The Repentant Rake

Chapter Ten

When prayers had been said, the Bale family began their meal. The two boys, Oliver and Richard, fell on their supper with relish, chewing it so noisily and swallowing it so fast that their mother had to issue a warning.

'You must not gobble your food like that,' she said. 'It will do you no good.'

'I'm hungry,' replied Oliver through a mouthful of bread.

'Eat more slowly, Oliver.'

'And wait until you empty your mouth before you speak,' added Jonathan.

'Will you read to us tonight, Father?' asked Richard the younger of the boys.

'Only if you eat your food properly.'

'I want to know what happened to Joseph and his brothers.'

'You will.'

'Oliver says that he kills them all.'

'I said that he ought to kill them,' corrected Oliver, still munching happily.

'No, Oliver,' said his father seriously. 'Murder is a terrible crime.'

'But they deserve it,' argued the boy.

'Nobody deserves to be killed.'

'His brothers treated him cruelly. They wanted to get rid of him because they were jealous of him. They left him down that well.'

'Yes,' said Richard, eager to show his knowledge of the story.

'They took his coat of many colours and dipped it in blood. They told their father that Joseph had been killed by a wild beast.'

'That was because Joseph had disappeared,' Jonathan reminded them. 'It was Reuben, the eldest of the brothers, who persuaded the others to spare him. But when Reuben went to release him, Joseph had gone.'

'Where?' asked Richard.

'Wait and see.'

'I want to know now.'

'The words of the Bible tell the story far better than I can.'

'But I can tell you this,' said Sarah, brushing Richard's hair back from his face with a maternal hand. 'Joseph does not kill his brothers.'

'Cain killed his brother,' noted Oliver.

'That was a dreadful thing to do. Brothers should love one another.'

'Is it always wrong to kill somebody?'

'Yes,' said Jonathan firmly. 'Always.'

'Was it wrong to chop off the head of the last king?'

'Oliver!' chided his mother.

'Was it?' persisted the boy. 'You named me after Oliver Cromwell yet he was the man who murdered the king. Was that a crime?'

'Was it, Father?' asked Richard. 'Was it a crime or a sin?'

'I think it was both,' decided Oliver.

Jonathan glanced uneasily at his wife. 'Finish your supper, boys,' he advised. 'I can explain it to you when I put you to bed. And you will learn what happened to Joseph as well. But only if you eat your food quietly, as your mother told you.'

The boys were sufficiently mollified to eat on in relative silence. Jonathan was learning that it was not easy to bring up two inquisitive sons. Oliver was eight and his brother was fifteen months younger. They asked questions that were sometimes difficult to answer. On the previous evening, Richard had enquired what a concubine was. It had caused Jonathan some embarrassment to explain but he had been honest. Oliver had giggled while Richard had blushed. Looking at his sons, Jonathan reflected how similar they were in appearance yet how different in character. It led to endless squabbles between them. He wondered how they would get on when they became adults and his mind drifted to another pair of brothers. Christopher and Henry Redmayne could not have been more disparate. They led divergent lives. While he admired one brother, Jonathan had polite contempt for the other. Yet they had been raised in the same way by their parents. What had made Christopher and Henry grow in opposite directions? Why had one embraced work while the other espoused idleness? Jonathan was exercised by the thought of how he could prevent the same thing from happening to his own sons.

'Will you be going out again this evening?' asked Sarah.

'Yes,' said Jonathan.

'Not until you have read to us,' Richard piped up.

Jonathan smiled. 'Of course not. I want to know what happens to Joseph myself.'

'Will you be late?' said Sarah.

'I hope not. I am going to meet Mr Redmayne.'

Sarah was disappointed. 'Is he not coming here?'

'Not this evening, Sarah.'

'Do give him my regards.'

'I will,' said Jonathan. 'I told him how helpful you had been. Without you, I might never have got to know the vigilant Mrs Runciman in Knightrider Street. And it was you who suggested that I got in touch with Mr Redmayne in the first place.'

