CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Before he left for Lambton to obtain a more comprehensive description of the coach witnessed by Robert Toomey, Gallagher made careful observations of the coach house where Bingley’s carriage would have been stored around the corner from the house on Grosvenor St. The stable boy he had earlier viewed interacting with Bingley led a horse back toward the stable. Unluckily for the Constable, he was, from the vantage point on the street, unable to see down the mew and inside the coach house itself. He decided to return after dark and attempt to gain clandestine entry that he might survey the coaches present.
At nearly half-past two the next morning, he approached again, this time dressed in all black. He carried a small lantern which he would light only once inside. Cautiously, he entered down the alley behind Bingley’s house. There was an iron gate at the end of the small lane which he scaled with ease. Inside the yard, he crept past the stables where seven horses slept and on toward the garage. Checking the first large coach stall he came to and finding it locked, Gallagher slunk over to the next and the next—all secure. Finally, at the edge of the building was a small door which seemed to be latched from the inside, but not particularly well. He found a tree branch that leaned over the fence and snapped off a limb, with which he was able to pry the bolt open by leaning against the door and leveraging upward. Once inside, he closed it softly behind him and lit his lamp.
Three carriages were stowed in total, with space for perhaps two more. The first was but a gig in ghastly condition, considering the neighbourhood. The second was a cabriolet; but alas, the third was a massive town coach. Even in the dark, Gallagher could tell it had been washed recently, as his reflection beamed off its gilded sides. It was richly adorned with golden scrollwork; its wheels were painted royal red. The top was flat with decorative posts at each corner. It certainly fit the bill for what had been previously described to him by the stableman in Lambton. The Constable was careful to take copious notes on every detail he could make out in the light of a single flame. When he had made several rounds about the carriage, he extinguished his light and let himself out. In a moment he was over the gate and back on the street without detection. He rode Abacus back to his inn where he slept just four hours before having a breakfast of bread and kippers with tea. Once the horse was watered and saddled, he was on his way north.
When, after a remarkably uneventful ride of nearly four days’ time he arrived in Lambton, he took up lodging in the same village inn where he stayed in the first weeks of the investigation. He arrived late enough that the stableboy, a teen by the name of Carl, stalled Abacus as Mr. Toomey was not on duty until morning. After sleeping until just after nine, the Constable ordered tea with bread and jam to his room. Once he was fed and had the opportunity to wash his face, he strolled down to the yard in nervous anticipation. Though he felt confident in the deductions he had made to this point, the description of the carriage was the lynchpin that held his case together.
Unfortunately, after speaking with the stable keeper, it was abundantly clear that the town coach in the house in London was not a match for the coach used in the murderer’s flight. The coach that Toomey described was a brougham with a rack for trunks on the back—black in colour, aside from gold trim around the windows and panels. He did add that on the side there was a very distinctive vertical striping pattern that he had assumed must have been a new fashion from London, as he’d never seen such a design prior or since.
A bit dejected, the Constable made notes of his conversation with Toomey and gathered his few belongings from his room in order to start out for home. As he mounted Abacus, the thought struck him that he was but five miles from the estate at Pemberley. On a whim he galloped off in that direction. As he entered the park, he was stunned by the size of it: Grantley Manor, as extensive as it might be, could not compare to the staggering largess of Pemberley. Eventually he came upon the house, and at the direction of a gardener, found his way to the stables and the coach house where he introduced himself to a young man by the name of Vessey who watered the guest’s horse.
“Vessey, I assume you are well acquainted with the coaches that frequent the estate, in addition to your master’s?”
“Of course, sir.”
“May I describe a coach to you and if you think you know it, tell me to whom does it belong?”
“I shall do my best.” The Constable proceeded to read from his small book the description of the getaway coach as had been provided to him by Robert Toomey. “That sounds like Mr. Bingley’s new brougham,” replied Vessey. “Are you all right, sir?” Gallagher forced his mouth to close and stammered a reply. “Will you require any further assistance, sir?”
