The Repentant Rake

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 time.'

'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?' repeated 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.'

'Let me go with you, Father,' urged Susan.

'Why?'

'I'd like to meet her.'

Sir Julius shot her a look compounded of curiosity, affection and distant anger. 'Did you know that Gabriel had a wife?' he asked.

Susan did not hesitate. 'Yes, Father,' she said. 'I did.'

Alice Runciman had preserved a resolute cheerfulness in the face of adversity. Death had robbed her of her parents, her husband, three of her five children and during the Great Plague, several members of her wider family but no despair clouded her gaze. She was indomitable. Primed by his wife, Jonathan Bale knew that Mrs Runciman had a sharp eye but he had not been told about the permanent smile on her lips. Short and stout, she had a florid complexion that made her cheeks look like shiny red apples. Jonathan warmed to her at once. The name of Sarah Bale gained him a cordial welcome. They were soon ensconced in the parlour, trading gossip about the ward. The constable had to remind himself that he was there on important business.

'Mrs Runciman,' he said. 'I really came to ask about your neighbours.'

'Oh?' she replied. 'Which ones?'

'They go by the name of Henley.'

'Ah, yes. They only moved in recently.'

'What can you tell me about them?'

'Why?' she wondered, suspecting scandal. 'Have they done something wrong?'

'No, Mrs Runciman. Far from it.'

'Then why come to me? You are the second constable in one day to call here. Another man knocked on my door this afternoon.'

'That was Tom Warburton.'

'He wanted to know if a Mrs Cheever lodged here. I knew nobody of that name.'

'She lives a few doors away,' explained Jonathan. 'When she got married, Lucy Henley became Mrs Gabriel Cheever.'

'Then why call herself by her maiden name?'

'I'm not sure, Mrs Runciman.'

'Good Lord!' said the other with a chortle. 'I live that close to someone and I don't even know their real name. A fine neighbour I am!' Her eyelids narrowed. 'Why are you so interested in them, Mr Bale?'

'Gabriel Cheever was murdered earlier this week.'

'Never!'

'I was there when the body was found on Paul's Wharf.'

'Is that who it was?' she said, oozing with sympathy. 'We wondered who it might be. Mrs Gately was talking about it only this morning. She thought it might be a sailor, killed in a brawl. And you say that it was Mr Henley?'

'Cheever,' he corrected.

'He was the murdered man?'

'I fear so.'

'Heavens! Think of his wife! She's far too young and frail to bear such a tragedy.'

'Mrs Cheever is stronger than she looks.'

'There's hardly anything of her. She's such a pretty little thing. Well, who would have guessed it?' she said with a long sigh. 'Her husband was a proper gentleman. He was always so polite. Yet he was killed? Who could do such a terrible thing?'

'We are still trying to find that out, Mrs Runciman. That's why I came.'

'What can I do?'

'Tell me all you know about your neighbours.'

'That's soon done, Mr Bale,' she said, folding her arms. 'I barely knew them. They were very private people. They hardly stirred out of the house.'

'Did they have many visitors?'

'I never saw any.'

'What of their maidservant?'

'I met her in the market once or twice but she had no tongue in her head either. It was an effort to get a word out of her so I gave up trying. Neighbours should be friends, Mr Bale,' she insisted. 'Life is much easier that way. They thought otherwise.'

'They must have had good reason to keep out of sight.'

'I've no idea what it might be.'

'Did you see anything of them at all, Mrs Runciman?'

'Only on Sundays.'

'Sundays?'

'Yes, Mr Bale. They were regular churchgoers, no question of that.'

'What do you mean?'

'They were out of the house before the bells had even started ringing. I'd see them walking down the street arm in arm. They may have had some strange habits,' she went on, 'but I'll say this for them. They were true Christians.'

Jonathan thought about a crucifix nailed to a wall.

