CHAPTER FIVE
Constable Gallagher sat in the tavern and imbibed all that evening. The pile of shoes in disrepair strewn across his workbench could be neglected in favour of drink for one night. His wife and four sprightly children would be momentarily neglected, as well. He sat alone, the grisly image of the deceased gentleman burned into his memory, a portrait of such vile obscenity more dreadful than he might have ever imagined in a hundred lifetimes. Being that there was no professional police force in Derbyshire—or anywhere in England, for that matter—it would ultimately fall upon the shoulders of Sir Andrew’s relations to track down his killer. Gallagher was simply a volunteer, who felt it was his duty to town and country to serve in whatever small capacity he might. To this point in his five-year term as Constable, he had made but a single arrest—a meddlesome youth from a destitute family who was caught poaching chickens from the Darcy estate at Pemberley. The boy, who was not yet fourteen, had fled when confronted, and was arrested days later by Gallagher after he was spotted hiding in an outbuilding near Andrew Fraser’s estate. The young man was subsequently adjudged to be whipped by the cart’s tail, until his sentence was commuted on the supplication of Mr. Darcy, himself, who upon learning of the wretched condition of the boy’s family, made arrangements to secure the father and his son a small living on the Pemberley Estate itself. Needless to say, this singular experience had not prepared the good Constable for the gruesome scene he had earlier witnessed, nor for the feeling that he might in some capacity be responsible to aid in bringing the depraved killer to justice.
As he sat and found the bottom of yet another lager, an elderly coach driver walked through the door and sat a couple tables over. The driver was well-dressed and cheerful, but worn and stiff-limbed. A drink was brought to him by the barmaid, who received a toothless grin in exchange. It was immediately evident to the Constable that the elderly coachman was in want of society, most likely having travelled a considerable length of time in no one’s company but his own thoughts. The old man leaned this way and that, attempting to eavesdrop and thus insert himself into any conversation that might have allowed it. His success was rare, aside from the occasional cordial gesture or civil rebuff. It was not until he overheard Dier, the hog farmer, and Hedge, the post rider, recounting details of the prevalent topic of the murder of a nobleman in the county the previous evening, that the aged traveller realized the feat of conversance which had to that point eluded him.
“A murder? In Derbyshire ?” he queried in disbelief.
“Aye, sir,” answered Dier. “Sir Andrew Fraser, lord of Grantley Manor.”
“A gentleman?”
“Aye,” Hedge replied. “And one of the most prominent in the county.”
“What abhorrent news!”
“We concur,” Dier added.
“Has the murdered been apprehended?” asked the driver.
“No, sir,” said Hedge. “I am unaware of any suspects in the matter whatsoever.”
“How odious,” cried the old man. He then continued on before another party could add a word. “I’m curious, if you possess the knowledge, and do not object to say—what was the manner in which the crime was carried out?”
“The lord’s gullet was cut from ear to ear whilst he lie own bed,” Hedge responded with a shiver.
“Ghastly,” declared the visitor. “Ghastly, and in every respect, ghastly! ”
“Aye,” the swine breeder answered. “From what I’ve heard, it was an adept and single slash—nearly identically how one might slaughter a pig.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye.”
“And you’ve experience in that field?”
“Near this time every annum,” Dier answered.
“Can you account for your whereabouts last night, in that case?”
“What are you, a travelling constable?”
With a hearty laugh, the old man replied, “Funny thought, indeed! I drive the coach for Sir John Walters of Northumberland. He reposes as we speak, and we continue on toward London on business at first light.”
Hedge laughed boisterously and slapped his mate on the shoulder. “Don’t be so serious, Dier!”
“Do you mean to intimate that I am involved in a murder simply due to my occupation?”
“I do not mean to suggest any such thing,” the driver answered. “I apologize for any offence I may have inflicted to your pride, sir. I am sure that you are the most respectable and law-abiding sort of man.”
“And you, sir, mustn’t be so high-minded as regards our friend, Dier,” Hedge bellowed. “He was far too tap-hackled to have any kind of slaughter on his mind last night!” Dier chewed the inside of his cheek. “Poor bastard hardly made it home and he lives but a stone’s throw up the lane!”
“That’s enough,” Dier spoke harshly. “I accept your apology, sir, but I refuse to be party to another word of your bag of moonshine, particularly as I don’t know you from Adam—”
“Rawden Acton, at your service,” the driver interrupted, extending a hand. Dier shook it reluctantly. “Please do pardon my intrusion into your evening, I have been alone atop a coach for nearly ten hours, with no companions but the horses, and they are not nearly as fond of conversation while being whipped as one might imagine.”
“Pleasure,” Hedge said, extending his own hand.
“Pleasure,” Acton answered. “I merely breached propriety and intervened in your conversation because I believe that it may, in fact, hold an uncanny interest to my master.”
“How so?” asked Dier.
“Allow me a moment’s courtesy of, at once, ordering another cider and also asking one further clarifying question.”
“Certainly,” said Hedge, who was by this point growing simultaneously curious and half-sprung.
Once the barmaid fetched the driver a fresh mug of cider, the driver continued: “Did the devil by any chance steal a horse?—and before you answer, let me pose a guess—a fine horse, a stallion?”
“By God, yes he did!” Hedge blustered.
“Not precisely,” Dier stated. “He—”
“Discarded it in the wood by the road,” Acton said, eyes suddenly illuminated and halcyon.
“How did you—?”
“Did he leave it a bucket of fresh water?”
Hedge slapped the table, nearly flinging their drinks onto the patrons at the neighbouring table.
“How the devil did you come by such knowledge, sir?” Dier demanded.
“My first master, the late Eoin Walters, was murdered in the very same fashion not twelve months past.”
Constable Gallagher suddenly found the table in front of him sliding out and his own derriere crashing to the stone floor. He looked up in befuddlement at the post-man, the coach-man, and the swine-man from his posterior.