The Repentant Rake (29 page)

    'Amused?'
echoed Susan in surprise.

    'Gabriel
had such a wicked sense of fun. Some of the entries in his diary were so
comical that I burst out laughing.' A hunted look came into her eye. 'Even that
pleasure has been taken from me now. Someone stole the diary from the house.'

    'Did
they take anything else?'

    'No,
Susan. They only came for one thing.'

    'Would
you have read the diary in full if it was still in your possession?'

    'Who
knows?' said Lucy evasively, resisting the gentle interrogation. 'But let us
talk about you, Susan. I am grateful for your company, but you must not feel
tied to my apron strings while you are in London. Your sister will doubtless
want to see you and there must be other friends you can visit in the city.'

    'One
perhaps,' said Susan wistfully.

    'Mr
Christopher Redmayne?' She smiled as her companion blinked. 'I may be in mourning,
Susan, but that does not mean I am deaf. Since we left Northamptonshire, that
gentleman's name has been on your tongue a dozen times. I think that you are
fond of Mr Redmayne.'

    'He
is a personable young man.'

    'He
is much more than that to you, I suspect.'

    'We
are barely acquainted,' denied Susan without conviction.

    'No
matter,' said the other, touching her arm. 'It is none of my business. I just
thought that you might be interested in an odd coincidence.'

    'Coincidence?'

    'Yes,
it came back into my mind when you talked about Gabriel's diary just now. I
only read a small portion of it but I do recall one of the names I saw.'

    'What
was it?'

    'Henry
Redmayne.'

    Susan
was startled. 'Redmayne?'

    'He
was part of Gabriel's circle.'

    'I
see.'

    'He
may, of course, be no relation at all of our Mr Redmayne,' said Lucy
thoughtfully, 'but it is not all that common a name so there is a possibility.
Has he mentioned anyone called Henry to you?'

    'No,'
murmured Susan, frowning with dismay.

    Lucy
was alarmed. 'Have I said something to offend you?'

    'Not
at all.'

    'I
would hate to do that.'

    Susan
forced a smile. 'You have done nothing of the sort, Lucy.'

    'Are
you sure?'

    'Quite
sure.'

    But
for a reason that she did not understand, Susan was suddenly disconcerted.

    Covent
Garden was high on Christopher Redmayne's list of favourite architectural
sights in the capital. A great admirer of the work of Inigo Jones, he had
studied the area with great interest, noting how the houses in the piazza had
front doors that opened on to vaulted arcades in the manner of Sebastiano
Selio. Not everyone had approved of the importation of Italian styles to a
prime site in the capital and Jones had sustained heavy criticism from some
quarters, but Christopher had nothing but praise for Covent Garden. The church
of St Paul's dominated one side of the square and looked out on the high
terraced houses that extended along the other three sides. The properties had an
imposing facade, generous proportions, a pleasant garden and stabling at the
rear. When they were first built they attracted rich tenants, but the area was
slightly less fashionable now and had yielded the palm to the new developments
to the west such as St James's Square. The presence of the market brought more
visitors to Covent Garden but deterred potential tenants who did not like the
crowds that flocked round the stalls in the square.

    Christopher
had little time to admire the scene on this occasion. Obeying the instruction
in the letter to Sir Marcus Kemp, he made his way to the church of St Paul's
just before noon and waited at the specified spot. The market was in full swing
and the noise of haggling was carried on the light breeze. Somewhere in the
middle of the tumult was Jonathan Bale, concealed from sight, keeping his
friend under observation and ready to follow anyone who might relieve
Christopher of the large purse he was carrying. As the latter stood in front of
the church, he wondered if anyone would approach him when it was seen that he
was not Sir Marcus Kemp. Suspecting a ruse, the blackmailer might simply
retreat. Noon came and passed but nobody stopped to speak to him, let alone to
relieve him of one thousand guineas. Christopher's thoughts turned to the
magnificence of the square again. Inigo Jones had begun as an apprentice to a
joiner in St Paul's Churchyard. It always seemed incredible to Christopher that
a man from such humble origins could rise to the position of the King's Surveyor
of Works and be responsible for such buildings as the Banqueting House and the
New Exchange.

    Caught
up in his admiration of a fellow architect, Christopher did not notice the
young boy who came trotting up to him. He was a tall, thin lad with tousled
hair. His clothing was shabby and his manner obsequious.

    'Are
you from Sir Marcus Kemp, sir?' he asked.

    'Yes,'
said Christopher, seeing him for the first time.

    The
boy held out his hand. 'I am to take what you have, sir.'

    'Who
sent you?'

    'A
gentleman, sir. Give it to me or I get no reward.'

    'Which
gentleman?'

    'In
the market.'

    'Where?
Point him out.'

    'Please,
sir. He'll not wait.'

    'Did
he give you a name?'

    'No,
sir.'

    Christopher
showed him the purse. 'Point him out and you shall have the money.'

    'There,
sir,' said the boy, indicating a tall man in the crowd.

    'Where?'

    'Beside
that stall.'