'You and he work well together, Jonathan.'

'I still wonder why sometimes,' confessed her husband.

'You have so much in common.'

'Hardly, Sarah. Mr Redmayne consorts with the highest in the land while my work makes me rub shoulders with the very lowest. Had it not been for sheer accident, we would never have met.'

'Are you glad that you did?'

'I think so.'

Sarah laughed. 'Oh, Jonathan!' she teased. 'You will hold back so. Be honest for once. You know that you like Mr Redmayne as much as I do but you never admit it. He obviously respects you.'

'Does he?'

'I can see it in his face. He thinks you far too good to be a mere constable.'

'Nobody is too good for such important work, Sarah.'

'Could Tom Warburton do the things that you have achieved?'

'Probably not.'

'He could never work with Mr Redmayne the way that you have. And the pair of you do have something in common,' she insisted. 'Both of you are like Tom's little dog. You are real terriers. Once you get your teeth into something, neither of you will let go.'

The headache was so severe that Henry Redmayne took to his bed with a flask of wine for consolation. He was still propped up with pillows when his brother called on him. Christopher's news did nothing to alleviate the throbbing pain in his temples.

'Sir Marcus is going to pay up?' he said in astonishment.

'I made a bargain with him, Henry.'

'But you did everything possible to stop me from handing any money over.'

'I tried to prevent Sir Marcus as well,' said Christopher, 'but he was determined. So I decided to make virtue out of necessity.'

'In what way?'

'I volunteered to hand the thousand guineas over on his behalf.'

'Why?'

Christopher grinned. 'If I have to part with that amount of money, I want it to belong to someone else.' He became serious. 'I have to catch this villain, Henry. I owe it to Gabriel's family. Paying up is a means of luring the blackmailer out of hiding. That's not how I presented it to Sir Marcus, of course. He thinks that he is buying peace of mind with his thousand guineas.'

'What is this bargain you mentioned?'

'He refused to show me any of the demands he received. Sir Marcus was angry that I even knew about them. It was hard work to strike a bargain with him,' said Christopher, 'but he agreed in the end. If the money is paid and the demands still continue, he's promised to give me the letters and that extract from Gabriel Cheever's diary.'

'But the demands will stop if you arrest the blackmailer.'

'I hope so, Henry.'

'So why reach this agreement with Sir Marcus?'

'To gain access to vital information in case we fail to catch our man.'

'We?' echoed Henry.

'I'll take Jonathan Bale with me.'

'Why?'

'He's been assisting me from the start,' explained Christopher.

Henry was scornful. 'That flat-footed constable is more hindrance than help.'

'Mr Bale is the ideal person for this kind of work.'

'I beg leave to doubt that, Christopher. When will the money be handed over?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Somewhere in Covent Garden, as I remember.'

'Yes,' confirmed Christopher. 'The details were sent in the first letter to Sir Marcus. Someone will be waiting to take the money from the designated spot. He's been there every day at noon so far. When Sir Marcus failed to pay up, the amount was promptly doubled.'

'And he received that chilling extract from Gabriel's damnable diary. What are you going to do?'

'Hand the money over tomorrow while Mr Bale watches from nearby. It is highly unlikely that the blackmailer will take the money from me in person but the man who does will carry it to him.' He rubbed his hands in anticipation. 'With luck, he'll lead Mr Bale to the villain we are after.'

'The one who threatened to kill me.'

'That was a trick to make you pay up at once.'

'It does not feel like a trick,' moaned Henry, putting a palm to his forehead. 'It has robbed me of sleep every night this past week. The Sword of Damocles hangs over me. Well,' he added grimly, 'the sword of a jealous husband to be exact. All the rogue has to do is to send that letter to Lord Ulvercombe and I am as good as dead.'

'I still believe that you should get in touch with the lady herself.'

