The Repentant Rake

Chapter Three

Dead bodies held no fears for Jonathan Bale. He had looked on too many of them to be either shocked or revolted. Those dragged out of the River Thames were the worst, grotesque parodies of human beings, bloated out of all recognition and, when first hauled from the dark water, giving off a fearsome stink. The corpse that lay on the stone slab in the morgue was neither grossly misshapen nor especially malodorous. Wounds were minimal and the herbs liberally scattered in the cold chamber helped to smother the stench of death. Jonathan watched over the shoulder of the surgeon as he examined the body that had been found at Paul's Wharf on the previous night. He was struck by how peaceful the face of the deceased looked, less like that of a murder victim than someone who had passed gently away in his own bed.

'Interesting,' said the surgeon, peering at the cadaver's neck.

'What have you found sir?' asked Jonathan.

'I'm not sure.'

'He's so young to die.'

'Still in his twenties, I'd say Young, healthy and well muscled.'

Jonathan nodded. 'What a cruel waste of a life!'

Ecclestone continued his detailed inspection by the light of the candles. He was a small, thin, agitated man in his fifties with colourless eyes and a skin so pale that he might have climbed off one of the slabs in the morgue. A chamber of death was his natural milieu and he had divined most of its secrets. While the surgeon shifted his attention to the naked chest, Jonathan made his own appraisal. The young man had been undeniably handsome in life, the long brown hair well groomed and the carefully trimmed beard hinting at vanity. Smooth hands and clean fingernails confirmed that he was a stranger to any manual labour. There was an ugly red weal around his neck and bruising beneath his left ear. What looked like more bruises showed on the chest and stomach. Only one puncture wound was visible, close to the heart. The man's head lolled to one side. His cheeks had a ruddy complexion.

After a thorough examination, Ecclestone stood back and clicked his tongue.

'Well?' said Jonathan.

'He was strangled to death, Mr Bale.'

'I thought he was stabbed through the heart.'

'He was,' agreed Ecclestone, 'but only after he was dead. That's why there was so little blood. When death occurs, the circulation of the blood ceases.'

'Why stab a dead man?'

'To make absolutely sure that he was dead, I imagine.'

'The murderer took no chances,' noted Jonathan gruffly. 'He not only strangled and stabbed the poor fellow, he beat him about the body for good measure.'

'What makes you think that, Mr Bale?'

'Look at those bruises, sir.'

'That's exactly what I have done.' He squinted up at the constable. 'You were one of the men who found him, I understand.'

'That is so.'

'Then I'll warrant he was face down at the time.'

Jonathan was impressed. 'Why, so he was.'

'And had been for a little while, if my guess is correct.' He pointed a stick-like finger. 'Those are not bruises you can see, Mr Bale. When the blood stops being pumped around by the heart, it gradually sinks to the blood vessels in the lowest part of the torso. In this case, to the chest and stomach, which have a livid hue. After a certain amount of time, the purplish stains become fixed and take on the appearance of large bruises. I've seen it happen so often. No,' decided Ecclestone, gazing down at the corpse once more, 'I suspect that death was swift, if brutal. Someone took him unawares and strangled him from behind, putting a knee into the small of his back as he did so. If you turned him over, as I did before you came in, you'd see the genuine bruise that's been left there.'

'I take your word for it, sir.'

Ecclestone was brisk. 'So, the cause of death has been established. My work is done. It's up to others to discover the motive behind the murder.'

'It could hardly be gain,' argued Jonathan. 'There were valuable rings on his fingers and money in his purse.'

'It was fortunate that you came along before anyone else found him.'

'I know.'

'Do you have any notion who he might be?'

'None, sir. There was no means of identification on him.'

'Hardly an habitue of Paul's Wharf, that's for sure.'

'Quite,' said Jonathan. 'You won't find a suit of clothes as costly as that being worn in a warehouse. He's a gentleman of sorts with a family and friends who'll miss him before long. Someone may soon come forward.'

