The Repentant Rake Read online

  He might also be a cantankerous client. Christopher accepted that. There were consolations. Not only had the young architect secured a valuable commission to design a house in London, Sir Julius had insisted on giving him a generous down-payment in cash to encourage him. The money was safely stowed away in Christopher's satchel along with the preliminary drawings he had made. There was an additional feature that brought him particular pleasure. This was the first major project he had won entirely on his own merit. His brother, Henry, had been instrumental in finding him his first three clients and, though one of the houses was never actually built, the two mansions that were completed served as a lasting tribute to his talent. By comparison with these undertakings, the design of a new bookshop for Elijah Pembridge was a relatively simple affair that had brought in much-needed money but would hardly enhance his reputation. For that reason, he did not list it among his achievements. Henry Redmayne had been indirectly responsible for that commission as well but he had no connection whatsoever with Sir Julius. Much as he loved his brother, Christopher was grateful to be striking out on his own at last.

  Susan Cheever had been right. Northamptonshire was a beautiful county. In the hectic dash north, Christopher had not taken the trouble to admire the scenery on the way. Now, with two days of hard riding ahead of him, he determined to repair that omission. Heavily wooded in some areas, Northamptonshire was given over almost exclusively to agriculture. The soil was rich but less than ideal for ploughing and grain production, so there was a predominance of dairy farming and sheep-rearing. Herds of cattle and flocks of sheep seemed to be everywhere. Christopher passed the occasional windmill as well. What he noticed was the absence of any major rivers. Since it was largely denied direct access to the sea by means of navigable water, Northamptonshire was curiously isolated. The lack of a major road through the heart of the county was another element that set it apart from its neighbours. On the first stretch of his journey, Christopher was travelling along a small, winding, rutted track. It was only when he crossed the border into Bedfordshire that he found a wider and more purposeful road.

  Not long after noon, he stopped at an inn for refreshment. The Jolly Shepherd was a welcoming hostelry that offered good food and strong drink to its customers. A large party of travellers, all men, occupied three of the tables. Christopher found a seat in the corner and sampled the game pie, washing it down with a tankard of beer. A tall, bearded, well-dressed man in his thirties sauntered across to him with an easy smile.

  'May I share your table, my friend?' he asked.

  'Be my guest,' said Christopher pleasantly.

  'I'm much obliged, sir.' The man sat opposite him and set his own tankard down. 'It's rather quieter at this end of the room. Our fellow travellers are in raucous mood.'

  Even as he spoke, a jesting remark set the entire party roaring in appreciation. Judging by the amount of food and drink in front of them, they would be there for some time. They were patently making the most of their stop.

  'Where are you heading?' asked the man.

  'London,' said Christopher.

  'So are our noisy neighbours. Fall in with them and you'll have a safer journey.'

  'I'll make better speed on my own, I think.'

  'Do you have a good horse?'

  'An excellent one.'

  'Then I'll bear you company part of the way, if I may,' offered the other. 'My home is near Hertford. Could you tolerate me alongside you until then?'

  'I believe so.'

  The man beamed. 'That settles it.' He extended a hand. 'Zachary Mills at your service.'

  'Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,' said Christopher, shaking his hand. 'My name is Christopher Redmayne.'

  'Have you ridden far?'

  'I had business in Northamptonshire.'

  'Ah, so did I, Mr Redmayne. Sad business, as it happens. I was visiting my sick mother in Daventry. She is desperately ill but I like to think that I helped to sustain her while I was there. The doctor holds out little hope.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that.'

  'It comes to us all,' said Mills resignedly. He brightened at once. 'But I'll not burden you with my family problems. I'm so relieved to spend some time on the road with a gentleman. Some of these fellows,' he added, nodding in the direction of the three full tables, 'have yet to learn proper manners.' Another roar went up as a more uncouth jest was passed around. 'Do you take my point?'

  'I do, Mr Mills.'

  'I could see that you would.'

