Edward Marston - The Repentant Rake

'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 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.'