‘Then it’s plainly not the work of a bank clerk.’
‘I’m convinced that the fellow makes his living from the law,’ said Peter, ‘or, at least, he’s done so in the past. Either he’s retired or been dismissed and forced to scratch around for money elsewhere.’
‘Ah,’ said Rendcombe, ‘that opens up possibilities.’
‘You can help me?’
‘I didn’t say that, Mr Skillen. I make no promises.’
Getting up from his chair, he crossed to a large oak cupboard. Rendcombe pulled out a bunch of keys, selected one and inserted it into the lock. When the door opened, Peter saw piles of documents and correspondence neatly stacked on the shelves. The lawyer’s hand went unerringly to a thin pile of papers. He took them out, came back to his desk and leafed through each sheet.
‘My esteemed partner, Mr Spiller, doesn’t believe in harbouring such things but I am an unredeemed hoarder. I operate on the principle that even the most minor item that passes before my eyes might one day prove to be of value.’ He held up the papers. ‘These are letters from people seeking employment here. In two cases, we were able to take the gentlemen on and they’ve given good service. In the other three cases, however, there was no question of even interviewing the people in question.’
‘Why is that, Mr Rendcombe?’
‘We’d already been forewarned by the lawyers who’d engaged them in the past. When someone is dismissed for reprehensible conduct, one doesn’t want them going elsewhere and continuing to pollute the profession.’
‘What offences did these three individuals commit?’
‘They are not specified,’ said Rendcombe. ‘Apart from anything else, no lawyer wishes to admit details of any criminal activity that took place under his aegis in case it makes him look foolish. All that he will do is to affirm that such-and-such a person is unfit for employment. That’s all we need to know.’
‘Who are the three men you rejected?’
‘One can be eliminated from your enquiries at once, Mr Skillen, because he is presently in prison for debt. The man who told me that – with some satisfaction, I may say – was his former employer.’
‘What of the other two?’ asked Peter, sensing that he’d made some progress.
‘Both were clerks and both were hounded out of their jobs.’
‘Yet they were not prosecuted.’
‘Instant dismissal was felt to be punishment enough – that and the guarantee that they’d never again be permitted to soil the good name of the legal profession.’
‘May I know who these two men are?’
‘You can do more than that, dear fellow,’ said Rendcombe, passing the letters to him. ‘You can read their correspondence.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Provided that you return it, of course, so that it can take its rightful place among my cherished records. Lawyers are archivists of personal disasters. You are about to be introduced to two of them.’
Seven Dials was a misnomer. It comprised seven streets that went out like spokes of a wheel from a majestic Doric column. At the hub of a wheel was a clock with seven faces but it had been removed over forty years earlier in the erroneous belief that a large sum of money had been concealed in its base. While the seven streets remained, therefore, the dials were nowhere to be seen. Conceived as a fashionable residential area cheek by jowl with Soho and Covent Garden, it had instead become a labyrinth of streets, lanes, courts and alleys that were the haunt of petty thieves, the poorer sort of street vendors and itinerant street musicians. Shops were dark and uninviting. Stray animals loitered. Poverty and danger went hand in hand in Seven Dials. Few strangers went there alone. Fewer still made the mistake of venturing there on their own at night.
Being smartly dressed in public was an article of faith with Paul Skillen and he’d sometimes been accused of being a dandy. On his walk into Seven Dials, however, there was no call for his expensive blue coat with its high collar, broad lapels and cutaway tails. Nor was there a place for his frilled shirt, striped vest and breeches. From his wardrobe, he instead chose a selection of ragged garments that turned him into a costermonger. By rubbing dirt into his hands and cheeks, he completed the disguise. Paul even summoned up a passable version of an Irish accent.
He knew that a lot of Irish families inhabited the tenements there and it was not long before he heard the sound of Dublin voices raised to full pitch.
‘Y’are a filthy ’ussy, Lena Madigan!’ yelled one woman.
‘Wh’re you callin’ filthy, you old cow?’ retorted the other, a mountainous creature with wobbling breasts and a red face. ‘Sure, every man in Seven Dials ’as seen everythin’ you ’ave to offer and you don’t even ’ave the sense to charge for the priv’lege.’