‘Inspector Ross?’
As he spoke the train pulled away, puffing out a fresh helping of murk, and he momentarily disappeared again from view. But he reappeared almost at once and when the air cleared I saw he was a solidly built man of sporting appearance, wearing a tweed suit and a bowler hat tipped at a rakish angle. He had the alert expression of a gun dog as he scrutinised me. I judged him to be in his mid thirties, a year or two younger than myself.
‘It is Inspector Colby?’ I asked, putting out my hand.
He shook it briskly. ‘It is! We received your telegraph message. I confess it made us all very curious. It said you wished to visit a bootmaker here in Salisbury, by the name of Fitchett. We could have done that on your behalf. Although,’ he added hastily, ‘you are most welcome. How may we help?’
The platform had emptied and I became aware of a hammering and pounding in the near distance. ‘They are building nearby?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes, work on the railway seems never-ending,’ he replied carelessly. ‘Let us go into the refreshment room. It’s fairly quiet in there. You can tell me all about it.’
When we had settled in a warm and well-appointed refreshment room and been provided with tea, Colby asked the question all Englishmen ask of a newly arrived visitor. ‘How was the weather in London when you left?’
‘Perfectly foul,’ I told him. ‘We have had nothing but stinking fog of late and today it has given way to driving rain. The streets are coated in icy mud; and you can’t see a hand in front of your face!’
Colby chuckled. ‘We’ve not been plagued by the fog to that extent. But we might rival you when it comes to mud. We’ve had snow and it is lying up still in sheltered spots. However, where there is wheeled traffic or footpaths, the snow has melted or been trampled into slush. And are you in need of a new pair of boots to protect your feet and come here to buy them?’
I placed my parcel on the table. I had not unwrapped it and Colby eyed it with keen interest. ‘I have come,’ I said, ‘to inquire about these, with luck from the man who made them, and who will be able to tell me for whom, and who ordered them.’
I unwrapped the parcel, took out one little black boot and passed it across the table to Colby. I rewrapped the other boot and placed it on the floor by my feet, mindful that leaving items of footwear on a table brings bad luck. I could do without any more of that. Colby took the boot and examined it inside and out, even sniffing at it like a bloodhound.
‘Tobias Fitchett, eh?’ he observed at last.
After such a thorough examination I had begun to hope for something more than that from him. ‘You know of this bootmaker? Is he still to be found?’ I asked.
Colby raised his eyes from the boot in his hand and looked at me as if I had indeed disturbed a train of thought. If so, he wasn’t ready to share it with me yet, and contented himself with answering my question. ‘Oh, yes, I know of this workshop. It is near the Butter Cross. That is a medieval construction in the centre of the city. I can take you there. They have never made boots for me, but it is an old-established firm, representing a couple of generations at least.’ He handed the boot back to me and I set it on the floor by its partner. ‘How did it come into your possession?’
I told him the story of the dead girl found in the refuse bin behind the Imperial Dining Rooms. Colby scowled and shook his head. ‘A bad business!’ he said. ‘So you have reason, because of the boots, to think the dead girl came to London from Salisbury?’
‘I hope she did because if she didn’t, well, I really don’t know how I’ll ever arrive at her identity, unless someone comes forward. So far, no one has, although it is early days. But it’s very odd. The boots have little sign of wear. With luck, she was living here until fairly recently.’
‘How about the rest of her clothing?’ asked Colby thoughtfully, picking up his cup of tea and draining it.
I described it. ‘I wondered if she might be in half-mourning. If she was, that might mean she was living here with someone who died within the last year or two. That, in turn, might have led to her having to leave Salisbury and move up to London. But at the moment, I can only speculate. She might have acquired the boots second-hand. There are numerous second-hand clothes dealers in London – some sell from shops, some from barrows at the roadside. But the lack of wear and tear on them inclines me to believe they were made for her. All her clothing was of good quality.’ I took an envelope from my inside coat pocket. ‘I have a likeness of her. It was taken after death, of course.’ I passed it across.
‘Well, well,’ murmured Colby as he took it and held it up in front of him. ‘I see you are up to date in your methods of detection in London!’
