The Repentant Rake by Edward Marston Read Free Book Online Page B

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