embroiled in our family affairs.'
'That was unavoidable, Miss Cheever. I make no complaint.'
Christopher did not want to discuss his brother's problems with her nor reveal that he was involved in a parallel investigation to hunt a blackmailer. It was enough for her to know that he was committed to helping in the search for her brother's killer. It sparked off a sudden show of concern.
'You will be careful,' she warned.
'Of course.'
'I would hate you to put yourself at risk on our account.'
Christopher smiled. 'I am well able to look after myself.'
'The man you are after is a vicious killer:'
'I have an advantage that your brother lacked,' he pointed out. 'Jonathan Bale will be watching my back. He has done that before and I trust him implicitly.'
She relaxed slightly. 'Good. That reassures me somewhat.'
'I'm touched that you are worried on my account,' he said. Another flicker of affection appeared in her eyes. 'Thank you, Miss Cheever.'
There was a long silence. He left it to Susan to break it.
'You told me that Lucy knew all about Gabriel's past,' she resumed.
'That is what she claimed.'
'Did she mention what he had written?'
'Of course,' said Christopher. 'She thought his poetry was wonderful. I suspect that some of it was dedicated to her. It's a small consolation, I know, but she will still have those poems to remember him by. Lucy also talked about the play he was working on.'
'Did she refer to anything else?'
'Not that I recall.'
'No memoirs that he was writing?'
'Memoirs?'
'Yes, Mr Redmayne,' she explained, 'Gabriel had a conscience. Though he enjoyed the life that he led in London, he did so at a price. His conscience tormented him. He was never really comfortable in that world and he found a way to deal with it.'
'What was that?' asked Christopher.
'He kept a diary. A detailed memoir of everything that happened during those long nights at the card tables and… her voice faltered… and in the other places he visited. Gabriel did not spare himself,' she went on. 'He listed all his vices and named all of his friends. That diary was a form of confession. He was trying to purge himself.' She leaned forward. 'Do you think that Lucy is aware of that diary?'
'Yes,' said Christopher, mind racing. 'I suspect that she is.'
'If she is not, it would be painful for her to stumble on it unawares.'
'There is no possibility of that, Miss Cheever,' he said, thinking of the blackmail threats. 'The diary is no longer at the house.'
Chapter Eight
When he had read a passage from the Bible to his two sons, Jonathan Bale said prayers with them, gave them a kiss then came downstairs to join his wife in the kitchen. Sarah was neatly folding one of the sheets that she had washed earlier in the day.
'Are you still working?' he complained.
'I'm almost done, Jonathan,' she said, putting one sheet aside and taking up another. 'The washing dries so quickly in this weather. I could take in much more.'
'You do enough as it is, Sarah.'
'I like to keep busy.'
'Too busy.'
'Would you rather that I sat around and did nothing all day long?'
'No, my love,' he said, brushing her forehead with a kiss. 'You would die of boredom in a week. Whatever else people say about Sarah Bale, they will never be able to accuse you of laziness.'
'While I have health and strength to work, I will.' She noticed a small tear in the sheet she was folding. 'Ah, that will need a stitch or two.'
'Let the person who brought it here do that, Sarah. They only pay you to wash their bed linen, not to repair it.'
She smiled tolerantly. 'This load is from old Mrs Lilley in Thames Street,' she said. 'The poor woman has rheumatism. She can barely move her fingers, let alone sew with them. It will not take me long, Jonathan.'
'I did not realise that it was an act of Christian kindness.'
'Mrs Lilley needs all the help that she can get.'
'Of course. Well,' he said, moving away, 'you carry on. I have to go out again.'
'So late in the evening?'
'I'll not be long, Sarah.'
'But you are not supposed to be on duty tonight.'
'No,' he agreed, 'but I want to knock on a few more doors.'
'I would have thought you'd had enough of that for one day.'
He grinned. 'Yes, my knuckles are a bit raw. Tom Warburton and I spent hours on the doorsteps in Knightrider Street and all to no avail. I'm going back there now.'
'Why?'
'To make amends, my love.'
'For what?'
'I let myself down,' he explained. 'I like to keep an eye on everyone who comes and goes in my ward. After all this time, I know most people by sight and many by name, especially in Knightrider Street. But a man and his wife slipped past me.'
'Have you found them now?'
'Only because of Mr Redmayne. It irks me, Sarah. I have to rely on someone who does not even live here to tell me what's going on under my nose.'
'You should be grateful to Mr Redmyane.'
'Oh, I am,' he said. 'I just wish that I could have ferreted out the truth myself. When we called at the house earlier, the maidservant fobbed us off with a lie. I should have known she was hiding something.'
'Are you going back there?'
'No, it's a house of mourning. It would be cruel to intrude. What I want to do is to speak to the neighbours about the two young people who lived there. They may have seen something of value.'
'Is this to do with the murder?' she asked.
'Yes, Sarah.'
'Did the dead man live in Knightrider Street?'
'Briefly.'
'Where?'
'Close to Sermon Lane.'
'Then you ought to speak to Mrs Runciman,' she suggested.
'Who?'
'She lives on the corner of Sermon Lane, near the house you're talking about. I take in washing from Mrs Runciman quite often. Please remember me to her.'
'I will.'
