The Repentant Rake Page 18

'Yes, he did.'

  'It was very sad but so beautiful. I had no idea he had such talent.'

  'Gabriel was a wonderful writer.'

  'Did you read everything that he wrote?'

  'Only what he chose to show me.' Lucy's face lit up. 'Several of the poems were written especially for me. Gabriel always said that they were his best work.'

  'He was truly inspired.'

  'I never read any of his plays. There was no point, Susan. I've never been to the theatre and have no idea what makes a good play. Besides,' she said with a little shrug, 'I think that Gabriel felt I might not approve.'

  'What about his diary?' She saw Lucy's jaw tighten. 'You did know that he kept a diary?'

  'Of course.'

  'Were you allowed to look at it?'

  'Gabriel never tried to stop me from doing anything.'

  'So you did read the diary?'

  'Bits of it,' admitted Lucy. 'It was like reading about a complete stranger.'

  'Were you shocked?'

  'To some degree. But I was also very amused.'

  'Amused?' echoed Susan in surprise.

  'Gabriel had such a wicked sense of fun. Some of the entries in his diary were so comical that I burst out laughing.' A hunted look came into her eye. 'Even that pleasure has been taken from me now. Someone stole the diary from the house.'

  'Did they take anything else?'

  'No, Susan. They only came for one thing.'

  'Would you have read the diary in full if it was still in your possession?'

  'Who knows?' said Lucy evasively, resisting the gentle interrogation. 'But let us talk about you, Susan. I am grateful for your company, but you must not feel tied to my apron strings while you are in London. Your sister will doubtless want to see you and there must be other friends you can visit in the city.'

  'One perhaps,' said Susan wistfully.

  'Mr Christopher Redmayne?' She smiled as her companion blinked. 'I may be in mourning, Susan, but that does not mean I am deaf. Since we left Northamptonshire, that gentleman's name has been on your tongue a dozen times. I think that you are fond of Mr Redmayne.'

  'He is a personable young man.'

  'He is much more than that to you, I suspect.'

  'We are barely acquainted,' denied Susan without conviction.

  'No matter,' said the other, touching her arm. 'It is none of my business. I just thought that you might be interested in an odd coincidence.'

  'Coincidence?'

  'Yes, it came back into my mind when you talked about Gabriel's diary just now. I only read a small portion of it but I do recall one of the names I saw.'

  'What was it?'

  'Henry Redmayne.'

  Susan was startled. 'Redmayne?'

  'He was part of Gabriel's circle.'

  'I see.'

  'He may, of course, be no relation at all of our Mr Redmayne,' said Lucy thoughtfully, 'but it is not all that common a name so there is a possibility. Has he mentioned anyone called Henry to you?'

  'No,' murmured Susan, frowning with dismay.

  Lucy was alarmed. 'Have I said something to offend you?'

  'Not at all.'

  'I would hate to do that.'

  Susan forced a smile. 'You have done nothing of the sort, Lucy.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Quite sure.'

  But for a reason that she did not understand, Susan was suddenly disconcerted.

  Covent Garden was high on Christopher Redmayne's list of favourite architectural sights in the capital. A great admirer of the work of Inigo Jones, he had studied the area with great interest, noting how the houses in the piazza had front doors that opened on to vaulted arcades in the manner of Sebastiano Selio. Not everyone had approved of the importation of Italian styles to a prime site in the capital and Jones had sustained heavy criticism from some quarters, but Christopher had nothing but praise for Covent Garden. The church of St Paul's dominated one side of the square and looked out on the high terraced houses that extended along the other three sides. The properties had an imposing facade, generous proportions, a pleasant garden and stabling at the rear. When they were first built they attracted rich tenants, but the area was slightly less fashionable now and had yielded the palm to the new developments to the west such as St James's Square. The presence of the market brought more visitors to Covent Garden but deterred potential tenants who did not like the crowds that flocked round the stalls in the square.

