CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The good Constable met Mr. Toomey’s son the following morning and was able to secure the boots in question on a loan. They were in good condition still and had been meticulously cleaned. There was some wear, but given their rare quality and obvious expense, the cobbler-turned-policeman was satisfied that a positive identification as to their origins might yet be made. The leather was fine and the craftsmanship greater than any he had ever seen. Only a handful of men in England could afford boots of such quality, and he hoped deducing their origin might aide his quest to find the killer.
Small perpendicular etches on the underside of each sole caught his attention, and he hoped they would identify, at least, the shop in which they had been crafted, if not the signature of the boot maker himself. He left Lambton in the direction of his home in order to pack for a longer journey and to hire a coach. After two days’ time, the Constable was headed in the direction of Manchester to query the boot makers there with hopes of identifying the origin of such exquisite boots. Upon his arrival, he sought out the best-known and most expensive shops in towns, but to no avail. Time after time, the boots were admired for their peculiar quality, but no shopkeeper or boot maker had ever seen their design before. He spent two full days attempting to ascertain anything which might be helpful but was rebuffed at every turn.
Having given up hope, he decided to return home to rethink his next options, and perhaps make plans to travel to London to continue his present line of inquiries. There was, however, a delay in his travels, as coming back through the village of Holly Springs, his coach was forced to a halt due to the collapse of the small wooden bridge which crossed the stream to the town’s southwest. Being but ten miles from home, he ordered the driver to find an alternate route which took them out of the village to the north. However, Gallagher happened to glance up from his newspaper at precisely the moment he passed a small cobbler shop that he had never seen before. He ordered the driver to stop the coach. He introduced himself to the owner, a Scotsman by the name of William Dow who had recently moved his family from Glasgow, after inheriting a small house in the village from an uncle. He and his son had been employed in a cobbler shop in the city but took the opportunity to open their own shop there in Holly Springs.
“Fine boots,” the Scot drawled. “Don’t believe I have ever seen their equal.”
“Neither have I,” replied the Constable. “Do you have any thoughts as to their origin?”
Dow shrugged and scratched his red beard. “Could be French, perhaps.”
“French?”
“Possibly. They are expensive, that’s for sure.”
“Could they be London-made, then?”
“Tis a thought.”
Just then, Dow’s son Gregory entered the shop, carrying a bundle of bread under his arm.
“Boy, have a gander here,” William said, while passing the boots on.
“Aye, would you look at those!” exclaimed he.
“Fine, are they not?”
“Finest boots mine eyes have ever beheld—except for that one time in York,” Gregory added.
“York?” the father asked.
“Aye—remember when old man Logan sent me down there to pay what he owed to that specialty tanner in the Shambles?”
“Aye, I recall it.”
“Well, I stopped in a shop in that street and met a man that crafted the finest boots in all the kingdom, I might say,” said the son, turning one of the boots in his hand and eyeing it carefully.
“Were they similar in make?” the Constable queried.
“Very similar,” Gregory replied. “And ah, yes—there is his mark!”
The young man pointed to the small etchings on the sole.
“Are you quite serious?” Gallagher asked, bewildered. “Those are the marks of a boot maker in York ?”
“Undoubtedly. These shoes bear the workmanship and the signature of Xavier Prichard, the finest boot maker I’ve ever met.” Gallagher left the town with the name of the shop in York, thankful that a trip all the way to London would not be necessary.