harder than shipwrights and I was in that trade for several years. But being a constable helps me to look after people. I feel that I can do some good. That pleases me more than I can tell you.'
'There's no need to tell me. I can see it in your face.'
'Not at the moment.'
'No,' she said giving him a sympathetic hug. 'This case has upset you badly.'
'The murder has caused a deep wound in Baynard's Castle ward.'
'I feel the same about a bad tear in some linen. I want to sew it up again quickly.'
Jonathan was solemn. 'The tear that I have to mend is in a shroud.'
Sir Julius Cheever needed a few moments to collect himself. During his many walks across battlefields, he had seen death and mutilation hundreds of times and become inured to the sight, but this was very different. His own son lay on the slab beneath the shroud. Gabriel had been young, strong and brimming with energy the last time they had met. The hot words that Sir Julius had flung on that occasion came back to haunt him. They seemed so hollow and pointless now. Anger had taken hold and gnawed away at him for years. At last it was spent. All differences between father and son vanished in death. What remained was remorse and self- recrimination. Gritting his teeth, he peeled back the shroud to look down at the body. The weal round the neck was more livid than ever. He closed his eyes in agony and covered the face up again.
'That's my son,' he said quietly. 'That is Gabriel Cheever.'
Henry Redmayne had taken the sensible precautions advised by his brother. He left the house armed and kept his wits about him. Even when he was among friends in a gaming house, he kept his back to a wall so that nobody could come up unseen behind him. His companion, Sir Marcus Kemp, sat at a table nearby, keeping fear at bay by immersing himself in a game of cards. Glad to be back in one of his favourite haunts, Henry felt curiously uninvolved. It was as if he were seeing the place properly for the first time, albeit through a fug of tobacco smoke. Drink was flowing. Voices were raised. There was an air of sophisticated merriment. All seats were taken at the table where Sir Marcus Kemp was playing but Henry sensed an empty chair. In the past, Gabriel Cheever had always occupied a place at that particular table, winning in style and taking money from the purses of Henry, Sir Marcus and almost everyone else who pitted their skills against his. He had been a popular and respected man in the card-playing fraternity. Only those inflamed by drink had ever accused him of cheating or threatened him with violence.
'I spy a stranger!' said a voice. 'Henry Redmayne, I declare!'
Henry inclined his head in greeting. 'Well met, Peter.'
'Have you risen from your sick bed at last?'
'The thought of what I was missing was the best physician.'
'We have not seen you for days, Henry. Where have you been hiding?'
'Nowhere, my friend. I am back.'
'And most welcome.'
Peter Wickens gave him an affectionate slap on the back. He looked as suave and elegant as ever. Standing beside Henry, he gazed around the room to see whom he could recognise. Regular denizens were all there. He looked down at the nearest table.
'I see that Sir Marcus is ready to part with more of his fortune,' he remarked.
'He seems to be having some luck at last,' said Henry. 'Not before tim
e.'
'He's too reckless a player.'
'Boldness is essential in cards, Peter.'
'Only when tempered with discretion.'
'That was never his forte.'
'Indeed not. I've seen Sir Marcus lose a hundred guineas through a moment's indiscretion at the card table,' recalled Wickens with a wry smile. 'But that was when he was up against Gabriel Cheever.' His manner changed at once. 'Have you heard the terrible news about Gabriel?'
'Yes,' said Henry. 'It's very sad.'
'I was appalled. Arthur Lunn told me. He had it from some constable who came to see him. What a shock for dear Arthur!' he went on. 'He is enjoying a civilised cup of coffee when he suddenly learns that a friend of his has been murdered.'
'Has word of the crime spread?'
'It's the talk of the town, Henry.'
'Gabriel will be sorely missed.'
'Not by Sir Marcus,' said Wickens, nodding at the man. 'He's actually smiling at a card table. He never did that when he was Hitting opposite Gabriel Cheever. But how did you hear of this dreadful murder?' he asked, turning to Henry. 'I was shaken to the marrow. Do you know any details'
'None beyond the fact that the body was found on Paul's Wharf.'
