The Repentant Rake

Chapter Nine

The funeral of Gabriel Cheever was held at the parish church of St Andrew in the county of Northamptonshire. Built on the summit of a hill, the church acted as a beacon of hope and inspiration to the surrounding villages from which it drew its congregation. Christopher Redmayne took note of its architectural features, admiring the work of the stonemasons who had constructed the church over two centuries earlier and marvelling at the way they had overcome the problems of erecting the massive conical spire that pointed towards heaven with such reassuring certainty. Though its exterior was bathed in sunshine, the inside of the church was cold and cheerless. It seemed too large for the two dozen people who shuffled into their seats. Sir Julius Cheever wanted the funeral to be a quiet affair and only the closest family friends even knew that it was taking place. The deceased was no prodigal son being welcomed home by a delighted father. He was a murder victim who had left home after violent arguments. His funeral was also a service of reconciliation.

Like everyone else, Christopher was dressed appropriately in mourning clothes, helping to create a swathe of black across the front of the nave. He sat at the rear of the little congregation, wanting to be present but anxious to keep in the background an observer as much as a mourner. Seated in the front row were the members of the Cheever family and he ran his eye along their heads. Sir Julius was flanked by his two daughters. Brilliana Serle was weeping copiously as if trying to atone for the hostility she had shown towards her brother. Her husband tried to console her but she was too determined to draw attention to herself to succumb to his soothing touch. Susan Cheever bore herself with more dignity, subordinating her own grief to that of the diminutive figure who sat beside her. Christopher was moved to see that Lucy Cheever had been given pride of place alongside the others, her head bowed in prayer, her hand clutching that of her younger sister-in-law. It was ironic that she had to wait until her husband had been killed before she could be accepted by his family. No members of her own family were there. Two rows back, Anna, her loyal maidservant, was on hand to lend support to her mistress in the event of any collapse.

A minute before the service began, two latecomers slipped into the church. Hearing the latch being lifted and the heavy oak door opened, Christopher looked over his shoulder to see a man and a woman making their way slowly down the nave before sitting in a pew a few rows behind the main party. Both were dressed in black and kept their heads down, but Christopher thought that there was something familiar about the woman. When she glanced across the aisle at him, he caught a glimpse of the white face beneath the elaborate black hat and recognised Celia Hemmings. He was touched that she had made such a long journey in order to pay her last respects to her former lover but relieved that she sat apart from the family and close friends as if acknowledging her position with regard to Gabriel Cheever. Christopher wondered who her companion might be but he had no time to speculate because the funeral service began.

The vicar was a white-haired old man who had ministered to his flock for over thirty years and knew the Cheever family well. He conducted the service with practised solemnity. Having baptised Gabriel and prepared him for confirmation, he was able to talk with authority and affection about the dead man, sounding positive notes in the prevailing sadness and omitting any mention of his departure to London and its tragic consequences. Brilliana contributed some loud sobbing at various points in the sermon and Susan Cheever was also tearful but Lucy showed remarkable restraint, memorising every word said about her husband as if learning entirely new facts about him. In saying farewell to the man she had married, she was somehow discovering him.

The burial itself took place in the crypt, a dank, chill chamber lit by a number of shivering candle flames. The last remains of Gabriel Cheever were laid to rest in a family vault that already contained the bones of his mother and his grandparents. Sir Julius was visibly shaken and Brilliana wept more dramatically than ever until her husband, to his credit, put an arm round her to bury her face in his bosom and stifle the noise. Christopher watched Susan Cheever and mused on a paradox. The one member of the family who had not rejected Gabriel was not allowed to mourn his loss properly because she was too busy offering solace to her father and sister-in-law. Indeed, when Lucy's control finally snapped, it was Susan who caught her before she could fall to the stone-flagged floor. Anna moved in swiftly to help her mistress up the stone steps and out of the crypt. Christopher lent a steadying hand. The full force of her loss had finally hit Lucy Cheever and she was inconsolable. They lowered her gently down in a pew so that she could bury her face in her hands. Amid the sobbing, Christopher could hear prayers being said in Latin. The maidservant took charge. When he saw that he was no longer needed, Christopher drifted away.

