The Repentant Rake (7 page)

    Lunn
sniggered. 'Though they may give you another disease in return.'

    Henry
shook his head. 'I'll forego that delight, gentlemen.'

    'Deny
your closest friends?'

    'I
fear so, Arthur.'

    They
continued to try to persuade him to join them for a night of revelry but Henry
was adamant. Nothing would make him stir outside the walls of his house. Lunn
and Wickens were mystified. When they finally adjourned to their coach, they
asked each other what could possibly be wrong with their friend. Rejection of
their company was akin to an act of betrayal. They were hurt as well as
baffled.

    Henry,
meanwhile, did not linger in the street. A servant was waiting to stable his
horse. Storming into the house, Henry tore off his hat, slapped it down on the
table in the hall then glowered at the man who came shuffling out to greet him.

    'Well?'
snapped Henry. 'Any word from my brother Christopher?'

    'None,
sir,' said the man.

    'Damnation!'
cried his master, stamping a foot. 'Where the devil can he be?'

    Tom
Warburton was slow but methodical. He questioned everyone who lived or worked in
the vicinity of Paul's Wharf and, when his enquiries proved fruitless, widened
his search to streets and taverns a little further away. It was all to no
avail. Three days after the discovery of the dead body, he had made no progress
whatsoever. Jonathan Bale found his colleague in Sermon Lane with his dog
trotting obediently at his heels.

    'Good
morrow, Tom.'

    Warburton
gave him a nod of greeting. Sam slipped away to do some foraging.

    'Any
luck?'

    'None,
Jonathan.'

    'Where
have you been?'

    'Everywhere.
Nobody can help.'

    'It's
understandable, I suppose,' said Jonathan. 'Anyone abroad at that time of night
would have been too drunk to notice anything or too frightened to come forward.
I hold to my earlier judgement. The poor wretch was killed elsewhere then
brought to Paul's Wharf to be hidden behind that warehouse.'

    'Why
not dump him in the river?'

    'Who
knows? Perhaps they wanted him to be found. Or perhaps they intended to throw
him into the water but saw someone by the wharf and simply abandoned the body.'

    'They?'

    'It
would have taken more than one man to drag him, Tom. Unless he was slung over
the back of a horse or brought in a cart.'

    'Nobody
mentioned a cart.'

    'It
would have made a lot of noise, rattling down Bennet's Hill. Someone would have
heard it. No,' said Jonathan, 'my guess is that the murder took place somewhere
else in the ward and the body was lugged to the wharf by a person or persons
unknown who had decided exactly where to hide it. Even in daylight, it would
not have been found easily. We have Sam to thank for that.'

    The
little terrier suddenly reappeared to collect his due share of the praise.

    'What
shall I do?' said Warburton.

    'Widen
the search still further, Tom.'

    'I've
other things on my plate as well.'

    'I
know,' said Jonathan, 'and so have I. A constable's work is never done. I've
already spent an hour at the magistrates' court and taken two offenders off to
gaol. Then there were half a dozen other chores before I could come and find
you.' He pulled the shoe from his pocket. 'I've finally got some time to
continue the search for the man who made this. It's handsome footwear, the work
of a craftsman. This wasn't made to walk through the filth of London. It's
worthy of being worn at Court.'

    'How
do you know it's the work of a shoemaker in the city?'

    'I
don't, Tom.'

    Warburton
was a pessimist. 'You could be wasting your time.'

    'I'll
give it one more day. I've already called on most of the cordwainers.' He gave
a chuckle. 'If I do much more walking, I'll need a new pair of shoes myself.'

    'And
if you fail?'

    'Then
I'll put the shoe aside and ask the coroner for a loan of that coat we found on
the corpse. I'll not rest. I'll badger every tailor in London until I find the
one who made it. But a shoe is easier to carry,' he said, putting it back into
his pocket. 'And I haven't given up hope yet.'

    'We
could be on a wild-goose chase.'

    Jonathan
smiled. 'I like the taste of wild goose,' he said. 'Well cooked, that is.'

    Bidding
farewell to his gloomy colleague, Jonathan set off on his long walk. Tradesmen
tended to congregate in certain areas of the city and, though their premises
had been destroyed during the Great Fire, most had drifted back to their traditional
habitats as soon as they were able. The cordwainers, who made the city's shoes,
were concentrated largely in the region of Cripplegate in the north-west of the
capital, but some were scattered more widely. Having exhausted the
possibilities near Cripplegate, it was these more independent souls whom
Jonathan now sought out.

    Since
it stood in the gardens of St Paul's Cathedral, the Cordwainers' Hall had been
consumed by fire along with over forty other livery halls, but Jonathan found a
helpful clerk from the guild who furnished him with the relevant addresses. He
started to work his way systematically through the list.

    It
was a daunting task. Not only were the various shops set far apart from each
other, but many of the shoemakers he questioned were less than obliging. Some
sneered at the shoe and claimed that they would never make anything so
inferior, others were openly envious of its quality and detained the constable
unnecessarily while they inspected the handiwork, and others again were little
short of obstructive. Jonathan had to reprimand more than one awkward cobbler.
After several hours, however, he eventually stumbled on a reliable signpost. It
was in a shop just off Cheapside.

    'It's
a fine shoe, sir,' said the man, turning it over in his hands.

    'Did
you make it?' asked Jonathan.

