CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The first of May had passed, and the air was filled with the bustle of spring—Londoners of all classes taking in the first significant warm stretch that year. The leaves all around gleamed in their freshly birthed hues of light green and flowers burst forth, vivid in both colour and fragrance. Against this backdrop, parked under the low-hanging foliage of an acacia tree just a block from the Bingleys’ front door, Constable Gallagher waited patiently for the gentleman’s emergence. As his horse snorted and shifted under him, he was careful to stroke its mane and whisper calming nothings in its ear.
At half-past twelve, a young boy led a fine horse up the street from the opposite direction and stopped directly in front of the Bingley residence. Gallagher observed the front door open, and through it emerged a fine-looking gentleman, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was tall, but not unusually so, and of a lively complexion. Sandy-coloured curls leaked out from the sides of his Wellington cap. Adorning his feet—even from a great distance Gallagher was positive—were the Marylebone Collection boots from Chambers Cordwainer. Before mounting his horse, the gentleman paused and leaned down to the stableboy’s level. They shared a fierce laugh over something before the man tousled the boy’s hair and flipped him a coin. The lad ran off in the direction he had come from, while the gentleman smiled from ear to ear, massaging the horse’s neck while looking all around him in seeming delight. Gallagher turned his shoulder as to be more properly concealed by the shrubbery around him but marvelled at the young man’s bright disposition. Surely, from all the accounts he had of physical description, this was indeed Mr. Bingley. But could this man be a killer? However unlikely it seemed, Gallagher had sworn a vow to follow the investigation wherever it might lead. He had spent the previous two months ruling out the first eleven pairs—four were shipped to France, three had made their way to New York, one was in possession of George Byng, 4th Viscount of Torrington, who at the time he acquired them, was seventy-one years old and infirm, another three were buried with their owners prior to the murder of Sir Fraser. That left pairs number twelve—the boots used during the crime—thirteen, which were unaccounted for, and fourteen—the pair worn by Mr. Charles Bingley.
After another moment of quiet revelry, Bingley was nimbly installed atop the horse and off at a meandering trot down the lane. With a sharp kick to his horse’s side, the Constable emerged from his hiding place and began to follow Bingley at a canter. Within several blocks of Hyde Park, Gallagher was able to slow his gait to the point that he gently came up alongside Mr. Bingley, who seemed at the present moment quite diverted, and agreeably so.
“Hello, sir,” the Constable called, pulling even with the gentleman.
“Why, how do you do?” Bingley answered cheerfully, turning his gaze from the sky and the trees to the man who had approached him.
“Well sir, and you?”
“Quite well, indeed! Pardon me, but have we been introduced?”
“Unfortunately, we have not. I do apologize for the impropriety—”
“No need to apologize. I gather that you are a proper gentleman. Charles Bingley.” With that, Bingley outstretched his hand across his body. The Constable took it in his briefly.
“Luther Gallagher. I am pleased to meet you.”
“And you, as well,” Bingley said with a quizzical smile. “Do you fancy a ride through the park? Having been in town as long as I, a proper excursion in nature does much good for my soul—particularly in weather as glorious as we have today.”
“I could not agree more. I’ve been in London but a week and already pine for my life in the country.”
“Ah, yes—I find that country life is ideal. I would spend all my time there if I was able.”
“I feel the same myself. If you do not mind me saying, sir, that is one beautiful stepper.”
“Oh, you mean Quinton?” Bingley asked as he patted the horse’s neck. “He’s a fine one, indeed. I dare say he loves the freedom of the country as much as I.”
“I would wager he does,” Gallagher answered as they approached the narrowed lanes of the park. “He is much finer than the bone-setters I am accustomed to.”
“Your mare does not appear too shabby,” complimented Bingley.
“She is rented for my time here in town.”
“So, I see.”
“I must say, those are stunning boots, as well,” Gallagher commented.
“Oh, why thank you!”
“Absolutely top-of-the-trees. Where might someone go about the purchase of such a fine pair?”
“Somewhere in London, from what I am told.”
“Is that so?” the Constable asked, feigning sincerity.
“My steward buys them at my behest. He has an intimate knowledge of both my foot size and my preferences.”
They crossed a small wooden bridge and into a thicker type of overhang. The sun only peaked through the dense frondescence overhead. Around a small bend they paced, at times, brushing hanging tree limbs away from their faces.
“Your steward does you credit. A man must be fairly flush in the pockets to afford a pair of gems like them, I would say. I bet you’ve got three pairs of them.”
“Sir, I would like to think that I am not so high in the in-step as to boast—”
“Of course, not,” cut in Gallagher. “I would not think it so. My allusion to your apparent wealth was meant as a compliment, but I am afraid that I made a mull of it.”
“No need to apologize, Mr. Gallagher,” Bingley chirped. “No offense taken at all.”
The Constable was carefully noting every gesture, every word that came from the gentleman’s mouth, and none of it seemed to add up in his mind. Could this man of high breeding, intelligence, and complaisance really be the person guilty of climbing into Andrew Fraser’s bedroom window and slitting his throat in the most grotesque way while he slept, only to evanesce with the only trace of him being a single muddy boot print? Why, the sadistic killer had even watered Sully—
A lump rose in Gallagher’s throat so quickly than he nearly lost his balance on his horse.