“One more question,” he began after he had gathered himself, “when was the last time you saw this carriage?”
The young man thought for a moment. “It must have been six months at least, sir. Mr. Bingley has not been here since at least November.”
“And where might he keep this coach when it is not in use?”
“I doubt he would take it to London, as he has a town coach as well. If I had to make a guess, I would say it is stored on the grounds of his home in Netherfield Park.”
“Netherfield Park?” Gallagher asked excitedly. “And where is that?”
“In Hertfordshire, sir.”
“Thank you, Vessey,” the Constable said as he climbed back astride Abacus.
Gallagher rode on through Buckstone, Holly Springs, and Hillingshire practically without stopping to rest and eventually arrived in Grantley Village that evening around midnight. As his arrival was quite unannounced, his wife was pleasantly shocked to see him, and he was glad to see her—especially so that he found her in their bed alone. He spent three days at home and in his shop, catching up on backorders, before departing for Hertfordshire.
On the second day of his journey, just before he crossed the River Trent outside Nottingham, he was set upon by a band of three highwaymen. Thanks, however, to the fine conditioning and robust speed of Abacus, they were able to cause him no harm. In two more days’ time he arrived in Meryton and took lodging in the inn. That evening, he hired a horse to save Abacus the exhaustion he did not spare himself and rode out in the direction of Netherfield Park.
While it was nothing to the grandeur of Pemberley, Netherfield was an impressive estate situated in unanticipated seclusion, given its relative proximity to the village. The back half of the property appeared, by moonlight, to be shrouded in woods, with a large hedge dividing the lane from the garden. Gallagher tied the hired horse to the gate and went round toward the hedge, as the property was not walled off. Quietly, he approached the house and saw that it was, indeed, closed up for winter, and appeared that it been for some time. Peering inside the low windows on the ground floor, he observed furniture covered by cloths and rolled rugs. The Constable strolled to the back by the garden and had a look about. There were a few outbuildings beyond the hedge, some of which of the larger variety—likely to be the location of the stables and coach house.
When he found the carriage house, he was confounded once again to find it locked. In the thicket nearby, he found a rock that would, perhaps, serve well to break the latch. After several firm strikes, the lock bent, and the Constable was able to pry open the door. The very first thing his eyes beheld in what moonlight the doors allowed to penetrate was a brougham—black with gold trim and a decorative stripe across the side. A cheeky smile spread on his lips: he had found his man.
He closed the door behind him and, just as thoughts danced before him of the ways he would spend his reward from Mr. Hurst, he was hit squarely as he had not been since scrapping as a young lad. Staggering backwards he was hit again—from where he could not tell—and fell to the ground. A burlap sack was placed over his head and his arms were pulled tight behind his back where his hands were fastened with a cord. Warm blood ran from his nose into his mouth and as much as he wished to question the nature of this assault, a moan was all his battered frame was able to muster. His attacker took a deep breath and then all went black.
When Gallagher awoke, he could not help but perceive a raging headache and at the same moment realized that he was restrained and unable to move. As he shifted in his seat, he let out an inadvertent groan.
“He is awake,” a familiar voice remarked. “Maitla—young man, would you please?”
The hood was snatched off his head. Gallagher found himself in a candlelit room with no windows. He was seated in a wooden kitchen chair, his arms and legs secured to it. The man before him was tall and lean and seemed in the candlelight rather young and handsome, too. He bent down near him and carefully blotted the Constable’s lip with a cold rag.
“Mr. Gallagher?” asked that familiar voice once more. “How badly are you hurt?”
“Not seriously… at least I think not.”
“Your nose is not broken.”
“Well thank the devil for that,” he answered with a wince as the man pressed the chilled fabric to his cheek.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I was attacked!”
“No, not in this room Constable—why are you at Netherfield Park?”
“I am conducting an inquiry into the murder of Sir Andrew Fraser of Grantley Manor and was attempting to identify a coach that had been used in the killer’s flight.”
