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be?'
        'None,
sir. There was no means of identification on him.'
        'Hardly
an habitue of Paul's Wharf, that's for sure.'
        'Quite,'
said Jonathan. 'You won't find a suit of clothes as costly as that being worn
in a warehouse. He's a gentleman of sorts with a family and friends who'll miss
him before long. Someone may soon come forward.'
        'And
if they don't?'
        'Then
we'll have to track his identity down by other means.'
        'Do
you have any witnesses?'
        'Not
so far, sir. My colleague, Tom Warburton, is making enquiries near the murder
scene this morning. When I spoke to him on my way here, he had had no success.
It was late when we found the body. The wharf was deserted at that time of
night. We are unlikely to find witnesses.'
        'What
was a man like this doing in such a place?'
        'I
don't think that he went there of his own accord, sir,' said Jonathan solemnly.
'I begin to wonder if he was killed elsewhere then dumped near that warehouse.'
        'Why
do you say that?'
        'Because
of the state of his apparel. When we found him last night, the back of his coat
was covered in dirt, as if he'd been dragged along the ground by someone. There
were a few stones caught up in the garment.' He took them from his pocket to
show them to the surgeon. 'Do you see how small and bright they are, sir? You
won't find any stones like this in the vicinity of the warehouse.'
        'You've
a sharp eye, Mr Bale.'
        Jonathan
put the stones away again. 'These may turn out to be useful clues.'
        'I
hope so. Well,' said Ecclestone, pulling the shroud over the corpse, 'I've told
you what I've seen. A young man cut down in his prime by a sly assailant. A
powerful one, too. The deceased would have fought for his life. Even with the
element of surprise in his favour, only a strong attacker could have got the
better of him.'
        'Unless
he was groggy with drink.'
        'I
detected no smell of alcohol in his mouth.'
        'Oh.'
        'You
can rule that out.' The surgeon turned and walked out of the morgue. Jonathan
followed him, glad to quit the dank and depressing chamber. When they stepped out
into the fresh air, he took several deep breaths. Ecclestone paused to stare up
at him.
        'Is
there anything else that I can tell you, Mr Bale?' he asked.
        'No
thank you, sir. You've been very helpful.'
        'This
was no random murder.'
        'What
do you mean?'
        'It
did not happen by accident on the spur of the moment. If you or I wished to
strangle someone, we'd never do it as quickly and efficiently as that. Do you
hear what I'm saying, Mr Bale?'
        'I
believe so. It was not the work of an amateur.'
        'Exactly.
This man has killed before. Often, probably.'
        'A
hired assassin?'
        'Certainly
not a person to turn your back on.' He licked his lips and closed one eye. 'You
said earlier that you'd have to find out the victim's identity by other means.'
        'The
search will begin this very morning, sir.'
        'Where?'
        'Among
the most exclusive shoemakers in the city.'
        'Shoemakers?'
        'Yes,'
said Jonathan, producing the shoe that had been picked up at the wharf by an
inquisitive dog. 'I want to find out who sold him this.'
        'What
happened to you, Mr Redmayne?' said Jacob in alarm. 'Your face is bruised and
your coat is torn. Is that blood on your sleeve?'
        'Yes,
Jacob,' said Christopher, putting his satchel down and removing his coat, 'but
you'll be pleased to know that it's not mine. A highwayman made the mistake of
trying to rob me and had to be put in his place.' He flexed both hands. 'My
knuckles still hurt from the fight.'
        The
servant blenched. 'A highwayman?'
        'Don't
worry. I learned my lesson. On the following day, I put safety before valour
and joined a party of travellers on their way to London. It slowed me right
down but gave me an