  Zachary Mills was a pleasing companion, urbane, well-spoken and attentive. When he had ordered his own meal, he insisted on buying Christopher a second tankard of beer. The conversation was confined to neutral subjects and Mills made no attempt to pry into Christopher's personal affairs. The latter was grateful for that and glad that he would have someone to share the next stage of the journey. In the event of attack from highwaymen two swords were better than one, and Mills had the air of a man who knew how to use his blade. As time passed, however, the rowdiness increased among the other travellers and the two men left by tacit consent. They strolled towards the stables, talking amiably about the advantages of living in London, a city that Mills seemed to know extremely well. He had a sophistication that had been notably lacking among the other guests at the inn. Christopher warmed to him even more.

  When they entered the stables, however, Mills's manner changed at once. Putting a hand in the small of Christopher's back, he pushed him so firmly that the latter stumbled to the ground. Christopher was on his feet at once, swinging round to face the other man and ready to demand the reason for the unwarranted shove. He found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol and his question was answered. The plausible friend was a cunning robber. Mills gave him a broad grin.

  'You should have stayed with the others, Mr Redmayne. Safety in numbers.'

  'I took you for a gentleman.'

  'Why, so I am, good sir.'

  'Indeed?'

  'I extend every courtesy to the people I rob.'

  Christopher was sarcastic. 'What would your sick mother say?'

  'She's in no position to say anything, alas. She died several years ago.'

  'Out of a sense of shame at her son, no doubt.'

  'Do not vex me, Mr Redmayne,' cautioned the other. 'This pistol is loaded. All you have to do is remove that satchel and hand it over with your purse. I'll then be obliged to bind and gag you while I make good my escape. By the time that drunken crowd stumble out here and find you, I'll be well clear.'

  'How will you tie me up?'

  'I have rope in the saddlebags directly behind you.'

  Christopher glanced over his shoulder. 'I see that you planned this very carefully, Mr Mills,' he said with grudging respect.

  'I leave nothing to chance.'

  'That remains to be seen.'

  'I'd advise against any futile heroics.'

  'I'll remember that,' said Christopher, weighing up the possibilities of escape. They were severely limited. 'May I ask why you singled me out?'

  'The satchel gave you away, I'm afraid.'

  'Did it?'

  'Yes, my friend. In all' the time we were at the table, you never once took it from round your neck. That means it contains something valuable.'

  'It does. Something that I'll not part with easily.'

  'Gold?'

  'Drawings.'

  Mills was sceptical. 'Drawings?'

  'Correct, sir.'

  'I've no time to play games, Mr Redmayne.'

  'It's the truth. I'm an architect by profession and I've been visiting a client who wishes me to design a new house for him.' He patted his satchel. 'The preliminary sketches are in here. They'd be worthless to you and it's vital that I keep them.'

  'That satchel contains more than a few drawings,' said Mills, levelling the pistol at him. 'Hand it over or I'll be forced to take it from your dead body.'

  Christopher shrugged. 'If you insist.'

  'I do.'

  'Then first l
et me prove that I'm a man of my word - unlike you, I may say.' Christopher opened the satchel to take out a piece of folded parchment. 'Here, see for yourself. A town house in the Dutch style, commissioned by Sir Julius Cheever.'

  Mills took the parchment and flicked it open to glance at the various drawings. They were neat and explicit but he was still unconvinced. The pistol was turned in the direction of the satchel.

  'I'll wager there's something else in there, Mr Redmayne, or you'd not have been nursing it like a baby throughout dinner. I'm wondering if this illustrious client of yours might not have given you some money on account. Is that what's in the satchel?'

  'Alas no!' sighed Christopher. 'But have it, if you must.'

