The Repentant Rake

swung an arm to knock the barrel of the pistol away from him and the weapon went off, firing its ball harmlessly into the ceiling. Wickens was enraged. He used the pistol to club Sir Julius, opening a deep gash in his head. Christopher was on him at once, diving recklessly at Wickens and knocking him to the ground. The ride from Knightrider Street had given him time to work out that he would be dealing with the very accomplice whose name Celia Hemmings had refused to divulge. Wickens was ruthless. He would not scruple to kill again. Christopher grabbed the wrist holding the weapon and twisted it sharply until his opponent was forced to leave go. Sir Julius had staggered back to the chair, holding the wound on his head as he tried to stem the blood, unable to do anything but look on.

    Wickens was a determined adversary. Deprived of his weapon, he used his hands to punch, push and claw at Christopher. They grappled rolled knocked over a low table then struggled fiercely to get the upper hand. Wickens was spurred on by a combination of revenge and sheer fury but Christopher's will was even stronger. Certain members of the Cheever family helped to fuel his resolve. He was fighting on behalf of a young husband who was murdered in a dark alley. He was representing a helpless widow who saw her happiness cruelly snatched away from her. In Sir Julius himself, he was striving to save a man whom he admired and a client whom he needed. But, most of all, he was there to rescue Susan Cheever from further distress. As Wickens sat astride him and got both hands to his neck, Christopher summoned up extra reserves of energy. He pulled the hands away, threw his man off then hurled himself on top of him. Urged on by Sir Julius, he punched until resistance slowly began to fade.

    Covered in blood and close to exhaustion, Wickens gave up. Christopher pinned him to the floor. The landlord had been roused by the shot and the commotion. He came bustling into the room to see what was happening, and blinked in amazement at the scene.

    'What is going on, sirs?' he asked querulously.

    'Summon a constable,' said Christopher.

    Henry Redmayne was mortified. It was bad enough to be hauled out of his bed by a visitor at that time of morning. After a night of merriment, he had intended to sleep until dinner. When he heard what Jonathan Bale had to say, his misery was compounded. His cheeks were crimson with embarrassment.

    'It was my fault?' he said, swallowing hard.

    'So it appears, sir,' said Jonathan sternly. 'You were the person who told Mr Wickens what had happened. He went charging off in search of Sir Julius Cheever.'

    'How was I to know that Peter Wickens was party to this whole plot?'

    'You acted too thoughtlessly.'

    'I believed that he was a victim like me. Hell's teeth, man!' he exclaimed. 'Peter came here and showed me the letter he had received.'

    'That was to throw us off the scent, Mr Redmayne. Did you never ask yourself why he came to you and not to one of his other friends?'

    'No, Mr Bale.'

    'It was because he wanted us to know. Realising that your brother was hunting for the blackmailers, he showed that letter to you because you were sure to mention it to your brother. Mr Wickens was never a true victim,' he went on. 'Miss Hemmings wrote that letter for him so that he could hide behind it.'

    'Very effectively,' conceded Henry 'I'm shocked to learn that Peter was behind the whole thing. We've shared such jolly times together.'

    'There was nothing jolly about the way that Gabriel Cheever was murdered,' said Jonathan. 'Thanks to you, his father was almost killed as well.'

    'Dear God!' said Henry, contrite for once. 'What did I do?'

    'Your brother will call later, sir. He asked me to explain what occurred yesterday. Mr Redmayne did call here last night but he was told that you were celebrating with friends.' He drew himself up. 'I think that those celebrations were premature.'

    Henry nodded in agreement. 'I was too impulsive.'

    'Think more clearly next time, sir.'

    'I will.'

    They were standing in the hall and Henry was feeling profoundly guilty. While he and his friends were carousing the previous night, Christopher was engaged in a desperate fight with Peter Wickens, having saved Sir Julius from certain death. The fact that he had unwittingly alerted Wickens made Henry squirm inwardly. He looked at his visitor.

    'Did you find out the name of the assassin?' he asked.

    'Reresby, sir,' said Jonathan. 'Caleb Reresby. A discharged soldier.'

    'Who hired him? Peter or Celia Hemmings?'

    'Mr Wickens. All three will stand trial together.'

    'They deserve no less. They put me through an ordeal.' Sensing Jonathan's disapproval, he reined in his self-concern. 'Not that my woes compare with those of Gabriel's widow, of course,' he said, sounding a compassionate note. 'I am free to carry on as before while the Cheever family remains in mourning.'

    'Yes, sir.'

    Henry could see why his brother had sent Jonathan Bale to break the news to him. The constable was like a figure of doom. His presence was unnerving in a house that was an indictment of all the principles for which he stood. Christopher knew that his friend would make Henry feel at least partially remorseful. In asking Jonathan to visit his brother, Christopher had been playing a joke on him for as serious purpose. Henry was cowed and ashamed. It was only when his visitor was about to take his leave that he remembered something.

    'Did Christopher say anything about a letter of mine?' he said anxiously.

    'No, Mr Redmayne.'

    'Ah.'

    'Though he did take one away from the house in Covent Garden,' recalled Jonathan. 'I believe that it had something to do with you, sir.'

    'It had everything to do with me!' said Henry under his breath. 'Where is it?'

    'Your brother talked about returning it to the person to whom it belonged.'

    'That would be cruel!' howled Henry.

    'Discuss it with him when he comes, sir.' He opened the front door and bells were heard chiming nearby. 'You may not know this, Mr Redmayne,' he said, noting Henry's dazed expression, 'but it happens to be Sunday.'

    Henry blinked in surprise. 'Is it really?'

    'Church is the best place for repentance, sir. Goodbye.'

    Work began on the new house a few days later. Christopher Redmayne's face was no longer quite so battle-scarred and the wound on Sir Julius Cheever's head was starting to heal. Wearing hats to conceal their injuries, both men were in Westminster to watch the foundations being dug under the vigilant gaze of Sidney Popejoy.

    'At last!' declared Sir Julius with a smile of satisfaction.

    'I'm sorry for the unfortunate delay,' said Christopher.

    'It was not your fault, Mr Redmayne. But for you, there'd be no house at all. If Wickens had had his way, you'd now be attending my funeral.'

    'I try to hang on to my clients.'

    'This one is deeply grateful to you.' The old man's face clouded. 'I still don't understand why Wickens had to kill Gabriel. His hatred of me is easy to comprehend. In the heat of battle, I did shoot his brother, I can't deny that. But why did Wickens have to go after my son as well?'

    'The answer is simple,' explained Christopher. 'He bore your name. It's ironic, Sir Julius. The one thing that Gabriel did not leave behind when he left home was the family name. He carried it with pride and it proved to be his downfall.'

    'Yet he and Peter Wickens were friends for a time.'