The Repentant Rake

by Edward Marston

  'Gabriel can rest easy in his grave at last.'

  'I was thinking about you.'

  'All that matters to me is to catch Gabriel's killer.'

  'Will you go back to Northamptonshire?'

  'Probably.'

  'That would make it very difficult for you.'

  'Difficult?'

  'When I wanted to see Gabriel, I had my short cut through the churchyard.' She put a hand on Susan's shoulder. 'You can hardly find an excuse to visit Fetter Lane if you go back to live with your father. How will you manage?'

  Susan was perplexed. It was a question she had already been asking herself.

  Henry Redmayne was grateful that his brother had sought him out. The cards were again falling so favourably for Arthur Lunn that it might be hours before he could be prised away from the table. The promise to give Henry a lift back to Bedford Street in his coach was forgotten. Christopher came to his brother's rescue, offering to act as his bodyguard and take him home.

  'There is one condition, Henry,' he warned.

  'What is that?'

  'We first call on Peter Wickens.'

  'This late?' said Henry peevishly. 'Why not leave it until the morning?'

  'He may have made the wrong decision by then. I want to speak to Mr Wickens before he gives in to the blackmail demand. Come on,' said Christopher. 'I know that he lives quite close to you. It is not much out of our way.'

  'Peter may not even let us into the house.'

  'He will if he has any sense. Meanwhile, tell me more about Arthur Lunn.'

  'Arthur?'

  'I want to hear just how close he was to Gabriel Cheever.'

  The walk through the dark streets gave Henry plenty of time to reminisce. He talked at length about Lunn, insisting that it would be quite out of character for him to be involved in a murder and in the subsequent blackmail demands.

  'If he was threatening to kill me, why take me out in his coach this evening?'

  'Mr Lunn could be playing a deep game.'

  'He's far too shallow for that,' said Henry dismissively. 'The only games that Arthur will ever play are at the card table or in a lady's bedchamber.'

  'Is he rich?'

  'Tolerably.'

  'Then he is not in need of money?'

  'Arthur is always in need of money, Christopher.'

  'When we left, he seemed to be doing extremely well.'

  'You caught him on a good night. He is not usually so fortunate. He never loses as heavily as Sir Marcus Kemp but I've known him take some severe falls.'

  'He would not sneeze at a thousand guineas, then?'

  'Offer him that and he would snatch your hand off.'

  Christopher was rueful. 'That is effectively what happened.'

  The house was in St Martin's Lane and Henry was astonished how quickly they seemed to get there. He was also pleased that he had not once felt uneasy during the journey. Christopher's presence was reassuring. Henry would never have dared to walk home on his own. Fear of attack still haunted him.

  'What sort of man is Peter Wickens?' asked Christopher.

  'I thought you had met him.'

  'Only once or twice. He seemed like the rest of your friends, Henry.'

  'Noble and upstanding?'

  'Disreputable.'

  Henry laughed. 'Peter is as disreputable as the rest of us,' he confessed, 'but that does not mean he has no care of his reputation. He guards it jealously. It is one thing to revel in private, quite another to have your revelry displayed for one and all to see.'

  'Is he a weak man?'

  'On the contrary.'

  'Then he might hold out against the blackmail demands.'

  'You will have to ask him about that, Christopher. All I can say is that Peter Wickens is a good friend a lively companion and a generous host. If he has a fault, it is that he has a serious side to his character.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Peter actually goes to the playhouse in order to enjoy the play.'

  With a scornful laugh, Henry reached out to ring the doorbell. They were in luck. Wickens was still up and received them at once. Puzzled by their arrival, he ushered them into a small room off the hall. The three of them took seats round the flickering candles in the silver candelabrum.

  'To what do I owe this visit, Henry?' asked Wickens.

  'I told Christopher about your little problem.'

  'Then you had no business to do so,' said the other hotly. 'It's a private matter.'

  'Not when it has a bearing on Gabriel Cheever's murder,' said Christopher. 'If we can solve that, you will have to pay no blackmail demand.'

  Wickens was sceptical. 'Have you taken it upon yourself to solve the crime?'

  'I became involved through my brother, Mr Wickens.'

  'Christopher has helped me through the ordeal,' agreed Henry.

  'What use is that to me?' said Wickens.

  Christopher calmed him down and explained his role in the murder investigation. Wickens slowly shed his reservations. Instead of being annoyed at Christopher's intrusion into his affairs, he began to be interested in what he was hearing. The questions he put were intelligent and searching. Christopher felt that he was winning the man over. Wickens was not like the other blackmail victims he had met. Henry had been gripped by hysteria while Sir Marcus Kemp had ranted and raved. Wickens was much more in control of his anxiety. It was possible to have a sensible dialogue with him.