After such a long time in the shadowed interior of the church, it was a shock to step out into bright sunlight. The fine weather seemed faintly inappropriate for a funeral but Christopher was grateful to be out in the fresh air again. As other members of the congregation filed out, he took the opportunity to intercept Celia Hemmings and her companion, realising, now that he could see the man clearly, that he knew him. It was Arthur Lunn, one of his brother's friends, so renowned for his ostentation that he was virtually unrecognisable in mourning apparel. Celia was tearful und Lunn subdued. They exchanged muted greetings with Christopher.

'It was very good of you to come,' he said.

'I would not have missed it,' murmured Celia.

'How did you know when the funeral would be held?'

'We made enquiries of the coroner,' explained Lunn, 'so we knew when the body was being brought back to Northamptonshire. In fact, we got here ahead of it.'

Christopher nodded. 'The journey took three days. A coffin has to be transported at a respectful pace. But how did you guess where to come?'

'I knew where Gabriel lived' said Celia quietly. 'Once we found his home, we came here to the church. Word had already been sent on ahead to the vicar so he was able to give us details of the funeral.'

'We might ask what you are doing here, young sir?' said Lunn.

'I'm a friend of the family,' said Christopher. 'I'm designing a house in London for Sir Julius, though that project has had to be set aside for a while.' He saw his client, weighed down with sorrow, coming out of the church porch. 'It may be some time before Sir Julius is ready to take an interest in it again.'

Lunn stepped in closer. 'Is the rumour true?' he asked.

'What rumour?'

'We heard a whisper that Gabriel was married.'

'His widow is here today.'

'Was she the young lady you helped out of the crypt?' said Celia.

'Yes,' replied Christopher. 'This has been a dreadful ordeal for her.'

'I can imagine.'

'It was something of an ordeal for me,' said Lunn with a sly grin. 'I found it difficult to keep my face straight throughout that peculiar sermon. Did you hear the way the vicar described Gabriel? He made him sound like a minor saint.' He gave a chuckle. 'That's not the Gabriel Cheever that I remember. Nor you, I'll warrant, Celia.'

'Those days are long gone, Arthur,' she said reprovingly

'But old memories must have been stirred.'

'All that I feel is sadness that he's gone and deep sympathy for his family.'

'Well, yes,' blustered Lunn, 'I feel the same. That goes without saying. But I'll not deny that I had some merry times with Gabriel - and with your brother Henry for that matter,' he added, turning to Christopher. 'Henry and I spent many a night at the card table with Gabriel Cheever.' He chuckled again. 'Much to our cost!'

'Such thoughts have no place at a funeral,' said Celia with soft reproach. 'Keep them to yourself, Arthur.'

He gave a bow of mock humility. 'I stand rebuked.'

'Besides, I think it's time for us to steal quietly away.'

'Must you?' said Christopher, eager to talk further with them.

'Yes, Mr Redmayne. You have a place here. We do not.'

'We do,' insisted Lunn. 'We were Gabriel's best friends.'

'But not the kind of whom Sir Julius would entirely approve, Arthur. For his sake - and for the sake of Gabriel's widow - we ought to leave now.'

'Why, Celia?'

'Before there is any embarrassment.'

'Nobody can embarrass me,' said Lunn, eyes popping even further out of their sockets. 'I've consorted with His Majesty. Do you think I'll be discomfited by these country cousins with their rural simplicity?'

Christopher was annoyed. 'That's a gross insult to the Cheever family!' he said sharply. 'Miss Hemmings shows the tact and discretion that you so signally lack, Mr Lunn. It is you who might embarrass the family, sir. You belong to a part of Gabriel's life that his family would rather forget.'

'Well, I'll not forget it and neither will your brother Henry.'

'Forgive him, Mr Redmayne,' said Celia. 'Arthur is speaking out of turn.'

'I'm entitled to my opinion,' asserted Lunn.

'I only brought him with me to ensure my safety.'

'How disappointing!' he said with a leer.

She pulled her companion away. 'It was a big mistake,' she admitted.