'And if they don't?'

'Then we'll have to track his identity down by other means.'

'Do you have any witnesses?'

'Not so far, sir. My colleague, Tom Warburton, is making enquiries near the murder scene this morning. When I spoke to him on my way here, he had had no success. It was late when we found the body. The wharf was deserted at that time of night. We are unlikely to find witnesses.'

'What was a man like this doing in such a place?'

'I don't think that he went there of his own accord, sir,' said Jonathan solemnly. 'I begin to wonder if he was killed elsewhere then dumped near that warehouse.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because of the state of his apparel. When we found him last night, the back of his coat was covered in dirt, as if he'd been dragged along the ground by someone. There were a few stones caught up in the garment.' He took them from his pocket to show them to the surgeon. 'Do you see how small and bright they are, sir? You won't find any stones like this in the vicinity of the warehouse.'

'You've a sharp eye, Mr Bale.'

Jonathan put the stones away again. 'These may turn out to be useful clues.'

'I hope so. Well,' said Ecclestone, pulling the shroud over the corpse, 'I've told you what I've seen. A young man cut down in his prime by a sly assailant. A powerful one, too. The deceased would have fought for his life. Even with the element of surprise in his favour, only a strong attacker could have got the better of him.'

'Unless he was groggy with drink.'

'I detected no smell of alcohol in his mouth.'

'Oh.'

'You can rule that out.' The surgeon turned and walked out of the morgue. Jonathan followed him, glad to quit the dank and depressing chamber. When they stepped out into the fresh air, he took several deep breaths. Ecclestone paused to stare up at him.

'Is there anything else that I can tell you, Mr Bale?' he asked.

'No thank you, sir. You've been very helpful.'

'This was no random murder.'

'What do you mean?'

'It did not happen by accident on the spur of the moment. If you or I wished to strangle someone, we'd never do it as quickly and efficiently as that. Do you hear what I'm saying, Mr Bale?'

'I believe so. It was not the work of an amateur.'

'Exactly. This man has killed before. Often, probably.'

'A hired assassin?'

'Certainly not a person to turn your back on.' He licked his lips and closed one eye. 'You said earlier that you'd have to find out the victim's identity by other means.'

'The search will begin this very morning, sir.'

'Where?'

'Among the most exclusive shoemakers in the city.'

'Shoemakers?'

'Yes,' said Jonathan, producing the shoe that had been picked up at the wharf by an inquisitive dog. 'I want to find out who sold him this.'

'What happened to you, Mr Redmayne?' said Jacob in alarm. 'Your face is bruised and your coat is torn. Is that blood on your sleeve?'

'Yes, Jacob,' said Christopher, putting his satchel down and removing his coat, 'but you'll be pleased to know that it's not mine. A highwayman made the mistake of trying to rob me and had to be put in his place.' He flexed both hands. 'My knuckles still hurt from the fight.'

The servant blenched. 'A highwayman?'

'Don't worry. I learned my lesson. On the following day, I put safety before valour and joined a party of travellers on their way to London. It slowed me right down but gave me an opportunity to nurse my wounds. I spent the second night at an inn with my companions. And here I am,' he announced, spreading his arms. 'Home again, with no harm done.'

'I wouldn't say that,' argued Jacob, inspecting his master's coat. 'How on earth did you get involved with a highwayman in the first place?'

'Because I was reckless.'

'That's a kind word for it, sir.'

'I'm in the mood for kind words. Remember that.'

Christopher sat down at the table, and Jacob disappeared into the kitchen with the coat. When he came back, he brought a glass of brandy on a tray Giving him a nod of gratitude, Christopher took the glass and sipped its contents.

'You sensed my needs exactly, Jacob,' he said.

'That's what I'm here for, sir.'

