A cold, nearly frozen rain was falling, and I shivered in the darkness as icy water pooled around my feet, but I delighted in the waters washing the mud from my body. I looked upward to the dark haze of cloud cover and rubbed my face in the rain until my skin was free of prison soot and my nostrils free of prison stench.

My flesh was indeed free. I had, however, no way to reach the street. After circling the roof several times, I found that there was no means of climbing down, and I could not hope to jump such a distance and live- or at the very least avoid breaking my legs. I had managed to escape from the fortress, but I could find no way to descend three stories to safety.

I knew I could not linger. Should my absence be discovered while I remained on the roof, I would be retaken without trouble. I therefore came to a rather unorthodox conclusion. Though I am, by nature, a modest person, I removed all my clothes and made a rope of them. Tying them to a nail that protruded from the roof, I managed to climb down most of the way, with only a drop of perhaps six feet or so. I landed hard on my feet (which still bore my shoes), and fell over into the icy sting of snow. My left leg in particular, which I had broken as a fighter, ached fiercely, but I was mostly unharmed and absolutely free.

Thus I limped naked into the cold London night.

I AM WELL AWARE that it is unkind of me to leave my reader in suspense as I wander the streets of London, naked, cold, and pursued by the full might of the law, but I must once more take a step back if my reader is to understand precisely how it was that I found myself on trial for Yate’s death.

I intended to avail myself of the obsequious John Littleton, the porter whom Ufford had provided to assist me, but before I followed that worthy’s lead, I thought it wise first to strike out on my own. Littleton had spoken of Mr. Dennis Dogmill, the tobacco merchant whose greed had manipulated the porters into competitive gangs. If Ufford used his sermons to speak in favor of the porters and sought to stir up trouble on their behalf, it seemed to me only natural that Dogmill would know of it. While it was unlikely that he would pen any such note as the one I had seen, I presumed he would either have some hand in this extortion or have made a point to find out who did, that he might better protest his innocence.

I had discovered in my rambles around town that tobacco merchants were inclined to pass their time at Moore ’s Coffeehouse, down near the quays, and as I had rendered Mr. Moore some services in the past, I believed I could depend upon him to assist me in this matter. I sent him a note asking if Dogmill ever frequented his business. He informed me almost immediately that Dogmill did indeed make a habit of visiting, though he had not been by as often recently because he was the election agent for the Whig candidate for Westminster. Nevertheless, he knew that Dogmill would be in that afternoon for a meeting with some associates.

I therefore took myself to Moore ’s and approached the coffeehouse owner, who was a very young man for a proprietor, having inherited the business from his father not two years before. No more than three or four and twenty, he nevertheless had a business acumen beyond his years and was most apt at subordinating his wishes and desires to those of his customers. He opened his doors early, closed them late, cleaned up spills with his own hand, and oversaw the brewing of the coffee, the buying of the beer, and the baking of the pastries. Though dressed in a fine dark suit that befitted a prosperous tradesman, his clothes were rumpled and stained, his face slick with perspiration.

“Hello, Mr. Weaver,” he said, as he took my hand warmly. “Always happy to help you, I am- what with all you done for me.”

All I had done for him was to find those who owed him money and force them to pay- while keeping a generous percentage for myself. I considered it not a favor, only business, but I was of no mind to explain that to Moore. “I know you’ve much to keep you busy, so if you will just point out the man, I’ll leave you to your affairs.”

“That’s him there.” Moore jabbed his finger in the direction of an enormous man sitting with his back to me. “The big one.”

Describing him as “the big one” was like calling the Fleet Ditch “the smelly one.” He was massive, and even with his back to me I could see his mass was of the muscular sort rather than the fat. The breadth of his back and his arms pushed at the fabric of his coat. His neck was as thick as my thigh.

I must remind my reader that I spent a number of years earning my living as a pugilist, fighting pitched battles for my bread. I was, in the days of which I write, retired from the fighting arts but yet no small man. Nevertheless, here was someone who made me feel consumptive and puny. He sat by himself, hunched over some papers, clenching his pen so tight I should have thought he sought to crush it.

I stood for a moment, waiting for him to notice me, but when he did not I cleared my throat. “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Dogmill. My name is Benjamin Weaver, and I wonder if I might speak with you for a moment regarding a matter of some porters at the Wapping quays.”

Dogmill paused writing and raised his head only slightly, but he did not look up. I could see his face was broad and round. It was the look I’d seen in many men who produce prodigious strength through exercise, and therefore require enormous amounts of food to feed their appetites. While their bodies may be large with muscles, their faces are often pudgy and soft.

I knew not how to read his stiff silence, so I chose to plunge ahead. “My services have been secured by a priest, a Mr. Ufford, who has received a number of threatening notes for his words in favor of improving the conditions of the Wapping porters. As there are a number of these men in your employ, I thought perhaps you might have heard something of this incident.”

Dogmill, without letting his eyes for an instant rest on mine, turned around. “ Moore!” he called out, like a master wishing to scold a servant.

The proprietor, who had been in the process of polishing some dishes, dropped his rag and pewter and dashed over. “Yes, Mr. Dogmill.”

“Here’s a wretch troubling my quiet.” He pushed a coin into Moore ’s hand. “Take him outside and teach him not to be so impertinent to his betters.”

Dogmill returned to his papers. Moore remained for an instant with the coin in his palm, as though it were some beautiful butterfly he dare neither crush nor risk frightening. At last he clenched it and took me by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said and began to pull me along.

“Oh, and Moore,” Dogmill said, without looking up, “please explain to this fellow that if he speaks to me again, I’ll stomp upon his hands until they are broken beyond healing. Be sure to make certain he understands.”

Moore, knowing that the speech was concluded, pulled me along once more. Though I wished to say to Dogmill that he might make an effort to stomp upon me any time he chose, I held my tongue instead. Doing so would gain me little, and I did not desire to put Moore in a bad position. He wished only to save face before his patron, and having to balance the risk of discommoding me and discommoding Dogmill, he had surely made the right choice. He could explain himself to me and know I would hold no grudge. Dogmill struck me as not the sort of man with whom one equivocates.

Once outside, I observed the redness of his face. “Truly, I am sorry, Mr. Weaver, but I hadn’t any inkling that he would take a dislike to you. When Mr. Dogmill takes a dislike to someone, it can be terrible ugly.”

“What with stomping on hands and such.”