Christopher watched them make their way along the path that wound between the gravestones. Celia Hemmings improved on acquaintance but Arthur Lunn did not. While he had been impressed by the gracious way in which she had conducted herself, Christopher had been irritated by Lunn's remarks and stung by the reminder that Henry Redmayne spent most of his time in the company of such men. If his brother had been more careful in his choice of friends, he reflected, he would not be in such dire straits now. Theirs was a world that had neither charm nor appeal for Christopher, especially now that Gabriel Cheever was such a blatant victim of it.

'Good day, Mr Redmayne,' said a voice at his elbow.

He turned to see Susan beside him. 'Miss Cheever,' he said.

'Thank you for coming.'

'It was the least I could do.'

'And thank you for helping Lucy when you did. I could support her no longer.'

'She did well to hold up as long as she did, Miss Cheever. Where is she now?'

'The vicar is with her.'

'Do you know what her plans are?'

'Father has invited her to stay with us until she's recovered enough to travel.'

'That's very kind of Sir Julius.'

'It will give us a chance to get to know her better,' she said with a pale smile. 'There is so much to catch up on. But you are also welcome to stay with us, Mr Redmayne. It will give us an opportunity to repay your hospitality in London. Father asked me to pass on the invitation.'

'I appreciate his kindness but I must get back to London.'

'Oh,' she said with evident disappointment.

'Much as I hate to leave,' he explained reluctance showing in his eyes, 'there is important work that calls me back. Now that your brother has been laid to rest, we must renew our efforts to find his killer.'

She reached out to grasp his arm. 'Do you have hopes on that score?'

'Strong hopes, Miss Cheever.'

'Really?'

'Yes, but do not worry about that,' he advised. 'Your place is here, mourning with the rest of the family and getting acquainted with your sister-in-law.'

'I know,' she said releasing his arm.

'Please thank Sir Julius for his invitation and explain why I'm unable to accept it.'

'Father will understand.'

'I'm more concerned that you do, Miss Cheever.'

The affection in his voice drew another half-smile from her. Both wanted to speak further but they were at the mercy of their circumstances. It was neither the time nor place for conversation. Christopher felt guilty about the pleasure he was deriving from their brief encounter. It seemed wrong. Susan, too, was patently uneasy. Giving her a polite bow of farewell, Christopher took a final look at the bereaved family then made his way out of the churchyard.

When he came into the room, Sir Marcus Kemp looked even more like a giant spaniel whose paws had been inconsiderately trodden upon. Without being invited, he dropped on to the chair opposite Henry Redmayne and rolled his eyes in despair.

'I can take no more of it, Henry,' he said dolefully.

'Then we are two of a kind.'

'I think not. My plight is far worse than yours.'

'I doubt that, Marcus.'

'You are single,' his visitor reminded him, 'whereas I am married.'

'Yes,' conceded Henry, 'but you have not received a death threat.'

'Oh, yes, I have!'

'Another letter?'

'The ultimate threat - publication!'

He handed his friend the piece of paper that was flapping in his hand. Henry read it with mounting alarm. A Knight at the Theatre was beautifully printed in bold type. Sir Marcus Kemp was identified by name and a description so cruelly accurate that it provoked a wild grin from Henry. That grin disappeared instantly when he saw his own name linked with that of an actress at the King's House. Sir Marcus was pilloried unmercifully but Henry was not spared.

'This is disgusting!' he said with righteous indignation.

'Yet horribly true, Henry.'

'That's beside the point. Private pleasure should be sacrosanct.'

'So I thought.'

'In any case, I did not relieve myself into the coal bucket. It was a china vase.'

'We are both being pissed upon here.'

Henry read the account again and shuddered. He thrust the page back at Kemp. The two of them were in the dining room of Henry's house. Work that should have been done at the Navy Office was spread out on the table but he had made only sporadic attempts to address himself to it. Fear kept him immured in his home. Sir Marcus Kemp had just intensified that fear.

'Is this the only page that came?' he asked.

'It is more than enough,' cried Kemp. 'It's my death threat, Henry. If that account is ever published it will spell the death of my marriage, my reputation, my place in society and everything that I hold most dear. My whole inheritance is at risk. Dear God!' he exclaimed. 'What will my children think of their father?'

'They will know him for what he is, Marcus.'

