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.'
----
Chapter
Four
The creative
impulse is oblivious to the passage of time. Christopher Redmayne was impelled
by such a fierce urge to work on his drawings that all else was blocked out.
Having spent the greater part of the day amending, improving and refining his
design, he continued on into the night with the help of a circle of tallow
candles. The simple joy of artistic creation kept fatigue at bay. Aching joints
that would have sent most people to their beds hours earlier were blithely
ignored. Hunger was disregarded. An occasional glass of wine was all that he
allowed himself as he set one piece of parchment aside to start immediately on
a new one. Occupying a site that ran to half an acre, Sir Julius Cheever's
house would be somewhat smaller than the three mansions Christopher had already
designed for clients but it would be just as much of a challenge for architect
and builder. As he worked on the front elevation of the house, he took especial
care over the way he drew the tall Dutch gables with their sweeping curved sides.
He was just crowning the last of them with a triangular pediment when Jacob
came into the room.
'Dear
God!' exclaimed the servant. 'Up already, sir?'
'No,
Jacob,' said Christopher without looking at him. 'I never went to bed.'
'But
it's almost dawn.'
'Is
it?'
'You
need your sleep, sir.'
'Mind
and body are telling me otherwise.'
'Then
they are deceiving you,' said the old man. 'Why push yourself like this? You'll
pay dearly for it, Mr Redmayne.'
'I'm
rather hoping that it's my client who will be paying,' replied Christopher,
standing back to admire his work. 'Come and look, Jacob.' Still in his
nightshirt, the servant moved across to him. 'There now! What do you think of
that?'
Jacob
peered at the neat
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.'
----
Chapter
Four
The creative
impulse is oblivious to the passage of time. Christopher Redmayne was impelled
by such a fierce urge to work on his drawings that all else was blocked out.
Having spent the greater part of the day amending, improving and refining his
design, he continued on into the night with the help of a circle of tallow
candles. The simple joy of artistic creation kept fatigue at bay. Aching joints
that would have sent most people to their beds hours earlier were blithely
ignored. Hunger was disregarded. An occasional glass of wine was all that he
allowed himself as he set one piece of parchment aside to start immediately on
a new one. Occupying a site that ran to half an acre, Sir Julius Cheever's
house would be somewhat smaller than the three mansions Christopher had already
designed for clients but it would be just as much of a challenge for architect
and builder. As he worked on the front elevation of the house, he took especial
care over the way he drew the tall Dutch gables with their sweeping curved sides.
He was just crowning the last of them with a triangular pediment when Jacob
came into the room.
'Dear
God!' exclaimed the servant. 'Up already, sir?'
'No,
Jacob,' said Christopher without looking at him. 'I never went to bed.'
'But
it's almost dawn.'
'Is
it?'
'You
need your sleep, sir.'
'Mind
and body are telling me otherwise.'
'Then
they are deceiving you,' said the old man. 'Why push yourself like this? You'll
pay dearly for it, Mr Redmayne.'
'I'm
rather hoping that it's my client who will be paying,' replied Christopher,
standing back to admire his work. 'Come and look, Jacob.' Still in his
nightshirt, the servant moved across to him. 'There now! What do you think of
that?'
Jacob
peered at the neat
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