The Repentant Rake

    'I appreciate his kindness but I must get back to London.'

    'Oh,' she said with evident disappointment.

    'Much as I hate to leave,' he explained reluctance showing in his eyes, 'there is important work that calls me back. Now that your brother has been laid to rest, we must renew our efforts to find his killer.'

    She reached out to grasp his arm. 'Do you have hopes on that score?'

    'Strong hopes, Miss Cheever.'

    'Really?'

    'Yes, but do not worry about that,' he advised. 'Your place is here, mourning with the rest of the family and getting acquainted with your sister-in-law.'

    'I know,' she said releasing his arm.

    'Please thank Sir Julius for his invitation and explain why I'm unable to accept it.'

    'Father will understand.'

    'I'm more concerned that you do, Miss Cheever.'

    The affection in his voice drew another half-smile from her. Both wanted to speak further but they were at the mercy of their circumstances. It was neither the time nor place for conversation. Christopher felt guilty about the pleasure he was deriving from their brief encounter. It seemed wrong. Susan, too, was patently uneasy. Giving her a polite bow of farewell, Christopher took a final look at the bereaved family then made his way out of the churchyard.

    When he came into the room, Sir Marcus Kemp looked even more like a giant spaniel whose paws had been inconsiderately trodden upon. Without being invited, he dropped on to the chair opposite Henry Redmayne and rolled his eyes in despair.

    'I can take no more of it, Henry,' he said dolefully.

    'Then we are two of a kind.'

    'I think not. My plight is far worse than yours.'

    'I doubt that, Marcus.'

    'You are single,' his visitor reminded him, 'whereas I am married.'

    'Yes,' conceded Henry, 'but you have not received a death threat.'

    'Oh, yes, I have!'

    'Another letter?'

    'The ultimate threat - publication!'

    He handed his friend the piece of paper that was flapping in his hand. Henry read it with mounting alarm. A Knight at the Theatre was beautifully printed in bold type. Sir Marcus Kemp was identified by name and a description so cruelly accurate that it provoked a wild grin from Henry. That grin disappeared instantly when he saw his own name linked with that of an actress at the King's House. Sir Marcus was pilloried unmercifully but Henry was not spared.

    'This is disgusting!' he said with righteous indignation.

    'Yet horribly true, Henry.'

    'That's beside the point. Private pleasure should be sacrosanct.'

    'So I thought.'

    'In any case, I did not relieve myself into the coal bucket. It was a china vase.'

    'We are both being pissed upon here.'

    Henry read the account again and shuddered. He thrust the page back at Kemp. The two of them were in the dining room of Henry's house. Work that should have been done at the Navy Office was spread out on the table but he had made only sporadic attempts to address himself to it. Fear kept him immured in his home. Sir Marcus Kemp had just intensified that fear.

    'Is this the only page that came?' he asked.

    'It is more than enough,' cried Kemp. 'It's my death threat, Henry. If that account is ever published it will spell the death of my marriage, my reputation, my place in society and everything that I hold most dear. My whole inheritance is at risk. Dear God!' he exclaimed. 'What will my children think of their father?'

    'They will know him for what he is, Marcus.'

    'That's no consolation, you rogue. I came for sympathy, not scorn.'

    'Your case is not as desperate as you imagine,' said Henry enviously. 'What will your wife learn that she has not already guessed? You spend so little time with her that she must know you have been out carousing with friends.'

    'With friends, perhaps, but not with female company. My wife is easily duped. Whenever I got back late,' he explained, 'I told her that I was talking politics with colleagues from Parliament. The dear lady believed me. Until now.' He looked down at the printed page. 'But how convincing will that excuse be when she reads this?'

    'The most gullible wife would not be deceived.'

    'Then you understand my predicament.'

    'I share it, Marcus. I, too, am mentioned in that account. Not that publication would have any power to hurt me,' he said, waving a hand. 'I shall be dead by then.'

    'Dead?'

    'Cut down by the same hand that murdered Gabriel Cheever.'

    'Not if you pay up, Henry,' said Kemp, reaching a decision. 'That's what I intend to do. Hand over a thousand guineas.'

    'But the demand was for five hundred.'

    'A second letter came with A Knight at the Theatre. The price has doubled.'

    'That's iniquitous!'

    'It will be worth every penny if it stops this ruinous material being printed.'

    'Supposing it does not?'

    'It must, surely?'

    'Where is your guarantee?'

    'I have a gentleman's agreement.'

    'You can only have that with a gentleman, Marcus, and we are dealing with a callous murderer here. My brother Christopher has warned me against paying anything. If we give in to blackmail once,' stressed Henry, 'we'll be trapped. The villain will go on squeezing money out of us until he has bled the pair of us dry.'

    'Will he?'

    'You would do the same in his position.'

    'I'd never be in the same position,' retorted Kemp, hurt at the suggestion. 'Damn it, man, I've seen you and all my other friends in the most compromising situations but I'd never dream of exploiting that knowledge for gain. It's against all decorum.'

    'We are not dealing with decorum here,' said Henry grimly.

    'I know that.' He snatched up the paper. 'How on earth did he catch wind of all this?' he said in dismay 'Was he hiding beneath the bed?'

    'No, Marcus.'

    'Up the chimney, then? It would be less painful, if it were not so hideously well written. Look at it, Henry,' he said, tossing it back on the table. 'We'll be the laughing stock of London if this is ever sold. The villain who penned this knows how to wound with words.'

    'Yet that was not his intention.'

    'It must have been.'

    'No, Marcus,' said Henry. 'My brother explained it to me. A

    Knight at the Theatre was written for private consumption, not with any thought to publication. It is an extract from a diary kept by Gabriel Cheever.'

    'The devil it is!' shrieked the other.

    'It appears that he kept a careful record of all his nights of revelry. Someone killed him to get their hands