The Repentant Rake

    '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.'