The Repentant Rake

    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.