The Repentant Rake Read online

  'It's a fine shoe, sir,' said the man, turning it over in his hands.

  'Did you make it?' asked Jonathan.

  'I wish I had but it's beyond my mean abilities.'

  'Do you have any idea who might have made it?'

  'Oh, yes,' said the other. 'I can tell you that.'

  'Who is he?'

  'Nahum Gibbins, sir. Without question.'

  'How can you be so sure?'

  'Because I was apprenticed to him at one time. He could mould Cordoba leather to any shape he wanted. Mr Gibbins is expensive but his customers always get more than their money's worth. Let me show you,' he said angling the shoe so that Jonathan could see the tiny star that was stamped inside it. 'That's his mark, sir. I'd know it anywhere. Where did you find it?'

  'Beside a dead body, my friend. That's why I'm so anxious to trace the maker. We need to identify the deceased and that shoe may help us to do so.'

  'Of course,' said the man, handing it back to him.

  'Where might I speak to this Nahum Gibbins?'

  'At his shop in Wood Street.'

  'Thank you.'

  'The south end, close to the White Hart. Give him my regards,' said the man, anxious to help. 'Tell him that Simon Ryde sent you.'

  'I will, Mr Ryde. I'm most grateful.'

  Jonathan set off with renewed hope, tiredness leaving him as he got within reach of his destination. He found the little shop with ease. Harness, bottles and all manner of leather goods were made there, but it was his shoes that brought Nahum Gibbins the bulk of his income. He was a tall, spare man, bent almost double by long years at his trade. His bald head had taken on a leathery quality itself and his face had the sheen of goatskin. When the constable explained the purpose of his visit, Gibbins took the shoe from him.

  'Simon Ryde, did you say?'

  'Yes, Mr Gibbins. He sends his regards.'

  'Well might he do so,' said the old man with a cackle. 'He was the most wayward apprentice I ever had. If I hadn't boxed his ears and stood over him, he'd never have learned the mysteries of working leather. Is he well?'

  'As far as I can judge,' replied Jonathan, wanting a firm identification of the shoe. 'Mr Ryde was certain that this was your work.'

  Gibbins nodded. 'He was right.'

  'But you haven't looked at it.'

  'I don't need to, Mr Bale. I can feel my handiwork.'

  'Can you tell me who bought the shoe from you?'

  'I could but I'd be breaking a confidence. Why do you wish to know?' When Jonathan explained the circumstances in which the shoe was found, the old man's manner changed at once. 'In that case, I'll do my best to help.'

  'Give me his name.'

  Gibbins raised a palm. 'Hold there, Mr Bale. It's not as simple as that. I've made several pairs of shoes of this design. I can't tell at a glance who would have worn this one. The size is one clue, of course,' he explained, scrutinising the length of the shoe before turning it over to expose the sole, 'and the state of wear. That will give me some idea how old it might be.' He rubbed his hand slowly over the leather before coming to a decision. 'Follow me, sir.'

  He led Jonathan into the rear of the shop where his two assistants were working away. Gibbins picked up a battered ledger from the table and thumbed through the pages.

  'I think I made that shoe six months ago for a young gentleman, sir. He paid me in full and that's most unusual among people of his sort. Credit is always their cry.' He came to the page he wanted. 'His name should be at the top of this list.'

  'What is it?' asked Jonathan.

  'Bless me, sir! I can't remember everyone who comes into my shop. And since I can't read a single word, I'm unable to tell you who he is. Numbers are what I mastered. It's far more important to know how much someone owes me than how they spell their name. But I keep a record' he said proudly. 'I always ask customers to put their signatures in my ledger.' He offered the open book to Jonathan then pointed at a neat scrawl. 'Here you are, Mr Bale. I fancy that this is the man you're after.'

