The Repentant Rake

Chapter One

'London is a veritable cesspool!' he said, banging the table with a bunched fist. 'A swamp of corruption and crime.'

Christopher shrugged. 'It has its redeeming features, Sir Julius.'

'Does it?'

'I think so.'

'Well, I've never seen any of them. A capital city should be the jewel of the nation, not a running sewer. The place disgusts me, Mr Redmayne. It's full of arrogant fools and strutting fops. Babylon was a symbol of decency compared to it. Immorality runs riot in London. Whores and rogues people its streets. Drunkards and gamesters haunt it by night. Foul disease eats into its vitals. And the worst villains of all are those who sit in Parliament and allow this depravity to spread unchecked.'

The tirade continued. Christopher Redmayne listened patiently while his host unburdened himself of his trenchant views. Sir Julius Cheever was not a man to be interrupted. He charged into a conversation like a bull at a gate and it was wise to offer him no further obstruction. Sir Julius was a wealthy farmer, big, brawny, opinionated and forthright. Now almost sixty, he bore the scars of war with honour on his rubicund face but it was his wounded soul that was now on display. The oak table was pounded once again. Eyes flashed.

'Why, in the bowels of Christ, did we let this happen?' he demanded. 'Did we spill all that blood to end up with something even worse than we had before? Has there been no progress at all? London is nothing but a monument to sin.'

'Then I am bound to wonder why you wish to build a house there, Sir Julius,' said Christopher gently. 'Given your low opinion of the capital, I would have thought you'd shun rather than seek to inhabit the place.'

'Necessity, Mr Redmayne. Necessity drives me there.'

'Against your will, by the sound of it.'

'My conscience has subdued my will.'

Christopher found it difficult to believe that anything could subdue Sir Julius Cheever's will. He positively exuded determination. Once set on a course of action, he would not be deflected from it. Evidently, his obstinacy and blunt manner would not make him an easy client but Christopher was prepared to make allowances. The commission appealed to him. In the interests of securing it, he was prepared to tolerate the old man's rasping tongue and uncompromising views.

'Let me explain,' said Sir Julius, legs apart and hands on his hips. 'I'm an unrepentant Parliamentarian and I don't care who knows it. I fought at Naseby, Bristol, Preston, Dunbar and Worcester with the rank of colonel. You can see the results,' he added, indicating the livid scar on his cheek, the healed gash above one eye and the missing ear. 'The Lord Protector saw fit to reward me with a knighthood and I was grateful. Not that I agreed with everything he did, mark you, because I did not and he was left in no doubt about that. I favoured deposition of the king, not his execution. That was a cruel mistake. We are still paying for it.'

'You spoke of conscience, Sir Julius.'

'That is what is taking me to London.'

'For what reason?'

'To begin the process of cleansing it, of course. To root out vice before it takes too firm a hold. I'm not a man to stand back when there's important work to do, Mr Redmayne. I have a sense of duty.'

'I can see that.'

'Parliament needs people like me. Honest, upstanding, Godfearing men who will lead the fight against the creeping evil that has invaded our capital. I will shortly be elected as one of the members for the county of Northampton and look to knock a few heads together when I get to Westminster.'

Christopher smiled. 'I wish that I could see you in action, Sir Julius.'

'Fighting is in my blood. I'll not mince my words.'

'You'll cause quite a stir in the seat of government.'

'The seat of government deserves to be kicked hard and often.' Sir Julius gave a harsh laugh then stopped abruptly to pluck at his moustache.

They were in the parlour of the Cheever farmhouse in Northamptonshire. It was a big, sprawling, timber-framed structure, built with Tudor solidity but little architectural inspiration. The room was large, the oak floor gleaming and the bulky items of furniture suggesting money rather than taste. Christopher suspected that the place had looked identical for at least half a century. Sir Julius Cheever belonged there. He had the same generous dimensions, the same ignorance of fashion and the same hopelessly dated air. Yet there was something strangely engaging about him. Beneath the surface bluster, Christopher detected an essentially good man, given to introspection and animated by motives of altruism. He could see that Sir Julius would be a loyal friend but an extremely dangerous enemy.

Christopher was seated in a high-backed chair but his host remained on his feet. Stroking his moustache, Sir Julius studied his guest carefully before speaking.

'Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr Redmayne,' he said.

'Your letter implied urgency.'

'I make decisions quickly.'

