The Repentant Rake

    Jonathan brightened. 'Will he have an address for the man?'

    'Perhaps.'

    'How soon can you get it for me?'

    'I'll walk to Bedford Street this morning, Mr Bale.'

    'Are you all right?' asked Jonathan, peering at him with concern. 'You look pale, Mr Redmayne. Have these tidings come as a shock to you?'

    'A profound shock,' admitted Christopher. 'When you arrived here, I was inspecting a site with a builder. I've been commissioned to design a house for a client called Sir Julius Cheever.'

    'A relation?'

    'His father, I believe.'

    'The fog is starting to clear at last,' said Jonathan gratefully. 'The father deserves to be informed at once so he can identify the body for certain. Can you tell me how to find him?'

    'He is probably on his way to London even as we speak, Mr Bale.'

    'Good.'

    'Though I can't guarantee that he'll shed too many tears over his son's demise,' said Christopher sadly. 'The two of them had fallen out, apparently. Sir Julius is a man of high principles. He was knighted by the Lord Protector for his services during the war.' Jonathan's eyes ignited with interest. 'You would have much in common with him, Mr Bale, but not, I would guess, with his son. Gabriel Cheever led the kind of existence that appalled his father so much that he virtually disowned him.'

    'I see.'

    'But grief might well dissolve their differences. I pray that it does. Every son deserves to be mourned.' He became thoughtful. 'Where is the body?'

    'At the morgue.'

    'Can you make sure that it remains there until the family has been told?'

    'Yes, Mr Redmayne.'

    'It would be a cruelty if they arrived to find that Gabriel Cheever had been buried in an unmarked grave because nobody came forward to claim the body. Even if Sir Julius himself does not wish to take responsibility, others in the family may do so.'

    Jonathan got up. 'I'll return to the morgue at once and leave instructions.'

    'Do that, Mr Bale,' said Christopher, rising from his own chair. 'Meanwhile, I'll repair to my brother's house to see what I can learn about the deceased. He and Henry sound as if they might have been birds of the same feather.'

    'The thought had crossed my mind,' said Jonathan quietly.

    'Let's about our business.' Christopher led the way to the door, arranged to meet his friend later on then sent him on his way. Having stabled the horse, Jacob was returning to the house.

    'I have to go out again, Jacob,' Christopher told him.

    'On foot?'

    'In the first instance.'

    'When shall I expect you back, sir?' asked Jacob.

    'It's impossible to say. I may be some time. At all events, prepare no food for me. I'll not be dining at home today.'

    'But I understood that you were to work on your drawings.'

    Christopher winced. 'That project is in abeyance, I fear.'

    Buoyed up by his brother's visit on the previous day, Henry Redmayne resolved to adopt a more positive attitude. He would no longer be cowed into submission by the threats of a blackmailer. Courage and forbearance were needed. It was important for him to resume his normal life in order to show his anonymous tormentor that he was not so easily alarmed. Instead of hiding himself away, therefore, he spent his usual daily eternity in front of the mirror, preening himself and adjusting his periwig, then selected a hat for his walk along The Strand. Before he could even reach the front door, however, the bell rang and it shattered his fragile confidence at once, sending him back into the dining room where he skulked in a corner. He heard the door open and, almost immediately, close again. His servant's footsteps approached the dining room. Henry made an effort to compose himself, one hand on the back of a chair and the other on his hip. When the man entered, he looked down his nose at him.

    'Well?' he asked.

    'A letter has come for you, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Set it down on the table.'

    The man did so and went out, shutting the door behind him. Henry's bold front collapsed again. It was a letter that had transformed his life so dramatically and he feared another from the same hand. Should he open it or should he send for Christopher to do so? If he read the missive, he risked inflicting further misery on himself. Yet, if he ignored it, he might imperil himself by disobeying orders. Eyes on the letter, he walked round the table as if skirting a dangerous animal that was liable to attack him. There was, he tried to tell himself, no certainty that it came from the blackmailer. It might be from a friend a colleague at the Navy Office, or even - the thought depressed him - from his father. One glance at the neat calligraphy eliminated the Dean of Gloucester from the list of potential correspondents. He could not identify the hand at all. It was reassuring. Whoever had written the letter, it was not the man who had issued the dire warnings.

    Henry relaxed slightly. Summoning up the vestiges of his resolve, he picked up the missive. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter to read it, then reached out desperately for the support of the chair. Only one sentence had been written on the paper but it was as chilling as it was mystifying. Though penned by a different hand from the one responsible for the first letter, the second clearly came from the same source. Henry lowered himself into a chair and suffered an outbreak of prickly heat. He was still transfixed by the single sentence when the front door bell was rung again. It made him sit up guiltily, and he thrust the letter into his pocket.

    When there was a knock on the door he expected his servant to enter, but it was Christopher who came surging into the dining room. Henry almost swooned with relief.

    'Forgive this intrusion,' said Christopher.

    'You are more than welcome, brother!'

    'I need your assistance, Henry.'

    'Not as much as I need yours,' said the other, pulling the letter from his pocket. 'This came only minutes ago. Quite what it bodes I cannot tell, but it gave me a turn.'

    'Why?'

    'Read it for yourself.'

    Christopher took the letter and unfolded it. The message jumped out at him. Pay what I ask or suffer the same fate as Gabriel Cheever.

    'What does it mean?' asked Henry. 'How is Gabriel Cheever involved here? Has he been receiving blackmail demands as well?'

    'If he did,' said Christopher, 'he refused to give in to them. Gabriel is dead.'

    'Dead?'

    'His body was found a few nights ago at Paul's Wharf.'

    Henry quailed. 'He was murdered?'

    'Strangled, apparently, then stabbed through the heart. It's the very matter that brought me here this morning, Henry. My friend Jonathan Bale stumbled upon the body with a fellow constable.'

    Henry was not interested in the details. The fact that Gabriel Cheever had been killed was enough to throw him into a panic. Leaping to his feet, he wrung his hands in despair and darted to and fro like a trapped deer waiting for the huntsmen to strike. The letter contained no idle threat. It was not only Henry's reputation that hung in the balance: his life was now at risk. When he had worked himself up into a lather of apprehension, he flung himself at Christopher and grabbed him by the coat.

    'He's going to kill me!' he cried.

    'Calm down, Henry.'

    'How can I be calm when someone is plotting my murder?'

    'It could be an empty threat,' argued Christopher. 'If you were to die, he loses all hope of getting any money out of you. Why sacrifice that? No, Henry. I spy a ruse here. It is simply a means of frightening you into complying with his demands.'