The Repentant Rake

Chapter Twelve

Christopher Redmayne could hear no footsteps but he was certain that someone was behind him. He had no idea how long he had been followed and he chided himself for his lack of alertness. Fond thoughts of Susan Cheever had taken his mind off the possibility of danger. It now threatened. A tingling sensation went right through him. Quickening his pace, he reached for his dagger. Before he could even take it out of its sheath, however, his hat was knocked off from behind and Christopher felt something being looped swiftly round his neck. The sudden attack took him completely by surprise. It was a moment before he realised what was happening. A rope was chafing his neck and making it difficult for him to breathe. It was being tightened inexorably. Whoever his adversary might be, the man was strong and purposeful. Christopher began to choke. The pain was agonising. When he felt a knee in his back, he was spurred into action. If he did not strike out now, he would be strangled to death.

Pummelling with both elbows, he struck his assailant's chest so hard that the pressure on the rope eased slightly. Christopher got one hand inside it to gain himself more relief. He was panting for breath and the blood was pulsing in his temples but he could not rest. As the man renewed his attack, Christopher twisted sharply to the left and threw him off balance, kicking out with one leg as he did so. It tripped his adversary up. Falling to the ground, he pulled Christopher after him, but he had lost the advantage now. The rope was no longer a murder weapon. Christopher rolled over to deliver a relay of punches with both hands, forcing the man to release the rope altogether. The blows drew grunts of pain and Christopher felt blood spurt over his knuckles when they made contact with a nose. With a yell of rage, the man fought back, punching, biting and scratching at Christopher's face before flinging him aside with an upsurge of energy. He leaped to his feet and snatched out a dagger but Christopher was equally nimble, jumping up and producing his own weapon to ward off his attacker.

While the man circled him, Christopher at last had some idea of whom he was up against. It was too dark to see the other's face clearly but he could make out the solid body and the broad shoulders. The man was young, powerful and experienced in fighting. One mistake would cost Christopher his life. Arms spread wide, he moved round on his toes. When the dagger jabbed at him, he stepped back quickly out of range, using his own weapon to prod the man away when he tried to close in. It was a tense encounter. Christopher was handicapped by the searing pain round his neck. He could still feel the way that a knee had thudded into his spine. This was no random assault. He sensed that he was up against the same assassin who had squeezed the life out of Gabriel Cheever. His sympathy for the dead man increased tenfold. Christopher now had some idea of what his ordeal must have felt like. He had no intention of succumbing to the same fate.

Instead of waiting for the next jab, he went on the attack himself, moving round in search of an opening before feinting a thrust at the chest. When his assailant brought up his dagger to parry the strike, Christopher stabbed him in the arm and drew the loudest cry yet from him. His response was immediate and frenzied. Rushing at Christopher and roaring with anger, he slashed wildly at him, forcing him to dodge and weave. Christopher was elusive but the dagger nevertheless sliced open his sleeve, drew blood from his shoulder and grazed his forehead. The man became even more desperate, cursing, jabbing and kicking out simultaneously. He was losing blood freely. As the wound in his arm began to smart unbearably, he shifted his dagger to the other hand and lunged once more. Christopher was ready for him. Parrying the thrust with his own weapon, he seized the man's wrist and swung him in circle so that he could fling him against the wall of a house. The impact stunned the man momentarily and his dagger clattered to the ground. After kicking it away, Christopher threatened him with the point of his own dagger.

'Who sent you?' he demanded.

'Nobody,' growled the man.

'Was it Arthur Lunn?'

'I'm bleeding to death,' said the other, holding his wounded arm.

'Tell me the truth.'

'I need help.'

'Did you kill Gabriel Cheever?'

'I'm dying!'

Nursing his arm, the man bent double. He was obviously in great pain. Christopher relented and let his weapon drop to his side. It was a mistake. Diving straight at him, the man butted him in the stomach and sent him reeling back. It took all the wind out of Christopher. By the time he had recovered himself, it was too late. Abandoning the field the man had sprinted round the corner and disappeared into the night. Christopher tried to give chase but there was no sign of his attacker. His own injuries now made themselves known. His neck was still painful, his face was scratched his shoulder gashed. He could feel a trickle of blood down one cheek. Bruises seemed to be everywhere. Retrieving the rope and the dagger discarded by the man, he picked up his hat and trudged slowly back to his house.

When Jacob saw his master by candlelight, he made an instant and accurate appraisal.

'Heavens!' he exclaimed. 'What happened, sir? You look half dead.'

