CHAPTER TWENTY
It was considerably warm for the last day of November. Constable Gallagher left the inn where he had spent the night in Skeldergate and crossed the River Ouse. He walked up Market Street and turned into Jubbergate, as he had been directed. Several turns and alleys later, he found himself into the centre of the Shambles, shops and inns to each side. Having turned himself around admirably, he asked a young boy for directions to Xavier Prichard’s cobbler shop. He was informed that he was standing directly outside its door. Once inside the dark, musty shop he rang the bell, as not a soul attended the front. Crumpled papers littered the bespattered floor and dust floated listlessly through what light the murky windows allowed to pass.
“Yes?” called a feeble voice from the back.
“Pardon me, but I am in search of Mr. Prichard,” asked the Constable.
“Which one?”
“Xavier.”
“May I tell him who is calling?”
“Constable Luther Gallagher, from Grantley.”
“A constable?”
“Yes, sir,” Gallagher answered as a cat nimbly jumped to the counter in front of him.
“Is Mr. Prichard in trouble with the law?”
“No, of course not—”
“Well, that’s surprising!”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me truly—what’s the old man done now— murdered someone ?”
“May I ask with whom I speak?” Gallagher called, a bit perturbed by what seemed to be insolence. He petted the cat mindlessly and looked about him—in truth, it was hard to believe such fine boots came from a shop such as this.
“Mr. Prichard,” the frail voice answered.
“Which one?”
“Now you’re learning!”
A door creaked open and an old man, decrepit and skinny, emerged hobbling from around the corner. Gallagher winced instinctively. The man with whom he’d been speaking was dressed poorly, both in style and in substance. His breeches were ripped at the knee, his shirt untidy and stained, and his hair uncombed and greasy. One eye was brown while the other was clouded by a cataract, and his eyebrows were long and wild.
“Xavier Prichard, at your service,” he said, extending a limp hand.
“Xavier Prichard?” Gallagher repeated in disbelief while observing in full the slovenly shopkeeper. The old man looked around the shop in confusion. “Are you quite alright?” asked Gallagher.
“Yes, but you asked for Xavier Prichard!”
“I only repeated what you said.”
“And what did I say?”
“You said that you were Xavier Prichard.”
“And so I am,” he remarked with a giddy chortle.
Gallagher glanced down at the old man’s hands—liver spots, oddly spaced patches of hair, and filth under his fingernails. “You are the cordwainer —Xavier Prichard?”
The cat suddenly hissed.
“Ah!—be gone with you, Dillweed!” the old man shouted as he pushed the cat indelicately to the floor. “Petulant little hellion. Yes, I am the cordwainer, Xavier Prichard—why do you keep asking me?”
“Please infer no offense, sir, but,” Gallagher struggled to find a deferential way to express his thoughts, “to be frank, I would never have imagined that a shoe as fine as yours would be fabricated in a shop such as this.”
“You believe my shoes are fine?” the old man’s eyes widened.
“I am a cobbler, myself, sir, and your product is amongst the finest I have ever seen in the whole of my experience.”
“Why, I thank you. It is very kind of you to say so. Now, may I ask, to which part of your statement might I have taken offense?”
Gallagher’s eyes drifted around the unkempt room before, with a raise of an eyebrow and an obliging smile he said, “Nothing at all, sir. From one craftsman to another, your work is simply marvellous.”
“Thank you once more,” answered the old shopkeeper. “Now, may I fit you with a pair?”
“Thank you, sir, but no. I am here on official duty.”
“Sounds serious,” Prichard murmured, leaning forward on the counter. “Are you sure that I am in no trouble?”
“No, of course, not. I need to learn if there is any chance you could inform me of who might have purchased a particular pair of boots from your shop.”
With that, the Constable reached in his bag and pulled out the suspected killer’s boots. He placed them on the counter. Prichard smiled broadly. “Ah, my boys,” he declared fondly, “I see that you have been well cared for.” He took the left boot in his hands and twirled it around, observing it from all angles.
“Can you tell me who might have purchased it?”
“It is from the Marylebone Collection, though I am not sure why I would have picked such a silly name,” he mused. “An order of fourteen pairs of boots—you see here?—” asked Prichard as he peeled back the inside of the boot’s tongue. The Constable nodded. There was a mark he had hitherto not observed—a Roman numeral twelve. “This is pair number twelve of fourteen—you see?—this is how I mark the pairs, so I remember how many I have made! Ingenious, is it not?”
Gallagher smiled and nodded politely. “Can you tell me who ordered them?”
“For the life of me, I could not remember that. It would have been spring or summer, but beyond that I cannot recall.” The Constable bit his lip in frustration at this news. “I suppose we might have some luck if we went down to records.”
“Records?” Gallagher repeated.
“Yes, the records department, why do you ask?”
“You keep records of all your transactions?”
“Naturally,” Prichard replied. “They are just through here,” the old man said, waving an arm as he walked round the counter to the side where the Constable stood. Prichard knelt down and began sorting through a heap of loose parchment crumpled about the floor. “Help me, help me,” he called, “but not over there—those are last year’s books.”
Gallagher knelt down and began opening and smoothing the crinkled papers. Dillweed, the cat, even managed to lazily paw through some of them. To the Constable’s astonishment, the eccentric old man kept meticulous records of every pair of boots sold, repaired, or even inquired after, on sheets of paper which he then crinkled and tossed about his shop floor. What appeared initially to be random piles of rubbish on the floor were, in fact, organized by quarter and even by month.
“Here it is, here it is,” declared Prichard. “Marylebone collection, fourteen pairs.”
“And does it say for whom they were ordered?” Gallagher asked excitedly.
“Chambers Cordwainer, Limited, in Marylebone, London,” he responded, moving the paper closer and further from his eyes to help bring it into focus. Then, with a giddy laugh he said, “The silly collection name makes more sense now.”
“So, you produced these for a shop in London?”
“It appears so. Chambers is not a proper cordwainer, I tell you. He’s more of a merchant now than a proper shoemaker—caters to the rich, even to the royals.”
“Fascinating,” Gallagher answered. “Well, thank you very much. You’ve been ever so helpful.”
“No trouble at all,” Prichard laughed. “From one shoe enthusiast to another!”
“I thank you again,” replied Gallagher, collecting the boots he’d brought from the counter.
“Please latch the door on your way out. I don’t want any dust to blow in—I have had to sweep the floor twice already this annum!”
Gallagher shook his head and made sure to firmly close the door behind him. He walked up the crowed lane with a smile on his face, even though it was now apparent that a trip to London was in his future after all.