Jacob Vout was the only servant at the house in Fetter Lane. As a result, the old man had to combine the duties of cook, butler, valet and ostler, volunteering, for no extra payment, to assume a paternal role as well from time to time. Devoted to Christopher as a master, he occasionally treated him like an erring son and spoke with a candour that blurred the social divisions between them. Christopher tolerated it all with good humour. He knew that Jacob watched over him with a mingled sense of duty and affection, and he was reminded of the way that Susan Cheever treated her father, though he liked to think that he had none of the truculence of Sir Julius.

'I dare not ask if the visit was a success,' said Jacob tentatively. 'If you were set on by a villainous highwayman, it obviously was not.'

'A minor irritation, Jacob, that's all. It's out of my mind already. I've far more pleasant things to contemplate,' he said as he thought of Susan Cheever again. He manufactured a frown and rolled his eyes. 'But you're quite correct, Jacob. The visit to Northamptonshire cannot, I fear, be construed as a success.'

'Oh. I'm disappointed to hear that.'

Christopher grinned. 'It was an absolute triumph!'

'Was it?'

'Without question.'

'Congratulations, sir!' said Jacob, rising to a smile.

'I've been commissioned to design a town house for Sir Julius Cheever,' he explained, taking the parchment from his satchel. 'Here are some early sketches I made for him. They're very rough but they give me a basis from which to work. More to the point, Jacob,' he added shaking the satchel, 'my client insisted on giving me an advance payment. You'll be able to fill the larder and stock the wine cellar to your heart's content. We are solvent once more.'

'That's very heartening, Mr Redmayne.'

'Indeed if everything goes to plan, this commission could make me a man of moderate wealth. That will be a welcome change. Most of the money I've earned so far as an architect went to paying off old debts. I may now actually be able to save a portion of what I earn. What a novelty that will be!'

'Indeed, sir.'

'This commission could be a turning point of my career.'

'As long as you stay clear of highwaymen.'

'Oh, I will, Jacob. I give you my word. For the first time in my life, I'll actually have something worth stealing.' He looked at the drawings. 'Apart from my talent, that is. But it's so good to be back,' he continued, draining the glass of brandy. 'Sir Julius was very hospitable but this is the only place where I can work properly. I can't wait to make a start on the design for his house.'

'You may have to delay that pleasure for a little while, sir.'

'Why?'

'Because there's an urgent request from your brother.'

'Henry? What does he want?'

'He wouldn't tell me,' said Jacob, exploring an ear with his finger, 'but, from his manner, I think that I can guess what brought him here.'

'Was he in a pit of misery or a state of elation?'

'Neither, sir.'

'Strange. Henry seems to shuttle continually between the two extremes.'

'Mr Redmayne had a hunted look. More a case of desperation than misery.'

'Oh dear! That suggests only one thing.'

'Exactly, sir. He came to borrow money.'

'He must have lost heavily at cards again,' said Christopher ruefully. 'Why does he play games at which he has such consistent ill luck? Henry has a good income from the Navy Office and a generous allowance from our father, yet he will fritter it away at a card table.' He glanced up. 'Did he ask where I was?'

'Repeatedly.'

'What did you tell him?'

'Very little, sir. As instructed.'

'Goodman!'

'I merely said that you were visiting friends in the country.'

'No mention of Sir Julius Cheever, I hope?' Jacob shook his head. 'Excellent. I didn't want Henry getting wind of this latest commission until it was in the bag. It's bound to upset him. My brother seems to think that my career will only blossom if he has a controlling interest in it and, grateful as I am for the introductions he gave me to earlier clients, he must learn that I can act independently.'

'Mr Redmayne left a message for you.'

'Call on him immediately, no doubt.'

'Yes, sir.'

'At his home?'

'He'll be either there or at the Navy Office. He was most persistent.'

'Henry likes to keep me at his beck and call.'

'He drank three glasses of brandy while he was here.'

Christopher was surprised. 'Only three? That's abstemious by his standards. He must be out of sorts. Does he know when I was due back in London?'