'That's no consolation, you rogue. I came for sympathy, not scorn.'

'Your case is not as desperate as you imagine,' said Henry enviously. 'What will your wife learn that she has not already guessed? You spend so little time with her that she must know you have been out carousing with friends.'

'With friends, perhaps, but not with female company. My wife is easily duped. Whenever I got back late,' he explained, 'I told her that I was talking politics with colleagues from Parliament. The dear lady believed me. Until now.' He looked down at the printed page. 'But how convincing will that excuse be when she reads this?'

'The most gullible wife would not be deceived.'

'Then you understand my predicament.'

'I share it, Marcus. I, too, am mentioned in that account. Not that publication would have any power to hurt me,' he said, waving a hand. 'I shall be dead by then.'

'Dead?'

'Cut down by the same hand that murdered Gabriel Cheever.'

'Not if you pay up, Henry,' said Kemp, reaching a decision. 'That's what I intend to do. Hand over a thousand guineas.'

'But the demand was for five hundred.'

'A second letter came with A Knight at the Theatre. The price has doubled.'

'That's iniquitous!'

'It will be worth every penny if it stops this ruinous material being printed.'

'Supposing it does not?'

'It must, surely?'

'Where is your guarantee?'

'I have a gentleman's agreement.'

'You can only have that with a gentleman, Marcus, and we are dealing with a callous murderer here. My brother Christopher has warned me against paying anything. If we give in to blackmail once,' stressed Henry, 'we'll be trapped. The villain will go on squeezing money out of us until he has bled the pair of us dry.'

'Will he?'

'You would do the same in his position.'

'I'd never be in the same position,' retorted Kemp, hurt at the suggestion. 'Damn it, man, I've seen you and all my other friends in the most compromising situations but I'd never dream of exploiting that knowledge for gain. It's against all decorum.'

'We are not dealing with decorum here,' said Henry grimly.

'I know that.' He snatched up the paper. 'How on earth did he catch wind of all this?' he said in dismay 'Was he hiding beneath the bed?'

'No, Marcus.'

'Up the chimney, then? It would be less painful, if it were not so hideously well written. Look at it, Henry,' he said, tossing it back on the table. 'We'll be the laughing stock of London if this is ever sold. The villain who penned this knows how to wound with words.'

'Yet that was not his intention.'

'It must have been.'

'No, Marcus,' said Henry. 'My brother explained it to me. A

Knight at the Theatre was written for private consumption, not with any thought to publication. It is an extract from a diary kept by Gabriel Cheever.'

'The devil it is!' shrieked the other.

'It appears that he kept a careful record of all his nights of revelry. Someone killed him to get their hands on his diary. I can see why now.'

Kemp blanched. 'You mean, there is more?'

'Far more, I suspect, and even more damaging than,4 Knight at the Theatre.'

'Then I might as well run myself through with my sword,' confessed Sir Marcus, putting both hands to his head. 'Gabriel witnessed everything. He was with us at the theatre when we invited those impudent ladies to dance naked for us in private. He watched those wonderful breasts bobbing magically in the candlelight. He saw me fling off my own clothes and sat there while you and Amy Dyson ran to the bed and-'

'Yes, yes!' interrupted Henry. 'There's no need to remind me.'

'Gabriel must have had a hundred such tales to write.'

'They will all be used against us, Marcus, be certain of that. You and I are the first victims but others will soon trail in our wake. Arthur Lunn and Peter Wickens have roistered even more than us. So has Gilbert Sparkish,' said Henry, throwing out the first names that came into his head. 'They, too, will certainly have a place in Gabriel's diary. There'll be others in the same plight as us before long.'

'A thousand guineas from each of us? He'll make a fortune.'

'Only if we are weak enough to pay.'

'I'd hand the money over right now!' declared Kemp.

'What happens when he sends you a second page from the diary?' asked Henry.

Kemp was in torment. After playing anxiously with his wig, he tore it off and flung it down, revealing a bald pate with a defiant tuft of hair at its centre. There was no defiance in the man himself. Shocked and humiliated, he sat back in his chair and looked towards heaven. A thought then nudged him.

'Were you the first to receive a threat?' he said.