  Christopher had little time to admire the scene on this occasion. Obeying the instruction in the letter to Sir Marcus Kemp, he made his way to the church of St Paul's just before noon and waited at the specified spot. The market was in full swing and the noise of haggling was carried on the light breeze. Somewhere in the middle of the tumult was Jonathan Bale, concealed from sight, keeping his friend under observation and ready to follow anyone who might relieve Christopher of the large purse he was carrying. As the latter stood in front of the church, he wondered if anyone would approach him when it was seen that he was not Sir Marcus Kemp. Suspecting a ruse, the blackmailer might simply retreat. Noon came and passed but nobody stopped to speak to him, let alone to relieve him of one thousand guineas. Christopher's thoughts turned to the magnificence of the square again. Inigo Jones had begun as an apprentice to a joiner in St Paul's Churchyard. It always seemed incredible to Christopher that a man from such humble origins could rise to the position of the King's Surveyor of Works and be responsible for such buildings as the Banqueting House and the New Exchange.

  Caught up in his admiration of a fellow architect, Christopher did not notice the young boy who came trotting up to him. He was a tall, thin lad with tousled hair. His clothing was shabby and his manner obsequious.

  'Are you from Sir Marcus Kemp, sir?' he asked.

  'Yes,' said Christopher, seeing him for the first time.

  The boy held out his hand. 'I am to take what you have, sir.'

  'Who sent you?'

  'A gentleman, sir. Give it to me or I get no reward.'

  'Which gentleman?'

  'In the market.'

  'Where? Point him out.'

  'Please, sir. He'll not wait.'

  'Did he give you a name?'

  'No, sir.'

  Christopher showed him the purse. 'Point him out and you shall have the money.'

  'There, sir,' said the boy, indicating a tall man in the crowd.

  'Where?'

  'Beside that stall.'

  Having distracted Christopher, the boy grabbed the purse and went haring off.

  'Wait!'

  Christopher's shout was drowned beneath the sea of voices in the square. Though he tried to keep track of the boy, he soon lost him in the melee. The lad disappeared into the heart of the market and for a moment Christopher feared that Jonathan Bale might have missed him as well, but he trusted in the constable's vigilance. Whichever way the boy went, the constable would somehow follow him. All that Christopher could do was wait outside the church until his friend returned with information about the whereabouts of the blackmailer. It might even be that an arrest would already have been made. He wondered if he should slip into the church and offer up a prayer for the capture of the man who had caused such grief to so many people. Inevitably, his thoughts settled on Susan Cheever.

  He did not have long to wait. As soon as he saw Jonathan Bale emerging from the throng, however, he knew that there were bad tidings. The constable was alone. When he reached Christopher, he lifted his broad shoulders in apology.

  'He was too quick for me, Mr Redmayne.'

  'That lad could certainly run.'

  'Not him, sir,' explained Jonathan. 'The man we're after. He's more cunning than I bargained for. My legs are not that slow. I caught the lad before he got to The Strand. He was eating an apple that he bought with the money he earned.'

  'Where was the purse?'

  'He was paid to slip it to another boy by one of the stalls.'

  'Which stall?'

  'He could not remember,' s
aid Jonathan sadly, 'and there was no point in trying to shake the truth out of him. The lad was an innocent pawn in all this. He did not even get a proper look at the man who employed him.'

  'It was cleverly done, Mr Bale.'

  'I know. He took the purse from you, darted into the crowd, and gave the money to a second boy who then passed it on to the man we want. The villain was taking no chances. He used two boys as his couriers and watched it all from safety.'

  'Yes,' sighed Christopher. 'We were outfoxed.'

  'Only because we were expected, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Expected?'

  'The blackmailer realised that a trap was being set for him.'

  'How?'

  'I have no idea,' said Jonathan, 'but that lad did not pick you out by chance.'

  'What do you mean, Mr Bale?'

  'It was one thing I did squeeze out of him.'

  'Well?'

  'He knew your name, Mr Redmayne. Someone recognised you.'

  Christopher felt as if he had just been kicked hard in the stomach.

  Celia Hemmings was writing a letter when she heard the doorbell ring. Pleased to learn that the visitor was Christopher Redmayne, she asked that he should be shown into the room at once. She gave him a cordial welcome and swept aside his apologies.

  'If you are in the area, call at any time,' she said.

