The Repentant Rake (38 page)

    'Mine,
too, while you're at it!' agreed Henry.

    'Nobody
need know to whom that page in the diary refers.'

    '/
know,' said Kemp despondently.

    Henry
got up. 'I have pen and ink here in the room' he said, crossing to the table.
'Eliminate yourself, Marcus. Remove me at a stroke.' He held up the quill.
'Strike out our names and we are acquitted of any shame.'

    'Do
as Mr Redmayne suggests,' urged Jonathan.

    'Take
the pen,' coaxed Henry.

    'Which
is it to be, Sir Marcus?' asked Christopher, adding more pressure. 'Will you
give us the opportunity to catch this rogue or would you rather go on paying
him a thousand guineas every time he chooses to demand it?'

    Sir
Marcus Kemp resisted for as long as he felt able then capitulated. Tearing the
letters and the extract from the diary out of his pocket, he thrust them at
Christopher.

    'Here,
sir!' he said wearily. 'Take the entire correspondence.'

    Elijah
Pembridge was a slim, angular man of middle years with curling grey locks and
wispy facial hair that could not decide if it was a beard or not. There was an
element of uncertainty about his clothing as well, as if he could not make up
his mind what was the most appropriate dress for a bookseller. Torn between
smartness and slovenliness, he ended up looking like an elegant gentleman who
had fallen on particularly hard times. About his profession itself, however,
there was no hint of wavering. Pembridge loved his books with a passion that
excluded all else. The devotion that other men gave to their wives, their
sports and their mistresses he reserved for the wonder of the printed page.
When the visitors arrived at his shop in Paternoster Row, he was caressing a
copy of
De Imitatione Christi
as if he were stroking the head of a
favourite child.

    'Good
morning, Mr Pembridge,' said Christopher.

    The
bookseller looked up and a smile fought its way out of his hirsute face. 'Mr
Redmayne! It is wonderful to see you again.' His pleasure turned to anxiety
when he saw Christopher's cuts and bruises. 'What happened to you?'

    'I
lost my footing and fell into some bramble bushes.'

    'You
look as if someone hit you.'

    'No,
no. I banged myself hard on the ground that is all.'

    Christopher
introduced Jonathan who was looking around at the shelves of books with
curiosity. Huge leather-bound tomes nestled beside piles of chap-books. Volumes
on all subjects and in many languages were everywhere, neatly stacked and free
from any spectre of dust. The sense of newness was overwhelming. Jonathan was
duly impressed by the range of titles.

    'You
were lucky, Mr Pembridge,' he observed. 'Most booksellers lost their entire
stock in the Great Fire.'

    Pembridge
sighed. 'That was because they made the mistake of carrying everything to St
Paul's,' he recalled. 'I did not. They thought their stock would be safe in
there but all they did was feed the fire. Well over a hundred and fifty
thousand pounds' worth of precious literature perished in the blaze along, of
course, with Stationers' Hall.'

    'I
remember it, sir. St Faith's burned like the fires of Hell.'

    'My
colleague, Joseph Kirton, lost thousands,' continued Pembridge, 'but it was the
destruction of
Critici Sancti
that was most lamentable. All nine volumes
of it were consumed in the flames at a cost of thirteen thousand pounds to
Cornelius Bee and his partners.'

    Jonathan
was astounded. 'Thirteen thousand pounds for
books?'

    'They
can be rare objects, Mr Bale. Take this one, for instance,' he said, holding up
the book in his hand. 'It is one of the products of the Imprimerie Royale and
is quite priceless. Look,' he invited, turning to the title page,
'De
Imitatione Christi,
published in 1642. As you can see, it is a folio volume
set in types based on Garamond. The Imprimerie Royale, also known as
Typographia Regia, was established by King Louis XIII at the suggestion of
Cardinal Richelieu. I have spent years trying to find a copy.'

    'How
much does it cost?'

    'Oh,
I would never part with it,' said Pembridge, hugging the book to him. 'I want
the pleasure of owning it for myself. Not that I have any sympathies with the
Old Religion, you understand' he said quickly. 'I value it solely as an example
of the printer's art and not because of anything between its covers.'

    'Mr
Pembridge did not lose a single page in the fire,' explained Christopher. 'He
hired a horse and cart to move his entire stock to the safety of Westminster.'
He looked around. 'I had the honour of designing this new shop.'

    'It
has won the admiration of everyone, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I'm
gratified to hear that.'

    'In
fact, I took the liberty of passing on your name to a customer of mine. Sir
Julius Cheever asked me if I could recommend a good architect and I told him to
look no further than Christopher Redmayne.' He scratched his nose. 'Did Sir
Julius ever get in touch with you?'

    'He
did, Mr Pembridge. I am commissioned to design his new house.'

    'Congratulations,
sir!'

    'How
do you come to know Sir Julius?'

    'The
only way that I get to know anybody - by selling them books.'

    'He
did not strike me as a reading man.'

    'Then
you underestimate him badly,' said the bookseller. 'Sir

    Julius
knows what he likes. Because he does not come to London often, he orders books
by letter and has them collected by his son- in-law, Mr Serle.'

    'Yes,
I've met Mr Serle.'

    'Not
a bookish man, alas, but we may win him over in time. So,' he went on, 'you are
to design the new house for Sir Julius, are you? An interesting man, is he not?
Where is the house to be built and in what style?'

