Edward Marston - The Repentant Rake

'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?'

Jacob peered at the neat lines. 'It's a fine-looking house, sir.'

'Well worth losing a night's sleep over.'

'I don't agree.'

'You're not an architect.'

'That's why I'll live much longer than you, Mr Redmayne. Learn from your brother's example. Burn the candle at both ends and you'll suffer as a result.'

'Yes,' conceded Christopher, 'long nights have certainly left muddy footprints all over Henry's face, but I have something to show for my endeavour. These.' He pointed at the pile of drawings. 'I still have a long way to go but I now have an exact image in my mind of how the building will look.'

'I'm surprised that you can still keep your eyes open, sir.'

'I could work for a week without sleep on this project.'

'Where shall we bury your body?' asked Jacob drily.

Christopher laughed then gave a first involuntary yawn. Aches and pains began to afflict him at last. The fingers of his right hand were stiff. His mouth felt dry, his stomach hollow. He put down his stick of charcoal and shrugged his shoulders. 'Enough is enough.'

Jacob was solicitous. 'I'll fetch a cordial then you can retire to bed.'

'Only for a few hours.'

'You'll need half a day to recover from this folly.'

'That may be, Jacob, but I'll have to take it at a later stage. Now that I've made such valuable progress,' he said as another yawn burst forth, 'I can think of someone apart from myself. I must pay a visit to my brother. Much as I hate the idea of being asked for money by Henry, there are familial obligations. The least I can do is to hear his tale of woe. Apart from anything else, if I go to Bedford Street, it will stop him coming here to interrupt my work.'

'Why not simply send a message?' suggested Jacob. 'I'll gladly take it.'

'Henry would never be fobbed off by a letter.'

'So what will you do?'

'Snatch three or four hours' sleep,' said Christopher, stretching himself and hearing the bones crack slightly. 'Wake me up then and I'll visit my brother. There's no point in going any earlier. Henry never rises before mid-morning.'

Wearing a thick dressing gown and an expression of utter despair, Henry Redmayne sat at the table in his dining room over a breakfast that remained untouched. His servants were amazed to see him up so early and they had the wisdom to keep well out of his way. Irascible at the best of times, their master was in a most choleric mood. The barber who would arrive to shave him at ten would be in for an especially testing time. Nobody envied him. Sagging in his chair, arms on the table, Henry was staring glassy-eyed at potential catastrophe. He could not remember when he had felt so oppressed. It was a numbing experience. He was so caught up in his predicament that he did not hear the front door bell ringing. Henry was floating helplessly on a sea of self-pity.