Henry Redmayne had his first complete night's sleep for over a week. It restored his spirits. Awaking refreshed, he felt much more ready to face the trials of the day ahead. He decided that his brother's advice was sound. Defiance was the watchword. He would not give in to the demands of a blackmailer. As soon as he thought of the repercussions, however, his resolve crumbled. Lord Ulvercombe would come after him. The letter to his wife had boiled over with passion. Henry regretted that he had ever sent it but the lady herself had asked for some sign of commitment. He had given it to her and reaped the reward the same night. In retrospect, it had all been a hideous error. Henry blamed her. If the letter had been so important to Lady Ulvercombe, why had she let it go astray? Her carelessness might land her quondam lover in a duel that he was bound to lose.

Sitting up in bed, he bewailed his misfortunes, but he was not permitted to wallow in self-pity for long. There was thunderous knocking on the door before it burst open and Sir Marcus Kemp charged into the bedchamber with two servants plucking at his arms as they tried unsuccessfully to restrain him.

'Whatever is going on?' demanded Henry.

'Get these lackeys off me!' howled Kemp.

'I'm sorry, Mr Redmayne,' said one of the men. 'He forced his way in.'

'Why?' asked Henry.

'Because I need to see you,' said Kemp.

'Could you not at least wait until I had risen, Marcus?'

'No, Henry. This will brook no delay.

Henry saw the despair in his face. It was the expression of a spaniel that had just been run over by the wheels of one coach and sees another approaching. Snapping his fingers, Henry sent the servants on their way then reached for his wig. Even though he was still in his night attire, he wanted to have a shred of dignity. Kemp stamped across to the bed and glared down at him.

'Did you know about this, Henry?' he asked.

'About what?'

'This brainless scheme of your brother's to catch the blackmailer.'

'Well, no,' lied Henry. 'What is Christopher supposed to have done?'

'He has ruined everything,' said Kemp, holding up a letter. 'Instead of simply handing over my thousand guineas, he and an accomplice set a trap and I am the one who has been caught in it.'

'What do you mean, Sir Marcus?'

'This letter came this morning. It's another demand for money.'

'How much?'

'A thousand guineas.'

Henry whistled through his teeth. 'Another thousand!'

'As a punishment, he says. Because I tried to deceive him, I have to pay the amount all over again and this time I have to hand it over in person. Damnation!' protested Kemp, flinging the letter on to the bed. 'I was not responsible for any deception. All that I wanted to do was to buy this rogue off.'

'Christopher did warn you that there would be another demand.'

'Only because of his folly.'

'I disagree, Marcus.'

'If he had obeyed the instructions, everything would have been fine.'

'I doubt that.'

'Take him a message from me!' Kemp ordered.

Henry shrank back into the pillow. 'Could you stand further off and shout less?' he implored. 'All this commotion is giving me a headache.'

'What do you think that letter gave me?'

'Permit me to read it and I'll hazard a guess.'

Henry picked the letter up and ran his eye over the contents. He soon blenched. The tone was harsh, the demand peremptory. What startled him was that his brother was mentioned by name. He ran a tongue over lips that had suddenly gone very dry.

'You knew,' concluded Kemp, watching his reaction.

'Not exactly, Marcus.'

'You were party to this botched plot.'

'That's not true.'

'Why on earth did you inflict that brainless brother of yours on me?'

'Yesterday, you told me what a sterling fellow he was.'

'A sterling fool, more like. Did he really think that he could get away with it?'

'Christopher was only trying to help you.'

'Help me?' echoed Kemp. 'How does a second demand for money help me? I acted in good faith. It's the Redmayne family that is at fault here.'

'Moderate your passion a little, Marcus.'

'I'll moderate nothing.'

'Then at least exclude me from your rage. I am quite innocent.'

'Are you?' said Kemp sourly. 'Who was it who foisted his brother on to me in the first place? Who was it who broke a confidence and told that idiot sibling of his that I was a victim of blackmail?'

'Christopher is no idiot.'

'He betrayed my trust.'

'My brother tried to catch the villain,' argued Henry. 'Had he done so, you would have got your thousand guineas and your peace of mind back. You should be grateful to Christopher for taking the initiative on your behalf.'

Kemp grabbed the letter. 'This is the result of his initiative.'

'Let me show it to him.'

'No, Henry.'

'He has a right to see it.'

'Keep your brother away from me. All that I want from him is the money.'

'What money?'

