A Scandal in Sensible Shoes

How it begins

Rose Mercer had repaired the dead man's shoes twice. The difficulty was that the dead man had never worn them.

She stood beside the promenade steps with her work apron still on, looking at a pair of polished brown boots placed neatly on the stone.

Above them, the constable held his notebook as though it could provide a more comfortable answer.

"Are you certain?"

"About the boots? Yes. About the gentleman under the blanket? You've asked the wrong profession."

A gull landed on the railing and began inspecting the scene with the confidence of a creature never required to prove its qualifications.

The boots belonged to Mr. Vale, the resort's celebrated benefactor. Rose knew the small split near the left heel, the unusual wear beneath the right toe, and the brass hook he'd insisted she replace with one that didn't match because he disliked waiting.

The man on the steps was shorter, broader, and wearing socks a different customer had once bought as a joke.

Arthur Lane approached from the far end of the promenade carrying the keys to the bathing shelters.

"They found him after I opened up," he said.

"When did you close last night?" Rose asked.

The constable cleared his throat.

Arthur glanced at him, then answered her. "Half past nine. Except Mr. Vale wanted the west gate left open."

"Why?"

"He said generosity should never be locked out."

Rose looked at the boots again.

She had worked in the town for thirty years. Rich visitors regularly explained noble principles while disputing the price of leather. Usually she let the contradiction remain their business.

This morning, someone else's shoes lay beside a body, and the whole promenade seemed ready to mistake an expensive explanation for the truth.

She bent without touching the boots.

Inside the left one, just visible beneath the tongue, a fresh red thread crossed a repair she had sewn in black.

"Arthur," she said, "who else had those keys?"