  'That's most kind of you, Miss Hemmings,' said Christopher, taking the seat that was offered 'but I would hate to impose on you.'

  'From what I hear, Mr Redmayne, you impose on nobody.'

  'Who told you that?'

  'Your brother. You were mentioned in passing on more than one occasion by Henry. As someone who cheerfully loathed the very notion of work, he simply could not comprehend how you could enjoy it.'

  'I luxuriate in it, Miss Hemmings.'

  'Quite, sir. So I need hardly fear a daily visit from you.'

  'No,' said Christopher pleasantly. 'Once we have solved this murder, I will be spending all of my time on the new house for Sir Julius Cheever.'

  'He is not at all as I imagined,' she observed. 'Gabriel had painted him as a monster yet he seemed like a dignified old man when I saw him at the funeral.'

  'His son's death mellowed him considerably.'

  'Then he really does breathe fire?'

  'Not exactly, Miss Hemmings,' replied Christopher with a smile, 'but he can singe your ears if he has a mind to do so.'

  'I hope he does not even know of my existence.'

  'I am certain that he does not.'

  'Good.'

  'I must say that I was touched to see you at the funeral. Did you get back safely from Northamptonshire?'

  'Eventually,' she said. 'Arthur Lunn took us by the most roundabout route.'

  Christopher was critical. 'I did not detect any real sorrow in Mr Lunn.'

  'Expressing his emotions is something that Arthur regards as beneath him. I dare say that he had sincere regrets about Gabriel's death but he would never admit to them. He was there to make it possible for me to attend.'

  'I appreciate that, Miss Hemmings.'

  Christopher was glad that he had succumbed to the impulse to call on her. After the setback he had just suffered in Covent Garden, he was in search of consolation. Since she lived so close to the square, he hoped that he might find it at her house. Wondering why he had come, Celia Hemmings subjected him to a searching gaze. Bereavement left her subdued but there was the faintest hint of flirtatiousness in her eye. She adjusted her position in the chair. Unlike Lucy Cheever, she was very conscious of her charms and knew how to make the most of them. The chasm between the two women was deep and wide. Christopher wondered afresh how Gabriel had bridged it so successfully.

  'Did you see what you wanted at the funeral?' he asked quietly.

  'I went to see Gabriel being buried, Mr Redmayne,' she said sharply, 'and not to peer at his widow.'

  'That's not what I meant.'

  'Oh?'

  'I assumed that you would be interested to take a look at the house where he had lived and the family he had talked so much about. You must have been curious.'

  Her tone softened. 'I was and I'm sorry that I misunderstood you. As it happens, Arthur and I did take the trouble to ride out to the estate. It's a beautiful house but I can see why Gabriel ran away from it. There's nothing to look at but sheep.'

  'I don't believe that it was the sheep who drove him away.'

  'No, it was his father. You have a troublesome client, Mr Redmayne.'

  'I can cope with him, Miss Hemmings.'

  'I think that you can cope with anything,' she said with a warm smile.

  The glint came into her eye again and it made him slightly uncomfortable. There was a directness about Celia Hemmings that he found both attractive and disturbing. He moved on quickly to the questions that took him there in the first place.

  'You and Gabriel were very close,' he began.

  'Intermittently,' she said. 'I loved him dearly but we never lived together for any length of time. Gabriel was too shy of commitment.'

  'Did he discuss his writing with you?'

  'From time to time. He read a few of his poems to me once.'

  'What about his diary?'

  She looked blank. 'Diary?'

  'Were you aware that Gabriel was keeping a diary?'

  'No, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Did you not see him making entries?'

  'This is the first that I've heard about it,' she said. 'What sort of diary was it?'

  'A revealing one, by all accounts. He recorded his exploits in full.'

  Celia grew angry. 'Are you telling me that / am mentioned in this diary? That would be disloyal as well as disgusting. It would be unforgivable. No,' she decided, calming down at once, 'Gabriel would never do that to me. I trust him.'

  'So did other people,' he pointed out. 'Henry was one of them. But that did not stop him being mocked in the pages of the diary.'

  'Mocked?'