'And are you firmly resolved to have a town house in London?'

'Now that I am to sit in Parliament, it is unavoidable.'

'There may be some delay, Sir Julius,' warned Christopher. 'Houses are not built overnight. When you first come to London, you will have to find other accommodation.'

Sir Julius waved a hand. 'That's all taken care of,' he said dismissively. 'My daughter, Brilliana, lives in Richmond with her dolt of a husband. I'll lodge with them until my own abode is 'complete. The sooner it's ready, the better.'

'I, too, can work quickly when required.'

'That's what I was told.'

'Does that mean you are engaging me to design your new house?'

'No, Mr Redmayne,' said the other. 'It means that I brought you here to gauge your fitness for the task. You are the third in line. It's only fair to tell you that your two predecessors were found seriously wanting.'

'You didn't care for their draughtsmanship?'

'It was their politics that I couldn't stomach.'

'I hope that I don't fall at the same hurdle, Sir Julius.' Christopher was puzzled. 'Before you put me to the test,' he said, 'may I please ask a question?'

'Of course.'

'How did you first become aware of my work?'

'Through the agency of a friend - Elijah Pembridge.'

Christopher was surprised. 'The bookseller?'

'I can read, you know,' said Sir Julius with a twinkle in his eye.

'Yes, yes, naturally. What surprises me is that someone so decidedly urban and bookish as Elijah Pembridge should number a country gentleman among his acquaintances.'

'I'm rather more than that, sir.'

'So I see.'

'Elijah tells me that you designed his new premises in Paternoster Row.'

'That's right, Sir Julius. The original shop was burned to the ground in the Great Fire. It was a pleasing commission. He was a most obliging client.'

'And you, I understand, were an equally obliging architect. He found you polite and efficient, able to give sound advice yet willing to obey his wishes. Thanks to you, the place was built a month ahead of schedule.'

'Only because I chose a reliable builder.'

'Such men, I gather, are few in number.'

Christopher was circumspect. 'That's an exaggeration, Sir Julius. There are plenty of excellent builders in London but they are, for the most part, already engaged on the major projects that were necessitated by the Great Fire. Others, less scrupulous, have flocked to the capital. Speculators are the real problem,' he went on, a slight edge in his voice. 'Ruthless men who put commercial gain before architectural considerations. They throw up whole streets of houses in no time at all, augmenting their number by giving them narrow frontages and small gardens. Simplicity is their watchword, Sir Julius. They erect identical brick boxes for their clients. Whereas a true craftsman will build an individual dwelling.'

'That's what I require, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then I'll be happy to discuss the matter with you.'

'The plot of land is already secured.'

Christopher nodded. 'So you said in your letter, Sir Julius. I took the liberty of visiting the site. It's well chosen. You invested wisely.'

'Not for the first time, my young friend.'

'Oh?'

'I have an instinct that rarely lets me down.'

'You've bought property elsewhere?'

'From time to time, but I was not thinking of the purchase of land.' He took a step closer. 'The name of Colonel Pride is not, I dare say, unknown to you.'

'Everyone has heard of Pride's Purge,' replied Christopher. 'His hostility to the House of Commons was given full vent when he expelled all those members from their seats. I fancy that he gained much satisfaction from that day's work.'

'Tom Pride and I fought together,' said Sir Julius, 'but our friendship did not end there. We went into business together. Colonel Pride was head of a syndicate that secured a contract to victual the Navy. I was one of his partners.' He gave a complacent smile. 'As I told you, farming is only one string to my bow.'

Christopher was grateful for the information. He had known that he had heard of Sir Julius Cheever before but could not recall when and in what context. His memory was now jogged. Sir Julius had been mentioned in connection with the Navy.

'My brother, Henry, dealt with your syndicate, I believe,' he said.

Sir Julius shook his head. 'Henry Redmayne? Don't know the fellow.'

'He holds a position at the Navy Office.'

'Does he?'

'Henry handled the victualling contracts at one point.'

'They were very profitable, in spite of a few ups and downs. So,' said Sir Julius, appraising him afresh. 'You have a brother, do you? Any other siblings?'

'None, I fear.'

'And no family of your own, I'd guess. You have the look of a single man.'

Christopher grinned. 'Is it that obvious, Sir Julius?'

'There's an air of independence about you.'

'Some might call it neglect.'

'Why have you never married? Lack of opportunity?'