'The thousand guineas, of course,' said Kemp, brandishing the letter. 'He got me into this mess so he must buy me out of it.'

'Christopher does not have a thousand guineas.'

'Then you can share the cost with him, Henry. I think that you are in this with your brother. He discussed his plan with you beforehand. Did you try to stop him? Did you have the sense to warn me? No!' he asserted. 'You are as guilty as he is. I want five hundred guineas from each of you by this afternoon.'

Henry gurgled. 'Why not ask for five thousand?' he said with heavy sarcasm. 'You are just as likely to get it. This is preposterous, Marcus.' He hopped out of bed to confront his visitor. 'Christopher may have misled you slightly but it was only for your own good. Look at the tone of that letter,' he advised. 'We're dealing with a ruthless man here. Even if you had handed over the money yourself yesterday, I can promise you one thing. You would still have got another demand.'

Kemp's ire slowly drained away and he flopped down on the edge of the bed. 'What am I to do Henry?'

'Take heart, my friend. All is not yet lost.'

'It is if I have to pay out a thousand guineas time and time again.'

'Christopher did say that this would happen,' warned Henry.

Kemp shook with rage. 'Who is the callous devil behind it all?'

'Help us to find out, Marcus.'

'How do I do that?'

'Keep to your side of the bargain,' said Henry softly.

'What bargain?' asked Kemp, looking at him.

'The one you struck with my brother,' Henry reminded him. 'If, for whatever reason, you received another blackmail demand, you agreed to show Christopher all the correspondence you have received.'

'I feel as if I want to stuff it down his throat!'

'What would that achieve? Christopher is on our side.'

'Is he?' wondered Kemp.

'Yes,' said Henry reasonably. 'This is not his fight. He need never have got involved. He could have let the pair of us stew in our own juice. But did he? No, Christopher has done everything in his power to help. But for my brother,' he admitted sadly, 'I'd have been driven insane by this whole business.'

Kemp's fury had burned itself out. Instead of hurling wild accusations, he was a crumpled figure with barely enough strength to sit upright. He widened his eyes.

'I am done for, Henry,' he murmured. 'I might just as well be dead.'

It was a paradox. In trying to find out more about her sister-in- law, Susan Cheever was instead learning a great deal about herself. She had liked Christopher Redmayne from the start but it had taken Lucy's gentle teasing to make her realise how deep her affection for him had become. Susan was faced with a dilemma. Wanting to see him again, she could not imagine how it could be arranged. Her stay in London was not indefinite. Once Lucy had recovered enough to make decisions about her future, Susan would have to return home. It would be possible for her to visit her sister for a while but Christopher would have no call to travel to Richmond so her chances of meeting him there were slim. To call on him unannounced would be improper yet she was sorely tempted to do that. She tried to manufacture an excuse. Everything depended on Lucy. If Susan could extract some valuable information from her sister-in-law, she would have a legitimate reason to visit Fetter Lane yet again and she was desperate to help in the search for her brother's killer. When breakfast was over, she began to probe.

'How did you sleep, Lucy?' she asked solicitously.

'Fitfully.'

'You need proper rest.'

'I have too much on my mind.'

'Try to catch up on your sleep during the day.'

'If only I could,' sighed Lucy. 'But I cannot sleep properly in that bed. I keep waking up in the hope that I will find Gabriel lying beside me.'

Susan gave her a smile of sympathy. Lucy was pale and tense. She looked smaller and more defenceless than ever. The cumulative effect of her bereavement was telling on her more obviously. She had only eaten a frugal breakfast.

'What will you do?' asked Susan gently. 'Are you going to stay on here alone?'

'No,' said Lucy firmly. 'I could never do that. The house has too many bad memories for me now. It holds some wonderful memories as well, of course, and they have helped me through this dreadful time, but I could never go on living so close to the place where Gabriel was…' Her voice tailed off. 'You understand.'

'Yes,' said Susan. 'Where will you go?'

'I am not sure yet.'

'Back to your mother?'

'Probably. It's my duty to do that. Mother is failing badly and she needs me.'

'Perhaps you need her as well,' suggested Susan. 'When we travelled back from Northampton, I had no idea that your mother lived near St Albans. It could not have been too far out of our way. I remembered how restless you were on the second day of our journey. You kept glancing through the window of the coach. Were you thinking about your mother?'

'Yes,' admitted Lucy. 'I felt guilty that we were passing within a few miles of the house. Mother would have been delighted to see me but, in the circumstances, it was quite impossible.'

'Why?'

