Edward Marston - The Repentant Rake

Once started, Celia Hemmings was willing to produce many fond recollections of her former lover and Christopher was able to build up a clearer picture of the man in his mind. Much of what she said accorded with Henry Redmayne's description, but she added an important new dimension to the portrait.

'Gabriel hated farming,' she went on. 'He thought there should be more to life than running an estate in Northamptonshire. But that was not the only reason that he and his father fell out. Gabriel had ambitions that could only be fulfilled in London.'

'It sounds to me as if he fulfilled them with zest.'

'No, Mr Redmayne. You misjudge him. He was a much more serious person than anyone realised. The gaming houses may have provided him with his money but it was never frittered away. Gabriel saved it for a purpose.'

'And what was that?'

'To buy himself time.'

'Time?'

'Yes. In order to pursue his real interest.'

'What was that, Miss Hemmings?'

'Poetry,' she said. 'Gabriel wanted above all else to become a poet. He showed me some of his work. He had real talent. When we were together, he was also writing a play. In fact,' she confessed 'that's what I thought he might be doing when he vanished. Turning his back on us all so that he could write all the things that were bursting to come out of him. That was the true Gabriel Cheever,' she asserted. 'He was not just another unprincipled rake in search of pleasure but a conscientious author who would get back to his lodgings in the early hours of the morning and take up his pen. That's the man I shall remember.'

Jonathan Bale was not looking forward to his assignment. He headed for Holborn without enthusiasm. The constable was much more accustomed to breaking up brawls in rowdy taverns than to venturing into the privileged world of a coffee house. When he found the place, he hesitated at the door, reluctant to enter an establishment where men with whom he would not normally consort were consuming a liquid that he disdained to touch. The smell of tobacco smoke was another deterrent to him but he forced himself to go on. The coffee house was large and well appointed. It buzzed with conversation. Smoking pipes and dispensing gossip, fashionably dressed men lounged at their tables over cups of coffee. Jonathan, patently, did not belong. He collected several disapproving stares and a few unflattering comments, but he was in luck. When he spoke to the owner, he learned that Arthur Lunn was actually there. Seated alone at a table, the man was sipping a cup of coffee while he waited for a friend. When Lunn was pointed out to him, Jonathan went over to introduce himself.

'Whatever's brought you here?' asked Lunn cheerily. 'Am I under arrest?'

'No, sir, but I'm hoping that you may be able to give me information that may in time lead to an arrest. Mr Henry Redmayne said that I might find you here.'

Lunn was surprised. 'You're a friend of Henry's?'

'Not exactly,' said Jonathan. 'I know his brother.'

'Ah, the aspiring young architect.'

'He thought that you might be able to help me.'

'Very well,' said Lunn offhandedly, 'but at least sit down. You're attracting far too much attention, Mr Bale, and I hate it when someone looms over me like that.'

Jonathan lowered himself uneasily into the seat and glanced around. He was an outsider and the other customers were letting him know it in all manner of subtle ways. He turned back to Lunn.

'I believe that you knew Gabriel Cheever,' he said.

'Yes. A wonderful fellow. Why do you ask?' Lunn chuckled. 'Has the law finally caught up with Gabriel? I knew that it would one day.'

'Mr Cheever has been murdered.'

'What?' Lunn was startled. 'Can you be serious?'

'I was there when the body was found, sir.'

'When was this?'

'Earlier in the week.'

'Where?'

'Paul's Wharf.'

'What on earth was Gabriel doing there?'

'We have no idea as yet, Mr Lunn. Can you offer any opinion?'

'No,' said the other, still dazed by the news. 'To be frank, I rather lost sight of Gabriel. It must be months since we last met. He was living in Covent Garden then but he quit his lodgings one day without telling anyone where he was going.'

'How well did you know him, sir?'

'Extremely well. We were good friends. In the circumstances, that was a miracle.'

'A miracle?'

'Yes, Mr Bale. Gabriel Cheever was the king of the card table. I must have lost a small fortune to him over the years but I never resented it somehow. Gabriel had such charm. He made you feel that it was a kind of honour to lose to him.'

'Is that how he made his money?' said Jonathan with a note of censure. 'By playing games of chance?'

'There was no chance when Gabriel was at the table.'

Arthur Lunn launched into some rambling reminiscences. Jonathan was torn between curiosity and revulsion. Valuable facts about the murder victim were emerging but the world in which he had moved was anathema to the constable. He schooled himself to memorise the information without making any moral judgement. Whatever kind of existence he had led, Gabriel Cheever deserved to have his killer caught and punished. Lunn was in full flow. Most of his revelations were shocking to the ears of a Puritan but he did not even notice the effect he was having, and surged on regardless. As other names surfaced, Jonathan tried to make a mental note of them in case one or two were not on the list that Christopher Redmayne had acquired. Every tiny scrap of information needed to be hoarded. It might all be relevant. By the time Lunn stopped, his voice was maudlin. His affection for the dead man was apparent. Jonathan seized on the name that had been repeated most often.

'You mentioned Sir Marcus Kemp, sir.'

'He and I spent much time in Gabriel's company.'

'I would value a word with him.'

'Sir Marcus will be horrified when he hears the news.'

'Is he here at the moment?' asked Jonathan, looking around.

'No, Mr Bale,' said Lunn. 'It's far too early for him to be up and about. Sir Marcus carouses until dawn as a rule. My guess is that he's still asleep in his bed.'

Sir Marcus Kemp ignored the bell and pounded on the door with his fist. He was a tall, stooping, lean individual in his thirties with a long, sallow face and large, mournful brown eyes. With his periwig resting on his shoulders like huge hairy ears, he had the appearance of an oversized spaniel suffering from distemper. When the door did not open immediately, he attacked it with more vigour. It swung back on its hinges. Pushing the servant aside, he stormed into the hall.

'Where is Henry?' he demanded.

'Mr Redmayne is not receiving visitors today, Sir Marcus,' said the servant.

'He'll receive me.'

'I have instructions to let nobody in.'

'Damn it, man! Do I have to search the house myself?'

The servant weakened. 'Let me speak to him, Sir Marcus.'

'Just tell me where he is.'

'Mr Redmayne is dining at home, but-'

Sir Marcus Kemp cut him off in mid-sentence by thrusting him aside for the second time. He strode to door of the dining room and flung it open. Seated at the table, Henry was picking at the meal set out before him. He looked up in surprise as his visitor descended on him. The hapless servant appeared in the doorway to signal his apologies.

'There you are, Henry!' said the newcomer. 'Thank heaven!'

'This is an inopportune moment, Marcus,' said Henry.

'I do not care two hoots for that, man. I am in despair.'

He sank into a chair. Henry waved his servant away and the man closed the door behind him. Seeing the look of terror in his friend's face, Henry poured him a glass of wine and passed it across to him. The visitor downed it in one eager gulp.

'What is the matter?' asked Henry.

'I'm staring death in the face.'