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  The creative impulse is oblivious to the passage of time. Christopher Redmayne was impelled by such a fierce urge to work on his drawings that all else was blocked out. Having spent the greater part of the day amending, improving and refining his design, he continued on into the night with the help of a circle of tallow candles. The simple joy of artistic creation kept fatigue at bay. Aching joints that would have sent most people to their beds hours earlier were blithely ignored. Hunger was disregarded. An occasional glass of wine was all that he allowed himself as he set one piece of parchment aside to start immediately on a new one. Occupying a site that ran to half an acre, Sir Julius Cheever's house would be somewhat smaller than the three mansions Christopher had already designed for clients but it would be just as much of a challenge for architect and builder. As he worked on the front elevation of the house, he took especial care over the way he drew the tall Dutch gables with their sweeping curved sides. He was just crowning the last of them with a triangular pediment when Jacob came into the room.

  'Dear God!' exclaimed the servant. 'Up already, sir?'

  'No, Jacob,' said Christopher without looking at him. 'I never went to bed.'

  'But it's almost dawn.'

  'Is it?'

  'You need your sleep, sir.'

  'Mind and body are telling me otherwise.'

  'Then they are deceiving you,' said the old man. 'Why push yourself like this? You'll pay dearly for it, Mr Redmayne.'

  'I'm rather hoping that it's my client who will be paying,' replied Christopher, standing back to admire his work. 'Come and look, Jacob.' Still in his nightshirt, the servant moved across to him. 'There now! What do you think of that?'

  Jacob peered at the neat lines. 'It's a fine-looking house, sir.'

  'Well worth losing a night's sleep over.'

  'I don't agree.'

  'You're not an architect.'

  'That's why I'll live much longer than you, Mr Redmayne. Learn from your brother's example. Burn the candle at both ends and you'll suffer as a result.'

  'Yes,' conceded Christopher, 'long nights have certainly left muddy footprints all over Henry's face, but I have something to show for my endeavour. These.' He pointed at the pile of drawings. 'I still have a long way to go but I now have an exact image in my mind of how the building will look.'

  'I'm surprised that you can still keep your eyes open, sir.'

  'I could work for a week without sleep on this project.'

  'Where shall we bury your body?' asked Jacob drily.

  Christopher laughed then gave a first involuntary yawn. Aches and pains began to afflict him at last. The fingers of his right hand were stiff. His mouth felt dry, his stomach hollow. He put down his stick of charcoal and shrugged his shoulders. 'Enough is enough.'

  Jacob was solicitous. 'I'll fetch a cordial then you can retire to bed.'

  'Only for a few hours.'

  'You'll need half a day to recover from this folly.'

  'That may be, Jacob, but I'll have to take it at a later stage. Now that I've made such valuable progress,' he said as another yawn burst forth, 'I can think of someone apart from myself. I must pay a visit to my brother. Much as I hate the idea of being asked for money by Henry, there are familial obligations. The least I can do is to hear his tale of woe. Apart from anything else, if I go to Bedford Street, it will stop him coming here to interrupt my work.'

  'Why not simply send a message?' suggested Jacob. 'I'll gladly take it.'

  'Henry would never be fobbed off by a letter.'

  'So what will you do?'

  'Snatch three or four hours' sleep,' said Christopher, stretching himself and hearing the bones crack slightly. 'Wake me up then and I'll visit my brother. There's no point in going any earlier. Henry never rises before mid-morning.'

  Wearing a thick dressing gown and an expression of utter despair, Henry Redmayne sat at the table in his dining room over a breakfast that remained
untouched. His servants were amazed to see him up so early and they had the wisdom to keep well out of his way. Irascible at the best of times, their master was in a most choleric mood. The barber who would arrive to shave him at ten would be in for an especially testing time. Nobody envied him. Sagging in his chair, arms on the table, Henry was staring glassy-eyed at potential catastrophe. He could not remember when he had felt so oppressed. It was a numbing experience. He was so caught up in his predicament that he did not hear the front door bell ringing. Henry was floating helplessly on a sea of self-pity.

  There was a tap on the door and a nervous servant popped his head in. 'You have a visitor, sir.'

  'Send him away!' snarled Henry.

  'Is that altogether wise?'

  'Do as I say, you imbecile. Get rid of that baboon-faced barber. I'll not be shaved by him today. I'm likely to tear the razor from his grasp and cut my own throat.'

