The Repentant Rake

    'What on earth was Gabriel doing there?'

    'We have no idea as yet, Mr Lunn. Can you offer any opinion?'

    'No,' said the other, still dazed by the news. 'To be frank, I rather lost sight of Gabriel. It must be months since we last met. He was living in Covent Garden then but he quit his lodgings one day without telling anyone where he was going.'

    'How well did you know him, sir?'

    'Extremely well. We were good friends. In the circumstances, that was a miracle.'

    'A miracle?'

    'Yes, Mr Bale. Gabriel Cheever was the king of the card table. I must have lost a small fortune to him over the years but I never resented it somehow. Gabriel had such charm. He made you feel that it was a kind of honour to lose to him.'

    'Is that how he made his money?' said Jonathan with a note of censure. 'By playing games of chance?'

    'There was no chance when Gabriel was at the table.'

    Arthur Lunn launched into some rambling reminiscences. Jonathan was torn between curiosity and revulsion. Valuable facts about the murder victim were emerging but the world in which he had moved was anathema to the constable. He schooled himself to memorise the information without making any moral judgement. Whatever kind of existence he had led, Gabriel Cheever deserved to have his killer caught and punished. Lunn was in full flow. Most of his revelations were shocking to the ears of a Puritan but he did not even notice the effect he was having, and surged on regardless. As other names surfaced, Jonathan tried to make a mental note of them in case one or two were not on the list that Christopher Redmayne had acquired. Every tiny scrap of information needed to be hoarded. It might all be relevant. By the time Lunn stopped, his voice was maudlin. His affection for the dead man was apparent. Jonathan seized on the name that had been repeated most often.

    'You mentioned Sir Marcus Kemp, sir.'

    'He and I spent much time in Gabriel's company.'

    'I would value a word with him.'

    'Sir Marcus will be horrified when he hears the news.'

    'Is he here at the moment?' asked Jonathan, looking around.

    'No, Mr Bale,' said Lunn. 'It's far too early for him to be up and about. Sir Marcus carouses until dawn as a rule. My guess is that he's still asleep in his bed.'

    Sir Marcus Kemp ignored the bell and pounded on the door with his fist. He was a tall, stooping, lean individual in his thirties with a long, sallow face and large, mournful brown eyes. With his periwig resting on his shoulders like huge hairy ears, he had the appearance of an oversized spaniel suffering from distemper. When the door did not open immediately, he attacked it with more vigour. It swung back on its hinges. Pushing the servant aside, he stormed into the hall.

    'Where is Henry?' he demanded.

    'Mr Redmayne is not receiving visitors today, Sir Marcus,' said the servant.

    'He'll receive me.'

    'I have instructions to let nobody in.'

    'Damn it, man! Do I have to search the house myself?'

    The servant weakened. 'Let me speak to him, Sir Marcus.'

    'Just tell me where he is.'

    'Mr Redmayne is dining at home, but-'

    Sir Marcus Kemp cut him off in mid-sentence by thrusting him aside for the second time. He strode to door of the dining room and flung it open. Seated at the table, Henry was picking at the meal set out before him. He looked up in surprise as his visitor descended on him. The hapless servant appeared in the doorway to signal his apologies.

    'There you are, Henry!' said the newcomer. 'Thank heaven!'

    'This is an inopportune moment, Marcus,' said Henry.

    'I do not care two hoots for that, man. I am in despair.'

    He sank into a chair. Henry waved his servant away and the man closed the door behind him. Seeing the look of terror in his friend's face, Henry poured him a glass of wine and passed it across to him. The visitor downed it in one eager gulp.

    'What is the matter?' asked Henry.

    'I'm staring death in the face.'

    'In what way?'

    'The worst possible way, Henry,' said the other. 'Do you recall a night we spent some months ago, enjoying the hospitality of Mrs Curtis?'

    'We spent many such nights together.'

    'This one was rather special. Two young ladies obliged us in the most wonderful fashion. All four of us shared such harmless delight in that bed.' His voice darkened. 'But it was not as harmless as I thought, Henry,' he said, extracting a letter from his pocket. 'This came for me this morning. It's a demand for money. Among other things, that glorious night we all spent together in the same bed is described in frightening detail.'

    'Do not remind me,' said Henry. 'I have seen that particular description.'

    'I'm being blackmailed!'

    'You are not alone, Marcus.'

    'What do you mean?'

    Henry heaved a sigh. 'Have some more wine.'

    The ride to Richmond on the following morning gave Christopher Redmayne the chance to review the situation in depth. Events had moved fast. Having returned to London with a prized commission in his pocket, he was now faced with the task of breaking news of a family tragedy to the very person who employed him. The death of Gabriel Cheever was unlikely to stop the new house from being built in Westminster but he did not relish his role as a messenger. Sir Julius was a proud and implacable man. Christopher anticipated trouble both from him and from his elder daughter. The tidings that he carried might well meet with a frosty reception at Serle Court. Gabriel Cheever only had one remaining friend in his family and she was the person Christopher was most anxious not to upset. Yet that was unavoidable. As he thought of Susan

    Cheever, he was not sure if he wanted her to be at Serle Court or not. Any pleasure that her presence might give him would be offset by the pain he inflicted on her.

    The information garnered from Celia Hemmings had been invaluable. She had confirmed that Susan had maintained contact with her brother, albeit under difficult conditions. It only served to increase Christopher's respect for the beguiling young lady he had met in Northamptonshire. Celia Hemmings had also revealed things about her former lover that nobody else had even suspected, and he had been forced to adjust his view of the dead man. Life on a country estate was not the ideal milieu for someone with ambitions to publish his poetry and write plays for the theatre. Nor would Sir Julius Cheever have looked kindly on activities that had a Cavalier tinge to them. He had willingly supported the closure of all theatres during the Commonwealth. That his only son rejected him and his principles so totally must have rankled with the old man. To a lesser extent, it was a situation replicated in Christopher's own family and he was very conscious of the fact. Henry Redmayne's private life was an act of defiance against the Dean of Gloucester but he was careful to hide it from his father. If sordid details of his sybaritic existence were made public, as threatened, there would be severe repercussions inside one of England's most stately cathedrals.

    Christopher was still sceptical about the suggested motive for the murder. Everything he had heard about Gabriel Cheever indicated a young man who would meet blackmail demands with contempt. What could possibly be disclosed that he would find at all embarrassing? The irony was that the only things he kept secret were his literary aspirations and they would hardly be a source of blackmail. Christopher decided to keep an open mind about the reasons that prompted someone to kill him. What had altered the situation slightly was the intelligence, confided by his brother on the previous day, that Sir Marcus Kemp was also a victim of attempted extortion, with one significant difference. In the latter case, no death threat had been received. Why had Henry Redmayne been singled out for additional pressure, if, indeed, that is what had happened? Christopher could not exclude the possibility that others might also have been the target for blackmail and, perhaps, for a secondary threat. One thing seemed incontrovertible. The man behind the letters was an insider. He was part of the social circle that embraced Henry Redmayne, Sir Marcus Kemp and Gabriel Cheever. It was not a world in which Jonathan Bale would be able to operate with any ease. Christopher knew that he would have to take much of the investigative burden on himself.