The Repentant Rake (15 page)

    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. Seeing 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.

    Christopher
was still sceptical about the suggested motive for the murder. Everything he
had heard about Gabriel Cheever indicated a young man who would meet blackmail
demands with contempt. What could possibly be disclosed that he would find at
all embarrassing? The irony was that the only things he kept secret were his
literary aspirations and they would hardly be a source of blackmail.
Christopher decided to keep an open mind about the reasons that prompted
someone to kill him. What had altered the situation slightly was the
intelligence, confided by his brother on the previous day, that Sir Marcus Kemp
was also a victim of attempted extortion, with one significant difference. In
the latter case, no death threat had been received. Why had Henry Redmayne been
singled out for additional pressure, if, indeed, that is what had happened?
Christopher could not exclude the possibility that others might also have been
the target for blackmail and, perhaps, for a secondary threat. One thing seemed
incontrovertible. The man behind the letters was an insider. He was part of the
social circle that embraced Henry Redmayne, Sir Marcus Kemp and Gabriel
Cheever. It was not a world in which Jonathan Bale would be able to operate
with any ease. Christopher knew that he would have to take much of the
investigative burden on himself.

    Following
the Thames south as it snaked through the verdant acres of Surrey, he travelled
without incident and kept up a steady pace. There was an incidental bonus. His
journey took him past Richmond Palace and he paused to enjoy the architectural
refinements of a building that dated, for the most part, back to the reign of
the first Tudor monarch. Though he had seen it several times before, he feasted
his gaze on its sheer splendour. Particular interest was reserved for
Trumpeters' House. It was situated off the Green behind Old Palace Yard and
Christopher admired its elegant lines for a long while, knowing that he would
never be able to design a royal residence but wishing that he might one day be
able to put his name to a house as fine as the one before him. The vain thought
was soon dismissed. Chiding himself for being deflected from his purpose, he
swung his horse round and kicked it into a canter.

    Serle
Court was little more than a mile away. Set on a rise in rolling countryside,
it was an imposing sight from a distance. Closer inspection revealed its
shortcomings. Its turrets looked faintly ridiculous, its battlements ugly and
the tiled areas of roof at war with the larger expanse of thatch. Its scale was
its chief recommendation. Christopher wished that he could strip away the
fortifications to let the manor house stand on its own merits again. Everything
else about the estate was impressive. The grounds of the house were well kept,
the landscape offered pleasing prospects on all sides and the fountain in the
forecourt was a positive delight. What gave him a sudden thrill of recognition
was the sight of the coach that was being taken round to the stable yard.
Christopher was certain that he had seen it once before in Northamptonshire.