  'But it's not the barber who's here, Mr Redmayne.'

  'Turn every visitor away. I'll see no one.'

  'Not even your brother, sir?'

  Henry jumped to his feet. 'Christopher?' he yelled. 'Why didn't you tell me, you idiot? Show him in straight away and make sure that we're not disturbed for any reason. Do you understand?'

  The servant nodded and backed gratefully out. Seconds later,

  Christopher came into the room, hiding his weariness behind a warm smile. Henry bore down on him.

  'Where've you been, man!' he demanded.

  'Furthering my career, Henry.'

  'I needed you here.'

  'Why? Do you wish to commission a new house from me?'

  'No,' moaned his brother. 'I'm more likely to lose the one I have than be able to afford a new one.' He crossed to the door, snatched it open to make sure that there was nobody in the hall, then slammed it shut again. 'We must talk, Christopher.'

  'I came as soon as I could.'

  'Did Jacob tell you how urgent it was?'

  'Yes, Henry. He also guessed the reason for that urgency.'

  'I doubt that.'

  'Come now,' said Christopher, putting a consoling hand on his arm. 'Everyone knows your weakness. You will play card games for which you are singularly ill-equipped. What little skill you possess is vitiated by an endless run of bad fortune.' He shook his head sadly. 'How much do you owe this time?'

  'If it was only a gambling debt!'

  'You mean that it isn't?'

  'No, Christopher,' admitted Henry, crossing to drop into his chair. 'It's worse than that. Far, far worse. I'd hardly summon you here for help in clearing a debt incurred at the card table. That would be a mere trifle.'

  Christopher was sympathetic. 'So what is the problem?'

  'I can hardly bring myself to tell you.'

  'Dismissal from the Navy Office? Serious illness?'

  'Both would be preferable to the situation in which I find myself.'

  'What situation?' said his younger brother, sitting beside him. 'I can see that you're in earnest. Tell me all.'

  'In a moment.' A resentful note sounded. 'Where on earth did you go?'

  'Northamptonshire.'

  'Whatever for?'

  'In pursuit of a commission.'

  'A commission? Your brother is facing disaster and your only response is to run off to Northamptonshire in pursuit of a paltry commission.'

  'It's far from paltry, I assure you.'

  'It's meaningless beside the agony that I'm suffering.'

  'Is it?'

  'Yes,' said Henry, grabbing his shoulder. 'You must help me, Christopher.'

  'That's why I'm here.'

  'God knows how, though! There seems to be no way out.'

  'Out of what, Henry?'

  His brother sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Like Christopher, he had had a sleepless night, but his had been entirely unproductive. Fear had kept him awake through the dark hours. Pale, haggard and unshaven, he looked ten years older than his real age. It took him some time to summon up the courage to speak. When he finally did his eyes were darting with apprehension.

  'First, I must extract a promise from you,' he said.

  'Promise?'

  'Nothing of what I say - nothing, Christopher - must ever find its way to the ears of our father. He preaches enough sermons at me as it is. If the old gentleman knew the position I find myself in now, he'd excommunicate me on the spot and, worst of all, terminate the allowance that he so reluctantly sends me.'

  Christopher was frank. 'Father's allowance would be less reluctant if he felt that it was being spent wisely, Henry. He's the Dean of Gloucester. He expects you to behave like the son of a senior churchman.'

  'What am I supposed to do? Sing hymns at the card table?'

  'Moderate your way of life.'

  'Not while I have blood in my veins.'

  'I, too, have blood in my veins,' said Christopher defensively, 'but I do not expend my time and money in so reckless a manner.' He checked himself and gave an apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry, Henry. I don't mean to sound like our dear father. And, of course,

  I'll not breathe a syllable of what you tell me to him. You can trust me.'

  'I have to trust you. There's nobody else I can turn to.'

  'For what?'

  'Compassion and understanding.'

  'I give those freely.'

  'You may not do so when you hear the ugly truth.' He thrust a hand into his pocket and took out a letter. 'This arrived out of the blue two nights ago. It came like a musket ball between the eyes.'

  'Why?'