'Money is the critical factor,' admitted Christopher. 'I'm still making my way in my profession and have yet to establish a firm enough foundation to my finances. A husband should be able to offer a wife security.'

'Quite so,' agreed the other. 'Romantic impulse is all very well but a full purse is the best guarantee of a happy marriage. That's the one asset my son-in-law does actually possess. Lancelot has little else in his favour.' He gave a nod of approbation. 'You're a practical man, Mr Redmayne. I admire that in you. And after Elijah's recommendation, I have no qualms about your ability as an architect. That brings us to the crucial question.'

'Does it, Sir Julius?'

'Yes, my young friend. What are your politics?'

Christopher gave another shrug. 'I have none.'

'None at all?'

'Not when I'm working for a client.'

'You have no views, no opinions on the state of the nation?'

'Only on the state of its architecture, Sir Julius.'

'Every sane man takes a stand on politics.'

'Then I'm the exception to the rule,' said Christopher with a disarming smile, 'for I find politics a divisive issue. Why look for a reason to fall out, Sir Julius? If we can come to composition over the design of a new house, that is all that matters. My politics are immaterial. You'd be employing me as an architect, not appointing me as the next Lord Chancellor.'

Sir Julius was so taken aback by the rejoinder that he goggled for a full minute. Surprise then gave way to amusement and he emitted a peal of laughter that filled the room. It was at that precise moment that his daughter entered. Susan Cheever was clearly unaccustomed to seeing her father shake with mirth. She blinked in astonishment at him. Christopher rose swiftly from his seat, partly out of politeness but mainly to get a clearer view of the beautiful young woman who had just sailed in through the door. Susan Cheever was a revelation. A slim, shapely creature of medium height, she had none of her father's salient features. For all his eminence, he was patently a son of the soil, but she seemed to have come from a more ethereal domain. It was the luminous quality of her skin that caught Christopher's eye. It glowed in the bright sunlight that was flooding in through the windows. When she spoke, her voice was soft and melodious.

'I wondered if your guest would be dining with us, Father?' she asked.

'Oh, yes,' he replied firmly. 'Mr Redmayne will not only be gracing our table at dinner, he'll be here for the rest of the day. Mr Redmayne will need a bed for the night as well,' he decided. 'I think I've found the right man at last, Susan. He's just made the most politic remark about politics.'

Sir Julius laughed again but Christopher ignored him. His gaze was fixed on Susan Cheever. Attired in a dress of blue satin whose close-fitting bodice advertised her figure, she looked delightfully incongruous in a rambling farmhouse. Their eyes locked for the briefest moment but it was enough to give him a fleeting surge of excitement. Offering him a token smile, she left the room. Her father's comment carried with it the seal of approval. If he were being invited to stay the night, Christopher must have secured the lucrative commission. He was thrilled. He would not only be designing a house for an interesting client, he would have the pleasure of getting to know Sir* Julius Cheever's younger daughter. The long ride to Northamptonshire had been more than worthwhile.

He could still smell the fire. It was almost two years since the fateful night when he had been hauled from his bed to fight the conflagration but Jonathan Bale still had that whiff of smoke in his nostrils. As he walked along the dark street, he could even feel the heat striking up at his feet again from the scorched ground. His clothing became an oven. Sweat began to trickle. Invisible smoke clouded his eyes. He was untroubled. Jonathan was used to being tormented by such memories. When he heard the crackling of the flames and the screams of hysteria, he shook his head to dismiss the familiar sounds. The Great Fire would burn on in his mind for ever. He had learned to live with it.

'Will it ever be the same again?' he asked.

'What?' grunted his companion.

'Our ward.'

'No, Jonathan. We've seen the last of the real Castle Baynard.'

'Much has been rebuilt, Tom.'

'Yes, but not in the same way. We lost homes, inns, churches, warehouses and the castle itself. How can we ever replace all that?'

'They're doing their best.'

'I preferred it the way it was.'

Tom Warburton was a tall, stringy, humourless man. Jonathan was dour by nature but he appeared almost skittish by comparison with his fellow constable. A middle-aged bachelor with no interests outside his work, Warburton took his duties seriously and discharged them with grim commitment. He was an effective officer of the law but he lacked sensitivity and compassion. Jonathan Bale, by contrast, cared for the inhabitants of his ward and took the trouble to befriend many of them. While he was firm yet fair with offenders, Warburton was merciless. Given the choice, the petty criminals of the area would always prefer to be arrested by Jonathan. The bruises did not last quite so long.

