‘I’m thirsty, Jonathan,’ he said.
‘You always are at this time of the day, Tom.’
‘I think I’ll step into the Blue Dolphin.’
‘Off you go,’ said Bale, tolerantly. ‘You know where to find me.’
‘I won’t tarry.’
Warburton hurried across the road to the tavern with his dog bounding along beside him. He was a tall, stringy, humourless man in his forties with a tendency to try to beat confessions out of supposed malefactors. In an affray, Warburton was a good man to have at one’s side but he was far too reckless at times and Bale had often had to restrain him, reminding him that they were appointed to quell violence and not to initiate it. Bale did not mind being left alone. It gave him the opportunity to meet up with an old friend.
Following his established route, he went round the next corner and strode briskly along the street until he came to a large gap between two tall new houses. Under the supervision of their employer, workmen were busy digging on the plot of land.
‘Good morning, Mr Littlejohn,’ greeted the constable.
‘Mr Bale!’ rejoined the builder, turning to see him. ‘I was hoping that I might bump into you now that I’m back in your ward.’
Bale sized him up. ‘You’ve put on weight.’
‘Blame my wife for that. She feeds me too well.’
‘You are keeping busy, I hope.’
‘Busier than ever, my friend.’
The two men had been brought together when Christopher Redmayne had designed his first house. Since it was being built in Baynard’s Castle Ward, the constable noticed it when out on his rounds but he paid it no attention. It was simply one more house, rising out of the ashes. Dozens of others were being constructed in every street. The situation soon changed. When the murder had occurred on the site of the new house, Bale was drawn into the investigation and had therefore met Samuel Littlejohn. They had got on well together and their paths had crossed a few times since then.
‘I hear that we are partners,’ said Littlejohn, genially.
‘Partners?’
‘According to Mr Redmayne, you built a model for this house.’
‘I tried to,’ said Bale, unassumingly.
‘I’m told it was very good. If the architect and the client approved of it, it must have been. Mr Redmayne promised to show it to me when he gets it back from Mr Villemot.’
‘I hope you like it, Mr Littlejohn.’
The builder grinned. ‘If I do, I might be offering you a job as a carpenter. Have you never thought of taking up your old trade?’
‘Never — I’m happy watching over the streets here.’
‘You’d earn a tidy wage from me.’
‘But I’d have to give up being a constable.’
‘Do you like the work that much?’
Bale shrugged. ‘It suits me, Mr Littlejohn.’
‘Then I’ll not try to entice you away.’ He glanced around. ‘Things seem to be quite peaceful in this part of the city.’
‘Wait till this evening when the taverns start to fill up.’
‘Do you have a lot of trouble?’
‘Anyone who works near the river has trouble,’ explained Bale. ‘This part of the district is safe enough but there are some tough characters along Thames Street. Sailors, fishermen and those who work in the docks seem to need a good fight at least once a week. What’s even worse,’ he added, scornfully, ‘is that they also need the company of loose women.’
Littlejohn was broad-minded. ‘We might feel the same urges if we’d been away at sea for months on end.’
‘Speak for yourself, sir.’
‘I’m not condoning it, Mr Bale, just trying to understand it.’
‘It’s against the law and a sin before God.’
‘When enough drink is taken,’ said the builder, ‘people seem to forget all about God. My men certainly do. Because they work hard, they expect to drink hard. Try to preach a sermon at them when they’ve downed their beer and you’d hear language that would burn your ears off.’
Bale seized his cue. ‘Drinking, whoring, fighting, cursing — it’s all one, Mr Littlejohn,’ he said, sternly. ‘It’s part of the penalty we pay for having a dissolute King who revels in every vice of the city, and courtiers who fornicate openly and try to drag everyone down to their own bestial level.’
‘Things are not as bad as that.’
‘I see it happening every day. Corruption starts at the top and trickles down. In the last ten years, London has become a sink of iniquity. It was never like this under the Lord Protector.’
‘You may be right,’ said Littlejohn, tactfully suppressing his monarchist sympathies in the interests of friendship. ‘I leave crime and corruption to you, Mr Bale. All that I can do is to help rebuild this city to its former glory.’ His cheeks glowed with pride. ‘They say that Paris is more beautiful, Madrid more ornate, and Venice finer than both. But, to me, London is better than all three and always will be.’
‘I’d say the same, Mr Littlejohn. For all its faults, there’s no place on earth like this city. Well,’ said Bale, looking at the plot beside them, ‘that’s why so many foreigners come to live here.’
‘Jean-Paul Villemot among them.’
‘Have you met the gentleman?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Mr Redmayne has nothing but good to say of him.’
‘Then I’m content. Mr Redmayne is a good judge of character.’ He gave a hearty laugh. ‘He must be if he chose the both of us.’
‘Oh, I did very little,’ said Bale.
‘You built the house in miniature and won the client over. That’s half the battle in this trade. All we have to do is to turn your wooden model into a splendid brick house that will make Mr Villemot glad he decided to move from Paris to London.’
* * *
Christopher Redmayne was working in his study when he had an unexpected visitor. It was his servant, Jacob, still spry in spite of his advanced age, who gave his master the warning.
‘The French gentleman is coming to see you, sir.’
Christopher was surprised. ‘Monsieur Villemot?’
‘Yes, Mr Redmayne.’
‘Are you, sure, Jacob?’
‘I saw him through the window,’ said the old man, ‘so I sent the lad out to take care of his horse.’
When he had first moved into the house in Fetter Lane, Christopher had only employed one servant, responsible for everything in the house. Now that he had made his mark in his profession, the architect had taken on a youth to do the more menial tasks. It spared Jacob a lot of work and gave him someone he could instruct, cajole and generally order about.
‘You’d better show Monsieur Villemot in,’ said Christopher.
‘I will, sir.’
Jacob went out to invite the Frenchman into the house, guiding him to the study before fading out of sight. Christopher offered his hand to his visitor but Villemot wanted a more demonstrative greeting. Embracing the other as if he had just discovered a long-lost friend, he kissed him on both cheeks. He was extravagantly contrite.
‘Have you forgiven me, Christopher?’ he asked.
‘For what?’
‘The way I behave to you yesterday.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ said Christopher.
‘I was in the bad mood and I spoke with anger.’
‘That’s not true at all.’
‘It is,’ said Villemot. ‘I raise my voice. I am ashamed.’
‘The whole matter is best forgotten,’ said Christopher with a smile of pardon. ‘I certainly won’t let it come between us. We all have bad moods from time to time.’
‘I am better now, Christopher. It will not happen again.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But that is not the only reason I come here today,’ said the other, his face darkening. ‘You have heard the awful news?’
‘Yes, my brother told me.’
‘How did he know?’
‘Henry has a way of finding out these things,’ said Christopher.
‘I was only told yesterday evening,’ said Villemot. ‘It made me so sad. I liked Sir Martin. He was a good man — and a very lucky one to be married to Araminta — to Lady Culthorpe.’ He hunched his shoulders in despair. ‘It is the tragedy, Christopher.’