  'It's a demand for money, Christopher. A missive that I incautiously sent to a certain lady has fallen into the wrong hands. It's very explicit. If I don't pay handsomely for its return,' he said, handing the letter to his brother, 'then it will be passed to the lady's husband. You can see how fatal that would be.'

  Christopher read the name. 'Lord Ulvercombe?'

  'A duel would be unavoidable. He's already accounted for two adversaries.'

  'His wife will surely deny all allegations.'

  'She did that on both previous occasions but it did not stop her vengeful husband from issuing challenges. No man likes to be cuckolded but Ulvercombe takes resentment to unreasonable lengths.'

  'How did your letter go astray?'

  'I've no idea. The little minx swore that she'd destroy it.'

  'Does the lady know of this attempt at blackmail?'

  'No. Nor must she. I don't wish to drag her into it at all.'

  'But she might be able to tell you who stole the letter from her. If you can unmask the rogue who sent you this,' said Christopher, holding up the letter, 'you can confront him and demand your private correspondence back.'

  'We're not merely talking about my billet-doux, alas.'

  'No?'

  'Read it to the end.'

  Christopher did and sat up with a start. When he shot a glance at his brother, Henry was hiding his face in both hands.

  Christopher could understand his shame as well as his horror. He put the letter down in front of him.

  'This looks bad, Henry,' he whispered.

  'It's a calamity!'

  'How many of those things are true?'

  There was a long pause. 'Most of them,' confessed Henry.

  'Most or all?'

  'Does it matter?'

  'I think so.'

  Henry lowered his hands. 'I expected you to be on my side.'

  'I am on your side,' said Christopher, 'and I'll do everything I can to help, but I must know the truth. How many of these allegations have any substance to them?'

  'All of them.'

  'Could anyone prove that these things actually happened?'

  'If they had reliable witnesses.'

  Christopher raised a censorious eyebrow. 'How could you be so careless?'

  'Step down from the pulpit. You're sounding like father again.'

  'That's the last thing I wish to do. You need assistance, not condemnation.'

  'At
this moment,' wailed his brother, 'I feel in need of the services of an undertaker. This has ruined me. To all intents and purposes, Henry Redmayne is dead. I'll never be able to hold up my head again.'

  'Yes, you will,' Christopher assured him.

  'How?'

  'By nipping this blackmail in the bud.'

  'And how am I supposed to do that?'

  'I've told you. By learning the identity of the man who wrote this and taking any incriminating documents away from him.' He glanced at the letter. 'The fellow seems uncannily well informed about your movements. He must be someone from your inner Circle. There are detailed descriptions of your peccadilloes here.'

  'An invasion of my privacy.'

  'You should have been more discreet.'

  'I was. Most of the time, anyway. Heavens!' Henry protested, snatching the letter back. 'How can any of us remember to look over our shoulders when the wine is rich and the company enticing? A man is entitled to his pleasures without being spied on by some evil little blackmailer.' He thrust the letter back into his pocket and looked more dejected than ever. 'What am I to do?'

  Christopher took pity on him. Some of the revelations in the letter had shocked him even though he was aware of Henry's love of revelry. The affair with Lady Amelia Ulvercombe was both foolhardy and dangerous, and she was not the only married woman with whom his brother's name was linked. Christopher imagined how their father, the moralistic Dean of Gloucester, would react if the information fell into his hands and he vowed to do all he could to prevent that from occurring.

  'Make a list of your intimates,' he advised.

  'Why?' said Henry. 'No true friend would betray me.'

  'Someone did. If I'm to help, I need to be more familiar with your circle, Henry. I know that Arthur Lunn is a crony of yours. Peter Wickens, too, and Gilbert Sparkish, if memory serves me. Who else? Sir Marcus Kemp?'

  'Sir Marcus would die to save my reputation.'

  'Let me be the judge of that,' said Christopher. 'I'll not badger you now but I must have a list of names so that I can begin my enquiries. Take heart, brother. It may not be as bad as you envisage.'

  Henry shuddered. 'Oh, it is. Believe me.'

  'Meanwhile, carry on as if nothing had happened.'