'Yes, but not in the same way. We lost homes, inns, churches, warehouses and the castle itself. How can we ever replace all that?'
'They're doing their best.'
'I preferred it the way it was.'
Tom Warburton was a tall, stringy, humourless man. Jonathan was dour by nature but he appeared almost skittish by comparison with his fellow constable. A middle-aged bachelor with no interests outside his work, Warburton took his duties seriously and discharged them with grim commitment. He was an effective officer of the law but he lacked sensitivity and compassion. Jonathan Bale, by contrast, cared for the inhabitants of his ward and took the trouble to befriend many of them. While he was firm yet fair with offenders, Warburton was merciless. Given the choice, the petty criminals of the area would always prefer to be arrested by Jonathan. The bruises did not last quite so long.
It was late. Their patrol took them through the darkest parts of the district. Candles burned in an occasional window and a passing link boy brought a sudden blaze of light but they were, for the most part, making their way along familiar streets by instinct. Warburton was not a talkative man. He liked to keep his ears pricked for the sound of danger. It was Jonathan who always initiated conversation.
'A quiet night,' he noted.
'Too quiet.'
'Most people are abed.'
'But not all of them with their lawful wives and husbands,' said Warburton sourly. 'The leaping houses will be as full as ever.'
'We can't close them all down, Tom. As soon as we raid one place, another opens up elsewhere. And no matter how big the fine, they always have money to pay it. Vice, alas, is a rewarding trade.'
'I'd like to reward every whore with a long term behind bars.'
'It's not only the women who are to blame,' said Jonathan. 'Many are driven to sell their bodies by poverty or desperation. I could never condone what they do but I am bound to feel sorry for them. It's their clients who are the real culprits. Midnight lechers, buying their pleasures at will. If there were no demand, the brothels would not exist. And if there were no brothels,' he added darkly, 'there'd be a lot less drunkenness and affray. In the company of such women, men are always given to excess.'
Warburton said nothing. His ears had picked up the noise of a distant altercation. Voices were raised in anger, then a fight seemed to develop. The two men quickened their pace. By the time they reached Great Carter Lane, however, the argument had resolved itself. One of the disputants had been knocked to the ground outside an inn and the other had rolled off cursing into the night. Before the constables could reach him, the downed man dragged himself to his feet and scuttled away down an alley. Violence was a regular event inside the Blue Dolphin. This particular row had spilled out into the street to be settled with bare fists. All that Jonathan and Warburton could do was exchange a sigh of resignation and continue on their way. There would be plenty of other brawls in their ward before the night was done.
They were walking down Bennet's Hill when Jonathan felt something brush against his leg. It was Warburton's dog, a busy little terrier that always accompanied its master on his rounds. Sam was an unusual animal. He never barked. During a patrol such as this, he would disappear for long periods then materialise out of thin air when least expected. Warburton treated the dog with a mute affection. It was both his scout and his bodyguard. If his master were attacked, Sam would come to his aid at once. More than one vicious criminal had been put to flight by those sharp teeth. Having returned for a moment, the dog scampered off down the hill and merged with the shadows. Jonathan knew where he was going. Their walk would take them down to Paul's Wharf and there were always vermin to catch beside the river. Sam would be in his element. When they saw him next, he would be holding a dead rat in his jaws.
Rebuilding had begun in earnest. Since the Great Fire, twelve hundred houses had already sprung up along with inns, warehouses and other buildings. Churches had yet to be replaced. Almost ninety had been destroyed by the blaze, including the church of St Benet Paul's Wharf. As they went past its charred remains, Jonathan recalled how he had fought in vain alongside others to save it from the flames. The loss of its churches was a bitter blow to the ward. While religion slept, Jonathan believed sinfulness came in to take its place. He was still musing on the impact of the fire when they finally reached the wharf. Sam was waiting for them. They could pick him out in the moonlight. As they got closer, they saw that he held something between his teeth.
Jonathan assumed it would be another victim from the rat population but he was wrong. When the dog trotted across to his master and laid his trophy at Warburton's feet, it was no dead animal this time. What the constable picked up was a man's shoe with a silver buckle on it. It was too dark to examine the item properly but he could tell from the feel of it that it was the work of an expensive shoemaker. He handed it to Jonathan who came to the same conclusion. Tongue out and panting quietly, Sam knew exactly what to do. He swung round and loped away, leading them to the place where he had found the discarded shoe. Jonathan and
Warburton followed him down to a warehouse not far from the water's edge. The Thames was lapping noisily at the wharf, giving off its distinctive odour. A faint breeze was blowing. Sam went along the side of the warehouse, then stopped to sniff at something in a dark corner. Jonathan was the first to reach him. The dog had led them to the other shoe, but it was different from the first. It was still worn by its owner, who lay hunched up on the ground. Jonathan bent down to carry out a cursory inspection of the man, but he had already sensed what he would find. His voice took on urgency.
'Fetch some light, Tom,' he ordered. 'I think he's dead.'
Chapter Two
Christopher Redmayne was delighted that he was leaving with a new commission under his belt but sorry that he had not had the opportunity to become more closely acquainted with his client's younger daughter. Susan Cheever had made a deep impression upon him, and though he told himself that someone that attractive must have a whole bevy of male admirers in pursuit of her, perhaps even a potential husband in view, it did not prevent him from thinking about her obsessively when he was alone. The problem was that he was very rarely on his own to luxuriate in his thoughts. Sir Julius Cheever was a possessive man who hardly let his guest out of his sight. Susan had joined them for dinner on the previous day but said little and left well before the meal was finished. Her appetite simply could not accommodate the fricassee of rabbits and chicken, the leg of mutton, the three carps in a dish, the roasted pigeons, the lamprey pie and the dish of anchovies that were served. Long before the sweetmeats arrived, she had made a polite excuse and withdrawn from the table.
Dinner had continued well into the afternoon. Sir Julius ate heartily and drank deeply from the successive bottles of wine. Christopher simply could not keep pace with him. Besides, he wished to keep his head clear for their business discussion and that ruled out too much alcohol. The huge meal eventually told on his host and he fell asleep in the middle of a long diatribe for all of ten minutes, waking up with a start to complete the very sentence he had abandoned and clearly unaware that there had been any hiatus. Sir Julius knew exactly what he wanted in the way of a town house. His specifications were admirably clear and Christopher was duly grateful. Previous clients had not always been so decisive. Sir Julius brought a military precision to it all, tackling the project with the controlled eagerness of a commander issuing orders to his army on the eve of battle. When the long oak table in the dining room had been cleared he stood over the young architect while the latter made some preliminary sketches.