  He slipped an arm through it and lifted the strap over his head. Mills glanced down at the drawings in his hand. It was a fatal mistake. Christopher moved at lightning speed hurling the satchel into his face and diving straight at him, knocking him against one of the stalls with such force that the pistol dropped from his hand. It was no time for social niceties. Grabbing his adversary by the throat, Christopher pounded his head against the stout timber. Mills cursed, struggled and kicked but he was up against someone stronger and more determined. Christopher was annoyed at himself for being duped and that gave him extra power. When

  Mills tried to pull out his dagger, Christopher hurled him to the ground and stamped on his wrist until the weapon slid uselessly away. The commotion had upset the horses and they neighed in alarm, shifting in their stalls as the two men grappled together on the straw-covered floor.

  It was when Mills's flailing body squirmed on to the drawings that Christopher really lost his temper. They were only early sketches but they represented something very important in his life and he was not going to have them treated with disrespect With a burst of manic energy, he sat astride his opponent and subdued him with a relay of punches to the face, ignoring the pain in his knuckles until Mills lapsed into unconsciousness. Breathing heavily and with bruises of his own from the fight, he hauled himself to his feet. His first priority was to secure and silence the other man. When he found the rope in the saddlebags he used it to bind Zachary Mills to a solid oak post, then took out the latter's own handkerchief to use as a gag. Though his first instinct was to deliver the man up to the local constable, he saw the drawbacks. It would mean an interminable delay as he tried to explain what had happened and Mills would assuredly contest his version of events. Pain and humiliation would be the highwayman's punishment. Trussed up tightly and covered in blood, he would have time to repent of his folly in choosing the wrong victim. It might be hours before he was discovered and released by the departing travellers. Christopher would be in the next county by then.

  Slipping the satchel over his shoulder, he recovered the pistol and dropped it in with the money from Sir Julius. He then picked up the parchment with the drawings on it and smoothed it out reverently. When Mills opened a bloodshot eye, Christopher showed no sympathy for him. He held up the parchment.

  'You shouldn't have creased this,' he said. 'My drawings mean everything to me.'

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Dead bodies held no fears for Jonathan Bale. He had looked on too many of them to be either shocked or revolted. Those dragged out of the River Thames were the worst, grotesque parodies of human beings, bloated out of all recognition and, when first hauled from the dark water, giving off a fearsome stink. The corpse that lay on the stone slab in the morgue was neither grossly misshapen nor especially malodorous. Wounds were minimal and the herbs liberally scattered in the cold chamber helped to smother the stench of death. Jonathan watched over the shoulder of the surgeon as he examined the body that had been found at Paul's Wharf on the previous night. He was struck by how peaceful the face of the deceased looked, less like that of a murder victim than someone who had passed gently away in his own bed.

  'Interesting,' said the surgeon, peering at the cadaver's neck.

  'What have you found sir?' asked Jonathan.

  'I'm not sure.'

  'He's so young to die.'

  'Still in his twenties, I'd say Young, healthy and well muscled.'

  Jonathan nodded. 'What a cruel waste of a life!'

  Ecclestone continued his detailed inspection by the light of the candles. He was a small, thin, agitated man in his fifties with colourless eyes and a skin so pale that he might have climbed off one of the slabs in the morgue. A chamber of death was his natural milieu and he had divined most of its secrets. While the surgeon shifted his attention to the naked chest, Jonathan made his own appraisal. The young man had been undeniably handsome in life, the long brown hair well groomed and the carefully trimmed beard hinting at vanity. Smooth hands and clean fingernails confirmed that he was a stranger to any manual labour. There was an ugly red weal around his neck and bruising beneath his left ear. What looked like more bruises showed on the chest and stomach. Only one puncture wound was visible, close to the heart. The man's head lolled to one side. His cheeks had a ruddy complexion.

  After a thorough examination, Ecclestone stood back and clicked his tongue.

  'Well?' said Jonathan.

  'He was strangled to death, Mr Bale.'

  'I thought he was stabbed through the heart.'

  'He was,' agreed Ecclestone, 'but only after he was dead. That's why there was so little blood. When death occurs, the circulation of the blood ceases.'

