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.
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.
'Why have you brought this to me?' he said.
'Because we believe that it is your handiwork.'
'There's some mistake. This is not mine.'
'Do you not use that typeface, Mr Henshaw?'
'From time to time,' the printer conceded.
'Then rack your memory,' said Christopher. 'Try to recall when you used it for this particular commission. It's very important.'
Henshaw sniffed. 'I'm sorry,' he said tossing the page on to the counter. 'I've never seen this before. Nor would I care to, sir. It's not the kind of thing a respectable shop like mine would be interested in touching.'
'How do you know? You did not read it through.'
'I saw enough.'
'Let me speak to your apprentice,' said Christopher.
'Why?'
'I fancy that he may be more alert than his master. He may recollect setting the type for this particular commission. Call the lad through, Mr Henshaw.'
'No, sir.'
'What harm can it do?'
Henshaw was belligerent. 'My apprentice has work to do and so do I. If you are not here to do business, I bid you farewell.' He grabbed the page from the counter and thrust it at Christopher. 'Take this out of my shop.'
'Not until you tell us what we came to find out,' said Jonathan, taking the page from him. 'You recognised this work as soon as you saw it. I dare say that you have printed others from the same source.'
'Go your ways,' snarled Henshaw.
'All in good time.'
'I cannot help you.'
'You mean that you will not,' said Jonathan levelly. 'At the moment, that is.'
'Obviously, you require a little persuasion,' said Christopher easily. 'I'm sure that you are familiar with the name of Elijah Pembridge.'
'I know Pembridge and all his pernicious tribe,' sneered Henshaw. 'Booksellers are the bane of my life. They outnumber us completely and enforce terms that take away any profit we might enjoy. The Stationers' Company will be the ruin of us.'
'We did not come here to listen to your woes,' said Jonathan bluntly.
'Then take yourselves off.'
'You have not heard us out yet,' resumed Christopher. 'Mr Pembridge is a friend of mine. When it comes to printing, I respect his judgement. According to him, that page is your work, Mr Henshaw. I'd take his word against yours.'
'So would I,' added Jonathan.
'Pembridge is wrong,' insisted Henshaw.
'Is he?' said Christopher. 'Supposing that Mr Bale and I were to show this to every other printer in the city. What would happen if every one of them denied any knowledge of it? The trail would lead us straight back to you, Mr Henshaw. Why not save us a great deal of time?'
The printer hesitated. Jonathan wearied of his lying. It was time for action.
'You will have to come with us, Mr Henshaw,' he declared.
'Why?' said the printer.
'Because I'm placing you under arrest, sir.'
'On what charge?'
'You are an accessary to blackmail.'
'That is ridiculous!'
'Save your protests for the magistrate, sir,' said Jonathan, going round the counter. 'We have evidence to link you to a conspiracy to extort money by means of blackmail.' He held up the page. 'This is only the first link in the chain.'
'Stay away from me!' said Henshaw, pushing him away.
'Leave him be, Mr Bale,' said Christopher. 'He may yet be innocently involved here. Let me explain the seriousness of the situation, Mr Henshaw,' he went on, turning to the printer. 'We are not just talking about blackmail. Murder has also occurred.'
'Murder?' gasped Henshaw.
'The killer tried to add me to his list of victims. As you see, I still bear the scars of the encounter. But let me tell you exactly what we are dealing with here.'
Christopher gave him a terse account of the crimes, omitting the names of the blackmail victims but mentioning the amounts of money demanded. Henshaw's face was eloquent. Shock gave way to fear, then quickly changed to self-pity.
'I knew nothing of this, Mr Redmayne!' he protested. 'I swear it!'
'Did you print that page?' asked Christopher.
Henshaw bit his lip. 'Yes,' he admitted.
'Have you printed anything similar?'
'Not yet, sir. But another commission is promised to me.'
Christopher looked around. 'Do you have the diary on the premises?'
'No, sir. The gentleman said he'd bring it in due course.'
'What gentleman?' said Jonathan.
'The one who paid me handsomely for that single page,' replied Henshaw.
'Did he give you a name?' asked Christopher.
The printer nodded. 'Yes, Mr Redmayne. A name and an address.'
'Excellent!' Christopher leaned forward with excitement. 'We want them.'
'I'll need to look in my book,' said Henshaw, easing Jonathan back so that he could reach behind the counter. He pulled out a ledger and set it down, beginning to flick through the pages. 'Here it is,' he said at last, finding the correct place.
'Give us the name!' demanded Christopher. 'Gabriel Cheever, sir,' announced Henshaw. 'He lives Knightrider Street.'