'What of it?'

'I seem to recall that a letter was involved.'

'It was,' admitted Henry gloomily. 'A billet-doux sent on a foolish impulse.'

'To whom?'

There was an embarrassed pause. 'A married lady, Marcus.'

'Which one?' asked Kemp. 'You sniff around so many.'

'Her name is irrelevant. The point is that the letter fell into the wrong hands.'

'How?'

'I wish I knew!'

'So you're not being blackmailed with an extract from Gabriel's diary?'

'Not yet,' said Henry ruefully. 'That time may yet come.'

Kemp was puzzled. 'Why was your life threatened?'

'I think I've worked that out. The man who strangled Gabriel Cheever has no need to murder me. He simply has to show that letter of mine to a certain husband. He's a vengeful man,' said Henry apprehensively. 'He'll insist on a duel. That's why the blackmailer does not need to kill me, Marcus. An angry husband will do the job for him.'

For two days, Lucy Cheever barely left her room. The funeral had been a severe trial for her and she lay prostrate on her bed for most of the time. Even her maidservant was only allowed limited access to her. Lucy's collapse aroused mixed feelings in the household. Sir Julius was at once sad and relieved, sorry that she was suffering so badly but glad to be left alone to nurse his own woes. Before he learned more about his daughter-in-law, he wanted to clarify his feelings about his son. Lancelot Serle was sympathetic to the young widow but Brilliana was more critical, unable to accept that a secret marriage entitled Lucy to the attention she was receiving and unwilling to embrace her in the way that Susan had done. Brilliana bickered so much on the subject with her father and sister that Sir Julius was on the point of ordering her out of the house. Serle anticipated him and, in a gesture that earned a rare compliment from his father-in-law, more or less hustled his fractious wife into their coach to take her back to Richmond.

The atmosphere in the house improved markedly. As if sensing the fact, Lucy made her appearance on the third day, apologising profusely for imposing on her hosts and for remaining out of sight. Susan Cheever took her off to her own room so that they could talk in private. While Lucy sat in the chair, she perched on the bed.

'How are you feeling now, Lucy?' she began.

'As if all the life has been drained out of me.'

'We all feel like that.'

'What happened to your sister?'

'Brilliana decided to return to Richmond.'

'I heard her voice a number of times.'

'Yes,' said Susan wearily, 'Brilliana tends to shout, I fear, especially when she's losing an argument. It was best for all of us that her husband took her away when he did. The house seems much quieter all of a sudden.'

'Do you see much of your sister?'

'Enough.'

'She is so unlike you, Susan,' said Lucy 'Gabriel warned me that she would be.'

'Do you have any brothers or sisters?'

'Not any more. I had one of each but both died during the Plague.'

'What about your parents?'

'My mother is a widow.' She felt a lurch of recognition. 'Just like me.'

'Not quite, Lucy. You were unlucky. Gabriel was taken before his time.'

'I wish that I had been killed alongside him!'

Susan was shocked. 'That's a dreadful thought!' she exclaimed.

'At least we'd still be together.'

'You are together, Lucy. As long as you preserve his memory.'

'I'll cherish it for ever.'

Susan felt a pang of regret that she had never seen her brother and his wife together. They must have made a handsome couple, but there was far more to their marriage than a pleasing appearance. Lucy had somehow managed to rescue Gabriel from his former dissolute existence and give him a sense of purpose. In doing so, she had found her own true path through life.

'May I ask how you met?' said Susan.

'By accident.'

'Where? Gabriel said so little about you in his letters, apart from the fact that he loved you to distraction, that is. I can see why,' she added with a smile. 'But he told me nothing about how you met and where you were married.'

'We agreed to keep that secret.'

'Why?'

Lucy was wary. 'I'm not able to tell you that, Susan. It's rather complicated. Gabriel had reasons of his own for secrecy. Nobody was to know where we were.'

'Somebody knew,' noted Susan.

'I was not counting you.'

'Nor was I, Lucy. The man who killed Gabriel must have known where he lived as well. From what you told me, Gabriel hardly ever left the house.'

'He was wedded to his work, Susan. He wrote all the time.'