'Fatal.'

'Is it?'

'Her husband stands guard over her day and night. It was only when business called him away that I could get anywhere near her.'

'Lady Ulvercombe deserves to be warned.'

'Not by me, Christopher.'

'Could you not write to her?'

'And have my correspondence intercepted by that mad husband of hers? Oh, no!' asserted Henry. 'I've already written one letter to her that is a possible suicide note. Why tempt Fate with a second?'

'How did your billet-doux fall into the wrong hands?' said Christopher. 'That's what puzzles me. Someone must have stolen it from her. Lady Ulvercombe may have some idea who that could be. It's another means of unmasking the blackmailer, Henry. Is there nobody who could act as an intermediary between you and the lady?'

'No, Christopher.'

'There must be a reliable confidant.'

'The liaison was strictly a private affair. Nobody else knew about it - until now, that is. Do not vex me with questions,' he complained as his head pounded. 'My only concern is to stop Lord Ulvercombe from killing me in a duel.'

'I share the same ambition, Henry.'

'Then reclaim my billet-doux before anyone else can read it.'

'I'll do my best,' promised Christopher. 'But do be more discreet next time.'

Henry grimaced. 'There will be no next time.'

'You always say that.'

'Henceforth, I'll confine myself to unmarried ladies. If I live to do so.'

Christopher smiled confidently. 'Have no qualms on that score, Henry. By this time tomorrow, your worries may all be over and you will be forced to concede what a splendid fellow Jonathan Bale is.'

'If he gets me off this hook, I'll sing his praises like a choir of angels.'

'He would enjoy that.' He turned away. 'I'll leave you to get some rest.'

Henry raised a weary arm. 'One moment, Christopher.'

'Yes?'

'When that first blackmail demand arrived you urged me not to pay.'

'So?'

'Now you are trying to tempt the villain out into the light of day by handing over some money to him. Why act on behalf of Sir Marcus Kemp when you could have done exactly the same for me?'

Christopher went back to him. 'How much were you asked for, Henry?'

'Five hundred guineas.'

'Do you have that amount in hand?'

'Of course not.'

'Then how did you propose to raise it?'

'From friends,' said Henry airily.

'What about me?'

'I would have started with you, naturally, Christopher. But the bulk of the money would have come from the one man who can afford such a sum without blinking an eye.'

'Sir Marcus Kemp.'

'Precisely.'

'Would you have wanted to go cap in hand to him?'

'It would have been galling.'

'Then I've spared you that as well. Now you see what brothers are for, Henry. I want to help. When I hand over that money tomorrow, you will not have to worry about paying a penny of it back to the man who would have loaned it to you.'

Henry rallied visibly. 'How profoundly true! Whether I pay or he does, it is all one. Sir Marcus Kemp's money is handed over either way. You have done me a favour, Christopher. My headache is easing already.'

'Do not swallow gudgeons ere they're catched.'

'What do you mean?'

'It will not be easy to net this blackmailer,' warned Christopher. 'Even with the redoubtable Mr Bale at my side, we will need good fortune if we are to succeed.'

Sir Julius Cheever had been disappointed that his daughter-in-law wanted to return so soon to London. It cut short the time in which they could develop their acquaintance. He had been even less pleased when Susan announced that she wished to travel back with Lucy, and the old man needed a great deal of persuasion before he consented. Sir Julius himself felt that his place was in the family home, mourning his son in the parish where he was born and brought up. The thought of subjecting himself again to the hospitality of his elder daughter and her husband deprived him of even the slightest urge to travel back to the city. Accordingly, the two young women departed without him, joining a large group of travellers for safety.

The jolting of the coach and the presence of Anna, the maidservant, made any intimate conversation impossible but Susan and Lucy did manage to spend some time together during the two overnight stops that the party made at roadside inns. Over supper on the second of those nights, Susan Cheever felt that she was at last beginning to win her sister-in-law's confidence.