‘You have never used a photographic portrait to help identify a mystery body?’
‘We’ve occasionally used one, if available, to track down a live suspect. But a dead one? We trust to an artist to work up an image in most cases. Well, we must keep up with the times. If this is what Scotland Yard does, then so must we.’
Colby rubbed his chin and gazed at the image. ‘I can’t say I recognise this young woman. Of course, I’m not acquainted with every young lady in Salisbury. But if, as you say, she came from our city, someone should know her.’ He fixed his sportsman’s keen eye on me. ‘Has no one reported her missing in London? Isn’t that very odd? A respectable family or household, with a well-dressed young lady living in it? Well, they wouldn’t overlook it if she just disappeared one evening. They would be raising the alarm before the night was out!’
‘I’ve been hoping for a report,’ I confessed. ‘But none has come in so far. It might still do so. Respectable households often don’t like to involve the police in their affairs.’
Colby startled me by raising his hand and clicking his fingers. I didn’t know whether he was attracting the attention of the one elderly waiter, or had been struck by inspiration. I hoped it was inspiration.
‘How about an elopement?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps the family fears she’s run off with some young fellow? They’d do all they could to get her back by their own efforts before they involved the official channels. The scandal would damage her future prospects, if the lover were to desert her, to say nothing of money being involved. Perhaps she is – or was – a young lady with a fortune?’ His voice was gaining enthusiasm.
It was for me to take the role of opposition, questioning his theory. ‘It wouldn’t explain how she came to be dead in a rubbish receptacle. Also, I failed to mention to you when I spoke of her clothing that there was no shawl or outer garment of any kind. And who struck her so violently on the head? Not the lover with whom she was running off, surely? Not if he was a fortune-hunter, as you suggest.’
‘You never know,’ said Colby seriously, leaning across the table and dislodging a teaspoon that fell noisily to the floor unheeded by him. ‘Perhaps someone wanted to prevent the elopement? Perhaps someone chased after them, caught them? There was a struggle…’ My Wiltshire colleague was proving to have an imaginative turn of mind and his enthusiasm was growing alarmingly.
My turn to quibble. ‘Then isn’t it more likely some avenging papa or brother would hit the lover on the head? Then drag the girl back home.’ I didn’t want to pour cold water on his romantic explanation, so I said, ‘It’s to be considered, of course. Nothing is out of the question. But first I need to find out her identity.’
Colby had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘Of course. I’ll take you to the bootmaker.’
We set off at a good pace. It was, as Colby had warned, very muddy underfoot. There was less traffic than in London streets, and much of it seemed to have come in from the surrounding countryside. Cartwheels threw up sprays of dirty slush as they rattled over the cobbles. I began to fear we’d arrive looking a pair of ruffians. As Colby had indicated, the shop was located in the heart of the city of Salisbury in a narrow street crowded with old buildings. The buildings were packed together higgledy-piggledy, many without the possibility of sliding a sheet of paper b
etween them. Ahead of us they gave way to an open area at the centre of which stood a round construction, with Gothic arched openings, surmounted by a short spire rising from graceful stone ribs. It looked rather like a giant’s crown.
‘That’s the Butter Cross,’ said Colby cheerfully. ‘And here’s Fitchett’s shop.’
He had stopped by a bay window, displaying a jumble of footwear-related items. In addition, above our heads hung a sign like an inn sign, but this one showed a painting of a gentleman’s hessian boot, with a tassel, of the sort very fashionable when men wore knee-breeches. This, and the legend EST. 1772, confirmed Colby’s statement that the firm of Fitchett had been making boots in Salisbury for at least three generations.
We climbed a pair of steps to enter the shop, our arrival announced by the jangle of a bell of the sort fixed on a metal spring above the door; and noisy enough to deafen the new arrival for moment or two. Immediately our noses were assailed by the smells of leather and wax, and filled with dust. From the rear of the premises came the sound of hammering. Perhaps that was why such a loud bell was needed. As its urgent clamour died away the hammering ceased, and a voice asked if that had not been the bell?
