'Where've you been, Jonathan?'
'Making an arrest.'
'Well, that sleeve will have to be mended before I can send you out again. And I'll want to brush some of that filth off. What will the neighbours say if you're seen abroad like that?' Anxiety took over. 'Do you have any other bruises?'
'One or two on my arms, that's all.'
'Do be careful, Jonathan.'
'I always am.'
'I want my husband coming back to me in one piece.'
'The man resisted arrest: I had to subdue him. He's in a far worse condition than me, Sarah.' He took off his coat. 'But I was going to change in any case. I have to go out again.'
'So soon?'
'I'm afraid so.'
'What about the children? I'm just going to put them to bed.'
'I'll read to them before I go.'
'Good,' she said, taking his coat and bustling off.
Jonathan went upstairs to his sons' bedchamber and took out the old clothes that he wore when he worked as a shipwright. They still fitted. He smiled as pleasant memories of his earlier life flooded back. He had loved his trade. It brought him happy times and good friends. It also gave him the muscles and the stamina which made him such a formidable opponent in a brawl. He slipped a dagger into his belt and made sure that it could not be seen. When he went into the next room, Oliver and Richard were already tucked up together in bed, delighted that their father would be reading to them. Oliver stared at his bruise.
'What've you done to your face?' he asked.
'I bumped into something, Oliver.'
'Does it hurt?' said Richard, intrigued by the injury.
'Not any more.'
'What did you bump into, Father?'
'Never you mind, Richard.' Jonathan picked up the family Bible, the one book in the house. 'Now, what shall I read this evening?'
'Could we have some more about Samson?' said Richard.
'Yes,' agreed Oliver. 'He was a big, strong man. Mr Redmayne told us about him. He said that Samson was betrayed by a woman.'
'She cut off his hair.'
'Mother would never betray you, would she?' said the older boy. 'She'd never cut off your hair or you'd look funny.'
The two boys giggled. Jonathan quietened them down then read them a passage from the Book of Judges. They listened carefully. When he had finished, he said prayers with them, gave each a kiss on the forehead then stole out of the room. Sarah was already using a needle and thread expertly on the torn sleeve of his coat. She looked at his apparel and smiled.
'Just like the old days.'
'Not quite, Sarah.'
'Will you be late back?'
'I don't know.'
'Whenever it is, I'll wait up for you.'
'Thank you, my love.'
After giving her a valedictory kiss, he left the house and trudged off in the direction of Thames Street. It was early evening and still light. He walked parallel to the river, inhaling the familiar smells that drifted up from the waterfront and listening to the familiar sounds. The street was busy and he collected a number of waves or greetings while he was still in Baynard's Castle Ward. Once he moved into Queenhithe Ward, he was outside his own territory and took on a welcome anonymity. Passers-by hardly gave him a second look.
The Hope and Anchor was at the far end of Thames Street, well beyond London Bridge. It looked smaller than he remembered it and had acquired an almost ramshackle appearance. The one thing Jonathan had prised out of his attacker had been the man's name. Smeek would be at home in the Hope and Anchor, he decided. It was his natural habitat. The man bore all the marks of a sailor. Smeek was a tough, gritty, uncouth, fearless man who could look after himself in the roughest company and that was what the tavern offered him.
It was echoing with noise and bursting with bodies when Jonathan let himself in. A group of drunken sailors was singing a coarse song at one of the tables. Others were yelling threats at each other. Prostitutes mingled with potential customers, distributing the occasional kiss by way of blandishment. There was a stink of tobacco smoke and a thick fug had settled on the room. As he looked around, Jonathan could not suppress a smile at the thought of Christopher Redmayne visiting the tavern. He would be as completely and ridiculously out of place as the constable would be in a box at The Theatre Royal.
Jonathan bought a drink, shouldered his way to a corner and bided his time. It was important to blend into his surroundings. To accost the innkeeper at once and pepper him with questions would only arouse the man's suspicion. The constable had to be more casual in his enquiries. He fell in with a couple of sailors whose ship had just arrived from Holland. They were full of boasts about their exploits among Dutch women. Jonathan forced himself to listen. When he saw that the innkeeper was on his own, he offered to buy his companions some ale and squeezed his way to the counter.
The innkeeper was a rotund man in his fifties with an ugly face made even more unsightly by a broken nose and a half- closed eye. As the man filled three tankards for Jonathan, the latter leaned in close.
'I was hoping to see some old friends in here,' he said.
'Oh?' replied the other. 'And who might they be?'
'One's called Smeek. We sailed together years ago. He told me that they came in here sometimes. Is that true?'
'It might be.'
'He and Ben were always together. Boon companions.'
'How well do you know them?' asked the innkeeper warily.
'Haven't seen either for a long time. That's why I thought I'd drop in at the Hope and Anchor - in case they'd been around lately. It's the kind of place they'd like, especially Ben. Nice and lively.' He paid for the drinks and bought one for the innkeeper himself. 'Have you seen any sign of either of them?'
'They were in here yesterday, as it happens.'
'Oh?'
'Throwing a bit of money around.'
'That sounds like them,' said Jonathan with a chuckle.
'Smeek might come back,' explained the other, deciding to take his customer on trust, 'but you won't see Ben Froggatt in here for a while, that's for sure.'
'Why not?'
'He came off worst in a fight. Right outside my back door.'
'Ben Froggatt? He could handle himself in a brawl. I'd like to see the man who could get the better of him.' Jonathan took a sip of his ale. 'Was Ben hurt very badly?'
'He must be. I'm told he's taken to his bed.'
'Poor old Ben,' said Jonathan, expressing a sympathy that was masking a deep hatred. 'I must call on him and try to cheer him up. Do you know where he lodges?'
'No,' said the innkeeper. 'But I think that Lucy might.'
'Lucy?'
The man nodded in the direction of a tall, angular woman with a heavily powdered face and a loud giggle. Sharing a drink with a grey-haired man, she fondled his arm with an easy familiarity.
The innkeeper gave a lop-sided grin of appreciation.
'Ben has taste,' he grunted. 'Lucy's his favourite.'
'I haven't the slightest clue where you could find Martin Eldridge.'