'I cannot thank you enough for this,' said Lucy. 'It would have been so dismal to go back to that empty house on my own.'

'You have Anna.'

'It is not the same, Susan. I need someone to whom I can talk about Gabriel.'

'You can do that as much as you wish.'

'Coming from his wife this may sound strange, but I feel as if I never really knew him properly. All the time we were in Northamptonshire, I kept learning things about him that he never even mentioned.'

'Such as?'

'Angling,' said Lucy. 'It turns out that he had a passion for angling. Sir Julius used to take him fishing when he was a little boy.'

Susan nodded. 'Yes,' she said. 'And they always caught something for the table. I remember how upset Father was when Gabriel became so skilled with a line that he managed to catch more fish than him.'

'Why did Gabriel never talk about angling to me?'

'It belonged to the past that he chose to forget.'

'Yet it was something he enjoyed, Susan.'

'Gabriel enjoyed most things. That's what I envied about him. His capacity for sheer enjoyment was remarkable. It's something that I never had.' She pulled a face. 'Nor did Brilliana.'

'She never seems to enjoy anything.'

'That's not entirely true.'

Lucy lowered her voice. 'Why did your sister marry Mr Serle?'

'Because he asked her.'

'But she is so critical of him.'

'Brilliana is critical of all men,' explained Susan, 'which is why so many of them were terrified of getting too close to her. She had suitors from all over the Midlands but they always turned tail in the end. Lancelot Serle did not.'

'Does he still love her?'

'Very much. When Brilliana lets him.'

'Gabriel told me very little about her except that she had rejected him.'

'She never had much time for him, I'm afraid.' Susan looked at her companion over the dancing flames of the candle. They were seated at a table in a quiet corner. The atmosphere was conducive to an exchange of intimacies. 'Talking to you makes me feel that I never knew him all that well either.'

'How could you when you were apart for so long?'

'Whole areas of his life were a closed book to me.'

Lucy gave a half-smile. 'Perhaps that is just as well.'

'Did he tell you everything about his past?'

'Everything that I wished to know.'

'And was there anything that you did not, Lucy?'

'Oh, yes. I thought it best to draw a veil of decency over much of it.'

'You were very wise,' agreed Susan, wondering if it was the right moment to probe a little more deeply. 'Did he tell you that he sent me one of his poems?'

'Yes, he did.'

'It was very sad but so beautiful. I had no idea he had such talent.'

'Gabriel was a wonderful writer.'

'Did you read everything that he wrote?'

'Only what he chose to show me.' Lucy's face lit up. 'Several of the poems were written especially for me. Gabriel always said that they were his best work.'

'He was truly inspired.'

'I never read any of his plays. There was no point, Susan. I've never been to the theatre and have no idea what makes a good play. Besides,' she said with a little shrug, 'I think that Gabriel felt I might not approve.'

'What about his diary?' She saw Lucy's jaw tighten. 'You did know that he kept a diary?'

'Of course.'

'Were you allowed to look at it?'

'Gabriel never tried to stop me from doing anything.'

'So you did read the diary?'

'Bits of it,' admitted Lucy. 'It was like reading about a complete stranger.'

'Were you shocked?'

'To some degree. But I was also very amused.'

'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?'

'I assumed that you would be interested to take a look at the house where he had lived and the family he had talked so much about. You must have been curious.'

Her tone softened. 'I was and I'm sorry that I misunderstood you. As it happens, Arthur and I did take the trouble to ride out to the estate. It's a beautiful house but I can see why Gabriel ran away from it. There's nothing to look at but sheep.'

'I don't believe that it was the sheep who drove him away.'

'No, it was his father. You have a troublesome client, Mr Redmayne.'

'I can cope with him, Miss Hemmings.'

'I think that you can cope with anything,' she said with a warm smile.

The glint came into her eye again and it made him slightly uncomfortable. There was a directness about Celia Hemmings that he found both attractive and disturbing. He moved on quickly to the questions that took him there in the first place.

