The Repentant Rake

    'Do not read it through, Mr Redmayne.'

    'There is no need.' Christopher looked down at the neat handwriting, then he raised the paper to sniff it. He gave it back to Wickens. 'Thank you.'

    'Henry tells me that Sir Marcus has also been a target,' said Wickens, pocketing the letter. 'That must have scared the wits out of him. He has a wife to worry about.'

    'Not any more,' Henry told him. 'Sir Marcus paid up.'

    'Who can blame him?'

    'I do, Mr Wickens,' said Christopher. 'It was folly.'

    'Yet you went along with it, Christopher,' his brother reminded him.

    'Only because I hoped to set a trap.' He turned to Wickens. 'Since he was determined to hand the money over,' he explained, 'I offered to act as his intermediary and had a man concealed in the crowd to watch. We hoped to catch the blackmailer but he was too cunning for us.'

    'He seems to hold all the cards,' sighed Wickens.

    'Not all of them. We have one or two of our own.'

    'You know who he is, then?'

    'We will do in time.'

    'What happens to us meanwhile?' asked Henry.

    'You sit tight and do nothing.'

    'But I have a death threat hanging over me.'

    'Have you seen the slightest sign of danger?' said Christopher.

    'No, of course not. It was simply a device to lever the money out of you.'

    'I take the threat more seriously.'

    Wickens was concerned. 'So would I in your place, Henry. Take care, my friend.'

    'I'm glad that someone has sympathy for me.'

    'Henry,' said his brother, bridling at the criticism, 'we have just walked along dark streets that afforded endless possibilities of ambush. Were you attacked? Were you menaced in any way?'

    'No, I was not.'

    'How many days has it been since that death threat arrived?'

    'Several, Christopher.'

    'I rest my case.'

    'You are too glib, Mr Redmayne,' said Wickens. 'According to your brother, Gabriel was murdered so that someone could get his hands on that diary. We are not just dealing with a blackmailer here. If he has killed once, he may kill again.'

    'Or get an irate husband to do it for him,' moaned Henry.

    'You know my position, Mr Wickens,' said Christopher. 'The decision is yours.'

    'I'll not make it until the morning.'

    'Will you let Henry know what you do?'

    'If you wish.'

    'I do, sir.'

    'So do I, Peter,' said Henry. 'It will help me to make up my own mind. The suspense is ruining my health. Sleep has become a complete stranger to me.'

    'You will soon be able to sleep as long as you want,' said Christopher.

    'In my coffin?' Henry gave a mirthless laugh and brought the conversation to an end. When the visitors took their leave, Wickens seemed to be in two minds. Christopher hoped that his own advice would be followed but he feared that it would not be. Henry, too, was on the verge of paying the demand. He would not hold out much longer.

    Walking side by side, they headed for The Strand. Henry was more nervous.

    'I wish that I had not remembered that death threat,' he complained.

    'The fact that you were able to forget it so easily shows its true worth.'

    'Let's walk faster.'

    'Why? The streets are empty at this time of night.'

    'I feel suddenly afraid.'

    'When you have me beside you?' said Christopher, patting him on the back. 'We are both armed. There was a time when you were quite skilled with a sword.'

    'I still am.'

    'Then walk as if you know it, Henry. Show some confidence. Exhibit fear and you invite assault. Put out your chest,' he encouraged 'and strut along as if you own the city. That is your usual gait.'

    Trying to obey the advice, Henry almost tripped himself up before he reverted to the mincing step he had used since they left Wickens's house. On the journey back to Bedford Street, he was harassed and furtive. Only when they reached his front door did he allow himself to relax.

    'Thank you, Christopher,' he said. 'Will you come in?'

    'No. Jacob will be waiting for me.'

    'High time you had a young woman waiting for you, not a decrepit old servant.'

    'Jacob is not decrepit.'

    'A woman would give you a sweeter welcome.'

    'I'll have to take your word for that, Henry.'

    After an exchange of farewells, Christopher set off in the direction of Fetter Lane. The encounters with Arthur Lunn, Sir Marcus Kemp and Peter Wickens had each been instructive but his mind rejected all three of them in favour of Susan Cheever. It was she who would defeat time most pleasantly during his walk. Christopher was glad that she had confronted him about the way he had kept certain things from her. It showed spirit on her part and exposed his mistaken assumption about her. Susan was no weak vessel who had to be shielded from disturbing news. Christopher was sorry that his behaviour had upset her and resolved to be more open with her in the future. He felt that their conversation at his house had strengthened the bond between them. Susan Cheever occupied his thoughts in the most delightful way.

    It was not until he reached Fetter Lane that he realised he was being followed.

Chapter Twelve

    Christopher Redmayne could hear no footsteps but he was certain that someone was behind him. He had no idea how long he had been followed and he chided himself for his lack of alertness. Fond thoughts of Susan Cheever had taken his mind off the possibility of danger. It now threatened. A tingling sensation went right through him. Quickening his pace, he reached for his dagger. Before he could even take it out of its sheath, however, his hat was knocked off from behind and Christopher felt something being looped swiftly round his neck. The sudden attack took him completely by surprise. It was a moment before he realised what was happening. A rope was chafing his neck and making it difficult for him to breathe. It was being tightened inexorably. Whoever his adversary might be, the man was strong and purposeful. Christopher began to choke. The pain was agonising. When he felt a knee in his back, he was spurred into action. If he did not strike out now, he would be strangled to death.

    Pummelling with both elbows, he struck his assailant's chest so hard that the pressure on the rope eased slightly. Christopher got one hand inside it to gain himself more relief. He was panting for breath and the blood was pulsing in his temples but he could not rest. As the man renewed his attack, Christopher twisted sharply to the left and threw him off balance, kicking out with one leg as he did so. It tripped his adversary up. Falling to the ground, he pulled Christopher after him, but he had lost the advantage now. The rope was no longer a murder weapon. Christopher rolled over to deliver a relay of punches with both hands, forcing the man to release the rope altogether. The blows drew grunts of pain and Christopher felt blood spurt over his knuckles when they made contact with a nose. With a yell of rage, the man fought back, punching, biting and scratching at Christopher's face before flinging him aside with an upsurge of energy. He leaped to his feet and snatched out a dagger but Christopher was equally nimble, jumping up and producing his own weapon to ward off his attacker.

    While the man circled him, Christopher at last had some idea of whom he was up against. It was too dark to see the other's face clearly but he could make out the solid body and the broad shoulders. The man was young, powerful and experienced in fighting. One mistake would cost Christopher his life. Arms spread wide, he moved round on his toes. When the dagger jabbed at him, he stepped back quickly out of range, using his own weapon to prod the man away when he tried to close in. It was a tense encounter. Christopher was handicapped by the searing pain round his neck. He could still feel the way that a knee had thudded into his spine. This was no random assault. He sensed that he was up against the same assassin who had squeezed the life out of Gabriel Cheever. His sympathy for the dead man increased tenfold. Christopher now had some idea of what his ordeal must have felt like. He had no intention of succumbing to the same fate.