  'Why stab a dead man?'

  'To make absolutely sure that he was dead, I imagine.'

  'The murderer took no chances,' noted Jonathan gruffly. 'He not only strangled and stabbed the poor fellow, he beat him about the body for good measure.'

  'What makes you think that, Mr Bale?'

  'Look at those bruises, sir.'

  'That's exactly what I have done.' He squinted up at the constable. 'You were one of the men who found him, I understand.'

  'That is so.'

  'Then I'll warrant he was face down at the time.'

  Jonathan was impressed. 'Why, so he was.'

  'And had been for a little while, if my guess is correct.' He pointed a stick-like finger. 'Those are not bruises you can see, Mr Bale. When the blood stops being pumped around by the heart, it gradually sinks to the blood vessels in the lowest part of the torso. In this case, to the chest and stomach, which have a livid hue. After a certain amount of time, the purplish stains become fixed and take on the appearance of large bruises. I've seen it happen so often. No,' decided Ecclestone, gazing down at the corpse once more, 'I suspect that death was swift, if brutal. Someone took him unawares and strangled him from behind, putting a knee into the small of his back as he did so. If you turned him over, as I did before you came in, you'd see the genuine bruise that's been left there.'

  'I take your word for it, sir.'

  Ecclestone was brisk. 'So, the cause of death has been established. My work is done. It's up to others to discover the motive behind the murder.'

  'It could hardly be gain,' argued Jonathan. 'There were valuable rings on his fingers and money in his purse.'

  'It was fortunate that you came along before anyone else found him.'

  'I know.'

  'Do you have any notion who he might be?'

  'None, sir. There was no means of identification on him.'

  'Hardly an habitue of Paul's Wharf, that's for sure.'

  'Quite,' said Jonathan. 'You won't find a suit of clothes as costly as that being worn in a warehouse. He's a gentleman of sorts with a family and friends who'll miss him before long. Someone may soon come forward.'

  'And if they don't?'

  'Then we'll have to track his identity down by other means.'

  'Do you have any witnesses?'

  'Not so far, sir. My colleague, Tom Warburton, is making enquiries near the murder scene this morning. When I spoke to him on my way here, he had had no success. It was late when we found the body. The wharf was deserted at that time of night. We are unlikely to find witnesses.'

 
'What was a man like this doing in such a place?'

  'I don't think that he went there of his own accord, sir,' said Jonathan solemnly. 'I begin to wonder if he was killed elsewhere then dumped near that warehouse.'

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Because of the state of his apparel. When we found him last night, the back of his coat was covered in dirt, as if he'd been dragged along the ground by someone. There were a few stones caught up in the garment.' He took them from his pocket to show them to the surgeon. 'Do you see how small and bright they are, sir? You won't find any stones like this in the vicinity of the warehouse.'

  'You've a sharp eye, Mr Bale.'

  Jonathan put the stones away again. 'These may turn out to be useful clues.'

  'I hope so. Well,' said Ecclestone, pulling the shroud over the corpse, 'I've told you what I've seen. A young man cut down in his prime by a sly assailant. A powerful one, too. The deceased would have fought for his life. Even with the element of surprise in his favour, only a strong attacker could have got the better of him.'

  'Unless he was groggy with drink.'

  'I detected no smell of alcohol in his mouth.'

  'Oh.'

  'You can rule that out.' The surgeon turned and walked out of the morgue. Jonathan followed him, glad to quit the dank and depressing chamber. When they stepped out into the fresh air, he took several deep breaths. Ecclestone paused to stare up at him.

  'Is there anything else that I can tell you, Mr Bale?' he asked.

  'No thank you, sir. You've been very helpful.'

  'This was no random murder.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It did not happen by accident on the spur of the moment. If you or I wished to strangle someone, we'd never do it as quickly and efficiently as that. Do you hear what I'm saying, Mr Bale?'