The Repentant Rake

    'Cheever was murdered,' said Henry, releasing him to circle the room. 'If he can be killed, then so can I. This is no ruse, Christopher. Do you want a constable to find my dead body on Paul's Wharf?'

    'Of course not.'

    'Then take the letter seriously.'

    'I do,' said Christopher, setting it down on the table. 'It's valuable evidence. With your permission, I'd like to show it to Jonathan Bale.'

    Henry was outraged. 'Never!'

    'But it's relevant to his enquiries.'

    'It's much more relevant to my life, Christopher!' shouted his brother. 'I don't want that narrow-minded constable prying into my personal affairs. You swore that you'd divulge my situation to nobody and I hold you to that vow.'

    'Circumstances have changed, Henry.'

    'Yes, I've been threatened with murder.'

    'Come and sit down,' soothed Christopher, taking him by the arm. 'Nothing will be gained by this frenzy. Take a deep breath and sit still while you hear me out.' He lowered Henry on to a chair. 'We have to look at this dispassionately.'

    'Someone is after my blood!' howled Henry.

    'I doubt that very much. Now, be still. We're in a position to help each other.' He held up a hand to stifle Henry's rejoinder then sat beside him. 'That letter does much more than threaten you,' he said reasonably. 'It gives us a vital clue to the identity of Gabriel Cheever's killer. Don't you see, Henry? Murder and blackmail are the work of the same man.'

    Henry was sarcastic. 'Am I supposed to draw comfort from that?'

    'No,' replied Christopher. 'You're supposed to realise that, by helping to snare a killer, you will get rid of the menace of blackmail. The two crimes are linked. Solve one and we solve them both. In short, take Jonathan Bale into your confidence.'

    'No. I'll not have a Puritan sitting in judgement on me.'

    'He's a dedicated officer of the law. Look what he has achieved in the past.'

    'Only because you worked beside him.'

    Christopher was determined. 'I intend to do so again, Henry,' he insisted. 'The three of us are in this together. You have received threats of blackmail. Jonathan is investigating a murder. And I am employed by a man whose son has been killed in the most brutal fashion.'

    Henry shrank back. 'Spare me the details.'

    'Let me at least tell you how I was drawn into this.' Christopher gave his brother a succinct account of the constable's visit to his house and stressed the need for further information about Gabriel Cheever. He was gently persuasive. Slowly but surely, he began to break down Henry's resistance. One point was made with particular emphasis.

    'I am not suggesting for one moment that you show Jonathan that first letter. The fact of its existence will be enough for him to know. Details of your private life will not be disclosed, Henry. They would, in any case, be superfluous.'

    'What do you mean?'

    Christopher smiled. 'Jonathan is unlikely to mistake you for an ascetic.'

    'The pursuit of pleasure is the aim of every man.'

    'Perhaps,' agreed his brother, 'but we do not all derive pleasure from the same things. Mine comes from my work and Jonathan Bale's from doing his duty. Your pleasures are more unashamedly sensual.'

    'Why else were we put upon this earth?'

    'If you seek a theological dispute, talk to Father.'

    'Keep the old gentleman out of this,' begged Henry, clutching at his chest. 'I have had scares enough for one day.'

    'Then let us dispose of the first,' said Christopher, indicating the letter. 'A serious threat has been issued. I believe it to be groundless but I understand that you wish to take no chances. So,' he went on, 'adopt sensible precautions. You're safe enough here with your servants about you and you would hardly be attacked on the street in daylight. This killer works by night. That much we do know.'

    'I'll not stir from the house until he is caught.'

    'That would be foolish. Go armed and keep your wits about you.'

    'Gabriel Cheever was a finer swordsman than me yet he was struck down.'

    'Only because he was taken unawares, Henry You will be more watchful.'

    'Even I do not have eyes in the back of my head.'

    'Take a servant with you, then. Or walk abroad with a friend. Now,' he said earnestly, 'tell me all you know about Gabriel Cheever. Where does he live?'

    Henry looked blank. 'I have no idea.'

    'I thought he was an acquaintance of yours.'

    'He was. We saw a lot of each other at one time; Gabriel had lodgings in Covent Garden in those days. That was before he disappeared.'

    'Disappeared?'

    'Yes,' said Henry.' 'It was quite strange. Nobody sought pleasure more ardently than Gabriel Cheever. Yet, all of a sudden, he seemed to vanish. He spurned all of his favourite haunts. I remember commenting on it to Arthur Lunn.'

    'Why to him?'

    'Because he knew Gabriel better than anyone.'

    'What did he say?'

    'Arthur was as baffled as the rest of us. For some reason, Gabriel quit his lodging and went to ground. Arthur wondered if he had left London altogether.'

    'Did nobody see any sign of him?'

    'No.' Henry shook his head. 'Sir Marcus Kemp thought he caught a glimpse of him in Knightrider Street but he could easily have been mistaken. Sir Marcus does not have the keenest eyesight.'

    'Knightrider Street?' said Christopher. 'That might put him in Jonathan's ward.'

    'Sir Marcus would not swear that it was Gabriel.'

    'But it could have been?'

    'Conceivably.'

    'When he was in Covent Garden, did he live alone?'

    'His bed was rarely empty,' said Henry enviously, 'but his guests did not usually stay for any length of time. The only woman with whom I saw him on anything like a regular basis was Celia Hemmings and that association broke up some time ago.'

    'Might she know the address to which he moved?'

    'It would be worth asking her. I can tell you where to find her.'

    'Thank you,' said Christopher. 'I'll want to meet anyone who knew Gabriel well.'

    Henry smirked. 'Celia knew him as well as his Maker.'

    'What manner of man was he, Henry? You told me that he was a rakehell but there must have been other sides to his character. Have you any notion what brought him to London in the first place?'

    'Oh, yes. The same thing that brought me here, Christopher.'

    'The lure of pleasure?'

    'No,' said Henry. 'Fear of a tyrannical father.'

    'You must not let him intimidate you so,' said Brilliana, snipping another rose to place in her basket. 'Stand up to him for once.'

    'Sir Julius has such a strong personality,' complained her husband.

    'At your age, you should not be afraid of the sound of thunder.'

    'It's the flashes of lightning that disturb me.'

    Lancelot Serle was a tall, thin, nervous man in his thirties with a handsome face stained by a small red birthmark on his cheek that looked like a permanent dribble of strawberry juice from his mouth. He dressed fashionably but his apparel always seemed faintly too big for him. His wife, Brilliana, had no visible defects. A striking woman with a beauty that kept time at bay, she was wearing the plain dress she reserved for any exploits in the garden. While gathering flowers, she did not even spare her husband a glance. Serle hovered ineffectually at her side.