  'Along with many others in his circle,'

  'Have you seen this diary?'

  'No, Miss Hemmings. I did not even know that it existed until it was stolen from his house in Knightrider Street. It's my belief that his diary was responsible for his death. Someone killed him in order to get their hands on it.'

  'But why?'

  'Because it contains unlimited possibilities of blackmail.'

  Celia Hemmings was shocked. Rising to her feet, she walked around the room in thought before coming back to stand close to Christopher. She looked down at him.

  'Are you saying that someone may try to blackmail me?'

  'I think it highly unlikely.'

  'That's a relief!'

  'What surprises me is that you had no knowledge of the diary.'

  'Gabriel was very secretive about his work, Mr Redmayne. I was only allowed to see what he was prepared to show me. To be candid, it has come as something of a thunderbolt.' She resumed her seat. 'I can imagine the kinds of things that Gabriel put in that diary. He had a malicious pen at times.'

  'Is there anyone else who might have known that he was keeping it?'

  'Anyone else?'

  'Yes, Miss Hemmings,' he said. 'The person who killed him knew exactly where to find the diary and what it would contain. Gabriel must have told somebody.''

  'Well, it was not me.'

  'Then who might it have been?'

  Her brow furrowed. 'I can think of only one person.'

  'Who is that?'

  'Arthur Lunn,' she said. 'Gabriel lodged at his house when he first came to London. They went everywhere together at first. Arthur is definitely no killer,' she affirmed 'but I have to admit this. If anyone knew about that diary, it was him.'

  Arthur Lunn strode into the room and clapped Henry familiarly on the shoulder.

  'Get dressed, Henry,' he announced. 'You are dining at Long's with me.'

  'I've no wish to go out.'

  'What's wrong with you, man?'

  'Until an hour ago, I was twisting and
turning on a bed of pain. When I felt better I ventured downstairs, but I gave express instructions that nobody was to disturb me.'

  'Instructions do not apply to friends like me.'

  Henry groaned inwardly. Attired in a garish silk dressing gown, he was reclining in a chair in his parlour when Lunn descended on him. In his present condition, he did not wish to see anybody, least of all an ebullient crony in all his finery. The mourning clothes worn by Lunn at the funeral had been discarded in favour of apparel that made Henry's dressing gown look dull by comparison. Lunn beamed down at the recluse.

  'Where have you been, Henry?' he demanded.

  'Indisposed.'

  'Oh, is that the reason? You've been taking the cure.'

  'No, Arthur. This is not a disease of the body.'

  'It comes to us all at times, no matter how careful we are in our choice of ladies.'

  'I do not have the pox!'

  'Then what is the problem?'

  'I've had… things on my mind,' explained Henry.

  'You always have things on your mind,' said Lunn with a chuckle. 'The same things that occupy my waking thoughts. Good wine, rich food and warm women - with a game or two of cards thrown in for good measure. Come, sir,' he insisted, taking hold of Henry's arm. 'Dine with me.'

  'I intend to eat at home today.'

  'Then I'll come for you this evening instead,' decided Lunn, releasing him. 'We will surrender body and soul to a night of sheer abandon.'

  'Go without me, Arthur.'

  'Why, man?'

  'Because I am not inclined to pleasure.'

  Lunn stared quizzically at him. 'Are you telling me that you've grown impotent?'

  'No!' yelled Henry indignantly.

  'Is that your problem? No more standing of the yard?'

  'It is nothing to do with that.'

  'Prove it by coming to Mrs Curtis with me.'

  'No, Arthur. I am not in the vein.'

  'Then at least sit at the card table with me for an hour.'

  'An hour there and I am doomed for the whole night. Listen,' said Henry, rising to his feet, 'I would be delighted to join you at any other time but not tonight, Arthur. As you see, I'm dressed for bed and will retire there after dinner.'

  Lunn was scandalised. 'Alone?'

  'Just me and my dark thoughts.'

  'What has happened to everybody? Marcus is the same. When I called on him just now, he refused to join me this evening as well. Why?' he wondered spreading his arms. 'It surely cannot be that you have become sated with pleasure. You and Marcus can keep going all night.'