The Repentant Rake (5 page)

    Christopher
shrugged. 'If you insist.'

    'I
do.'

    'Then
first let me prove that I'm a man of my word - unlike you, I may say.' Christopher
opened the satchel to take out a piece of folded parchment. 'Here, see for
yourself. A town house in the Dutch style, commissioned by Sir Julius Cheever.'

    Mills
took the parchment and flicked it open to glance at the various drawings. They were
neat and explicit but he was still unconvinced. The pistol was turned in the
direction of the satchel.

    'I'll
wager there's something else in there, Mr Redmayne, or you'd not have been
nursing it like a baby throughout dinner. I'm wondering if this illustrious
client of yours might not have given you some money on account. Is
that
what's in the satchel?'

    'Alas
no!' sighed Christopher. 'But have it, if you must.'

    He
slipped an arm through it and lifted the strap over his head. Mills glanced down
at the drawings in his hand. It was a fatal mistake. Christopher moved at
lightning speed hurling the satchel into his face and diving straight at him,
knocking him against one of the stalls with such force that the pistol dropped
from his hand. It was no time for social niceties. Grabbing his adversary by
the throat, Christopher pounded his head against the stout timber. Mills
cursed, struggled and kicked but he was up against someone stronger and more
determined. Christopher was annoyed at himself for being duped and that gave
him extra power. When

    Mills
tried to pull out his dagger, Christopher hurled him to the ground and stamped
on his wrist until the weapon slid uselessly away. The commotion had upset the
horses and they neighed in alarm, shifting in their stalls as the two men
grappled together on the straw-covered floor.

    It
was when Mills's flailing body squirmed on to the drawings that Christopher
really lost his temper. They were only early sketches but they represented
something very important in his life and he was not going to have them treated
with disrespect With a burst of manic energy, he sat astride his opponent and
subdued him with a relay of punches to the face, ignoring the pain in his
knuckles until Mills lapsed into unconsciousness. Breathing heavily and with
bruises of his own from the fight, he hauled himself to his feet. His first
priority was to secure and silence the other man. When he found the rope in the
saddlebags he used it to bind Zachary Mills to a solid oak post, then took out
the latter's own handkerchief to use as a gag. Though his first instinct was to
deliver the man up to the local constable, he saw the drawbacks. It would mean
an interminable delay as he tried to explain what had happened and Mills would
assuredly contest his version of events. Pain and humiliation would be the
highwayman's punishment. Trussed up tightly and covered in blood, he would have
time to repent of his folly in choosing the wrong victim. It might be hours
before he was discovered and released by the departing travellers. Christopher
would be in the next county by then.

    Slipping
the satchel over his shoulder, he recovered the pistol and dropped it in with
the money from Sir Julius. He then picked up the parchment with the drawings on
it and smoothed it out reverently. When Mills opened a bloodshot eye,
Christopher showed no sympathy for him. He held up the parchment.

    'You
shouldn't have creased this,' he said. 'My drawings mean everything to me.'

    Dead
bodies held no fears for Jonathan Bale. He had looked on too many of them to be
either shocked or revolted. Those dragged out of the River Thames were the
worst, grotesque parodies of human beings, bloated out of all recognition and,
when first hauled from the dark water, giving off a fearsome stink. The corpse
that lay on the stone slab in the morgue was neither grossly misshapen nor
especially malodorous. Wounds were minimal and the herbs liberally scattered in
the cold chamber helped to smother the stench of death. Jonathan watched over
the shoulder of the surgeon as he examined the body that had been found at
Paul's Wharf on the previous night. He was struck by how peaceful the face of
the deceased looked, less like that of a murder victim than someone who had
passed gently away in his own bed.

    'Interesting,'
said the surgeon, peering at the cadaver's neck.

    'What
have you found sir?' asked Jonathan.

    'I'm
not sure.'

    'He's
so young to die.'

    'Still
in his twenties, I'd say Young, healthy and well muscled.'

    Jonathan
nodded. 'What a cruel waste of a life!'

    Ecclestone
continued his detailed inspection by the light of the candles. He was a small,
thin, agitated man in his fifties with colourless eyes and a skin so pale that
he might have climbed off one of the slabs in the morgue. A chamber of death
was his natural milieu and he had divined most of its secrets. While the
surgeon shifted his attention to the naked chest, Jonathan made his own
appraisal. The young man had been undeniably handsome in life, the long brown
hair well groomed and the carefully trimmed beard hinting at vanity. Smooth
hands and clean fingernails confirmed that he was a stranger to any manual
labour. There was an ugly red weal around his neck and bruising beneath his
left ear. What looked like more bruises showed on the chest and stomach. Only
one puncture wound was visible, close to the heart. The man's head lolled to
one side. His cheeks had a ruddy complexion.

    After
a thorough examination, Ecclestone stood back and clicked his tongue.

    'Well?'
said Jonathan.

    'He
was strangled to death, Mr Bale.'

    'I
thought he was stabbed through the heart.'

    'He
was,' agreed Ecclestone, 'but only after he was dead. That's why there was so
little blood. When death occurs, the circulation of the blood ceases.'

    'Why
stab a dead man?'

    'To
make absolutely sure that he was dead, I imagine.'

