The Repentant Rake

    'The Buswell family live opposite and Mrs Gately is somewhere close.'

    Jonathan laughed. 'Do you take in washing from the whole street?'

    'No. The only person I work for is Mrs Runciman but she always invites me into the house. I've met Mrs Buswell and Mrs Gately there. You'll get little help from them, I'm afraid. Mrs Buswell is almost blind and Mrs Gately is a little slow-witted. Go to Mrs Runciman first,' she advised. 'She has a sharp eye. If anyone can help you, it will probably be her.'

    'Thank you!' he said, kissing her again.

    'You should have spoken to me earlier.'

    'I can see that now, my love.'

    'If you took in washing, you'd be surprised how much useful gossip you could pick up.'

    'I think I'll hold on to my present job.'

    'Are you afraid of hard work?' she teased.

    'No, Sarah,' he replied. 'I thrive on it. Nobody works harder than shipwrights and I was in that trade for several years. But being a constable helps me to look after people. I feel that I can do some good. That pleases me more than I can tell you.'

    'There's no need to tell me. I can see it in your face.'

    'Not at the moment.'

    'No,' she said giving him a sympathetic hug. 'This case has upset you badly.'

    'The murder has caused a deep wound in Baynard's Castle ward.'

    'I feel the same about a bad tear in some linen. I want to sew it up again quickly.'

    Jonathan was solemn. 'The tear that I have to mend is in a shroud.'

    Sir Julius Cheever needed a few moments to collect himself. During his many walks across battlefields, he had seen death and mutilation hundreds of times and become inured to the sight, but this was very different. His own son lay on the slab beneath the shroud. Gabriel had been young, strong and brimming with energy the last time they had met. The hot words that Sir Julius had flung on that occasion came back to haunt him. They seemed so hollow and pointless now. Anger had taken hold and gnawed away at him for years. At last it was spent. All differences between father and son vanished in death. What remained was remorse and self- recrimination. Gritting his teeth, he peeled back the shroud to look down at the body. The weal round the neck was more livid than ever. He closed his eyes in agony and covered the face up again.

    'That's my son,' he said quietly. 'That is Gabriel Cheever.'

    Henry Redmayne had taken the sensible precautions advised by his brother. He left the house armed and kept his wits about him. Even when he was among friends in a gaming house, he kept his back to a wall so that nobody could come up unseen behind him. His companion, Sir Marcus Kemp, sat at a table nearby, keeping fear at bay by immersing himself in a game of cards. Glad to be back in one of his favourite haunts, Henry felt curiously uninvolved. It was as if he were seeing the place properly for the first time, albeit through a fug of tobacco smoke. Drink was flowing. Voices were raised. There was an air of sophisticated merriment. All seats were taken at the table where Sir Marcus Kemp was playing but Henry sensed an empty chair. In the past, Gabriel Cheever had always occupied a place at that particular table, winning in style and taking money from the purses of Henry, Sir Marcus and almost everyone else who pitted their skills against his. He had been a popular and respected man in the card-playing fraternity. Only those inflamed by drink had ever accused him of cheating or threatened him with violence.

    'I spy a stranger!' said a voice. 'Henry Redmayne, I declare!'

    Henry inclined his head in greeting. 'Well met, Peter.'

    'Have you risen from your sick bed at last?'

    'The thought of what I was missing was the best physician.'

    'We have not seen you for days, Henry. Where have you been hiding?'

    'Nowhere, my friend. I am back.'

    'And most welcome.'

    Peter Wickens gave him an affectionate slap on the back. He looked as suave and elegant as ever. Standing beside Henry, he gazed around the room to see whom he could recognise. Regular denizens were all there. He looked down at the nearest table.

    'I see that Sir Marcus is ready to part with more of his fortune,' he remarked.

    'He seems to be having some luck at last,' said Henry. 'Not before time.'

    'He's too reckless a player.'

    'Boldness is essential in cards, Peter.'

    'Only when tempered with discretion.'

    'That was never his forte.'

    'Indeed not. I've seen Sir Marcus lose a hundred guineas through a moment's indiscretion at the card table,' recalled Wickens with a wry smile. 'But that was when he was up against Gabriel Cheever.' His manner changed at once. 'Have you heard the terrible news about Gabriel?'

    'Yes,' said Henry. 'It's very sad.'

    'I was appalled. Arthur Lunn told me. He had it from some constable who came to see him. What a shock for dear Arthur!' he went on. 'He is enjoying a civilised cup of coffee when he suddenly learns that a friend of his has been murdered.'

    'Has word of the crime spread?'

    'It's the talk of the town, Henry.'

    'Gabriel will be sorely missed.'

    'Not by Sir Marcus,' said Wickens, nodding at the man. 'He's actually smiling at a card table. He never did that when he was Hitting opposite Gabriel Cheever. But how did you hear of this dreadful murder?' he asked, turning to Henry. 'I was shaken to the marrow. Do you know any details'

    'None beyond the fact that the body was found on Paul's Wharf.'

    'What possessed Gabriel to go there?'

    'We may never know, Peter.'

    He grimaced. 'Wharves are such insalubrious places. I keep clear of the river whenever I can. It seems to give off an unholy stench at times. And I've no love for the brutish people who make their living beside the Thames,' he added with a supercilious sneer. 'The lower orders are an affront to decency.'

    'I am bound to agree with you there.'

    'Arthur tells me this constable was an ugly fellow, blunt and uncouth.'

    'Who else would take on such work?'

    'We deserve better from our officers of the law,' argued Wickens loftily. 'If this constable wishes to speak to me, I shall tell him to mind his manners. Has he come in search of you yet, Henry?'

    'No. Why should he?'

    'According to Arthur Lunn, the man wants to speak to anyone who knew Gabriel well. I was not an intimate of his but I did enjoy an occasional game of cards with him.' He gave a chuckle. 'And I shared some other pleasures with Gabriel as well.'

    'Most of us did that, Peter. He was ubiquitous.'

    'The ladies would use a more vivid word for him than that.'

    Henry laughed obligingly but he was not enjoying the conversation. Peter Wickens was a man after his own heart, wealthy, self-indulgent, generous with his friends and addicted to all the pleasures of the town. Henry had lost count of the number of times when he and Arthur Lunn had been driven to their respective houses in the early hours of the day by Peter Wickens's coachman. Yet he felt uneasy beside the man now, fearful that Wickens might probe him about his earlier desertion of his usual haunts. When he was last on these premises, he had been as carefree and affable as his companion. Two anonymous letters had altered that. Behind his token smile, Henry was a frightened man.

    'Are you waiting to take a place at the table?' asked Wickens.

    'No. I prefer to watch.'

    'You normally like to be in the thick of things.'

    'Later, perhaps.'