The Repentant Rake

    On any other evening, Henry would have been looking forward to carousing with his friends, playing cards, drinking heavily, then rolling from one house of resort to another. Dedicated to pleasure, his appetite was insatiable and his stamina legendary, but neither would be on display that night. As he rode towards home, a mask of concentration replaced his normal haughty expression and a furtive look was in his eyes. More than once during the journey, he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid that he was being followed. When he came out through Ludgate, he kicked the horse into a gentle canter, anxious to get back to the relative safety of his home. Like his brother, he was a tall, well- featured man with hair of a reddish hue, but the signs of dissipation set him completely apart from his sibling. Nor did he have anything of Christopher's affability and even temper. Henry Redmayne was a born sybarite, proud, arrogant, self-indulgent and, though capable of acts of true kindness, a confirmed egotist. None of those qualities were in evidence now. The overweening confidence had fled. He was a worried man, skulking home with terror in his heart.

    Fleet Street merged into The Strand and he breathed a sigh of relief. He would be there in a mere minute or so. He longed to be able to close his front door behind him and shut out a world that had suddenly become hostile. He needed time in which to think and a refuge that was inviolable. Swinging right into Bedford Street, he caught sight of his house, but the further comfort it afforded was illusory. As he got closer, he saw two figures emerging from the door to stroll towards a waiting coach. Arthur Lunn and Peter Wickens were the last people he hoped to encounter, but a meeting was unavoidable now. The two men had seen him and hailed him aloud.

    Henry reined in his horse and exchanged greetings with his two friends.

    ' 'Sdeath!' exclaimed Lunn. 'Where have you been, man? A funeral?'

    'No, Arthur,' said Henry.

    'Then why dress in those appalling clothes? Had I not recognised your face, I'd have taken you for a parson or a haberdasher.'

    'Or a devilish pawnbroker,' suggested Wickens.

    'I've been working at the Navy Office,' explained Henry over their brittle laughter. 'It's been a most tiring day so I beg you both to excuse me.'

    Wickens was stunned. 'Do I hear aright? Henry Redmayne pleading fatigue?'

    'It's never happened before,' said Lunn with a roguish grin. 'The ladies still speak of you with awe, Henry. I wish I had your reputation.'

    'It's more than a reputation you need, Arthur,' warned Wickens.

    Arthur Lunn chuckled at the coarse innuendo. He was a short, swarthy, pop-eyed man in his forties with flamboyant attire that accentuated rather than hid his portly frame. Ten years younger, Peter Wickens was slim, sharp-featured and decidedly elegant. Debauchery had left its mark indelibly on both of them. They were fit companions for the Henry Redmayne of old but they had picked the wrong day on which to call.

    'We expected to see you at the King's House this afternoon,' said Wickens. 'They played The Old Trooper by John Lacy and it was a sight to see.'

    'Yes,' agreed Lunn. 'You missed a treat, Henry. Young Nell took the part of Doll Troop and all but milked my epididymis with those wicked eyes of hers. She's the most impudent creature in London, I'll warrant.'

    'I've heard others express the same view,' said Henry.

    'You should have been there with us.'

    'My presence was required elsewhere, Arthur.'

    'Elsewhere?'

    'Commitments at the Navy Office.',

    'What sort of commitments?' asked Wickens peevishly. 'Since when have you put work before a visit to the theatre, Henry? It's so uncivil of you. We had a box all waiting. No matter,' he went on, flicking a wrist. 'You can make amends tonight. We plan to visit Mrs Curtis and her sirens.'

    Henry lifted a hand. 'Then you must do so without me, Peter.'

    'Nonsense, man!'

    'I must regretfully decline your company tonight.'

    'This is some jest, surely,' said Lunn irritably. 'I refuse to believe that I am hearing Henry Redmayne spurning an opportunity for endless hours of pleasure.'

    'Nevertheless, you are,' insisted Henry.

    'On what grounds?'

    'Exhaustion and ill health.'

    'You have a malady?'

    'A headache that's afflicted me all day,' pretended Henry, touching his forehead with the back of his hand. 'It will pass in time if I lie down.'

    'There's no better place for that than with Mrs Curtis,' observed Wickens with an oily smirk. 'Lie down there and one of her ladies with tease away your headache with long fingers. A night in the arms of Betty or Patience or the divine Hannah Marklew will cure you of any ailments.'

    Lunn sniggered. 'Though they may give you another disease in return.'

    Henry shook his head. 'I'll forego that delight, gentlemen.'

    'Deny your closest friends?'

    'I fear so, Arthur.'

    They continued to try to persuade him to join them for a night of revelry but Henry was adamant. Nothing would make him stir outside the walls of his house. Lunn and Wickens were mystified. When they finally adjourned to their coach, they asked each other what could possibly be wrong with their friend. Rejection of their company was akin to an act of betrayal. They were hurt as well as baffled.

    Henry, meanwhile, did not linger in the street. A servant was waiting to stable his horse. Storming into the house, Henry tore off his hat, slapped it down on the table in the hall then glowered at the man who came shuffling out to greet him.

    'Well?' snapped Henry. 'Any word from my brother Christopher?'

    'None, sir,' said the man.

    'Damnation!' cried his master, stamping a foot. 'Where the devil can he be?'

    Tom Warburton was slow but methodical. He questioned everyone who lived or worked in the vicinity of Paul's Wharf and, when his enquiries proved fruitless, widened his search to streets and taverns a little further away. It was all to no avail. Three days after the discovery of the dead body, he had made no progress whatsoever. Jonathan Bale found his colleague in Sermon Lane with his dog trotting obediently at his heels.

    'Good morrow, Tom.'

    Warburton gave him a nod of greeting. Sam slipped away to do some foraging.

    'Any luck?'

    'None, Jonathan.'

    'Where have you been?'

    'Everywhere. Nobody can help.'

    'It's understandable, I suppose,' said Jonathan. 'Anyone abroad at that time of night would have been too drunk to notice anything or too frightened to come forward. I hold to my earlier judgement. The poor wretch was killed elsewhere then brought to Paul's Wharf to be hidden behind that warehouse.'

    'Why not dump him in the river?'

    'Who knows? Perhaps they wanted him to be found. Or perhaps they intended to throw him into the water but saw someone by the wharf and simply abandoned the body.'