    'I
wish I had but it's beyond my mean abilities.'

    'Do
you have any idea who might have made it?'

    'Oh,
yes,' said the other. 'I can tell you that.'

    'Who
is he?'

    'Nahum
Gibbins, sir. Without question.'

    'How
can you be so sure?'

    'Because
I was apprenticed to him at one time. He could mould Cordoba leather to any
shape he wanted. Mr Gibbins is expensive but his customers always get more than
their money's worth. Let me show you,' he said angling the shoe so that
Jonathan could see the tiny star that was stamped inside it. 'That's his mark,
sir. I'd know it anywhere. Where did you find it?'

    'Beside
a dead body, my friend. That's why I'm so anxious to trace the maker. We need
to identify the deceased and that shoe may help us to do so.'

    'Of
course,' said the man, handing it back to him.

    'Where
might I speak to this Nahum Gibbins?'

    'At
his shop in Wood Street.'

    'Thank
you.'

    'The
south end, close to the White Hart. Give him my regards,' said the man, anxious
to help. 'Tell him that Simon Ryde sent you.'

    'I
will, Mr Ryde. I'm most grateful.'

    Jonathan
set off with renewed hope, tiredness leaving him as he got within reach of his destination.
He found the little shop with ease. Harness, bottles and all manner of leather
goods were made there, but it was his shoes that brought Nahum Gibbins the bulk
of his income. He was a tall, spare man, bent almost double by long years at
his trade. His bald head had taken on a leathery quality itself and his face
had the sheen of goatskin. When the constable explained the purpose of his
visit, Gibbins took the shoe from him.

    'Simon
Ryde, did you say?'

    'Yes,
Mr Gibbins. He sends his regards.'

    'Well
might he do so,' said the old man with a cackle. 'He was the most wayward
apprentice I ever had. If I hadn't boxed his ears and stood over him, he'd
never have learned the mysteries of working leather. Is he well?'

    'As
far as I can judge,' replied Jonathan, wanting a firm identification of the
shoe. 'Mr Ryde was certain that this was your work.'

    Gibbins
nodded. 'He was right.'

    'But
you haven't looked at it.'

    'I
don't need to, Mr Bale. I can
feel
my handiwork.'

    'Can
you tell me who bought the shoe from you?'

    'I
could but I'd be breaking a confidence. Why do you wish to know?' When Jonathan
explained the circumstances in which the shoe was found, the old man's manner
changed at once. 'In that case, I'll do my best to help.'

    'Give
me his name.'

    Gibbins
raised a palm. 'Hold there, Mr Bale. It's not as simple as that. I've made
several pairs of shoes of this design. I can't tell at a glance who would have worn
this one. The size is one clue, of course,' he explained, scrutinising the
length of the shoe before turning it over to expose the sole, 'and the state of
wear. That will give me some idea how old it might be.' He rubbed his hand
slowly over the leather before coming to a decision. 'Follow me, sir.'

    He
led Jonathan into the rear of the shop where his two assistants were working
away. Gibbins picked up a battered ledger from the table and thumbed through
the pages.

    'I
think I made that shoe six months ago for a young gentleman, sir. He paid me in
full and that's most unusual among people of his sort. Credit is always their
cry.' He came to the page he wanted. 'His name should be at the top of this
list.'

    'What
is it?' asked Jonathan.

    'Bless
me, sir! I can't remember everyone who comes into my shop. And since I can't
read a single word, I'm unable to tell you who he is. Numbers are what I
mastered. It's far more important to know how much someone owes me than how
they spell their name. But I keep a record' he said proudly. 'I always ask
customers to put their signatures in my ledger.' He offered the open book to
Jonathan then pointed at a neat scrawl. 'Here you are, Mr Bale. I fancy that
this is the man you're after.'

    The creative
impulse is oblivious to the passage of time. Christopher Redmayne was impelled
by such a fierce urge to work on his drawings that all else was blocked out.
Having spent the greater part of the day amending, improving and refining his
design, he continued on into the night with the help of a circle of tallow
candles. The simple joy of artistic creation kept fatigue at bay. Aching joints
that would have sent most people to their beds hours earlier were blithely
ignored. Hunger was disregarded. An occasional glass of wine was all that he
allowed himself as he set one piece of parchment aside to start immediately on
a new one. Occupying a site that ran to half an acre, Sir Julius Cheever's
house would be somewhat smaller than the three mansions Christopher had already
designed for clients but it would be just as much of a challenge for architect
and builder. As he worked on the front elevation of the house, he took especial
care over the way he drew the tall Dutch gables with their sweeping curved sides.
He was just crowning the last of them with a triangular pediment when Jacob
came into the room.

    'Dear
God!' exclaimed the servant. 'Up already, sir?'

    'No,
Jacob,' said Christopher without looking at him. 'I never went to bed.'

    'But
it's almost dawn.'

    'Is
it?'

    'You
need your sleep, sir.'

    'Mind
and body are telling me otherwise.'

    'Then
they are deceiving you,' said the old man. 'Why push yourself like this? You'll
pay dearly for it, Mr Redmayne.'

    'I'm
rather hoping that it's my client who will be paying,' replied Christopher,
standing back to admire his work. 'Come and look, Jacob.' Still in his
nightshirt, the servant moved across to him. 'There now! What do you think of
that?'