It was late. Their patrol took them through the darkest parts of the district. Candles burned in an occasional window and a passing link boy brought a sudden blaze of light but they were, for the most part, making their way along familiar streets by instinct. Warburton was not a talkative man. He liked to keep his ears pricked for the sound of danger. It was Jonathan who always initiated conversation.

'A quiet night,' he noted.

'Too quiet.'

'Most people are abed.'

'But not all of them with their lawful wives and husbands,' said Warburton sourly. 'The leaping houses will be as full as ever.'

'We can't close them all down, Tom. As soon as we raid one place, another opens up elsewhere. And no matter how big the fine, they always have money to pay it. Vice, alas, is a rewarding trade.'

'I'd like to reward every whore with a long term behind bars.'

'It's not only the women who are to blame,' said Jonathan. 'Many are driven to sell their bodies by poverty or desperation. I could never condone what they do but I am bound to feel sorry for them. It's their clients who are the real culprits. Midnight lechers, buying their pleasures at will. If there were no demand, the brothels would not exist. And if there were no brothels,' he added darkly, 'there'd be a lot less drunkenness and affray. In the company of such women, men are always given to excess.'

Warburton said nothing. His ears had picked up the noise of a distant altercation. Voices were raised in anger, then a fight seemed to develop. The two men quickened their pace. By the time they reached Great Carter Lane, however, the argument had resolved itself. One of the disputants had been knocked to the ground outside an inn and the other had rolled off cursing into the night. Before the constables could reach him, the downed man dragged himself to his feet and scuttled away down an alley. Violence was a regular event inside the Blue Dolphin. This particular row had spilled out into the street to be settled with bare fists. All that Jonathan and Warburton could do was exchange a sigh of resignation and continue on their way. There would be plenty of other brawls in their ward before the night was done.

They were walking down Bennet's Hill when Jonathan felt something brush against his leg. It was Warburton's dog, a busy little terrier that always accompanied its master on his rounds. Sam was an unusual animal. He never barked. During a patrol such as this, he would disappear for long periods then materialise out of thin air when least expected. Warburton treated the dog with a mute affection. It was both his scout and his bodyguard. If his master were attacked, Sam would come to his aid at once. More than one vicious criminal had been put to flight by those sharp teeth. Having returned for a moment, the dog scampered off down the hill and merged with the shadows. Jonathan knew where he was going. Their walk would take them down to Paul's Wharf and there were always vermin to catch beside the river. Sam would be in his element. When they saw him next, he would be holding a dead rat in his jaws.

Rebuilding had begun in earnest. Since the Great Fire, twelve hundred houses had already sprung up along with inns, warehouses and other buildings. Churches had yet to be replaced. Almost ninety had been destroyed by the blaze, including the church of St Benet Paul's Wharf. As they went past its charred remains, Jonathan recalled how he had fought in vain alongside others to save it from the flames. The loss of its churches was a bitter blow to the ward. While religion slept, Jonathan believed sinfulness came in to take its place. He was still musing on the impact of the fire when they finally reached the wharf. Sam was waiting for them. They could pick him out in the moonlight. As they got closer, they saw that he held something between his teeth.

Jonathan assumed it would be another victim from the rat population but he was wrong. When the dog trotted across to his master and laid his trophy at Warburton's feet, it was no dead animal this time. What the constable picked up was a man's shoe with a silver buckle on it. It was too dark to examine the item properly but he could tell from the feel of it that it was the work of an expensive shoemaker. He handed it to Jonathan who came to the same conclusion. Tongue out and panting quietly, Sam knew exactly what to do. He swung round and loped away, leading them to the place where he had found the discarded shoe. Jonathan and

Warburton followed him down to a warehouse not far from the water's edge. The Thames was lapping noisily at the wharf, giving off its distinctive odour. A faint breeze was blowing. Sam went along the side of the warehouse, then stopped to sniff at something in a dark corner. Jonathan was the first to reach him. The dog had led them to the other shoe, but it was different from the first. It was still worn by its owner, who lay hunched up on the ground. Jonathan bent down to carry out a cursory inspection of the man, but he had already sensed what he would find. His voice took on urgency.

'Fetch some light, Tom,' he ordered. 'I think he's dead.'