The Repentant Rake

    'That is what she claimed.'

    'Did she mention what he had written?'

    'Of course,' said Christopher. 'She thought his poetry was wonderful. I suspect that some of it was dedicated to her. It's a small consolation, I know, but she will still have those poems to remember him by. Lucy also talked about the play he was working on.'

    'Did she refer to anything else?'

    'Not that I recall.'

    'No memoirs that he was writing?'

    'Memoirs?'

    'Yes, Mr Redmayne,' she explained, 'Gabriel had a conscience. Though he enjoyed the life that he led in London, he did so at a price. His conscience tormented him. He was never really comfortable in that world and he found a way to deal with it.'

    'What was that?' asked Christopher.

    'He kept a diary. A detailed memoir of everything that happened during those long nights at the card tables and… her voice faltered… and in the other places he visited. Gabriel did not spare himself,' she went on. 'He listed all his vices and named all of his friends. That diary was a form of confession. He was trying to purge himself.' She leaned forward. 'Do you think that Lucy is aware of that diary?'

    'Yes,' said Christopher, mind racing. 'I suspect that she is.'

    'If she is not, it would be painful for her to stumble on it unawares.'

    'There is no possibility of that, Miss Cheever,' he said, thinking of the blackmail threats. 'The diary is no longer at the house.'

Chapter Eight

    When he had read a passage from the Bible to his two sons, Jonathan Bale said prayers with them, gave them a kiss then came downstairs to join his wife in the kitchen. Sarah was neatly folding one of the sheets that she had washed earlier in the day.

    'Are you still working?' he complained.

    'I'm almost done, Jonathan,' she said, putting one sheet aside and taking up another. 'The washing dries so quickly in this weather. I could take in much more.'

    'You do enough as it is, Sarah.'

    'I like to keep busy.'

    'Too busy.'

    'Would you rather that I sat around and did nothing all day long?'

    'No, my love,' he said, brushing her forehead with a kiss. 'You would die of boredom in a week. Whatever else people say about Sarah Bale, they will never be able to accuse you of laziness.'

    'While I have health and strength to work, I will.' She noticed a small tear in the sheet she was folding. 'Ah, that will need a stitch or two.'

    'Let the person who brought it here do that, Sarah. They only pay you to wash their bed linen, not to repair it.'

    She smiled tolerantly. 'This load is from old Mrs Lilley in Thames Street,' she said. 'The poor woman has rheumatism. She can barely move her fingers, let alone sew with them. It will not take me long, Jonathan.'

    'I did not realise that it was an act of Christian kindness.'

    'Mrs Lilley needs all the help that she can get.'

    'Of course. Well,' he said, moving away, 'you carry on. I have to go out again.'

    'So late in the evening?'

    'I'll not be long, Sarah.'

    'But you are not supposed to be on duty tonight.'

    'No,' he agreed, 'but I want to knock on a few more doors.'

    'I would have thought you'd had enough of that for one day.'

    He grinned. 'Yes, my knuckles are a bit raw. Tom Warburton and I spent hours on the doorsteps in Knightrider Street and all to no avail. I'm going back there now.'

    'Why?'

    'To make amends, my love.'

    'For what?'

    'I let myself down,' he explained. 'I like to keep an eye on everyone who comes and goes in my ward. After all this time, I know most people by sight and many by name, especially in Knightrider Street. But a man and his wife slipped past me.'

    'Have you found them now?'

    'Only because of Mr Redmayne. It irks me, Sarah. I have to rely on someone who does not even live here to tell me what's going on under my nose.'

    'You should be grateful to Mr Redmyane.'

    'Oh, I am,' he said. 'I just wish that I could have ferreted out the truth myself. When we called at the house earlier, the maidservant fobbed us off with a lie. I should have known she was hiding something.'

    'Are you going back there?'

    'No, it's a house of mourning. It would be cruel to intrude. What I want to do is to speak to the neighbours about the two young people who lived there. They may have seen something of value.'

    'Is this to do with the murder?' she asked.

    'Yes, Sarah.'

    'Did the dead man live in Knightrider Street?'

    'Briefly.'

    'Where?'

    'Close to Sermon Lane.'

    'Then you ought to speak to Mrs Runciman,' she suggested.

    'Who?'

    'She lives on the corner of Sermon Lane, near the house you're talking about. I take in washing from Mrs Runciman quite often. Please remember me to her.'

    'I will.'

    'The Buswell family live opposite and Mrs Gately is somewhere close.'

    Jonathan laughed. 'Do you take in washing from the whole street?'

    'No. The only person I work for is Mrs Runciman but she always invites me into the house. I've met Mrs Buswell and Mrs Gately there. You'll get little help from them, I'm afraid. Mrs Buswell is almost blind and Mrs Gately is a little slow-witted. Go to Mrs Runciman first,' she advised. 'She has a sharp eye. If anyone can help you, it will probably be her.'

    'Thank you!' he said, kissing her again.

    'You should have spoken to me earlier.'

    'I can see that now, my love.'

    'If you took in washing, you'd be surprised how much useful gossip you could pick up.'

    'I think I'll hold on to my present job.'

    'Are you afraid of hard work?' she teased.

    'No, Sarah,' he replied. 'I thrive on it. Nobody works harder than shipwrights and I was in that trade for several years. But being a constable helps me to look after people. I feel that I can do some good. That pleases me more than I can tell you.'

    'There's no need to tell me. I can see it in your face.'

    'Not at the moment.'

    'No,' she said giving him a sympathetic hug. 'This case has upset you badly.'

    'The murder has caused a deep wound in Baynard's Castle ward.'

    'I feel the same about a bad tear in some linen. I want to sew it up again quickly.'

    Jonathan was solemn. 'The tear that I have to mend is in a shroud.'

    Sir Julius Cheever needed a few moments to collect himself. During his many walks across battlefields, he had seen death and mutilation hundreds of times and become inured to the sight, but this was very different. His own son lay on the slab beneath the shroud. Gabriel had been young, strong and brimming with energy the last time they had met. The hot words that Sir Julius had flung on that occasion came back to haunt him. They seemed so hollow and pointless now. Anger had taken hold and gnawed away at him for years. At last it was spent. All differences between father and son vanished in death. What remained was remorse and self- recrimination. Gritting his teeth, he peeled back the shroud to look down at the body. The weal round the neck was more livid than ever. He closed his eyes in agony and covered the face up again.

    'That's my son,' he said quietly. 'That is Gabriel Cheever.'