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great
edifice but he felt shocked to see it in such a deplorable state. The roof had
burned and left the whole building exposed in the most undignified manner.
What made the fire more damaging was the fact that hundreds of Londoners had
used the cathedral as their place of refuge, carrying their goods to what they
deemed to be a place of safety and filling the nave with furniture, clothing,
curtains, carpets, paintings and other combustible material, unwittingly
providing the fuel for a huge bonfire, its heat so intense that it had melted the
bells which hung in the tower. The sight of St Paul's in ruins and still
smoking provided the most vivid demonstration
    of
the true extent of the catastrophe.
    Hundreds
of people had congregated around the building. Some came to pray, others to
stare, others to walk disconsolately among the gravestones. The person who
caught Jonathan's attention belonged to none of these groups. Sitting alone on
a stone tomb, he was poring over a sheet of paper supported on a wooden board,
sketching with a piece of charcoal and glancing up from time to time at the
grim scene before him. The young man, handsome and well-groomed, was dressed
almost to the point of elegance and looked incongruous among the shuffling
citizens around him. While they were drab and demoralised, the artist seemed
to be bristling with excitement. Jonathan's curiosity was aroused.
    He
was still watching as an old woman slowly approached the man. Dressed in rags,
she hobbled along with the aid of a wooden crutch. Straggly hair poked out from
beneath the tattered scarf which covered most of her head. Coming up behind the
artist, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was drawing then inched
closer until she pressed up against him. The woman backed away at once and
cringed in apology, expecting at least a reprimand, if not a curse or even a
blow. But the young man gave her a smile and beckoned her forward to take a
proper look at his work, showing it off with evident pride. After studying it
for a minute or so, the woman nodded in approval, gave him a wave of thanks and
hobbled off. The artist tossed her a sympathetic glance before returning to his
task.
    Jonathan
Bale showed her far less indulgence. When she drew level with him, he launched
himself forward to grab her by the shoulders. A fierce struggle ensured.
Dropping the crutch, the woman fought hard to break free and screamed in anger.
The constable was just managing to subdue her when the artist came running
over.
    'Unhand
her, you ruffian!' he ordered.
    'Stay
out of this, sir,' said Jonathan, still wrestling with his quarry.
    'Let
her go or you'll answer to me.'
    The
young man accompanied his threat with such a strong push that he knocked the
constable off balance and forced him to release his hold on the woman. To the
astonishment of all who were watching, she hitched up her skirts and, showing
signs neither of age nor disability, ran off at speed towards Paternoster Row.
The artist was utterly baffled.
    'What's
this?' he asked.
    'You
have just helped a clever criminal to escape, sir,' said the angry constable.
'I was trying to make an arrest.'
    'Why?'
    'Because
I saw him robbing you.'
    'Him?
I took her for a poor old woman.'
    'That
is what you were meant to do, sir. But that poor old woman is younger than you.
His real name is Tom Fogge and he is as cunning a pickpocket as you will have
the misfortune to encounter.'
    'A
pickpocket?'
    'Yes,
sir,' said the other. 'While you thought he was admiring your drawing, Tom
Fogge was helping himself to your purse.' The young man's hand went immediately
to his pocket. 'You will not find it, sir, for I have it here in my hand.' He
held it up for inspection. 'I managed to get it from him before you interrupted
us. Had you been less rash, I might have recovered all the other things which
he probably stole.'
    The
young man took a step back, spread both arms and shrugged.
    'What
can I say, constable? I was foolhardy.'
    'That
is the