CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was decided that very evening or, perhaps it was early that morning, that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Wilshere would return after the week to London for Christmas, while Mr. Maitland was to set out immediately for Valencia in pursuit of Lord St. John. Maitland’s mission was one exclusively of reconnaissance, as firm direction was given him not to encounter the Lord or Lady directly in any way. He was to attempt to ascertain their travel itinerary and report back to England. For his part, Mr. Bingley would spend a few days nursing his bruises, and then return to the company of his sisters, Mr. Hurst, and naturally, the Darcys for the Christmas festivities.
The day after his nearly untimely death, Mr. Bingley discovered that at some point during the course of his venture his right boot had been severely damaged, the sole being nearly torn from the heel. Once they had returned to town, he sent Mr. Wilshere directly to Chambers Cordwainer shop to have it mended.
Upon entering the shop, he was greeted with a courteous wave by the man who normally oversaw the steward’s requirements, Mr. Chambers’s son Alfred, who was at present tending to another patron. By the look of Alfred’s glance, Wilshere ascertained that the other guest must have been somewhat tiresome. The man was of medium build and more commonly dressed than was usual in a shop of such high standards.
“Mr. Gallagher you must excuse me,” the shop owner’s son spoke up. “I have gainful clients that I must attend to. I have done everything in my power to satisfy the demands of your most unconventional inquiry, and at this point, I do cordially request that you take your leave.”
“You will not have heard the last of me,” Gallagher declared with a finger pointed toward the sky. He turned in Wilshere’s direction just as the steward lifted his Lord’s broken boot from the canvas bag around his shoulder. The Constable’s eyes were immediately drawn to it as he passed and exited the door.
“What the devil was that about?” Wilshere queried, placing the boot on the counter.
“Hard to say,” replied Alfred, taking the boot in his hands. “Oddly enough, he was asking about this very collection of boots—and my, what a problem have we here!”
“Yes, indeed,” Wilshere answered, chuckling as the sole dangled from boot.
“How did this happen?”
“A riding accident, I suppose you could say.”
“Oh dear, I hope Mr. Bingley is not hurt,” Alfred exclaimed.
“No, not nearly as badly as the boot,” quipped Wilshere.
With a courteous laugh, Alfred said, “Unfortunately, Mr. Wilshere, our cobbler is not yet in. I can have him mend it this evening, and have a boy run it to your address first thing in the morning, if that does not inconvenience you.”
“Of course not,” Wilshere answered. “And what is the charge?”
“For a patron like Mr. Bingley, I would happily repair this gratis, along with a wish for his speedy recovery. After all, this is not the first shoe your master has purchased here.”
“And shan’t be the last, I can assure you.”
“In fact, if I recall correctly, Mr. Bingley purchased several of the pairs in this very line, did he not?”
“Yes, sir,” confirmed the steward.
“And the rest are in fine condition, I do hope?”
“Yes, perfect condition. He rather has a habit of muddying them, but nothing a good polish does not solve.”
“Ah, that suits me very well,” said Alfred as he extended his hand. “Please give my regards to Mr. Bingley and expect this repair to your door by nine in the morning.”
“Of course, and thank you again.”
Wilshere left the shop and departed down the lane, his thoughts occupied with other errands and more pressing matters. The Constable lurking in the shadows by the shop windows escaped his notice completely. Presently, Gallager slunk back to the inn where he would lodge with questions and ideas heavy on his mind.
Next morning, he waited on a stoop near Chambers Cordwainer, and watched the early morning hustle and bustle when, at ten minutes to eight, he saw a young boy enter the shop, collect a box big enough to hold a boot, and exit heading in the direction of Mayfair. Gallagher followed the unwitting errand boy through throngs and down alleys, artfully evading oncoming carriages and mounted riders alike. Finally, rounding the promenade of Grosvenor Square, the young boy stopped, looked down at his package and checked his whereabouts. The Constable seized this momentary pause as the opportunity to make his move.
“To whom does this package belong, lad?” He asked, gruffly gripping the young lad by the shoulder.
The boy looked up in terror: “I do not know sir—I was hired by Alfred Chambers to deliver it to this address.” He pointed at the label on top of the box. “I believe it’s located right across the way, sir, in Grosvenor Street.”
“And you have no name attached to it?”
“No, sir,” squawked the frightened youth.
“Give it here,” Gallagher demanded, taking it brusquely from the boy’s hands.