“I told you we should have burned it,” the voice said—the Constable was so certain he had heard it recently but in the muddle of his pained mind he could not place it. There was no answer.
“Where am I?”
“Not twenty yards from where you were discovered.”
“Mr. Bingley ?” he asked in horror.
“I warned you, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Please, do not hurt me,” came the anxious reply. “I have a family—”
The Constable could hear Bingley sigh. With a jolt, a chair slid close to him, as the young man who had tended him moved aside. For the first time, he could make out the face of Charles Bingley, and he was taken aback by the amalgam of sternness and warmth he saw there.
“I try to make out—what kind of man are you?” Bingley mused.
“I confess, I have been trying to do the same with you.”
Bingley bit the inside of his lip and nodded. “If you were truly motivated by an inner sense of justice, you would not have abandoned your quest on my doorstep all those months ago.”
“Sir—”
Bingley held up his hand. “But if you were only motivated by financial means, you would certainly not be traipsing the country in every direction. You would collect what you might while living a life in London you have only previously dreamt of. At fifty pounds per month, at the conclusion of six months, you would be fairly flush in the pockets and could return home and live on however you wish. Yet here we are.”
“How do you know about fifty pounds per month?”
“And your benefactor—Mr. Hurst ?”
The Constable nearly choked on his saliva.
“Let me be direct with you, Mr. Gallagher,” started Bingley. “I have no inclination to hurt you.” Gallagher’s eyes closed instinctively, and a tear ran down his cheek. “And I shall not, if you will but listen to me.”
Looking up, Gallagher was relieved to see kindness in Bingley’s expression. “Mr. Bingley—”
“ Only listen . In exchange for your life, I expect that you will agree to cease and desist in pursuit of my arrest, but I dare to believe that you are, at heart, a man of character and a man of true justice, and that upon hearing my word, you would not wish to pursue it. I freely admit to you that I killed Andrew Fraser in his bedroom. It was I who used his horse to flee into the grove, and I who left a bucket of water for the animal. I then entered my coach and rode on to Pemberley through Lambton, where in near-freezing rain I bequeathed a barefoot, old stable keeper the pair of boots which might have ultimately led to my downfall. As you might well know, I am a close friend of Fitzwilliam Darcy, who allowed me to rest at his family’s estate during this time, but with no knowledge of my activities. I further confess in your presence that the blood of more men has been shed at my hand—Sir Eoin Walters of Northumberland, Thomas Abbott, Member of Parliament, and Lord Bertram St. John, the Earl of Canterbury.” In the dark, Bingley witnessed Gallagher’s eyes grow the size of plums. “But though I may be a killer , I am certainly not a murderer .”
“Mr. Bingley… I am completely bewildered,” the cobbler sputtered.
Bingley shifted back in his seat and crossed one leg over the other. “Is the hangman a murderer?”
“No, sir—he meets out justice.”
“Yet, he kills.”
“That he does.”
“If the hangman kills in the administration of justice, then, his actions cannot therefore be considered criminal, true?”
“Not if he acts in accordance with the law.”
“And what if the law is corrupt?”
“Mr. Bingley, what are you suggesting?”
“That a perversion of the law is paramount to a perversion of justice.”
“I do not understand,” Gallagher muttered.
“Sir Andrew Fraser, along with the other men I mentioned and several others who live still—similarly powerful men with lofty connections—have been party to an extra-legal cabal, the likes of which I stumbled upon quite unwillingly two years ago. These men had developed an enterprise, dealing under the cover of night and the protection offered by their rank, in the trade of young maidens—persuaded to leave the safekeeping of their dear families for the prospects of riches and love, only to be violated and murdered in the most heinous fashions imaginable. To date, sir, we are aware of the murder of twenty-seven young ladies at the hands of these gentlemen—though they are certainly unworthy of the title.”
The Constable heaved and swallowed. “How is this possible?”
