CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

It was obvious to the Constable as he sat inside the Black Bear Tavern with a third pint of stout nearly drained that Mr. Bingley, for all his amiable qualities and good looks, had a gravity about him that must have been considered uncommon among young gentlemen of his age and station. He was good-natured and jovial, even accommodating—until the moment he felt himself threatened, and alas, a weightiness emerged from just under the surface. Surely, this was a trait of a sadistic killer, was it not?

At the same time , he thought as he swigged the dark porter and put the empty glass down with a clank, what on earth could be the motivation for such a crime?

“Another, please?” called the Constable brusquely to the barmaid. The buxom woman of perhaps forty-five glowered at him through straggly strands of salt and pepper hair. He imagined that she was a good deal more handsome in the early evening light than when he had entered an hour and three pints earlier.

He wondered about tracking the carriage down. It was quite possible that it was with Bingley right there in London—though it was equally possible that it might be stashed on any number of properties scattered throughout the county. If perhaps, however, he was able to find it and make a positive identification with Robert Toomey, the old stable keep at Lambton…

Yet again, however, the question of motive gave him pause. In his cursory inquisition, he had not been able to establish a link—personal or otherwise, between Bingley and Fraser, though they both hailed from similar parts of the country. He thought it might be necessary to delve further into any potential dealings between the two, because that, and only that, would allow him to establish some kind of reason for this young and well-reputed gentleman to stoop to commit so low an offense.

From out of nowhere, just as the comely barmaid brought his glass, he remembered the conversation he had happened to overhear so many months ago, in a similar establishment back home in Grantley between Dier, the hog man, Hedge, the postman, and the carriage driver named… Oh, what was his name— Acton! Rawden Acton! He had mentioned the similar circumstances of the murder of his current master’s father, Eoin Walters of Northumberland! Perhaps that was where any connection might lie, and perhaps the two awful slayings were linked by that very connection. He made up his mind that he would finish his drink, find his way to bed, and wake in the morning to call upon the London residence of Sir John Walters in order that he might again interview his carriage driver.

At half past twelve, then, the Constable strolled up the lane and knocked at the door of Walters House just a stone’s throw from Kensington Palace. The butler answered and directed Gallagher to the east gate where he was allowed entry by the gardener’s assistant and directed toward the stables. In a moment’s time he came upon the figure of Rawden Acton who appeared to be spot cleaning an already sparkling barouche.

“Mr. Acton?” Gallagher called from ten paces away.

“At your service,” the old man answered, torturously straightening himself to greet his guest. “To whom do I have the pleasure?”

“Luther Gallagher, Constable of Grantley Village,” he said as he bowed.

“Ah, yes, from the pub!” declared Acton.

“Aye, we met in the pub.”

“Well, ‘pon rep, you’ve come an awful long way to see your old friend, haven’t you?”

“I was of the mind that you might be able to give me some further details surrounding the horrible demise of your master.”

“You mean, Sir Eoin Walters?”

“Aye.”

“A very sad tale, indeed,” the coachman remarked as he leaned back against the carriage. “Have you solved the Andrew Fraser matter, and you are now making inquiries here?”

“Not entirely, no. I had hoped that you might offer some illumination which could potentially provide a link between the two crimes.”

“You believe the two crimes were perpetrated by the same man?” gasped Acton.

“It is not out of the realm of possibility. After all, from what you described, the manners in which both men were dispatched were extraordinarily similar.”

“ Butchered , I would say. Slit from ear to ear in their beds.”

“Horses stolen but left behind with buckets of water in case they were not found promptly.”

“Eerie,” declared the driver.

“Are you aware of any familial relations between Sir Eoin Walters and Sir Andrew Fraser?”

“None whatsoever, though I suppose it is not impossible, but would most likely be some generations removed. I never heard my lord mention the name Fraser, and had never heard of him, myself, until that fateful day we stopped for respite in Grantley Village—a lovely village it is, incidentally.”

“Thank you,” Gallagher replied. “Any possible business connections between them, then?”

“Unfortunately, having no true information about Sir Andrew Fraser, I would not know. My master was well-respected in the financial community—a banker with some political sway, I might add—in addition to the operation of his expansive estate.”

“A banker?”

“Aye, sir. His son John has taken over in his stead, though I must admit,” he lowered his voice as he cautiously scanned the immediate area around them, “he has more hair than he does wit.”

“I see,” the Constable nodded.

“In what sort of business was Sir Andrew?”

“Arms, mostly, though he had a long and celebrated military career, as well.”

“Weapons would be a natural line of work for a soldier, eh?”

“Aye.”

“The proximity of the crimes is also distressing, is it not?”

“How so?—Northumberland is nearly two hundred miles from Grantley.”

“That it is,” Acton answered with a short chuckle. “But Eoin Walters was murdered in his home outside Chesterfield, and that is but thirty miles from Grantley Village.”

“Why did you not mention this the first time we met?”

“I suppose I was so shocked by the news that I was not struck by the thought. After all, Sir John Walters had the house—it was but a small country house—razed to the ground after the murder.”

“Uncanny,” gasped Gallagher. “Did your late master have any adversaries?”

“Not truly,” retorted the driver. “You must understand that the family’s wealth is so immense, that only a handful of men in the country could manage any actual rivalry. Now, there always were the heel-nippers—mostly the nouveau riche who imagine themselves much more influential than they are. And there was one in particular, but to be honest, the whole matter was so inconsequential to my master that I hardly remember the fellow’s name.”

“A man who would have had motivation to attack your master?”

“Oh yes, or at least he would have believed it so.”

“But?”

“He was, himself, passed on to the grand secret.”

“The man who was disposed toward dislike of Eoin Walters was already dead when Walters was murdered?”

“Aye,” the driver said sadly. “I do seem to recall that they enquired after the whereabouts of his son at that time, though.”

“And?”

“He was installed comfortably at the Darcy estate at Pemberley.”

“The man’s son was away at Pemberley when your master was murdered?”

“Yes, I believe it was so.”

“And you cannot recall his name?”

“I am afraid not. My memory does not serve me as sharply as it once did—although when I hark back, I am almost positive it ended in a ‘lee’ of some sort or another.”

“Bingley?”

“That’s the one!” Acton exclaimed.

“Thank you, sir—thank you! I must be off,” Gallagher declared, turning toward the gate.

“Will you not stay for tea?”

“No, but I thank you once more! You have been exceedingly helpful!” he called over his shoulder as his trot became a gallop.

“Best of luck!”

Once he had mounted Abacus, he and his horse tore off down the lane. The Cobbler-Constable was convinced that if he could find the coach of Robert Toomey’s description in the possession of Mr. Charles Bingley, he would have just cause for his arrest.

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