The Repentant Rake

    'Where will you go now?' she asked.

    'To pay a call on a man who will not be pleased to see us.'

    'Who is that, Mr Redmayne?'

    'Mr Arthur Lunn.'

    'Are we to search the coffee houses for him?' said a worried Jonathan.

    'No, Mr Bale,' said Christopher, 'we'll call at his home first.

    Even if he is not there himself, we may find out something of crucial importance.'

    'What is that?' said Susan.

    'If he has a servant with a wounded arm and a broken nose.'

    Fleet Lane was well outside Tom Warburton's territory but he could not refuse his colleague's request. He had been with Jonathan Bale when the dead body was discovered and he had the same commitment to finding the killer. Choosing a vantage point with care, Warburton kept the printing shop under surveillance. His dog, Sam, seemed to realise the significance of the assignment. Instead of wandering off to forage, he stayed close to his master's feet, curling up and falling asleep. The constable's orders were simple. He was to watch customers going in and out of the shop and await a signal from the printer. Miles Henshaw had given him a description of the wanted man so he knew his salient features.

    It was a lengthy wait. Several customers appeared but none of them resembled the person that Warburton was after. He stamped his feet to fight off cramp. Sam opened an eye to see if he was needed then closed it again. A group of people sauntered down the lane towards them. A young man, who had attached himself to the rear of the group, suddenly peeled off and went into the shop. Warburton took close interest. One glimpse of the customer alerted him. Nudging the dog awake, he kept his gaze on the printer's shop. The latest customer was inside for some time. When the man emerged Miles Henshaw came out with him to trade a few words before waving him off. Warburton moved forward, ready to break into a trot at the printer's signal. Sam emitted a low growl. But it was all to no avail. As soon as the customer had gone a few yards, Henshaw turned to the constable and shook his head vigorously. It was not the wanted man. Warburton drew back and Sam curled up again. The dog was soon fast asleep.

    When he opened the front door, the servant was taken aback to see a burly constable standing there with a young man whose face was covered in lacerations. He recovered quickly and looked from one to the other.

    'May I help you, gentlemen?' he said.

    'We have called to see Mr Lunn,' said Christopher. 'Is he at home?'

    'Yes, sir, but Mr Lunn is not receiving visitors today.'

    'Tell him it's a matter of some urgency.'

    'I will pass that message on to him' said the man, dismissing them with a cold smile. 'Good day, gentlemen.'

    'Wait!' ordered Jonathan. 'Close that door in our faces and you'll answer to me.'

    'My master is not available today, sir.'

    'Tell him that Mr Redmayne and Mr Bale wish to speak to him.'

    'It would make no difference,' said the man with exasperation.

    'We'll not be denied,' warned Christopher.

    'I never admit strangers.'

    'We are both known to Mr Lunn. I was with him at a gaming house last night and Mr Bale here has shared a table with him at a coffee house.'

    Jonathan winced at the reminder. 'I come on official business,' he said. 'If you try to turn us away, I'll fetch a warrant to gain entry. What will your master say to that?'

    The man's certainty slowly vanished. He could see how determined the visitors were. Leaving them at the door, he risked his master's displeasure and went to report the request. When he returned he had a hangdog expression.

    'You are to come in,' he mumbled, 'but Mr Lunn can spare you very little time.'

    'We will not require much,' said Christopher.

    They were conducted into a large hall with a high ceiling. The floor was marble and a marble staircase curled its way upwards. Located in St James's Square, the house was bigger and more sumptuous than those of either Sir Marcus Kemp or Peter Wickens. Christopher estimated the number of servants it would take to run such an establishment. Arthur Lunn was in the dining room, seated at the head of a long table with writing materials set out in front of him. He was still in his dressing gown but he wore his periwig. His paunch was accentuated, his swarthy face darkened even more by a scowl. When the visitors entered he gave them no word of greeting. He stared at Christopher's injuries without comment then glowered at Jonathan.

    'What is this nonsense about a warrant?' he demanded.

    'It did not prove necessary,' said Jonathan.

    'I'll not have you upsetting my servants.'

    'How many do you have here, Mr Lunn?' asked Christopher.

    'That's none of your damn business, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Is one of them nursing a wounded arm?'

    Lunn's eyes bulged even more recklessly. 'Wounded arm?' he said. 'Is that why you came here - to discuss the condition of my servants?'

    'It may be relevant, sir.'

    'To what?'

    'Something that happened to me last night. I was attacked.'

    'I can see that. But do not expect any sympathy from me.'

    'What I would like is an explanation, Mr Lunn,' said Christopher, moving closer. 'When I spoke to you last night, you were very brusque with me. Someone followed me from the gaming house and waited for the moment to strike. Is that not a coincidence?'

    Lunn hauled himself up. 'Are you suggesting that I set someone on to you?' he said. 'That's a monstrous allegation.'

    'Is it a truthful one?'

    'No, of course not!'

    'You seemed very annoyed with me.'

    'I was, Mr Redmayne, but I'd never let anyone else do something that I would enjoy myself. Had I wanted you beaten, I'd have thrashed you with a horsewhip.'

    Christopher met his gaze. 'It would not have stayed long in your hand.'

    'Mr Redmayne was not beaten,' said Jonathan solemnly. 'An attempt was made on his life. We have reason to believe that the man responsible has killed already.'

    'Why tell me all this?' demanded Lunn.

    'We wondered if you might know the fellow, sir.'

    'How could I?'

    'By employing him to run errands for you,' said Christopher. 'Was he the same person you sent to Miles Henshaw, the printer?' Lunn looked bewildered. 'What is he? A servant? A friend? Or merely a hired assassin?'

    'Will somebody tell me what this is all about? I'm baffled.'

    'Let me jog your memory. An unknown person has been sending blackmail demands to a number of people,' he said, glancing at the correspondence on the table. 'My brother Henry was the first to receive one, Sir Marcus Kemp came next and the latest victim, as far as we know, is Mr Peter Wickens. There is a clear pattern. Large amounts of money are demanded. The blackmailer has to come from within my brother's circle or he would not be in possession of the sensitive information that he has acquired. Mr Bale and I have been searching for the man.'

    Lunn was incredulous. 'Are you accusing me?'

    'We merely wish to ask you some questions.'

    'Am I supposed to have written these letters?'

    'Let us just say that our enquiries have led us to your door, Mr Lunn.'

    'Then they can lead you straight back out again,' snapped Lunn. 'Sir Marcus Kemp, Peter Wickens and your brother are all close friends of mine. Why should I want to blackmail them?'

    'You have expensive tastes.'