'That sounds like my brother. Gabriel did nothing by half- measures.'

'I miss him so much.'

Lucy's control snapped again and she burst into tears. Leaping off the bed, Susan knelt down to embrace her, fighting off her own urge to cry. They were entwined for several minutes. When Lucy felt well enough to push Susan gently away, she looked into her eyes.

'You've been so kind to me.'

'I loved Gabriel as well.'

'He doted on you,' said Lucy. 'Gabriel could be harsh at times. He told me that he would not mind if he never saw his father or Brilliana again. They had been hateful to him. But he would never spurn you, Susan. You were his one friend in the family.'

'We grew up together. I could never disown him.'

'Your sister did.' 'That's all behind us. Brilliana will mourn his death in her own way.' Susan stood up and regarded her sister-in-law for a few seconds. 'Did you mind being at the funeral on your own?'

'But I was not on my own. I brought Anna with me.'

'I was thinking about your family.'

Lucy's face darkened. 'There was nobody else I wanted there.'

'Not even your mother?'

'No. In any case, she would be too ill to travel.'

'Will you tell her what's happened?' Lucy shook her head. 'Why not?'

Lucy reached out to hold her hand. 'I don't know you well enough to tell you that yet, Susan. Perhaps I will one day. Until then, please bear with me.' She got up and crossed to look through the window. 'It's beautiful here. I'm sorry I have to leave.'

'Must you?' said Susan, moving to stand behind her. 'Father would like you to stay as long as you wish. He wants to talk to you.'

'I'm not sure how much we have to say to each other.'

'When were you thinking of going?'

'Tomorrow,' said Lucy, turning to face her. 'I need to go back to London.'

'Why?'

'Because that's where Gabriel's killer is and I want to be there when he's caught.'

'If anyone can track him down,' said Susan fondly, 'it is Christopher Redmayne. He's a fine man. Father and I have so much to thank him for, Lucy.'

'So do I.'

'Do you have his address?'

'Yes, he left it when he called on me in Knightrider Street.'

'Good.'

'Why do you ask?'

'Because I think that you might consider telling him what you are unable to tell me. Let me finish,' she went on, silencing the imminent protest. 'Mr Redmayne is putting his own life at risk on our behalf. We must do everything we can to help him. You must have information about Gabriel that nobody else could have. The most trivial details might be valuable clues to Mr Redmayne. Talk to him, Lucy. You can trust him not to break a confidence.' She held her by the shoulders. 'Tell him the truth.'

'No, Susan. I could never do that.'

'Not even if it might lead to the arrest of Gabriel's killer?'

Lucy fell silent and lowered her head. Letting go of her, Susan stepped back to watch her. She had surprised herself with the degree of affection that came into her voice when she mentioned Christopher Redmayne, but she was not ashamed of her feelings for him. Her admiration for him had steadily grown. When he left her in the churchyard after the funeral, she had been bitterly disappointed. She wished that Lucy had the same faith in him that she did. There was a long wait before Lucy looked up at her. When her question came, it took Susan completely by surprise.

'Will you come back to London with me?' she asked.

Jonathan was putting a man in the stocks when Christopher rode up on his horse. Having secured his prisoner, a ragged individual with a straggly beard, the constable gave his friend a nod of welcome.

'I did not expect you back so soon, Mr Redmayne,' he said.

Christopher dismounted. 'There was nothing to keep me in Northamptonshire.' He thought of Susan Cheever and smiled to himself. 'Well, on reflection, there was, but it was imperative that I got back here. That's why I rode so hard.' He patted his horse's flank. 'You deserve a rest, old friend.'

'It's good to see you.'

'Thank you, Mr Bale. And I'm pleased to see you again.' He indicated the man in the stocks. 'More pleased than this fellow was to see a constable, I know that.'

'Leave him where he is, sir. Those stocks are his second home.'

He collected a jeer from the prisoner then set off down the street. Leading his horse, Christopher walked beside him. He gave Jonathan a terse account of the funeral but included a reference to the two unheralded visitors.

'Mr Lunn was there?' he said. 'I met him. He did not strike me as a caring soul.'