'She would have noticed my sadness and asked what caused it.'

'Did she not notice your joy when you last visited her?'

'She would have put that down to something else.'

'What else?'

Lucy shook her head. 'I need time, Susan. I am still dazed by it all. I need time to recover from this blow. I will not make any decisions until I can think properly again. When that happens, I expect I will return to St Albans.'

'What will you tell your mother?'

'That I have come back to nurse her.'

'Will you tell her why?'

'No.'

'Surely, she deserves to know that you were married? You cannot keep it from her for ever. Until she learns the truth, she will not be able to help you.'

'It is Mother who is in need of help.'

'Is she not well enough to cope with the truth?'

Lucy pursed her lips in thought. Her eyes shone with concentration. Susan felt that she was on the verge of learning something important but she waited in vain. At the very moment when Lucy was about to speak, the doorbell rang. The noise made her start. She was annoyed at the interruption; she felt robbed. It would not be easy to bring Lucy to that same point again. The maidservant answered the door and voices were heard in the hall. Susan paid no attention until Anna came into the room.

'You have a visitor, Miss Cheever,' she said. 'His name is Mr Vout.'

Susan was puzzled. 'Vout? I know nobody of that name.'

'He said that he came from Mr Redmayne.'

Susan was on her feet immediately, brushing past Anna to go into the hall. Hat in hand, an old man was waiting deferentially. Susan recognised him at once. She saw the look of concern on his face and became alarmed.

'What is the matter, Jacob?'

Jonathan Bale listened with a mixture of interest and dismay as Christopher Redmayne told him about the events of the previous night. Eager to hear every detail, the constable was upset to see his friend in such a state. The lacerations on Christopher's face were vivid and a bruise discoloured his cheekbone. Through the open neck of his shirt, the bandaging on his shoulder was visible. Christopher's knuckles bore testimony to the ferocity of the fight. One hand was bruised while the other had lost some skin from the backs of the fingers. Jonathan felt guilty that he had not been there to protect him.

'Next time you go out at night, Mr Redmayne, I will come with you.'

Christopher grinned. 'To a gaming house?'

'If need be,' said Jonathan.

'I'll not be caught off guard again, Mr Bale.'

'No, sir. I will be watching your back.'

'It was my own fault,' recalled Christopher. 'My mind was on something else. I should have realised that someone was following me. The irony is that I had just acted as Henry's bodyguard. I deliver him safely to his house in Bedford Street then I'm the one who is attacked.'

'He obviously put up a fight.'

'Yes,' said Christopher modestly, 'but, luckily, he came off far worse.'

'He may try again.'

'Not for some time, Mr Bale. I managed to stab his arm.'

'It must have been the same man who killed Gabriel Cheever.'

Christopher felt his neck. 'He used the same method, I know that. He was a strong fellow. I can see how he overpowered Gabriel.' He saw Jonathan's grim expression. 'Do not look so gloomy. I am not destined for the grave just yet.'

'I hope not, Mr Redmayne. Thank you for sending for me.'

'Jacob insisted on going for you.' He glanced around. 'By the way, where is he?'

'He said that he had somewhere else to go.'

'Where? Jacob should have come back with you. Those were his orders.'

'He is probably on his way now.'

'It's so unlike him to go missing.'

'Forget your servant,' said Jonathan. 'Tell me about your visit to Mr Wickens.'

'He was reluctant to show me his anonymous letter at first. It's understandable, I suppose. No man wants his vices to be put on display like that, though I suspect that Peter Wickens had less to hide than Sir Marcus Kemp. In any case,' said Christopher, 'we persuaded him eventually and he allowed me a glimpse of the letter.'

'Was it written by the person who sent your brother's demand?'

'Yes, Mr Bale. The hand was identical to that which penned the second letter to Henry. A different correspondent wrote the original demand. Someone with a bolder and more looping style.'

'So we are looking for two people.'

'Three, at least,' corrected Christopher. 'You forget my midnight companion. He did not strike me as the kind of man who dashes off a neat letter. His task is to carry out the threats, not to frame them in the first place.'

'How long do you think he was following you?'

'From the time we left that gaming house, probably. Henry and I were too busy talking to notice him and he could hardly make his move while we were together. No,' he said running a finger round his sore neck, 'my guess is that he lurked outside the house when we called on Peter Wickens. Then he shadowed us all the way back and waited until I was on my own.'

'But why attack you, Mr Redmayne? Your brother received the death threat.'