    'The murderer
took no chances,' noted Jonathan gruffly. 'He not only strangled and stabbed
the poor fellow, he beat him about the body for good measure.'

    'What
makes you think that, Mr Bale?'

    'Look
at those bruises, sir.'

    'That's
exactly what I have done.' He squinted up at the constable. 'You were one of
the men who found him, I understand.'

    'That
is so.'

    'Then
I'll warrant he was face down at the time.'

    Jonathan
was impressed. 'Why, so he was.'

    'And
had been for a little while, if my guess is correct.' He pointed a stick-like
finger. 'Those are not bruises you can see, Mr Bale. When the blood stops being
pumped around by the heart, it gradually sinks to the blood vessels in the
lowest part of the torso. In this case, to the chest and stomach, which have a
livid hue. After a certain amount of time, the purplish stains become fixed and
take on the appearance of large bruises. I've seen it happen so often. No,'
decided Ecclestone, gazing down at the corpse once more, 'I suspect that death
was swift, if brutal. Someone took him unawares and strangled him from behind,
putting a knee into the small of his back as he did so. If you turned him over,
as I did before you came in, you'd see the genuine bruise that's been left there.'

    'I
take your word for it, sir.'

    Ecclestone
was brisk. 'So, the cause of death has been established. My work is done. It's
up to others to discover the motive behind the murder.'

    'It
could hardly be gain,' argued Jonathan. 'There were valuable rings on his
fingers and money in his purse.'

    'It
was fortunate that you came along before anyone else found him.'

    'I
know.'

    'Do
you have any notion who he might be?'

    'None,
sir. There was no means of identification on him.'

    'Hardly
an
habitue
of Paul's Wharf, that's for sure.'

    'Quite,'
said Jonathan. 'You won't find a suit of clothes as costly as that being worn
in a warehouse. He's a gentleman of sorts with a family and friends who'll miss
him before long. Someone may soon come forward.'

    'And
if they don't?'

    'Then
we'll have to track his identity down by other means.'

    'Do
you have any witnesses?'

    'Not
so far, sir. My colleague, Tom Warburton, is making enquiries near the murder
scene this morning. When I spoke to him on my way here, he had had no success.
It was late when we found the body. The wharf was deserted at that time of
night. We are unlikely to find witnesses.'

    'What
was a man like this
doing
in such a place?'

    'I
don't think that he went there of his own accord, sir,' said Jonathan solemnly.
'I begin to wonder if he was killed elsewhere then dumped near that warehouse.'

    'Why
do you say that?'

    'Because
of the state of his apparel. When we found him last night, the back of his coat
was covered in dirt, as if he'd been dragged along the ground by someone. There
were a few stones caught up in the garment.' He took them from his pocket to
show them to the surgeon. 'Do you see how small and bright they are, sir? You
won't find any stones like this in the vicinity of the warehouse.'

    'You've
a sharp eye, Mr Bale.'

    Jonathan
put the stones away again. 'These may turn out to be useful clues.'

    'I
hope so. Well,' said Ecclestone, pulling the shroud over the corpse, 'I've told
you what I've seen. A young man cut down in his prime by a sly assailant. A
powerful one, too. The deceased would have fought for his life. Even with the
element of surprise in his favour, only a strong attacker could have got the
better of him.'

    'Unless
he was groggy with drink.'

    'I
detected no smell of alcohol in his mouth.'

    'Oh.'

    'You
can rule that out.' The surgeon turned and walked out of the morgue. Jonathan
followed him, glad to quit the dank and depressing chamber. When they stepped out
into the fresh air, he took several deep breaths. Ecclestone paused to stare up
at him.

    'Is
there anything else that I can tell you, Mr Bale?' he asked.

    'No
thank you, sir. You've been very helpful.'

    'This
was no random murder.'

    'What
do you mean?'

    'It
did not happen by accident on the spur of the moment. If you or I wished to
strangle someone, we'd never do it as quickly and efficiently as that. Do you
hear what I'm saying, Mr Bale?'

    'I
believe so. It was not the work of an amateur.'

    'Exactly.
This man has killed before. Often, probably.'

    'A
hired assassin?'

    'Certainly
not a person to turn your back on.' He licked his lips and closed one eye. 'You
said earlier that you'd have to find out the victim's identity by other means.'

    'The
search will begin this very morning, sir.'

    'Where?'

    'Among
the most exclusive shoemakers in the city.'

    'Shoemakers?'

    'Yes,'
said Jonathan, producing the shoe that had been picked up at the wharf by an
inquisitive dog. 'I want to find out who sold him this.'

    'What
happened to you, Mr Redmayne?' said Jacob in alarm. 'Your face is bruised and
your coat is torn. Is that blood on your sleeve?'

    'Yes,
Jacob,' said Christopher, putting his satchel down and removing his coat, 'but
you'll be pleased to know that it's not mine. A highwayman made the mistake of
trying to rob me and had to be put in his place.' He flexed both hands. 'My
knuckles still hurt from the fight.'

    The
servant blenched. 'A highwayman?'

    'Don't
worry. I learned my lesson. On the following day, I put safety before valour
and joined a party of travellers on their way to London. It slowed me right
down but gave me an opportunity to nurse my wounds. I spent the second night at
an inn with my companions. And here I am,' he announced, spreading his arms.
'Home again, with no harm done.'