    Having
distracted Christopher, the boy grabbed the purse and went haring off.

    'Wait!'

    Christopher's
shout was drowned beneath the sea of voices in the square. Though he tried to
keep track of the boy, he soon lost him in the melee. The lad disappeared into
the heart of the market and for a moment Christopher feared that Jonathan Bale
might have missed him as well, but he trusted in the constable's vigilance.
Whichever way the boy went, the constable would somehow follow him. All that
Christopher could do was wait outside the church until his friend returned with
information about the whereabouts of the blackmailer. It might even be that an
arrest would already have been made. He wondered if he should slip into the
church and offer up a prayer for the capture of the man who had caused such
grief to so many people. Inevitably, his thoughts settled on Susan Cheever.

    He
did not have long to wait. As soon as he saw Jonathan Bale emerging from the
throng, however, he knew that there were bad tidings. The constable was alone.
When he reached Christopher, he lifted his broad shoulders in apology.

    'He
was too quick for me, Mr Redmayne.'

    'That
lad could certainly run.'

    'Not
him, sir,' explained Jonathan. 'The man we're after. He's more cunning than I
bargained for. My legs are not that slow. I caught the lad before he got to The
Strand. He was eating an apple that he bought with the money he earned.'

    'Where
was the purse?'

    'He
was paid to slip it to another boy by one of the stalls.'

    'Which
stall?'

    'He
could not remember,' said Jonathan sadly, 'and there was no point in trying to
shake the truth out of him. The lad was an innocent pawn in all this. He did
not even get a proper look at the man who employed him.'

    'It
was cleverly done, Mr Bale.'

    'I
know. He took the purse from you, darted into the crowd, and gave the money to
a second boy who then passed it on to the man we want. The villain was taking
no chances. He used two boys as his couriers and watched it all from safety.'

    'Yes,'
sighed Christopher. 'We were outfoxed.'

    'Only
because we were expected, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Expected?'

    'The
blackmailer realised that a trap was being set for him.'

    'How?'

    'I
have no idea,' said Jonathan, 'but that lad did not pick you out by chance.'

    'What
do you mean, Mr Bale?'

    'It was
one thing I did squeeze out of him.'

    'Well?'

    'He
knew your name, Mr Redmayne. Someone recognised you.'

    Christopher
felt as if he had just been kicked hard in the stomach.

    Celia
Hemmings was writing a letter when she heard the doorbell ring. Pleased to
learn that the visitor was Christopher Redmayne, she asked that he should be
shown into the room at once. She gave him a cordial welcome and swept aside his
apologies.

    'If
you are in the area, call at any time,' she said.

    'That's
most kind of you, Miss Hemmings,' said Christopher, taking the seat that was
offered 'but I would hate to impose on you.'

    'From
what I hear, Mr Redmayne, you impose on nobody.'

    'Who
told you that?'

    'Your
brother. You were mentioned in passing on more than one occasion by Henry. As
someone who cheerfully loathed the very notion of work, he simply could not
comprehend how you could enjoy it.'

    'I
luxuriate in it, Miss Hemmings.'

    'Quite,
sir. So I need hardly fear a daily visit from you.'

    'No,'
said Christopher pleasantly. 'Once we have solved this murder, I will be
spending all of my time on the new house for Sir Julius Cheever.'

    'He
is not at all as I imagined,' she observed. 'Gabriel had painted him as a
monster yet he seemed like a dignified old man when I saw him at the funeral.'

    'His
son's death mellowed him considerably.'

    'Then
he really does breathe fire?'

    'Not
exactly, Miss Hemmings,' replied Christopher with a smile, 'but he can singe
your ears if he has a mind to do so.'

    'I
hope he does not even know of my existence.'

    'I am
certain that he does not.'

    'Good.'

    'I
must say that I was touched to see you at the funeral. Did you get back safely
from Northamptonshire?'

    'Eventually,'
she said. 'Arthur Lunn took us by the most roundabout route.'

    Christopher
was critical. 'I did not detect any real sorrow in Mr Lunn.'

    'Expressing
his emotions is something that Arthur regards as beneath him. I dare say that
he had sincere regrets about Gabriel's death but he would never admit to them.
He was there to make it possible for me to attend.'

    'I
appreciate that, Miss Hemmings.'

    Christopher
was glad that he had succumbed to the impulse to call on her. After the setback
he had just suffered in Covent Garden, he was in search of consolation. Since
she lived so close to the square, he hoped that he might find it at her house.
Wondering why he had come, Celia Hemmings subjected him to a searching gaze.
Bereavement left her subdued but there was the faintest hint of flirtatiousness
in her eye. She adjusted her position in the chair. Unlike Lucy Cheever, she
was very conscious of her charms and knew how to make the most of them. The
chasm between the two women was deep and wide. Christopher wondered afresh how
Gabriel had bridged it so successfully.

    'Did
you see what you wanted at the funeral?' he asked quietly.

    'I
went to see Gabriel being buried, Mr Redmayne,' she said sharply, 'and not to
peer at his widow.'

    'That's
not what I meant.'

    'Oh?'