'He was there to accompany Miss Hemmings,' explained Christopher. 'It would have been difficult for her to attend the funeral on her own. With a man beside her, she was almost invisible. Had she been there alone, people would have asked what her relationship had been with Gabriel Cheever.'

'The answer would not have been fit to be heard on hallowed ground.'

'Perhaps not, Mr Bale, but I admire the woman. She loved Gabriel once.'

'From what I hear, that young man seems to have had many similar ladies.'

'Yet he gave them all up to marry Lucy.'

'It may have been the one sensible thing he ever did.'

'Yet it may have cost him his life. Still,' said Christopher, 'tell me your news.'

Jonathan shrugged. 'There's precious little of it, Mr Redmayne.'

Christopher had been away for the best part of a week. During his absence Jonathan had been far from idle, but he had made scant progress. He had been pursuing lines of enquiry for which he did not feel best suited.

'Some of your brother's friends look with disdain on constables,' he recalled. 'They have no respect for the law. Or maybe something about me irritates them. Mr Peter Wickens refused to speak to me, Mr Gilbert Sparkish was rude to my face and Sir Thomas Sheasby threatened to set the dogs on me. I had to speak sternly to him.'

'It sounds to me as if all three of them deserved to have their ears boxed,' said Christopher. 'At what time of day did you seek them out?'

'Late afternoon.'

'That was your mistake, Mr Bale. Catch them after dinner and they'll have drunk too much to give anyone a civil answer. No matter,' he continued. 'I'm back to take over the examination of Henry's cronies. I'm on my way to visit one now but I wanted to talk to you first.'

'Who are you going to see, Mr Redmayne?'

'Sir Marcus Kemp.'

'Is he the other gentleman who received a blackmail demand?'

'He is. Apparently, that demand has been doubled.'

'Why?'

'Because he has been too tardy in paying it, Mr Bale. Before I came in search of you, I called on my brother. It seems that Henry had a visit from Sir Marcus earlier today. He brought something with him that had frightened the daylights out of him.'

'A death threat?'

'An extract from Gabriel Cheever's diary,' said Christopher. 'One that did not exactly show Sir Marcus in a flattering light. In the hands of his wife, it could become a dangerous weapon.'

Jonathan was appalled. 'Sir Marcus is married?'

'Several of Henry's friends are.'

'Yet they still lead such shameful lives? What of their marriage vows?'

'They keep them less well than you, Mr Bale.'

'Such wickedness should not go unpunished.'

'Oh, Sir Marcus Kemp has been punished' said Christopher wryly. 'According to Henry, his friend has been roasting in the fires of Hell. I hope there's something left of him by the time I get there.'

Sir Marcus Kemp was in a quandary. He did not know whether to pay the money demanded from him or not. It would cost him a thousand guineas to prevent some highly damaging material about him from being published. Rich enough to afford such an amount, he did not, however, have unlimited wealth. If he had to pay indefinite blackmail demands, he would be driven to financial ruin. The alternative course of action was not appealing. He could defy the blackmailer and try to limit the damage by making a full confession to his wife about his indiscretions after a visit to the playhouse. The notion was immediately dismissed. There was no way that he could bring himself to tell a God-fearing woman who had borne him three children that two naked actresses had entertained Henry Redmayne and him in the most beguiling manner one evening, or that his supposed late nights with parliamentary colleagues were invariably spent in the arms of an expensive whore. The two worlds of Sir Marcus Kemp were set to collide. By keeping them apart, he could inhabit each with unrestrained pleasure. Once they met in opposition, a huge explosion would ensue.

Lost in thought, he prowled around the room. A tap on the door startled him.

'Yes?' he snarled.

'You have a visitor, Sir Marcus,' said the servant from the hall.

'Send him on his way. I refuse to see anyone.'

'Mr Redmayne says that it's a matter of urgency.'

'Redmayne?' said his master, unlocking the door. 'Why didn't you tell me that it was Henry who had called? He's the one man in London I will see.' He flung open the door to see Christopher standing before him. 'You are not Henry!' he protested.

'There is a family likeness, Sir Marcus. Good day to you.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Representing my brother,' said Christopher. 'I may be able to help you with this unfortunate business in which you have become entangled.'