A pale young man with straight dark hair, wearing a leather apron, appeared in the doorway to, presumably, the workshop itself. He bid us good day and took his place behind a scarred wooden counter, moving in a stately, unhurried way. Behind him, fixed to the wall, were rows of pigeonholes nearly all filled with a paper parcel each. They must do repairs here, as well as make the originals, I concluded, and the paper parcels awaited the owners of the footwear to come in and claim them. But, as this was not a simple cobbler’s workplace, I wondered whether they only repaired the shoes and boots they themselves had made, not entrusting this to other hands.
‘May I be of assistance, gentlemen?’ inquired the young man, resting his hands on the counter. One fingernail was black. A mishap with the hammer, no doubt.
Colby informed him we were police detectives, first introducing himself and then me.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the young man agreeably. He seemed neither surprised nor curious at the arrival of the police. Perhaps he thought we wanted boots.
Colby hastened to put him right on this, explaining we had come seeking information about a particular pair of boots originating in this workshop.
‘Oh, yes,’ repeated the young man, his pallid face still showing no curiosity whatsoever. His opposite number in a London establishment would have been alive with interest and peppering us with questions.
I decided it was my turn to speak up. ‘Is it possible to speak to Mr Fitchett?’ A thought struck me. ‘Or are you the present Mr Fitchett?’
At this the young man did appear mildly startled. ‘No!’ he said. ‘My name is Ezra Jennings.’ He stretched out an arm to indicate the rear of the premises. ‘Mr Fitchett is creating.’
At this Colby uttered a sound that finished as a cough but had begun as a guffaw. Ezra stared at him with disapproval.
I decided to take charge. ‘We should like to speak to Mr Fitchett himself. Would you kindly tell him we are here?’
Ezra withdrew silently whence he had emerged and we heard a murmur of voices. Ezra returned and again indicated the doorway to the rear of the premises. ‘If you’d care to go through, gentlemen.’
We went through and found ourselves in a long, narrow room. Tobias Fitchett rose from a workbench to greet us. The bench was covered with scraps of leather, balls of wax, bundles of strong twine, a variety of knives, awls, and bodkins. A row of jars contained all manner of nails and tacks. There was no outside light, only that of a gas mantle projecting from the wall immediately above the workbench. The smell of leather was overpowering, and the atmosphere airless. Mr Fitchett was small, stooped, as leathery as the material he worked with, and he had small dark eyes beneath bushy brows. He assessed us shrewdly over the pair of spectacles perched low down his nose. He was holding a wickedly sharp scalpel-like knife and I was relieved to see him put it down.
‘Well now,’ he said. ‘Here’s a thing. Police officers of a quality sort, dressed very gentlemanly, not constables, eh? Ezra was very surprised.’
‘He didn’t show it,’ returned Colby. ‘A very cool sort of chap, your assistant.’
‘You need to be calm to work with leather,’ said Tobias. ‘You have to take your time, get it right, can’t let your hand slip. Just like that!’ He gestured. ‘And you can ruin a piece of the best leather. You can cut your hand open, come to that. Ezra tells me you don’t want boots. What do you want to ask me, eh?’ Then, stressing we were in the right place, he added, ‘If it’s about making boots, I’m your man. My grandfather made boots in Salisbury, and my father after him, now me. And all of us,’ he added, ‘carrying the baptismal name of Tobias. It makes things simpler.’
It was my turn. ‘It is about boots, these boots.’ I produced my parcel and unwrapped it. Watched closely by Fitchett, I set the little boots side by side on the workbench. I wondered, as I did so, if I was returning them to the very spot where they had been created. To confirm this, I added, ‘Your stamp is in them. You did make them?’
Mr Fitchett beamed and seemed delighted to see the boots again, as one would old friends, unexpectedly calling by his premises.
‘Oh, my, yes!’ he said. He picked them up gently and turned them back and forth in his hands, examining them closely. ‘So you have come back to see me, have you, my dears?’ He gave them an affectionate pat apiece. ‘You have been looked after, my dears, looked after very well, I am pleased to see.’