Alone in his dining room, Christopher Redmayne looked back on the day with a sadness that was tinged with pleasure. Breaking the news of her husband's death to Lucy Cheever had been even more harrowing for him than carrying the same tidings to Richmond. While the dead man's father and sister could support each other in their bereavement, his wife was completely on her own. That she somehow visited the morgue to identify the body was a tribute to her courage as well as to her love. Christopher had been moved to hear about it from Sir Julius. Yet it was what Susan Cheever had told him that really occupied his thoughts. Her unexpected arrival had been a source of joy to him and her comments about her brother's work had been a revelation. Christopher wondered if he had finally stumbled on the motive behind the murder.

Eager to stay with her as long as possible, he had sensed that he should withdraw in order to let her talk in private with her father. They had been grateful for his considerate behaviour. There was much for them to discuss and it was over an hour before they called him back into the room. Even though Sir Julius still looked hurt and betrayed, a measure of understanding had clearly been achieved between father and daughter. Christopher prevailed upon them to eat a light supper then they departed for the night to their separate rooms. When Jacob had cleared everything away, his master sent him off to bed as well, wanting to stay up for a while himself to reflect on events. The very fact that Susan Cheever was sleeping beneath his roof gave him a recurring thrill. Even in such unfortunate circumstances, she was a most welcome guest. Her bedchamber adjoined his own. When he laid his head on his pillow, he realised, he would be less than six feet away from her. Christopher picked up the one remaining candle and headed for the stairs.

A knock on his front door made him pause. He wondered who could be calling at such an hour. When he opened the door, he found himself looking at the last person he expected to find there.

'Mr Bale!'

'I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Redmayne,' said Jonathan, hands gesturing an apology, 'but I have learned something that may be of interest.'

'Come in, come in.'

'No, sir. It's far too late and I've a home of my own to get to.'

'What is it that you have discovered?'

'I spoke to a Mrs Runciman,' explained Jonathan. 'She lives close to the Cheever house in Knightrider Street. Gabriel Cheever and his wife kept themselves to themselves, it seems, though she always saw them going to church on Sundays. It was as I was leaving Mrs Runciman that I was given the news.'

'What news, Mr Bale?'

'The maidservant must have seen me as I went past the house earlier.'

'Anna? The Cheevers' maidservant?'

'Yes. She was waiting for me in the street. After we left her this afternoon, Mrs Cheever asked the maid to search the house more thoroughly to see if anything was taken. It was, Mr Redmayne.'

'Go on.'

'Some of Mr Cheever's papers were missing.'

'I knew it!' said Christopher.

Jonathan was puzzled. 'You did? How?'

'This is not the time to explain. Suffice it to say that Gabriel Cheever had written something that could be a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. Thank you, Mr Bale,' he said effusively 'I'm so grateful that you brought this information.'

'I felt that it might be important.'

'It is crucial.'

'Good,' said Jonathan. 'My visit to Mrs Runciman was worthwhile.'

He bade farewell and set off down the street with his long stride. Christopher watched him until he was swallowed up by the darkness, then closed the front door and withdrew into the house. Before he could retire to bed, however, he was detained yet again.

The clatter of hooves made him prick up his ears. Someone was riding along Fetter Lane at speed. When he heard the horse being reined in outside his door, he knew that he had another visitor. Christopher opened the door to see his brother dismounting from the saddle. Henry was almost out of breath.

'Thank goodness you are here, Christopher!' he exclaimed.

'Why? What ails you?'

'I'm being followed.'

'By whom?' said Christopher, looking up and down the empty street. 'I see nobody. Your imagination is playing tricks on you, Henry.'

'There was someone, I tell you. He has been on my tail every inch of the way.'

'You've shaken him off now.'

'Only because I've found sanctuary,' said Henry, glancing over his shoulder. 'He is probably hiding in the shadows somewhere. Let me come in.'

'At this hour?'

'Please. I must.'

'As you wish. Tether your horse by the stable.'

A minute later, Henry stepped gratefully into the house and shut the door behind him. Christopher took him into the dining room, lit some more candles then passed a bottle of brandy to Henry. His brother poured some into a glass and drank it down.

'I needed that,' he said.

'You're shaking all over.'

