CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
That same morning, the bell chimed as the door swung open into Mr. Gallagher’s cobbler shop. The Cobbler-Constable glanced up from the work in his hands to see a well habilimented gentleman enter slowly, as if unsure he was in the right place. The man disinterestedly tapped a thin layer of snow from his shoes on the mat just inside the door.
“May I help you, sir?”
The gentleman nodded slightly as he removed his hat. He was portly and balding; and for all his apparent wealth, was rather dishevelled in appearance.
“Are you Gallagher?”
“Aye, sir.”
“The Gallagher who has been investigating the mur—or shall I say, death ?— of Sir Andrew Fraser?”
“I am he.”
“Fine,” the stranger pronounced, while looking about with obvious distaste for his surroundings. “May I ask why you have taken such an interest in the case?”
“Erm, well, sir,” the cobbler stuttered, “it is a matter of justice.”
“ Justice , you say?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Tell me then, have you been compensated for your troubles?”
“I have, to an extent,” Gallagher answered. The man chewed the inside of his cheek and looked around again before walking closer to the bench where the shop keeper was seated. “I have primarily been reimbursed for expenses.”
“Primarily?”
“Aye, sir,” replied the cobbler. “I do have a family to feed.”
“Understood,” the imposing visitor said flatly, still avoiding eye contact completely. “Then why has your inquest ceased?”
Gallagher grappled with his reply. “May I ask, sir, what is your interest in the whole affair?”
“ Justice .”
He finally looked down at the seated cobbler and locked eyes with him. Gallagher was slightly intimidated; at the same time, he repressed a sudden urge to laugh at the grandiose display of gravity. Now that the man was close enough, he wondered if he smelled of drink. It was only ten in the morning.
“I will ask you once more,” the serious stranger continued, “why have you halted your investigation?”
“It seemed to be nearing a dead end.”
“It did?—Or you wished it to be at an end?”
The cobbler swallowed the lump in his throat. “May I help you in some way, sir?”
“I would like to compensate you for your time,” said the man, looming over the shop owner. “I would like you to finish the investigation.”
“I do not mean any offense or insult at all, but before I answer, I would like to have a plainer understanding of your interest in the case. Are you a relation to Sir Andrew?”
The man’s head shook. “A friend.”
“I see.”
“Is it possible, in your estimation, for the task to be completed within six months?”
“I believe so, sir, but—”
“Is fifty pounds per month sufficient?”
“Fifty pounds per month?” gasped the cobbler.
“In addition to your expenses, and of course, a handsome reward at the proper conclusion of your inquiry.” Gallagher stared up at him with eyes aghast. “Naturally, you would follow the investigation wherever it might lead—to the very end of the road, and within six months’ time.”
“I must have your name, sir.”
“Hurst.”
“It would be my honour, Mr. Hurst.”