The Repentant Rake

    Henry Redmayne had taken the sensible precautions advised by his brother. He left the house armed and kept his wits about him. Even when he was among friends in a gaming house, he kept his back to a wall so that nobody could come up unseen behind him. His companion, Sir Marcus Kemp, sat at a table nearby, keeping fear at bay by immersing himself in a game of cards. Glad to be back in one of his favourite haunts, Henry felt curiously uninvolved. It was as if he were seeing the place properly for the first time, albeit through a fug of tobacco smoke. Drink was flowing. Voices were raised. There was an air of sophisticated merriment. All seats were taken at the table where Sir Marcus Kemp was playing but Henry sensed an empty chair. In the past, Gabriel Cheever had always occupied a place at that particular table, winning in style and taking money from the purses of Henry, Sir Marcus and almost everyone else who pitted their skills against his. He had been a popular and respected man in the card-playing fraternity. Only those inflamed by drink had ever accused him of cheating or threatened him with violence.

    'I spy a stranger!' said a voice. 'Henry Redmayne, I declare!'

    Henry inclined his head in greeting. 'Well met, Peter.'

    'Have you risen from your sick bed at last?'

    'The thought of what I was missing was the best physician.'

    'We have not seen you for days, Henry. Where have you been hiding?'

    'Nowhere, my friend. I am back.'

    'And most welcome.'

    Peter Wickens gave him an affectionate slap on the back. He looked as suave and elegant as ever. Standing beside Henry, he gazed around the room to see whom he could recognise. Regular denizens were all there. He looked down at the nearest table.

    'I see that Sir Marcus is ready to part with more of his fortune,' he remarked.

    'He seems to be having some luck at last,' said Henry. 'Not before time.'

    'He's too reckless a player.'

    'Boldness is essential in cards, Peter.'

    'Only when tempered with discretion.'

    'That was never his forte.'

    'Indeed not. I've seen Sir Marcus lose a hundred guineas through a moment's indiscretion at the card table,' recalled Wickens with a wry smile. 'But that was when he was up against Gabriel Cheever.' His manner changed at once. 'Have you heard the terrible news about Gabriel?'

    'Yes,' said Henry. 'It's very sad.'

    'I was appalled. Arthur Lunn told me. He had it from some constable who came to see him. What a shock for dear Arthur!' he went on. 'He is enjoying a civilised cup of coffee when he suddenly learns that a friend of his has been murdered.'

    'Has word of the crime spread?'

    'It's the talk of the town, Henry.'

    'Gabriel will be sorely missed.'

    'Not by Sir Marcus,' said Wickens, nodding at the man. 'He's actually smiling at a card table. He never did that when he was Hitting opposite Gabriel Cheever. But how did you hear of this dreadful murder?' he asked, turning to Henry. 'I was shaken to the marrow. Do you know any details'

    'None beyond the fact that the body was found on Paul's Wharf.'

    'What possessed Gabriel to go there?'

    'We may never know, Peter.'

    He grimaced. 'Wharves are such insalubrious places. I keep clear of the river whenever I can. It seems to give off an unholy stench at times. And I've no love for the brutish people who make their living beside the Thames,' he added with a supercilious sneer. 'The lower orders are an affront to decency.'

    'I am bound to agree with you there.'

    'Arthur tells me this constable was an ugly fellow, blunt and uncouth.'

    'Who else would take on such work?'

    'We deserve better from our officers of the law,' argued Wickens loftily. 'If this constable wishes to speak to me, I shall tell him to mind his manners. Has he come in search of you yet, Henry?'

    'No. Why should he?'

    'According to Arthur Lunn, the man wants to speak to anyone who knew Gabriel well. I was not an intimate of his but I did enjoy an occasional game of cards with him.' He gave a chuckle. 'And I shared some other pleasures with Gabriel as well.'

    'Most of us did that, Peter. He was ubiquitous.'

    'The ladies would use a more vivid word for him than that.'

    Henry laughed obligingly but he was not enjoying the conversation. Peter Wickens was a man after his own heart, wealthy, self-indulgent, generous with his friends and addicted to all the pleasures of the town. Henry had lost count of the number of times when he and Arthur Lunn had been driven to their respective houses in the early hours of the day by Peter Wickens's coachman. Yet he felt uneasy beside the man now, fearful that Wickens might probe him about his earlier desertion of his usual haunts. When he was last on these premises, he had been as carefree and affable as his companion. Two anonymous letters had altered that. Behind his token smile, Henry was a frightened man.

    'Are you waiting to take a place at the table?' asked Wickens.

    'No. I prefer to watch.'

    'You normally like to be in the thick of things.'

    'Later, perhaps.'

    'Arthur and I thought to visit Mrs Curtis tonight.'

    'I have other plans,' said Henry, quailing at the thought. 'Give her my apologies.'

    Wickens grinned. 'There's only one way to apologise to a lady, Henry, and it does not involve an exchange of words. Mrs Curtis has been asking after you.'

    'I'll not keeping her waiting long.'

    Wickens was about to reply when one of the men at the table threw down his cards in disgust and got up. Annoyed at his losses, the man stormed out of the room. Peter Wickens moved swiftly. Before anyone else could take the vacant seat, he lowered himself into it and spread a smile around the other players. Sir Marcus Kemp gave him a nod of welcome then waited for the next round of cards to be dealt. They were soon lost in yet another game. Henry envied his two friends. Peter Wickens had no shadow hanging over him and Sir Marcus had found a way to ignore his problems. Henry could do nothing but stand there and suffer. It was excruciating. While everyone else in the room was enjoying himself immensely, Henry Redmayne was under sentence of death.

    Susan Cheever was deeply worried about her father. Since his return from the morgue he had hardly spoken a word. Seated in a chair at the house in Fetter Lane, he brooded in silence. His face was drained of colour, his body of energy. Sir Julius looked as if he had just been dazed by a violent blow. Christopher set the brandy beside him.

    'Drink that, Sir Julius,' he counselled.

    His guest did not even hear him. Susan picked up the glass and offered it to her father, putting a hand on his shoulder at the same time. Her voice was a gentle caress.

    'Take some of this, Father. It's brandy.' He waved it away. 'It will do you good.'

    'I want nothing, Susan.'

    'You look ill.'

    'Should I call a doctor, Sir Julius?' suggested Christopher.

    The old man bristled. 'Whatever for?'

    'You seem unwell.'

    'There's nothing the matter with me.'

    'I'm delighted to hear it.'

    'I have much on my mind that is all.'

    'Naturally, Sir Julius.'

    Before her father could lapse back into silence, Susan leaned forward in her seat. 'Perhaps it is time for us to leave,' she said gently. 'Mr Redmayne has been kindness itself but we have imposed on him far too much already and we need to find accommodation for the night.'

    'You have found it, Miss Cheever,' said Christopher, opening his palms. 'If you have nowhere to stay, I insist that you remain as my guests.'