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Susan Cheever tried hard to conceal her disappointment but it showed clearly in her eyes. Hoping that they had returned with good news, she was dismayed when Christopher explained what had happened at the printer's shop. What hurt her most was the fact that her
brother's name had been used to disguise the identity of someone who was implicated in his murder. It was a detail she intended to keep from her sister-in-law.
'I am sorry that it was all such a waste of time, Mr Redmayne,' she said.
'But it was not,' said Christopher. 'We feel heartened by what we discovered.'
'Heartened?'
'Yes, Miss Cheever. We know who printed that extract from the diary and he assures us that his customer promised to return soon. Mr Bale has left a colleague of his watching the shop. When the man does return,' he said 'Mr Henshaw will give a signal and an arrest can be made.'
'Are you sure that you can trust this printer?'
'Oh, yes. Thanks to Mr Bale. He frightened the life out of Miles Henshaw.'
'It was the only way to get his help,' said Jonathan with a smile. 'He was a surly fellow who had been sworn to secrecy by his customer. He was very obstructive at first. When I threatened to haul him before a magistrate, he thought better of it.'
'Was he aware that Gabriel's diary was being used for blackmail?'
'No, Miss Cheever. He was simply paid to print that extract.'
'By whom?'
'That is what we've yet to establish,' confessed Christopher, 'but Mr Henshaw gave us a good description of the customer. Apparently, he was a well-built young man with a handsome face but a rough manner. I have a strong feeling that I met the fellow in the dark last night.' He grinned quietly. 'After the way I flattened his nose, he may not be quite so handsome now.'
'You say that he had a rough manner?'
'Mr Henshaw meant that he was uneducated Miss Cheever. He spoke less like a master than a servant. That may be a valuable clue.'
It was late morning and the three of them were sitting in the parlour of the house in Fetter Lane. Jonathan was anxious to continue their investigation but Christopher felt that they had to report back to Susan first. He had not forgotten the way she had surged into the room to enquire after his health. It was almost worth taking a beating to enjoy the sheer luxury of her concern. Since she had appeared, his injuries no longer caused him the slightest twinge of pain.
'What will you do now, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.
'First, I will tell Jacob to escort you safely home.'
'Must I go?'
'You can remain here if you wish but it may be a long wait. Mr Bale and I have so much more to do. Besides,' said Christopher reasonably, 'your sister-in-law will be wondering what happened to you. It must have been a great shock to her when you suddenly left.'
'It was.'
'Go back and reassure her.'
'What shall I say to her?'
'Tell her that her husband's death will soon be explained.'
'Am I allowed to mention the attack on you, Mr Redmayne?'
'No,' he said. 'It would only upset her needlessly She has enough things to worry her as it is. Say nothing about me, Miss Cheever. Try to get her to do the talking.'
'I will.'
'Are you making any headway on that front?'
'I think so,' she said. 'Lucy is close to confiding in me.'
'Then it is important for you to stay with her.'
'I suppose so.'
'She needs your support.'
Susan gave a nod of agreement. Reluctant to leave, she accepted that she had to go. She had travelled to London at her sister-in- law's express request and could not desert her for any length of time. The visit to Fetter Lane had served to deepen the unspoken affection between her and Christopher. While she waited for him to come back, she had learned a great deal more about him simply by sitting in his house and imbibing its atmosphere. It was an interesting place and it reflected his character with accuracy. Jacob had even let her see some of his master's drawings. Marvelling at Christopher's skills, she was grateful that her father had retained him as an architect. It was her one source of consolation. She rose sadly to her feet.
'Yes,' said Christopher, reading the query in her face. 'I promise that we will keep you informed of any progress we make. It's a blessing that Mr Bale's house in Addle Hill is so near to Knightrider Street.'
'I hope that you will find time to come yourself, Mr Redmayne.'
'Of course.'
'I still believe that you may be the one to gain Lucy's confidence.'
'As long as I have yours,' he said.
'You do,' she assured him.
Jacob was summoned and given instructions. All four of them soon left the house together. Pausing in the street, Susan bestowed a valedictory smile on Christopher.
'Where will you go now?' she asked.
'To pay a call on a man who will not be pleased to see us.'
'Who is that, Mr Redmayne?'
'Mr Arthur Lunn.'
'Are we to search the coffee houses for him?' said a worried Jonathan.
'No, Mr Bale,' said Christopher, 'we'll call at his home first.
Even if he is not there himself, we may find out something of crucial importance.'
'What is that?' said Susan.
'If he has a servant with a wounded arm and a broken nose.'