'You would shake if you had an assassin stalking you.'

'Is that what you think he was?'

'What else could he be?' asked Henry impatiently. 'I receive a death threat and someone follows me home in the dark. Even you must see a link between those two events, Christopher.'

'A possible link,' conceded his brother.

'Possible enough for me. I'll go no further tonight.'

'You must, Henry.'

'I'll stay the night here. Have Jacob prepare a room for me.'

'Jacob is fast asleep in bed.'

'Then rouse him from his dreams at once,' ordered Henry.

'Damn it, man! I'm your brother. My safety surely comes before your servant's comfort.'

'Of course, but I already have guests here. There's no room to spare.'

'Guests?'

'Sir Julius Cheever and his younger daughter.'

Henry was indignant. 'Are they being preferred over me as well?'

'It is not a question of preference,' said Christopher soothingly, 'but of expedience. They came to London to identify Gabriel's body. I could hardly turn them away.'

'Why not? You turn me away.'

'That's not what I'm doing. Stay if you must, Henry. I'll even surrender my own bed to you, if it means so much to you. All I am saying is that this is not the most convenient time. You must appreciate that.'

'Why talk of convenience when my life is at stake?' complained Henry.

'Hush!' said Christopher with a finger to his lips. 'You'll wake them. I promise you this. If you're too nervous to continue on home yourself, I'll act as your bodyguard and deliver you safely to Bedford Street.' He patted his brother's arm. 'Now, why not tell me exactly what happened tonight and why you believe that you are being followed?' He indicated the bottle. 'Help yourself to more brandy.'

Henry was slightly mollified. After draining his glass, he poured himself another drink then launched into his tale. His evening at the gaming house had been extended well into the night by Sir Marcus Kemp, who refused to quit the table while he was winning. Banking on his friend's company, Henry had eventually been forced to ride home alone and found that someone was lurking outside to trail him.

'The villain might have struck at any moment!' he concluded.

'Then why didn't he?'

'He was biding his time.'

'It's more likely that he was thinking twice about attacking you when he saw that you carried a sword. You called him an assassin,' said Christopher reasonably, 'but he could just as easily have been a robber, waiting to pounce on some unwary gentleman who was rolling home alone with too much drink inside him.' He gave a smile. 'Or he might just have been someone travelling harmlessly in the same direction as you.'

'There was nothing harmless about this man, Christopher.'

'How do you know?'

'I could feel his menace.'

'Henry, you would feel menaced if a cat followed you home.'

'That's a heartless thing to say!' protested Henry. 'Do you want your brother to be stabbed in the back only yards from his own front door?'

'No,' said Christopher, 'but then, that would never happen. Why wait until you reach Bedford Street before attacking you when you've already ridden past a dozen more suitable places for an ambush? Nobody is trying to kill you, Henry. I am sure of that.'

'You saw that letter.'

'It achieved what it intended. To give you a fright.'

'It certainly did that. I've had enough, Christopher.'

'Enough?'

'I'm inclined to pay the money and have done with the whole thing!'

'That's the last thing you must do.'

'My life is more important to me than five hundred guineas.'

'But that will not buy you peace of mind,' asserted Christopher. 'It's only a first instalment. When he's squeezed one payment out of you, the blackmailer will have you at his mercy. The demands will never cease.'

'The first letter promised that they would.'

'How much faith can you put in the word of a man like that?'

Henry was still trembling. 'It's the only hope I have of staying alive.'

'That death threat was hollow,' said Christopher positively. 'I'm certain of it.'

'Gabriel Cheever was killed because he did not pay what was demanded;

'No, Henry. There was no attempted blackmail where Gabriel was concerned.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I have learned something about his literary endeavours,' said Christopher. 'Gabriel came to London to fulfil his ambition of being an author. He was very talented. As well as writing poems and plays, however, Gabriel kept a diary.'

'A diary?'

'A very explicit diary, I gather.'

'In what sense?'