“Mr. Wilshere, here, can furnish you with details of the nasty business,” answered Bingley. “Maitland, release Mr. Gallagher and pour him some brandy, please.”
When he was freed from his restrains and had promptly downed his drink, Wilshere came forth and presented the Constable with an overview of the whole plot, including evidence that connected each man to particular crimes. Andrew Fraser, for one, had written in an intercepted letter to Eoin Walters, that he personally dispatched eleven young women by slitting their throats after he had ravished them. Their remains were hidden in thickets or dumped unceremoniously in rivers or the sea, everywhere from Grantley Manor to Ramsgate and even Birmingham. More than anything, in reading these letters and documents, Gallagher was left somewhere between enraged and completely numb at the wanton callousness with which these heinous crimes had been committed. None of these men exhibited the slightest regret or even hesitancy. Rather, they boasted in the brilliance of their plan and even the fact that the randomness of their abductions offered little chance that their deeds would ever be detected. They vaunted their rank and their power and bragged of the staggering magnitude of their ever-growing victim count, as if they were keeping a running tally at fives.
“Would you open the door, please?” Gallagher called toward Maitland as he suddenly stood and rushed outside. He barely cleared the threshold of the shed before he was on all fours as if he’d be sick. After a few moments of heaving, he made his way to his feet and back inside. “My apologies,” he uttered, taking his chair once more.
“It is a most vile revelation, is it not?” Bingley asked.
“Abominable,” replied the Constable.
Bingley nodded, then turned to Maitland: “Would you fetch some water, please?”
“I’ve some right here,” the man answered as he passed his canteen to Gallagher.
“Many thanks.”
“So, I will enquire your judgement, having now the necessary information at hand: am I to be considered a murderer?”
The Constable gulped down some water, then levelled his eyes at Bingley and said, “You, sir, are an angel of the Lord.”
“Though it certainly does not feel so, at times,” answered Bingley with a sigh, leaning back in his chair.
“What am I to do, then?” Gallagher enquired.
“You will go back to your benefactor, Mr. Hurst, and declare that your investigation has been solved conclusively. The killer was a highwayman named Garrett Surman—he was hanged for other crimes a fortnight ago.”
“And this is truth?”
“Aye, Garrett Surman was hanged in Doncaster. It is a matter of public record.”
“My scruples will prevent me from taking the reward that would be due me.”
“Then deny it and let that serve as a testament to your character,” responded Bingley. “And be confident that you shall be forever in my favour, and I give you my word that your family shall never be in need.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And one last matter I wish to broach with you.”
“Of course.”
“I should like you to take a month to return to your family and your home—rest and consider a proposition, carefully . After that time, and not before, write me to inform me if you would accept a position in my employ.”
“Mr. Bingley, I am honoured, but I—”
“I do not wish for a response until a month has passed. You have demonstrated the depth and quality of your character, your alacrity, and your perspicacity. It would be my honour to employ your various gifts toward the purpose of ending this evil business once and for all, but again, I wish you only to rest and consider for now.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Constable answered. “Whilst I will not yet give a reply, I would like to acknowledge that I am honoured by your proposal.”
The two men shook hands.
The entire party spent the night at Netherfield Park before setting out at dawn: Bingley and his men for London and Gallagher for his room in Meryton. The Constable had tea and bread ordered to his room and after supping voraciously, slept until late in the afternoon. When he awoke, he laid in the bed for what seemed an aeon, grappling with the discoveries which had been foisted upon him in such strange circumstances the previous evening. Though Mr. Bingley required that he not commit himself for a period of four weeks, Gallagher was indeed a man of virtue and action, and as such would be incapable of standing by whilst such depravation went unchecked. He considered his own position in society; he thought of his own daughters. When he finally arose, he washed his face and proceeded downstairs to the inn for dinner. He was greeted and handed a sealed envelope by the innkeeper. Inside was a note that read: “Rest and nothing else,” and was simply signed “B.” Beneath the paper were two ten-pound notes.