'You and Gabriel were very close,' he began.

'Intermittently,' she said. 'I loved him dearly but we never lived together for any length of time. Gabriel was too shy of commitment.'

'Did he discuss his writing with you?'

'From time to time. He read a few of his poems to me once.'

'What about his diary?'

She looked blank. 'Diary?'

'Were you aware that Gabriel was keeping a diary?'

'No, Mr Redmayne.'

'Did you not see him making entries?'

'This is the first that I've heard about it,' she said. 'What sort of diary was it?'

'A revealing one, by all accounts. He recorded his exploits in full.'

Celia grew angry. 'Are you telling me that / am mentioned in this diary? That would be disloyal as well as disgusting. It would be unforgivable. No,' she decided, calming down at once, 'Gabriel would never do that to me. I trust him.'

'So did other people,' he pointed out. 'Henry was one of them. But that did not stop him being mocked in the pages of the diary.'

'Mocked?'

'Along with many others in his circle,'

'Have you seen this diary?'

'No, Miss Hemmings. I did not even know that it existed until it was stolen from his house in Knightrider Street. It's my belief that his diary was responsible for his death. Someone killed him in order to get their hands on it.'

'But why?'

'Because it contains unlimited possibilities of blackmail.'

Celia Hemmings was shocked. Rising to her feet, she walked around the room in thought before coming back to stand close to Christopher. She looked down at him.

'Are you saying that someone may try to blackmail me?'

'I think it highly unlikely.'

'That's a relief!'

'What surprises me is that you had no knowledge of the diary.'

'Gabriel was very secretive about his work, Mr Redmayne. I was only allowed to see what he was prepared to show me. To be candid, it has come as something of a thunderbolt.' She resumed her seat. 'I can imagine the kinds of things that Gabriel put in that diary. He had a malicious pen at times.'

'Is there anyone else who might have known that he was keeping it?'

'Anyone else?'

'Yes, Miss Hemmings,' he said. 'The person who killed him knew exactly where to find the diary and what it would contain. Gabriel must have told somebody.''

'Well, it was not me.'

'Then who might it have been?'

Her brow furrowed. 'I can think of only one person.'

'Who is that?'

'Arthur Lunn,' she said. 'Gabriel lodged at his house when he first came to London. They went everywhere together at first. Arthur is definitely no killer,' she affirmed 'but I have to admit this. If anyone knew about that diary, it was him.'

Arthur Lunn strode into the room and clapped Henry familiarly on the shoulder.

'Get dressed, Henry,' he announced. 'You are dining at Long's with me.'

'I've no wish to go out.'

'What's wrong with you, man?'

'Until an hour ago, I was twisting and turning on a bed of pain. When I felt better I ventured downstairs, but I gave express instructions that nobody was to disturb me.'

'Instructions do not apply to friends like me.'

Henry groaned inwardly. Attired in a garish silk dressing gown, he was reclining in a chair in his parlour when Lunn descended on him. In his present condition, he did not wish to see anybody, least of all an ebullient crony in all his finery. The mourning clothes worn by Lunn at the funeral had been discarded in favour of apparel that made Henry's dressing gown look dull by comparison. Lunn beamed down at the recluse.

'Where have you been, Henry?' he demanded.

'Indisposed.'

'Oh, is that the reason? You've been taking the cure.'

'No, Arthur. This is not a disease of the body.'

'It comes to us all at times, no matter how careful we are in our choice of ladies.'

'I do not have the pox!'

'Then what is the problem?'

'I've had… things on my mind,' explained Henry.

'You always have things on your mind,' said Lunn with a chuckle. 'The same things that occupy my waking thoughts. Good wine, rich food and warm women - with a game or two of cards thrown in for good measure. Come, sir,' he insisted, taking hold of Henry's arm. 'Dine with me.'