'It was a form of confession. A detailed account of all the nights he spent in the company of dissolute revellers like Sir Marcus Kemp, Peter Wickens, Arthur Lunn and of course, Henry Redmayne.'

Henry was aghast. 'He wrote about me?'

'My guess is that your name figured quite prominently in the memoir. Do you understand now? All that time that you and your friends got up to your devilish antics, you had a Recording Angel at your shoulder.'

'That's an appalling thing to do to us.'

'Gabriel Cheever paid for it with his life.'

'What do you mean?'

'That's why he was killed Henry. Not because he refused to give in to any demands. What he wrote from personal guilt,' explained Christopher, 'was a potential source of blackmail. Gabriel was murdered so that someone could steal his diary.'

Lucy Cheever passed a sleepless night in an empty bed. A room that had been filled with so much love and tenderness now seemed bleak and inhospitable. She could not believe that her husband was dead. Even though she had seen his body laid out at the morgue, she entertained the ridiculous hope that he would somehow return to her. That hope finally shrivelled away in the darkness. By the time dawn came, she knew that he had gone for ever. Eyes red with weeping, she lay on the bed in despair. She and Gabriel Cheever had given up so much in order to be together. Now she was left with nothing.

Anna was a caring woman. Though Lucy said that she wanted no breakfast, the maidservant coaxed her into eating a little bread and drinking some whey. She also helped to dress her mistress, fearing that she might otherwise simply stay in bed all day and be overcome with grief. Anna had been very fond of her master and was shocked by his death, but the situation compelled her to keep her own emotions under control.

'They'll find the man responsible for this,' she said.

'I hope so, Anna.'

'Put faith in Mr Bale. He'll not rest until the crime is solved.'

'It's Mr Redmayne that I trust,' said Lucy. 'He was so kind to me when he came here yesterday. He never even knew Gabriel yet he was eager to help in the search for his killer. I put my faith in him.'

'He and Mr Bale will work together.'

'Yes.' An upsurge of sorrow made Lucy burst into tears. 'But they'll not be able to bring Gabriel back to me, Anna. My husband is gone.'

Anna put a consoling arm round her. Lucy dried her tears then detached herself to walk around the bedchamber. It was filled with fond memories. They brought a degree of comfort. She was still grasping at some of them when she heard a noise in the street outside. A coach was rattling along the thoroughfare. Anna crossed to the window.

'It's stopped outside the house,' she announced.

'Here?'

'Someone is getting out, Mrs Cheever.'

'I'm expecting no visitors.'

'It's an elderly gentleman and a young lady.'

'Go and see what they want, Anna.'

'I'll send them away,' said the maidservant firmly. 'You can't receive anyone.'

She went bustling out and descended the stairs. Looking at herself in the mirror, Lucy dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and adjusted a curl. When the bell rang below, she heard the door being opened. She moved to the top of the stairs so that she could eavesdrop without being seen.

'I wish to speak to Mrs Lucy Cheever,' said the man's voice.

'My mistress is unable to see anyone today, sir,' replied Anna briskly.

'She may wish to see us.'

'I doubt that.'

'Let her know that Sir Julius Cheever has called with his daughter, Susan. I crave a word about my son. We'll not keep her long.'

Lucy was in a turmoil. Everything that Gabriel had told her about his father made Sir Julius sound like an ogre. Had he come to bully his daughter-in-law in the same way that he had bullied his son? Or was he there to argue about the arrangements for the funeral? Whatever his reason for coming, he could not be ignored. Summoning up all of her strength, Lucy came down the stairs and into the hall. Anna stood back so that her mistress could see the visitors. Lucy looked at her father-in-law with apprehension, but it was ill-founded. He was not the tyrant of report at all. Sir Julius Cheever was a sad old man with moist eyes and a tentative smile of welcome. Standing beside him was a handsome young woman whose resemblance to her brother took Lucy's breath away.

It was Susan who made any introductions unnecessary. Flinging her arms round Lucy, she kissed her on both cheeks then stepped back to look at her through her tears.

'Hello, Lucy,' she said. 'Father and I are so pleased to meet you.'