The Repentant Rake

    '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.'