'I intend to eat at home today.'

'Then I'll come for you this evening instead,' decided Lunn, releasing him. 'We will surrender body and soul to a night of sheer abandon.'

'Go without me, Arthur.'

'Why, man?'

'Because I am not inclined to pleasure.'

Lunn stared quizzically at him. 'Are you telling me that you've grown impotent?'

'No!' yelled Henry indignantly.

'Is that your problem? No more standing of the yard?'

'It is nothing to do with that.'

'Prove it by coming to Mrs Curtis with me.'

'No, Arthur. I am not in the vein.'

'Then at least sit at the card table with me for an hour.'

'An hour there and I am doomed for the whole night. Listen,' said Henry, rising to his feet, 'I would be delighted to join you at any other time but not tonight, Arthur. As you see, I'm dressed for bed and will retire there after dinner.'

Lunn was scandalised. 'Alone?'

'Just me and my dark thoughts.'

'What has happened to everybody? Marcus is the same. When I called on him just now, he refused to join me this evening as well. Why?' he wondered spreading his arms. 'It surely cannot be that you have become sated with pleasure. You and Marcus can keep going all night.'

'And we will again,' predicted Henry. 'Very soon.'

Lunn strutted around the room in consternation, at a loss to understand why two of his closest friends were shunning the delights of the town. When he came back to Henry, he pointed an accusatory finger at him.

'You are to stay in bed all afternoon?'

'All day, I expect,' said Henry.

'Then I have plumbed your secret,' claimed Lunn with a snigger. 'Who is she, Henry? You have someone tucked away in your bedchamber, I'm sure of it. Do I know her? She must be a nimble filly if she can keep you occupied all day.'

'There is nobody else here, Arthur!'

'Do you swear that?'

'On my father's Bible,' vowed Henry, 'and he is the Dean of Gloucester!'

'And you'll not come out with me? Even if I bring a coach to pick you up and promise to drop you off again at your doorstep? Think, man,' he urged. 'What better cure for your illness than a bracing game of cards with friends? You only need stay an hour. What harm can there be in that'

Henry was tempted. The idea that he would be conveyed to and fro in Lunn's coach was very enticing and his enforced exile was taxing his patience. There was another reason that made him consider the offer favourably. His brother was acting as an intercessor between Sir Marcus Kemp and the blackmailer. It might even be that Christopher had apprehended the man by now. At the very least, he would have handed over a thousand guineas and appeased him. With money from one victim in his pocket, the blackmailer might be less likely to exert pressure on Henry. The cloud above Henry's head lifted somewhat and he did miss his old haunts.

'What do you say, Henry?' pressed Lunn. 'Will you come with me?'

'Yes, Arthur. Pick me up from here this evening.'

Sir Marcus Kemp was frothing with impatience. He was offhand with his wife, sharp with his children and almost vicious with his servants. Everyone else in the house chose to keep out of his way. By the time Christopher Redmayne finally arrived, Kemp was in a foul temper. Pulling him into the dining room, he glared at his visitor.

'Where have you been, man?' he demanded.

'To Covent Garden,' said Christopher.

'It is no more than ten minutes' walk away. Why the appalling delay?'

'I was made to wait outside the church.'

'But he did come in the end?'

'No, Sir Marcus.'

Kemp spluttered. 'No? I am still in danger?'

'I hope not,' said Christopher. 'I did not deal with the blackmailer himself. He sent a boy to relieve me of the purse. As you requested I handed it over.'

He gave Kemp a shortened version of events, omitting any reference to Jonathan Bale and the failed plan to ensnare the blackmailer. The visit to Celia Hemmings was described as a chance meeting in the square. Kemp slowly relaxed. His fears, he decided, had been groundless. He even rose to a hollow laugh.

'So that is it,' he declared. 'I am free.'

'With luck, Sir Marcus.'

'He has what he wants. It is only fair that I get something in return.'