Fleet Lane was well outside Tom Warburton's territory but he could not refuse his colleague's request. He had been with Jonathan Bale when the dead body was discovered and he had the same commitment to finding the killer. Choosing a vantage point with care, Warburton kept the printing shop under surveillance. His dog, Sam, seemed to realise the significance of the assignment. Instead of wandering off to forage, he stayed close to his master's feet, curling up and falling asleep. The constable's orders were simple. He was to watch customers going in and out of the shop and await a signal from the printer. Miles Henshaw had given him a description of the wanted man so he knew his salient features.
It was a lengthy wait. Several customers appeared but none of them resembled the person that Warburton was after. He stamped his feet to fight off cramp. Sam opened an eye to see if he was needed then closed it again. A group of people sauntered down the lane towards them. A young man, who had attached himself to the rear of the group, suddenly peeled off and went into the shop. Warburton took close interest. One glimpse of the customer alerted him. Nudging the dog awake, he kept his gaze on the printer's shop. The latest customer was inside for some time. When the man emerged Miles Henshaw came out with him to trade a few words before waving him off. Warburton moved forward, ready to break into a trot at the printer's signal. Sam emitted a low growl. But it was all to no avail. As soon as the customer had gone a few yards, Henshaw turned to the constable and shook his head vigorously. It was not the wanted man. Warburton drew back and Sam curled up again. The dog was soon fast asleep.
When he opened the front door, the servant was taken aback to see a burly constable standing there with a young man whose face was covered in lacerations. He recovered quickly and looked from one to the other.
'May I help you, gentlemen?' he said.
'We have called to see Mr Lunn,' said Christopher. 'Is he at home?'
'Yes, sir, but Mr Lunn is not receiving visitors today.'
'Tell him it's a matter of some urgency.'
'I will pass that message on to him' said the man, dismissing them with a cold smile. 'Good day, gentlemen.'
'Wait!' ordered Jonathan. 'Close that door in our faces and you'll answer to me.'
'My master is not available today, sir.'
'Tell him that Mr Redmayne and Mr Bale wish to speak to him.'
'It would make no difference,' said the man with exasperation.
'We'll not be denied,' warned Christopher.
'I never admit strangers.'
'We are both known to Mr Lunn. I was with him at a gaming house last night and Mr Bale here has shared a table with him at a coffee house.'
Jonathan winced at the reminder. 'I come on official business,' he said. 'If you try to turn us away, I'll fetch a warrant to gain entry. What will your master say to that?'
The man's certainty slowly vanished. He could see how determined the visitors were. Leaving
them at the door, he risked his master's displeasure and went to report the request. When he returned he had a hangdog expression.
'You are to come in,' he mumbled, 'but Mr Lunn can spare you very little time.'
'We will not require much,' said Christopher.
They were conducted into a large hall with a high ceiling. The floor was marble and a marble staircase curled its way upwards. Located in St James's Square, the house was bigger and more sumptuous than those of either Sir Marcus Kemp or Peter Wickens. Christopher estimated the number of servants it would take to run such an establishment. Arthur Lunn was in the dining room, seated at the head of a long table with writing materials set out in front of him. He was still in his dressing gown but he wore his periwig. His paunch was accentuated, his swarthy face darkened even more by a scowl. When the visitors entered he gave them no word of greeting. He stared at Christopher's injuries without comment then glowered at Jonathan.
'What is this nonsense about a warrant?' he demanded.
'It did not prove necessary,' said Jonathan.
'I'll not have you upsetting my servants.'
'How many do you have here, Mr Lunn?' asked Christopher.
'That's none of your damn business, Mr Redmayne.'
'Is one of them nursing a wounded arm?'
Lunn's eyes bulged even more recklessly. 'Wounded arm?' he said. 'Is that why you came here - to discuss the condition of my servants?'
'It may be relevant, sir.'
'To what?'
'Something that happened to me last night. I was attacked.'
'I can see that. But do not expect any sympathy from me.'
'What I would like is an explanation, Mr Lunn,' said Christopher, moving closer. 'When I spoke to you last night, you were very brusque with me. Someone followed me from the gaming house and waited for the moment to strike. Is that not a coincidence?'
Lunn hauled himself up. 'Are you suggesting that I set someone on to you?' he said. 'That's a monstrous allegation.'
'Is it a truthful one?'
'No, of course not!'
'You seemed very annoyed with me.'
'I was, Mr Redmayne, but I'd never let anyone else do something that I would enjoy myself. Had I wanted you beaten, I'd have thrashed you with a horsewhip.'
The Repentant Rake Page 24