  'When did the letter arrive?' asked Christopher.

  'Late this morning.'

  'What did you think when you read it?'

  'Rational thought was impossible at first,' said Wickens. 'The truth is that I was in turmoil. I do not pretend to be celibate but the notion of having my indiscretions made public was terrifying. My first instinct was to pay the money at once.'

  'I am glad you fought against the impulse.'

  'I needed advice. Your brother was the obvious person to turn to for counsel.'

  Henry smirked. 'I do have flashes of sagacity from time to time.'

  'It was only then that I discovered that Henry himself was a victim. It explained why we had seen so little of him recently. Why on earth did you not turn to me, Henry?' he wondered. 'You could have relied on my help.'

  'Henry chose me instead, Mr Wickens,' said Christopher. 'Having been a victim yourself, you'll understand the urge to tell as few people as possible.'

  'Oh, yes!'

  'So what do you intend to do?'

  'Sleep on the matter and decide in the morning.'

  'Which way do you incline at the moment?'

  'Towards complying with the demand.'

  'That would be a mistake, Mr Wickens.'

  'What else can I do?'

  'Ignore the letter.'

  'And see myself ridiculed in print?' said Wickens sharply. 'It is not an enticing prospect, sir. Gabriel Cheever is taking revenge on us from beyond the grave. Had I known that he was keeping this scurrilous diary about his closest friends, I would have made him destroy it.'

  'I doubt that, Peter,' said Henry. 'He was not the kind of man to take orders.'

  'Besides,' added Christopher, 'the diary was not intended for publication.'

  Wickens was adamant. 'It must never see the light of day.'

  'Then help me to prevent that happening, Mr Wickens.'

  'How?'

  'First of all, I would like to see the letter you received.'

  Wickens was about to protest. 'I do not intend to read it,' promised Christopher. 'A cursory glance will be more than enough.'

  'Do as says,' urged Henry.

  Wickens hesitated. 'I do not feel that it is necessary.'

  'My brother believes it came from the same person who sent one of the letters to him,' explained Christopher. 'I merely wish to confirm that. Nothing more.'

  With considerable reluctance, Wickens took the missive from his pocket. The visitors waited while their host wrestled with the problem. At length, he thrust the letter into Christopher's hand with
a stern warning.

  '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 mu
st have felt like. He had no intention of succumbing to the same fate.

  Instead of waiting for the next jab, he went on the attack himself, moving round in search of an opening before feinting a thrust at the chest. When his assailant brought up his dagger to parry the strike, Christopher stabbed him in the arm and drew the loudest cry yet from him. His response was immediate and frenzied. Rushing at Christopher and roaring with anger, he slashed wildly at him, forcing him to dodge and weave. Christopher was elusive but the dagger nevertheless sliced open his sleeve, drew blood from his shoulder and grazed his forehead. The man became even more desperate, cursing, jabbing and kicking out simultaneously. He was losing blood freely. As the wound in his arm began to smart unbearably, he shifted his dagger to the other hand and lunged once more. Christopher was ready for him. Parrying the thrust with his own weapon, he seized the man's wrist and swung him in circle so that he could fling him against the wall of a house. The impact stunned the man momentarily and his dagger clattered to the ground. After kicking it away, Christopher threatened him with the point of his own dagger.

  'Who sent you?' he demanded.

  'Nobody,' growled the man.

  'Was it Arthur Lunn?'

  'I'm bleeding to death,' said the other, holding his wounded arm.

  'Tell me the truth.'

  'I need help.'

  'Did you kill Gabriel Cheever?'

  'I'm dying!'

  Nursing his arm, the man bent double. He was obviously in great pain. Christopher relented and let his weapon drop to his side. It was a mistake. Diving straight at him, the man butted him in the stomach and sent him reeling back. It took all the wind out of Christopher. By the time he had recovered himself, it was too late. Abandoning the field the man had sprinted round the corner and disappeared into the night. Christopher tried to give chase but there was no sign of his attacker. His own injuries now made themselves known. His neck was still painful, his face was scratched his shoulder gashed. He could feel a trickle of blood down one cheek. Bruises seemed to be everywhere. Retrieving the rope and the dagger discarded by the man, he picked up his hat and trudged slowly back to his house.

  When Jacob saw his master by candlelight, he made an instant and accurate appraisal.