'You presume too much on the blackmailer's notion of fairness.'

'I feel as if I've been released from a prison!' He looked at Christopher. 'I must thank you for your part in all this, Mr Redmayne. When you first came here I was angry that you even knew about my situation, yet you have been my salvation, / would never have dared to hand over that money in Covent Garden,' he confessed, 'and I could hardly send one of my servants. You saved me, Mr Redmayne.'

'I am hoping to save my brother as well, Sir Marcus.'

'Is he going to pay up?'

'No,' said Christopher, 'he is following a different course of action. But while I am here,' he went on, seeing an opportunity to gather information, 'I wonder if you could tell me something about Arthur Lunn.'

'Arthur? Why? Has he had blackmail demands as well?'

'Not that I know of, Sir Marcus.'

'I think it improbable,' said Kemp. 'He was here just over an hour ago, pressing me to join him for dinner. Since I was waiting for your news, I would not stir from the house so I sent him on his way.'

'Is it true that Gabriel Cheever once lodged at his house?'

'Yes, Mr Redmayne. For some months.'

'So Mr Lunn must have known that he was keeping a diary.'

Kemp was taken aback. ' 'Sdeath! I never thought of that. I suppose he must. Arthur is the most inquisitive soul alive. He pokes his nose into everything.'

'I met him at Gabriel's funeral.'

'What was he doing there?'

'Ostensibly, he was escorting Miss Celia Hemmings,' said Christopher, 'but he may have had his own reasons for making the journey to Northamptonshire.'

'You think that Arthur Lunn was somehow involved in this blackmail?'

'I begin to wonder, Sir Marcus.'

'But he is the most obliging fellow in London.'

'Then why did Gabriel break with him? Mr Lunn was his closest friend. Why did Gabriel go into hiding without even telling him where he was?'

'I've no idea, Mr Redmayne. But I do know that Arthur was very upset.'

'How upset?'

'Deeply, I would imagine. It's difficult to say with a man like that who hides his feelings so well. But Arthur Lunn was hurt badly,' he said. 'He was cut to the quick.'

Christopher speculated on whether or not Lunn was sufficiently wounded to seek revenge. A man who valued his friendships so much would be bruised by the way in which he lost this particular one. It would be worth taking a closer look at Arthur Lunn.

Kemp reached for his purse. 'What do I owe you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Owe me?'

'For the help you gave me today.'

'You owe me nothing, Sir Marcus.'

'Come, come, man. You must have some reward for what you did.'

'If you insist,' said Christopher, 'but I'll not take it in money. All I ask is that you let me see the letters you received. Along with the extract from the diary.'

'But there is no need now.'

'There is every need, Sir Marcus. Where are they?'

'Locked away where nobody will ever find them,' said Kemp. 'I'm sorry, Mr Redmayne. I could not expose myself to ridicule by letting you see them. To be frank, I am tempted to burn them.'

'No!' implored Christopher. 'You must not do that, Sir Marcus.'

'But my ordeal is over. So is Henry's, I dare say. All that the blackmailer wanted was to frighten money out of one of us. A thousand guineas would satisfy any man,' he said confidently. 'We are liberated at last. There will be no more blackmail demands.'

Henry Redmayne was preening himself in the mirror in the hall when he heard the doorbell ring. Believing that Arthur Lunn had come to collect him, he opened the door himself, but his visitor was no beaming crony about to whisk him off to a gaming house. It was Peter Wickens and he glanced furtively over his shoulder before stepping into the hall. Henry had never seen him in such a state of anxiety. Wickens was usually so poised and urbane yet he was now twitching nervously.

'What is wrong, Peter?' asked Henry.

'Forgive this intrusion,' said Wickens. 'I simply had to come.' 'Why?'

'I need your advice.' He took something from his pocket. 'This arrived today.' 'What is it?'

'Read it, Henry,' he said handing the letter over. 'I am being blackmailed.'