'What possessed Gabriel to go there?'
'We may never know, Peter.'
He grimaced. 'Wharves are such insalubrious places. I keep clear of the river whenever I can. It seems to give off an unholy stench at times. And I've no love for the brutish people who make their living beside the Thames,' he added with a supercilious sneer. 'The lower orders are an affront to decency.'
'I am bound to agree with you there.'
'Arthur tells me this constable was an ugly fellow, blunt and uncouth.'
'Who else would take on such work?'
'We deserve better from our officers of the law,' argued Wickens loftily. 'If this constable wishes to speak to me, I shall tell him to mind his manners. Has he come in search of you yet, Henry?'
'No. Why should he?'
'According to Arthur Lunn, the man wants to speak to anyone who knew Gabriel well. I was not an intimate of his but I did enjoy an occasional game of cards with him.' He gave a chuckle. 'And I shared some other pleasures with Gabriel as well.'
'Most of us did that, Peter. He was ubiquitous.'
'The ladies would use a more vivid word for him than that.'
Henry laughed obligingly but he was not enjoying the conversation. Peter Wickens was a man after his own heart, wealthy, self-indulgent, generous with his friends and addicted to all the pleasures of the town. Henry had lost count of the number of times when he and Arthur Lunn had been driven to their respective houses in the early hours of the day by Peter Wickens's coachman. Yet he felt uneasy beside the man now, fearful that Wickens might probe him about his earlier desertion of his usual haunts. When he was last on these premises, he had been as carefree and affable as his companion. Two anonymous letters had altered that. Behind his token smile, Henry was a frightened man.
'Are you waiting to take a place at the table?' asked Wickens.
'No. I prefer to watch.'
'You normally like to be in the thick of things.'
'Later, perhaps.'
'Arthur and I thought to visit Mrs Curtis tonight.'
'I have other plans,' said Henry, quailing at the thought. 'Give her my apologies.'
Wickens grinned. 'There's only one way to apologise to a lady, Henry, and it does not involve an exchange of words. Mrs Curtis has been asking after you.'
'I'll not keeping her waiting long.'
Wickens was about to reply when one of the men at the table threw down his cards in disgust and got up. Annoyed at his losses, the man stormed out of the room. Peter Wickens moved swiftly. Before anyone else could take the vacant seat, he lowered himself into it and spread a smile around the other players. Sir Marcus Kemp gave him a nod of welcome then waited for the next round of cards to be dealt. They were soon lost in yet another game. Henry envied his two friends. Peter Wickens had no shadow hanging over him and Sir Marcus had found a way to ignore his problems. Henry could do nothing but stand there and suffer. It was excruciating. While everyone else in the room was enjoying himself immensely, Henry Redmayne was under sentence of death.
Susan Cheever was deeply worried about her father. Since his return from the morgue he had hardly spoken a word. Seated in a chair at the house in Fetter Lane, he brooded in silence. His face was drained of colour, his body of energy. Sir Julius looked as if he had just been dazed by a violent blow. Christopher set the brandy beside him.
'Drink that, Sir Julius,' he counselled.
His guest did not even hear him. Susan picked up the glass and offered it to her father, putting a hand on his shoulder at the same time. Her voice was a gentle caress.
'Take some of this, Father. It's brandy.' He waved it away. 'It will do you good.'
'I want nothing, Susan.'
'You look ill.'
'Should I call a doctor, Sir Julius?' suggested Christopher.
The old man bristled. 'Whatever for?'
'You seem unwell.'
'There's nothing the matter with me.'
'I'm delighted to hear it.'
'I have much on my mind that is all.'
'Naturally, Sir Julius.'
Before her father could lapse back into silence, Susan leaned forward in her seat. 'Perhaps it is time for us to leave,' she said gently. 'Mr Redmayne has been kindness itself but we have imposed on him far too much already and we need to find accommodation for the night.'
'You have found it, Miss Cheever,' said Christopher, opening his palms. 'If you have nowhere to stay, I insist that you remain as my guests.'