Colby glanced at me with a raised eyebrow and a twitch of the mouth.
‘Mr Fitchett,’ I said. ‘I am wondering if it is possible for you to tell me for whom you made these boots?’
‘A lady, they are a lady’s boots,’ said Mr Fitchett immediately.
‘I do know that much,’ I told him. ‘I was hoping you—’
‘You saw our name stamped in them,’ Fitchett went on, ignoring the interruption. ‘That’s what it’s there for, so that people can see who made them. We are proud of our boots and shoes. But did you mark the number, eh?’ His bright dark eyes, so like boot buttons themselves, gave me a sudden piercing look.
‘Number?’ I muttered, disconcerted.
He held the boot up with the leather upper around the ankle turned so that I read his stamp and saw, beneath it, a three-figure number. I confessed I had not paid much attention to that, being more interested in the name and location of the workshop.
‘Last,’ said Mr Fitchett, and noting that Colby looked confused, added, ‘That is the number of the wooden last. Follow me, gentlemen.’
He led us into another room even further into the building. We found ourselves in a long narrow area lit by a window at the rear, but no artificial light, so it was very gloomy. It was made more so by being crammed with racks, like the racks one sees in the larger bookshops, except that these racks held not books, but the carved wooden shapes of feet, neatly arranged by pairs, and numbered.
‘When we make for you,’ explained Fitchett, ‘we first make a last for your foot. Then, should you require a further pair of boots, you have but to let us know and we’ll make them. Our boots are much travelled. You could be living in Africa, sirs, or in China or India. You have but to write us a letter and we’ll get on and make the boots. We’ll send them out to you, or you can collect when you return home.’
Colby, who was now showing a lot of interest, pointed to a spot containing a single quite large wooden shape. ‘There’s only one foot here,’ he said.
‘Customer lost the other one,’ explained Mr Fitchett. ‘A naval man, he had his right leg blown clean off below the knee in a sea battle when he was a midshipman, only a lad. But he had a fine career nonetheless, although most of it, I understand, was at the Admiralty. Afterwards he retired here to Salisbury because he was born here. And we always made his boot or shoe, as required.’
Mr Fitchett stood back and surveyed the collec
tion of wooden feet stacked before us. ‘Every pair of those, gentlemen, tells a tale. Wherever life takes a man, he goes there on his feet. But if Fitchett’s made his boots, those same feet remain here all that same life, in wood.’ Fitchett nodded to himself. ‘Ours is a craft, you understand, gents, that leads to a philosophical turn of mind.’
He reached out and picked up a pair of much smaller wooden shapes. ‘These are yours,’ he said. ‘Or rather, they are the lady’s.’
It was an extraordinary moment. Just briefly, I felt that she stood before me. These were her feet, not just anyone’s. My dead girl had been in this very cordwainer’s stockroom and had left behind a token in the shape of carved wooden lasts, just as Fitchett had said.
‘And are you able to put a name to the lady and find out when the boots were made?’ I asked eagerly.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Fitchett. ‘Follow me, if you would. Ezra!’ He raised his voice. ‘The order book, if you please! Find number—’ He gave the three-figure number.
We returned to the front of the shop where Ezra presided over his counter. On it now was opened a large order book. Mr Fitchett adjusted his spectacles to a reading position on his nose and peered at the columns of spidery entries.
‘Here we are, gentlemen! The boots were made for Miss Emily Devray. The order for them was placed by Mrs Waterfield.’ He straightened up and removed the spectacles. ‘A very charming young lady, Miss Devray. I took her foot measurements myself. Mrs Waterfield herself was an old and valued customer.’
‘Was?’ I asked quickly.
‘The lady has sadly been called to a higher place. Early last year, it was.’
‘Is there a Mr Waterfield?’ I asked hopefully.
Mr Fitchett shook his head. ‘Long gone,’ he said. ‘Went to Jamaica on business and took a fever on board ship. Never returned. Buried at sea.’ He frowned. ‘We made his boots, several pairs. I wonder whether they buried him booted. Probably not. A good pair of boots like that? I dare say some sailor slipped them off the body before it went into the water.’
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