    Christopher
was fond of Pembridge and had found him a most amenable client. In other
circumstances he would have tolerated the man's cheerful garrulity, but
priorities forbade it on this occasion. Explanation had to be kept to a
minimum. If he told the bookseller what lay behind his visit, he would have to
endure a lecture on the dangers of London wharves at night and a history of the
crime of blackmail. Pembridge might even have books on both subjects.
Christopher made no mention of murder or extortion. One page from an
unpublished diary was all that the bookseller would see.

    'You
must be familiar with every printer in London,' he began.

    'All
twenty of them,' replied Pembridge.

    'Is
that all there are?' asked Jonathan.

    'Yes,
Mr Bale,' explained Pembridge, seizing the opportunity to display his
knowledge. 'The number of master printers was limited to twenty in 1662 when
the office of Surveyor of the Imprimery and Printing Presses was given to Roger
L'Estrange. Severe curbs were placed on the liberty of the press.' He ran a
hand through his hair. 'John Twynn was indicted for high treason for publishing
a seditious book. Other printers have been fined pilloried and put in prison
for publishing work that Mr L'Estrange considered offensive. Simon Drover was
one. Nathan Brooks, the bookbinder, was another who fell foul of the law. As a
matter of fact-'

    'Mr
Pembridge,' said Christopher, cutting him off before he worked his way through
the entire list of victims, 'we need your advice. If I were to show you a page
from a London printer, would you be able to identify him for me?'

    'Possibly.'

    'How
would you do it?'

    'Each
man has his own peculiarities, as distinctive as a signature.'

    'Ignore
what the words say,' suggested Christopher, taking the page from his pocket.
'You might find them offensive. All we need to know is the name of the printer
most likely to have produced this.'

    Pembridge
took the page and clicked his tongue in disapproval when he saw that it was
defaced with inky blotches. Names had been crossed out but the remainder of the
text was there. Ignoring Christopher's suggestion, he read the words and
chortled.

    'This
is very diverting, Mr Redmayne. Did these things really
happen?
'

    'Apparently.'

    'What
strange urges some men have!'

    'Forget
the memoir, Mr Pembridge. Just examine the print.'

    'Oh, I
have. The typeface is Dutch.'

    'Are
you sure?'

    'I
know my trade. This typeface was invented by Christoffel van Djick, a goldsmith
from Amsterdam, one of the great type founders. It was he who taught Anton
Janson.' He burrowed into his stock. 'I have other examples of that typeface
here.'

    'We'll
take your word for it,' said Christopher quickly.

    'Simply
tell us who could have printed that page,' added Jonathan.

    'A
name is all that we require.'

    Pembridge
turned back to them and scrutinised the paper again, rubbing it between his
thumb and forefinger. He held the page up to the light then nodded.

    'Yes,
that would be my guess,' he decided.

    'Who
printed it?' asked Christopher.

    'Miles
Henshaw.'

    'Henshaw?'

    'He's
your man, Mr Redmayne. I'll wager money on it.'

    'Where
will we find him?'

    'In
Fleet Lane. But have a care when you speak to him.'

    
'Why?'

    'Miles
Henshaw is a big man,' said Pembridge. 'With a choleric disposition.'

    Left
alone in his house, Henry Redmayne grew fearful. The attack on his brother had
robbed him of any pretensions to bravery. Certain that he would be the next
victim, he ordered his servants to let nobody into the building except
Christopher. Wine was his one consolation and he drank it in copious amounts,
hoping to subdue his apprehensions. Yet the more he drank, the more menaced he
felt. His case, he told himself, was far worse than those of his friends. Peter
Wickens had only been asked for five hundred guineas. Sir Marcus Kemp had
already paid twice that amount and faced a second demand but neither man's life
was in danger. Henry quivered. Why had he been singled out? It was unnerving.
He began to wish that he had never confided in his brother at all. Had he
appeased the blackmailer when the first demand came, all might now be well.
Henry would have come through the crisis and Christopher would have known
nothing about it.

    It
never occurred to him to lay any blame on himself. Self- examination was
foreign to his character. When his own actions landed him in trouble, he always
sought to place the responsibility on someone else. As he swallowed another
mouthful of wine, he decided that the real culprit was the woman with whom he
had enjoyed a surreptitious romance. Lady Ulvercombe had been a passionate, if
fleeting, lover and Henry had allowed himself to make commitments to her that
flew in the face of discretion. Instead of ruing his own folly, he blamed her
need for reassurance. Having extracted the fateful letter from him, she
promised that she would destroy it before her husband returned to the house.
Lady Ulvercombe had broken that promise and the consequences could be
disastrous. Henry felt such a sharp pain in his stomach that he almost doubled
up. It was as if the vengeful sword of her jealous husband were already
penetrating his flesh.

    Circling
the room, he was sufficiently desperate to offer up a prayer for his own
salvation. It was no act of humble supplication. In return for divine
intervention, he did not offer to renounce his wickedness henceforth. If God
would not help him, he would turn aside from religion altogether. Faced with
extortion himself, he was sending a blackmail demand to the Almighty. A
heavenly response, it seemed was instantaneous. No sooner had the prayer ended
than the doorbell rang. His hopes soared. Had Christopher returned to say that
the blackmailer was now in custody? Had the doughty constable arrested the man
who attacked his brother? Were his troubles at last over? Sensing release, Henry
let out a cry of elation and vowed to celebrate that night in the haunts he had
so cruelly been forced to neglect.