“But sir, I shan’t be paid until I bring a receipt of delivery.”
“How much is your charge?”
“Five pence, sir.”
“Well, here—take twenty,” Gallagher scratched the coins from his coat pocket. “And you never met with me.”
“Thank you, sir,” the lad quivered as he ran off with his exponentially inflated wages in his dirt-stained hands.
The Constable checked the box over and even peaked inside it—sure enough, a single boot from the Marylebone Collection of Xavier Pritchard’s making. It was polished and gleaming—a near exact replica of the number twelve boot which Gallagher held in his inn room as critical evidence. He quickly checked the underside of the tongue and found the Roman numeral fourteen etched into the leather. This boot was of the last-made pair in the collection, and only two digits off from the pair recovered in Lambton, the pair doubtlessly worn by the killer of Sir Andrew Fraser. A thrill of excitement and nerves shot up Gallagher’s leg. He went on to find the address and knock at the front door of the appropriately numbered row-house—it was ten minutes to nine.
“Good morning, sir,” a most formal voice announced as the door opened a moment later. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” the Constable started, checking his voice for nerves, “I have a delivery from Chambers Cordwainer.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the servant, extending his hand for the box. Gallagher kept it closely tucked under his arm. “I apologize, but are we in arrears for the delivery?”
“No, of course not,” the cobbler-constable-courier stuttered. “But I have strict orders to release it only personally to your master—is he home?”
“Mr. Bingley is not in at present, sir.”
“Ah, and what is your name?”
“I am Ridley, the footman.”
“Pleasant to meet you, Ridley—is the master’s steward at leisure?”
“Mr. Wilshere?”
“Yes, of course—Mr. Wilshere.”
“May I ask your name that I may inform him who is calling.”
“Naturally—I am Constable Gallagher from the village of Grantley.”
The footman looked him over with apprehension. “Since when does a cobbler send a constable to deliver a boot?”
Gallagher nearly choked on his own stupidity but was able to regather himself and even managed to bluff. “Mr. Ridley, I say that I am a constable, though in truth, I only volunteer as such. My profession is indeed as a cobbler, and I was in town inquiring as to some of the finest boots in England, and came across the Chambers shop. Well, in only what detail is vital, I convinced Mr. Chambers to allow me to conduct a little… survey , you might call it, of some of his finer patrons.”
“A survey, you say?”
“Yes—a survey! That I might learn the particular tastes of London’s finest and most fashionable gentlemen, in the hopes of…of improving my own humble trade.”
“You will have to wait here,” the footman answered sternly.
“May I come in?”
Ridley nodded and held the door open into the marvellous townhouse. “I will see if Mr. Wilshere is available to speak with you.”
“Thank you very kindly.”
“Wait here, please.”
Once the footman had gone down the hall and out of sight round a corner, Gallagher began to observe the town house of the gentleman. Could this man, whoever he was, be capable of the sort of butchery he had witnessed at Grantley Manor? The home was lavishly adorned in the latest fashions; there was not a hint of the steady, voluminous acquisition of wealth which was commonplace in homes such as the late Sir Andrew Fraser’s. Taking into account that this was but a town home, he still could not but ponder that there were no portraits, no heirlooms, no antiquities. Everything about the place from the style of the carpet runners to the Egyptian-themed sofas betrayed the vain self-importance of the nouveau riche . The Constable wondered at what kind of man this Mr. Bingley could possibly be, though he did find himself conceding that the man’s choice of boots surely was more sensible than his choice of furnishings, even if they might have been equally extravagant.
At this moment, he detected footsteps from the direction whereby the footman had disappeared, and abruptly perceived that he was in far beyond his depth. His knees quivered beneath him, and his mouth was suddenly devoid of moisture. Glancing up the curling staircase, his eye catching the gleam of sunlight in the cut-glass and ormolu chandelier over his head, he lost all nerve and was across the street before the steward approached the hall.
Wilshere stood for a moment, then peered out the window and saw the cobbler-constable timorously crossing the park back in the direction of Marylebone. He had dropped the boot inside the front door before his hasty departure.
“What name did he give, Ridley?” Wilshere asked with a scowl.
“Gallagher,” answered the footman. “From Grantley.”
“We shall have to make inquiries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I surely hope the good constable is mindful of the imbroglio into which he has just thrust himself.” Ridley said not a word. With a hardly concealed snarl, Wilshere turned and disappeared back down the hall.