'I'm the one investigating the murder. Being ambushed like that was not the most pleasant experience,' said Christopher, 'but there is one compensation.'

'You survived.'

'That was an additional bonus. No, Mr Bale, we should take it as a sign that we are making good progress. They know that we are after them and sense that we are closing in. That's why I was attacked,' he concluded. 'They are afraid.'

Before Jonathan could reply, he heard the front door opening and the sound of footsteps in the hall. Jacob had returned. Christopher was about to rebuke his servant when someone else came into the room ahead of him. Susan Cheever made no attempt to hide the affection beneath her anxiety. Hurrying across to his chair, she looked down at Christopher with consternation.

'Jacob tells me that you were attacked, Mr Redmayne,' she said.

Astonished to see her, all that Christopher could manage was a nod. He tried to catch Jacob's eye but the servant slipped off into the kitchen without looking at him. Susan was taking a rapid inventory of his face and neck. She winced when she saw his raw knuckles.

'Are you badly hurt?'

'No,' he said, relishing her proximity. 'I'll live to fight another day. But do sit down, Miss Cheever. You know Mr Bale, of course.'

Susan gave the constable a nod of recognition. When she came into the room, Jonathan had risen to his feet. As she sat down, he resumed his seat. Susan had not come to see him. Her attention was fixed solely on Christopher.

'What happened?' she said. 'Jacob would not give me any details.'

'I do not remember very much,' replied Christopher. 'It was over in a flash.'

'I do not believe you. Tell me the truth.'

He blinked at her directness. 'There is not much to tell.'

'Yes, there is,' she insisted. 'You did not get those injuries in the space of a few seconds. I think that you are trying to fob me off again, Mr Redmayne. Have you so soon forgotten your promise to tell me everything?'

'Mr Bale has heard it all before. It would bore him.'

'Not at all,' said Jonathan. 'I'd be glad to listen again, sir. Some small details may emerge that you forgot the first time. I am used to taking statements and I always make witnesses go over the story at least twice. There is usually something new that comes out and it is often crucial.'

Christopher turned back to Susan. Worried and attentive, she was also determined to hear the full truth. He could not hold things back from her again. Making light of the courage he had shown, he gave her a lucid account of the attack and assured her that his injuries looked far worse than they really were. Susan was not reassured.

'We are to blame for this,' she said guiltily. 'If you had not been trying to help my family, you would have been perfectly safe.'

'I'm acting on behalf of my brother as well, remember.'

'Someone tried to kill you, Mr Redmayne. I feel responsible.'

'Needlessly.'

'You took the most appalling risks to track down the man who murdered Gabriel.'

'He tracked me down, Miss Cheever.'

'That's what alarms me.'

Christopher did his best to calm her down and Jonathan repeated his pledge to act as a bodyguard in future. She was only partially mollified. Jacob came into the room and stood beside his master.

'Shall I bring in some refreshments, sir?' he enquired.

'What I need from you,' said Christopher, 'is an explanation.'

The old man beamed. 'Do you have a complaint, sir?'

'No, Jacob, but I want you to follow instructions in future.'

'I felt that Miss Cheever ought to know what had transpired.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'I'm very grateful to you, Jacob.'

Christopher smiled. 'Well, yes,' he said on reflection. 'I suppose that I, too, am grateful. Perhaps you acted wisely, after all.'

Jacob was basking in their approval when there was a loud knock at the door. He hurried out into the hall to see who had called. He returned almost at once and handed a letter to Christopher.

'This is from your brother, sir,' he said. 'His servant awaits your answer.'

Breaking the seal, Christopher read the brief note and got to his feet.

'Tell him that we will come immediately.' While Jacob went off to relay the message to the servant, Christopher turned to Susan. 'Forgive us, Miss Cheever. We will have to leave you for a while. But do please remain here. We may have important news for you when we return.' He smiled at Jonathan. 'Give me a few minutes to get properly dressed and I'll gladly employ your services as a bodyguard.'

Sir Marcus Kemp moved between recrimination and dejection with no intervening stage. One minute, he was berating the Redmayne brothers; the next, he was imploring Henry to come to his aid. His lightning shifts of mood were bewildering. The two men were in the parlour of the house in Bedford Street. Shaved dressed and wearing his wig, Henry felt in a better position to cope with his ambivalent visitor. Kemp's plight somehow made his own troubles seem less immediate.

'In your position, I'd refuse to pay the thousand guineas,' he said airily.

'Even if it means public vilification and certain divorce?'

'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 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.

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.'