Jacob smirked. 'I was remarkably hazy on that point.'

'That would have pleased him,' said Christopher with a chuckle. 'Well, Henry can stew in his own juice for a while. I have more important matters to consider than my brother's gambling debts. I have to design a wonderful new house. Clear the table, Jacob,' he said, getting to his feet and rubbing his hands with glee. 'I intend to start immediately' His eye fell on the satchel. 'Oh, yes. And put that money in my strongbox, please, just in case my brother drops in unexpectedly.'

To the astonishment of his colleagues, Henry Redmayne arrived early and stayed late at the Navy Office, throwing himself into his work with unaccustomed enthusiasm. It was rare that he treated his sinecure as a full-time commitment and even rarer that he lost track of time while he was sifting his way through documents and writing a series of letters. It was mid-evening when he finally came out into Seething Lane. There was another unusual development. An ostentatious man by nature, he always dressed for effect in the latest fashion, but he was now attired in what for him was remarkably sober garb. He had even dispensed with his periwig, hiding his balding pate beneath a wide- brimmed hat. The acknowledged peacock of the Navy Office was now a rather subdued blackbird with ruffled feathers, barely able to take wing. Mounting his horse, he nudged the animal into a steady trot.

On any other evening, Henry would have been looking forward to carousing with his friends, playing cards, drinking heavily, then rolling from one house of resort to another. Dedicated to pleasure, his appetite was insatiable and his stamina legendary, but neither would be on display that night. As he rode towards home, a mask of concentration replaced his normal haughty expression and a furtive look was in his eyes. More than once during the journey, he glanced over his shoulder as if afraid that he was being followed. When he came out through Ludgate, he kicked the horse into a gentle canter, anxious to get back to the relative safety of his home. Like his brother, he was a tall, well- featured man with hair of a reddish hue, but the signs of dissipation set him completely apart from his sibling. Nor did he have anything of Christopher's affability and even temper. Henry Redmayne was a born sybarite, proud, arrogant, self-indulgent and, though capable of acts of true kindness, a confirmed egotist. None of those qualities were in evidence now. The overweening confidence had fled. He was a worried man, skulking home with terror in his heart.

Fleet Street merged into The Strand and he breathed a sigh of relief. He would be there in a mere minute or so. He longed to be able to close his front door behind him and shut out a world that had suddenly become hostile. He needed time in which to think and a refuge that was inviolable. Swinging right into Bedford Street, he caught sight of his house, but the further comfort it afforded was illusory. As he got closer, he saw two figures emerging from the door to stroll towards a waiting coach. Arthur Lunn and Peter Wickens were the last people he hoped to encounter, but a meeting was unavoidable now. The two men had seen him and hailed him aloud.

Henry reined in his horse and exchanged greetings with his two friends.

' 'Sdeath!' exclaimed Lunn. 'Where have you been, man? A funeral?'

'No, Arthur,' said Henry.

'Then why dress in those appalling clothes? Had I not recognised your face, I'd have taken you for a parson or a haberdasher.'

'Or a devilish pawnbroker,' suggested Wickens.

'I've been working at the Navy Office,' explained Henry over their brittle laughter. 'It's been a most tiring day so I beg you both to excuse me.'

Wickens was stunned. 'Do I hear aright? Henry Redmayne pleading fatigue?'

'It's never happened before,' said Lunn with a roguish grin. 'The ladies still speak of you with awe, Henry. I wish I had your reputation.'

'It's more than a reputation you need, Arthur,' warned Wickens.

Arthur Lunn chuckled at the coarse innuendo. He was a short, swarthy, pop-eyed man in his forties with flamboyant attire that accentuated rather than hid his portly frame. Ten years younger, Peter Wickens was slim, sharp-featured and decidedly elegant. Debauchery had left its mark indelibly on both of them. They were fit companions for the Henry Redmayne of old but they had picked the wrong day on which to call.

'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?'

'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.'