'Keep your voice down, man!' said Kemp, pulling him into the room and closing the door before locking it again. 'What has Henry been telling you?'

'Something of your problems.'

'He swore to keep those secret.'

'Not from me, Sir Marcus. I am on your side.'

Before his host could object, Christopher explained how he had become involved in the murder investigation and how he had learned about the theft of Gabriel Cheever's diary. Sir Marcus listened with horrified curiosity. He had met Christopher before and been struck by how much he differed from his brother in appearance and inclinations. His visitor was far too wholesome for his taste. It was unnerving.

'That is why Henry confided in me,' said Christopher. 'So that I could have all the facts at my disposal. If I can find the killer, Sir Marcus, I can put a stop to these blackmail demands.'

'I wish that somebody would.'

'May I see the latest communication?'

'No!' howled Kemp. 'I could not show you that, Mr Redmayne.

I only let Henry peruse it because he, too, is mentioned in the piece.'

'I believe that it is called A Knight at the Theatre.'

'Its true title is The Death of Sir Marcus Kemp?

'You exaggerate. Help me to catch the villain and your worries will disappear.'

'How can I do that?'

'By lending me this mischievous page from Gabriel's diary.'

Kemp's face reddened in anger. 'Lending it to you?'

'It is a piece of evidence, Sir Marcus.'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne. Evidence of my folly, evidence of my personal proclivities.'

'I know,' argued Christopher, 'but it's been printed according to Henry. That means the man who sent it engaged a printer. Give the page to me and I'll visit every printer in London until I find the one who accepted the commission.'

'That's tantamount to publishing it far and wide!'

'No, Sir Marcus. They will not need to read the contents. A glance will suffice to tell them if it is their handiwork. Once we know who paid to have it printed, we can arrest the villain and you can breathe freely once more.'

'That document is not leaving this house.'

'May I at least have a sight of it?'

'Certainly not.'

'But it's in your best interests.' Kemp turned away. Christopher went after him. 'I understand that it was accompanied by a letter. Could I please look at that, Sir Marcus? I merely wish to establish if it was written by the same hand that penned Henry's death threat. That will not compromise you, surely?'

'I'll show you nothing.'

'Then you must resign yourself to your fate.'

'No,' said Kemp, swinging round to confront him. 'I'm going to buy my way out of this mess. If I had had the sense to do that at the start, I could have saved myself five hundred guineas. I'll pay up and have done with it.'

'It will not get the blackmailer off your back.'

'So you say, but I'm ready to take that chance.'

'What happens if you fail?' An idea suddenly popped into Christopher's mind. 'When the first letter came, Sir Marcus, did it explain how the money was to be paid?'

'Yes.'

'Presumably, it is to be dropped somewhere?'

'At a spot in Covent Garden.'

'By you or by someone else?'

'That was not specified.'

'Do you intend to place the money there in person?'

'Heavens, no! I'd not have the stomach for it.'

'Then let me make a bargain with you, Sir Marcus,' said Christopher. 'There's an element of danger here. The blackmailer is also capable of murder. Remember that. Whoever delivers the money is taking a risk.'

'I can see that.'

'What if I were to act on your behalf and go to the designated spot?'

Kemp was grateful. 'Would you?' he asked, grasping Christopher's arm.

'On one condition.'

'Condition?'

'Yes. If your tormentor is bought off with a thousand guineas, all well and good. But if, as I suspect, he takes the money then sends you a further demand, you let me see everything that he has sent you. Is that fair?'

'No, Mr Redmayne. It would be too embarrassing.'

'What is a little embarrassment if it leads to the capture of a vicious criminal? Come, Sir Marcus,' he urged. 'I am not going to be shocked by anything I read. With a brother like Henry, I have been well educated in the ways of the world.'

Kemp chewed his lip and looked shrewdly at his visitor. Christopher was discreet and sincere. If he could not be trusted his brother would not have confided in him. Kemp was not attracted to the proposition but it did have one advantage. Someone else would be taking any risks involved in delivering the payment.

'Well, Sir Marcus?' pressed Christopher. 'Do you accept my offer?'

'Yes,' said Kemp, overcoming his reluctance. 'The bargain is sealed.'