'That would be an abuse of your hospitality.'
'Treat my home as your own.'
'I think it better if Father and I withdraw.'
'Why?' said Christopher persuasively. 'You and Sir Julius can sleep here while your coachman spends the night at an inn in Holborn. We have ample room. There's fresh bed linen and Jacob will happily provide anything else that you require. Do please honour me by staying under my roof, Miss Cheever.'
Susan was clearly tempted by the notion but felt unable to make the decision on her father's behalf. The time she had spent alone with Christopher had been pleasant and restorative. It had helped to lift her out of her sombre mood. She felt completely at ease in his house. However, while wanting to accept the invitation, she had reservations about doing so. Sir Julius swept them aside.
'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' he murmured. 'If we may, we'll be your guests.'
'For as long as you wish, Sir Julius.'
'One night will be sufficient.'
'I'll make arrangements at once.'
Christopher got up to go into the kitchen, closing the door behind him so that he could have a private conversation with Jacob. The servant was cleaning some silverware by the light of a candle. Christopher could not keep the excitement out of his voice.
'Sir Julius and his daughter are staying the night, Jacob.'
'I know, sir. I took the liberty of preparing rooms for them.'
'You will need to speak to their coachman.'
'I've already done so, sir,' said Jacob complacently. 'We unloaded the luggage together. On my recommendation, he is on his way to the King's Head. He'll find lodging there.' He looked up with a smile. 'I read your mind sir. I knew that you would offer them hospitality.'
'You were ahead of me as usual.'
'Will the visitors require supper?'
'In time, perhaps. Sir Julius is still recovering from his ordeal.'
Christopher went back to the parlour to be given a smile of gratitude by Susan Cheever. Tired and drawn, she was still more concerned about her father's condition than her own fatigue. Sir Julius had drifted off into another reverie, grinding his teeth. Susan waited until Christopher had resumed his seat before she spoke to her father.
'What happened?' she asked quietly.
'What happened?' r
epeated Sir Julius. 'I saw the dead body of my son.'
'You should have let me come with you, Father.'
'No, Susan.'
'I could have helped you through it.'
'Nobody could have done that,' he said mournfully. 'Gabriel and I needed to be alone together once more, if only for a brief while. I'm grieved that it took something like this to mend the rift between us. What kind of a father have I been to him?' he said in a rare moment of self-doubt. 'Can I only love a son after he's been murdered?'
'You must not blame yourself, Sir Julius,' said Christopher.
'Yes, I must. I drove Gabriel away.'
'He would have gone, whatever you did' argued Susan. 'Gabriel was restless. He wanted to strike out on his own.'
'Do not remind me.'
'It no longer matters now.'
'Oh, it does,' he said soulfully. 'It does.'
'Did you make all the arrangements?'
'I tried to, Susan. But there is a problem I never anticipated.'
'A problem?'
'Yes,' he said with a note of disbelief. 'It seems that I was not the first member of the family to identify the body. Someone I did not even know existed went to the morgue before me - a young lady claiming to be Gabriel's wife.'
Susan's face remained impassive but Christopher could guess at her anxiety.
'Mrs Lucy Cheever,' continued the old man. 'That was the name she gave. And she showed the coroner legal proof of her marriage so he could not deny her access. I want the body to be taken back home to be buried in the family vault, but this mystery wife wishes to be at the funeral as well. That's what has shocked me,' he confessed. 'I cared so little about my own son that he could not even tell me he was married. Think what that poor woman must be going through. She is not only denied any contact with his family, she has now lost Gabriel himself. She must be in despair.'
'I hope that she'll be allowed to attend the funeral,' said Christopher.
'It would be cruel to keep her away.'
'Did the coroner give you her address? I'll gladly act as an intermediary.'
Sir Julius was brusque. 'Thank you, Mr Redmayne, but this is family business. I may have spurned my son but I'll not turn my back on my daughter-in-law. The lady lives in Knightrider Street. I'll call on her tomorrow.'
The Repentant Rake Page 13
