Edward Marston - The Repentant Rake

'We expected to see you at the King's House this afternoon,' said Wickens. 'They played The Old Trooper by John Lacy and it was a sight to see.'

'Yes,' agreed Lunn. 'You missed a treat, Henry. Young Nell took the part of Doll Troop and all but milked my epididymis with those wicked eyes of hers. She's the most impudent creature in London, I'll warrant.'

'I've heard others express the same view,' said Henry.

'You should have been there with us.'

'My presence was required elsewhere, Arthur.'

'Elsewhere?'

'Commitments at the Navy Office.',

'What sort of commitments?' asked Wickens peevishly. 'Since when have you put work before a visit to the theatre, Henry? It's so uncivil of you. We had a box all waiting. No matter,' he went on, flicking a wrist. 'You can make amends tonight. We plan to visit Mrs Curtis and her sirens.'

Henry lifted a hand. 'Then you must do so without me, Peter.'

'Nonsense, man!'

'I must regretfully decline your company tonight.'

'This is some jest, surely,' said Lunn irritably. 'I refuse to believe that I am hearing Henry Redmayne spurning an opportunity for endless hours of pleasure.'

'Nevertheless, you are,' insisted Henry.

'On what grounds?'

'Exhaustion and ill health.'

'You have a malady?'

'A headache that's afflicted me all day,' pretended Henry, touching his forehead with the back of his hand. 'It will pass in time if I lie down.'

'There's no better place for that than with Mrs Curtis,' observed Wickens with an oily smirk. 'Lie down there and one of her ladies with tease away your headache with long fingers. A night in the arms of Betty or Patience or the divine Hannah Marklew will cure you of any ailments.'

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?'