'Play for time, Marcus.'
'The letter insists on immediate payment.'
'Then give this bloodsucker a small amount by way of deposit and tell him that you will pay the rest in instalments. Yes,' said Henry, pleased with the notion, 'that will remove the threat and give you space in which to breathe. It will also give my brother more time to hunt this villain to his lair.'
'As long as he does not offer to hand over my money again,' said Kemp with asperity. 'I can do without any assistance from Christopher Redmayne.'
'But he is only our hope.'
'Then we are truly doomed.'
'Have more faith in him. After all, he is a Redmayne.'
'That means he has the mark of failure on him.'
Henry was offended. 'The Redmayne family is known for its resilience.'
'It has brought me nothing but misery,' insisted the other, lapsing back into deep gloom. 'There is no hope. The net is closing in remorselessly.' The sound of the doorbell injected some rancour back into him. 'That will be your brother now,' he said. 'I'll warm his ears until they burst into flame. Christopher Redmayne is a bungler!'
Taking a stance with his hands on his hips, Kemp was ready to fire a verbal broadside the moment Christopher entered, but he was taken aback at the sight of the lacerated face and bruised cheekbone. The presence of Jonathan Bale also helped to silence him. After staring in horror, Henry rushed across to his brother.
'Look at the state of you!' he exclaimed.
'I was attacked on my way home from here last night,' said Christopher.
'Attacked?' repeated Kemp. 'By whom?'
'I will tell you, Sir Marcus. First, let me introduce my friend, Jonathan Bale, the finest constable in London.' He turned to his companion. 'I am sorry you will have to listen to this for the third time, Mr Bale, but it cannot be helped.'
'Pray continue, Mr Redmayne,' said Jonathan, eyeing Kemp with controlled distaste. 'Your brother and his guest ought to know the risk you took on their behalf.'
Christopher's recital abbreviated the facts to the bare essentials. They were more than enough to make both Henry and Kemp shudder with fear. Inevitably, Henry saw the incident entirely from his own point of view.
'It was I who was the real target!' he wailed, clutching his chest. 'That assassin was sent to carry out the death threat against me. Dear God! What a narrow escape I had! If I had been abroad alone last night, Mr Bale would probably have found my corpse by now on Paul's Wharf.'
'It was your brother who was attacked sir,' Jonathan reminded him.
'Only because I was not available.'
'You were protected Mr Redmayne. Your brother was not - until now.'
'This is insupportable,' said Henry, flinging himself into a chair and hugging himself defensively. 'I shall not set a foot outside the front door.'
'With respect, Henry,' said Christopher, 'the assassin was not after you. I was the target last night because I have been searching for Gabriel Cheever's killer. They know that I am on their tail.'
'Exactly,' said Kemp. 'Your name was mentioned in my last letter.'
'That proves it must be someone in your circle, Sir Marcus. Someone who has met me through Henry and recognises me by sight.'
'Dozens of my friends can do that,' observed Henry. 'I gave you that list.'
'Yes, Mr Bale and I have been working through it.'
Kemp scowled. 'Without success, it seems.'
'Only because you refuse to help us, Sir Marcus.'
'You surely cannot point a finger at me.'
'I must,' said Christopher. 'Henry showed me both the letters that he received and even Mr Wickens allowed me a glance at the demand sent to him. But you have rejected every entreaty even though you may have in your possession the one piece of information that will enable us to catch this man.'
'A magistrate will take a poor view of anyone withholding evidence,' added Jonathan seriously. 'Especially where a brutal murder is involved.'
Kemp looked cornered. 'It's an unwarranted invasion of my privacy.'
'Henry's message said you might have changed your mind' Christopher commented.
'Well, he had no right to tell you that.'
'You promised, Marcus,' said Henry.
'I merely said that I would consider it.'
'Show my brother the letters and get it over with.'
'No, Henry. I am still undecided.'
'Then you are impeding this investigation, Sir Marcus,' warned Jonathan.
'I don't need a mere constable to teach me the law,' retorted Kemp waspishly.
'Would you rather this villain remained free to extort more money from you and to make another attempt on Mr Redmayne's life? He must be arrested at once.'
'Mr Bale is right,' said Christopher. 'We must have your help.'
'Those letters are highly personal.'
'Then do not show them to me, Sir Marcus. What I really want to see is the extract from the diary. That will open up a completely new line of enquiry.' He saw the uncertainty in Kemp's eyes. 'If you fear that a printer will read of your misdemeanours, borrow a pen from Henry and scratch out your name.'
'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 thou
sand 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 G
od 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.
When a servant entered with a letter, Henry snatched it from him and sent the man out. He tore the letter open. A glance at the handwriting was enough to fracture his new-found confidence. He scrunched up the paper and emitted a howl of agony.
'Christopher!' he yelled. 'For God's sake, help me!'
As the two men approached the printer's shop in Fleet Lane, they could hear a voice raised in anger. Anticipating trouble, Jonathan Bale straightened his shoulders and led the way into the premises. In a room at the back, Miles Henshaw was admonishing a wayward apprentice. Judging by the boy's pleas for mercy, the printer was reinforcing his words with blows. Jonathan banged the counter to attract attention.
'Mr Henshaw!' he called.
The shouting stopped and the boy's ordeal was temporarily over. Composing his features into the flabby smile he reserved for customers, Henshaw came into the front of the shop. He was a tall, big-boned, corpulent man in his fifties with tiny eyes glinting either side of a hooked nose. When he saw Christopher's facial injuries, he blinked in surprise. Sobbing was heard from the back room. Henshaw gave an explanatory chuckle.
'The lad must learn the hard way,' he said, rubbing his hands together. 'I was an apprentice for eight years and a blow from my master taught me quicker than anything else.' He broadened his smile. 'What can I do for you, gentlemen? If you wish to have something printed, you have come to the right place.'
'We want to discuss your work, Mr Henshaw,' said Christopher.
'Has someone recommended me to you, sir?'
'Not exactly.'
Christopher performed the introductions then took out the page from the diary. Handing it over to Henshaw, he studied the man's reactions. The printer's jaw tightened visibly and his smile congealed. He glared at Christopher.
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