“Are you quite all right?” Bingley queried.
“Yes, yes, I am fine,” stammered Gallagher. “Only lost my grip a moment.”
The killer had watered the getaway horse . The same monster who had ripped open his Lord’s neck had also watered his horse, perhaps out of concern that the creature might not be found immediately. A renewed sense of terror overtook him as he casually glanced across to his riding partner. This was the type of man who would water the horse . The Constable did his best not to betray with his visage the frigid chill that ran up his spine. The path took a turn into even deeper brush, though the light into the open area of the park could be seen a few hundred feet down the lane.
“You seem to pay rather more detailed attention to boots than the average man in my company,” Bingley said calmly. “Is there a root cause of your peculiar interest?”
“I am a cobbler,” he replied with a small gulp of phlegm.
“In London on business, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bingley nodded silently; his eyes fixed straight ahead. “And how is Grantley Village, sir?” he asked suddenly.
“Grantley… I, uh—”
“If you indeed believe that I am the sort of man to own multiple pairs of the finest boots money can buy, you will allow yourself no surprise that I know full well who you are, and the pertinence of what questions you ask.”
“Mr. Bingley—”
“Mr. Gallagher, or Constable Gallagher, as I might more properly refer to you, what is it that you would like to ask me?”
“Where were you on the night of Sir Andrew Fraser’s murder?”
“Rather blunt,” remarked Bingley with a chortle. “I spent the evening at Pemberley, the estate of my good friend Mr. Darcy. My entire presence that evening can be accounted for, I assure you.”
The cobbler tried to gather his wits as their horses slowed to a halt. The gentleman leaned casually forward, crossing his arms on the back of Quinton’s neck. His cordial gaze had turned serious—not dangerous or menacing, but exacting.
“Mr. Bingley, you must believe me when I earnestly state that I am unequivocally aware of how outlandish it is for me to even be in your presence under such circumstances. I do not believe in my heart that you are the kind of man capable of such a gruesome crime—”
“And why not, Constable?”
“Because… because I saw the remains of Sir Andrew Fraser with mine own eyes. I inspected his bedroom and observed his blood spewed on his bed linens, on the floor, on the walls. It is beyond my wildest imagination that a gentleman like yourself could ever be suited to such a vile act.”
“A gentleman like me ,” mused Bingley. The Constable’s eyes were fixed on him, staring through an expression crossed between incredulity and horror. “What kind of gentleman am I, then?”
“Mr. Bingley, having no knowledge of you whatsoever personally, your reputation aside, I would assume that you are a well-mannered, virtuous, and upstanding citizen.”
“And that opinion would be based on the bare fact that I belong to a certain social standard?”
“To some degree, yes,” Gallagher responded.
“Oh, my poor Constable,” laughed Bingley. “How naive you are if that is your opinion of those in society who outrank a simple cobbler.”
“Sir, I—”
“Please do not take offense at that,” Bingley interjected. “I understand your shop is highly regarded in the county and that you care for your family. That is more respectable than much of the sort of company by which I am surrounded.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Why is it that you have taken up the inquest of Sir Andrew Fraser’s murder?” Bingley posed, looking sidelong at him.
“For the sake of justice, sir,” answered the cobbler.
“You set foot in my house months ago—” Gallagher stared at him, unable to conceal his shaking hands. “—Is this not so?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then you went home?” Gallagher nodded. “You did not confront me in January when you had ample opportunity,” stated Bingley flatly. “Instead, you went home .”
The Constable closed his eyes and felt his head bow slightly. “It was such a remarkably unlikely scenario, sir, that I simply—”
“Forsook your duty. And where in that, might I ask, was the justice which so motivated your quest, served?”
“It was not,” he answered, looking directly into Bingley’s eyes.
“What has changed since January, then? Could it be that your pockets have been lined with silver?”
“I resent the notion, sir—”
“Resent it all you like,” retorted Bingley, suddenly sitting up straight on the back of Quinton. “And you have come here, with what—a boot print? Your grand design was to accost me in the street, badger me about a pair of boots that were not found in my possession, and then what—arrest me in public?” Gallagher chewed the inside of his mouth. “In what court of law would a magistrate convict a man such as me on evidence such as this? No, you would be thrown into prison for libelling an upstanding citizen.”
“I have meant you no personal offense, Mr. Bingley,” declared the Constable. “I have simply followed what little evidence that was privy to me to its logical conclusion.”
“You are mistaken in your assumptions, Mr. Gallagher, but I give you credit. You made it much further on such little information than most men in your position would have ever dreamed.”
“I thank you,” he said softly.
“A word of caution, Constable,” spoke Bingley, “before I complete my ride in solitude. Whatever sort of man you may think Andrew Fraser was, you are almost undoubtedly incorrect. Bear that in mind as you ponder where your recent benefactor’s motivations lie—you may in fact be pursuing something much more sinister than you could even begin to fathom.” Gallagher gave an obligatory nod. “Speaking of your benefactor,” continued Bingley, “you are not in the mind to give me his name?”
“No, sir. Though I imagine a man of your means and capabilities would not find it troubling to uncover such information.”
Bingley smiled and tilted his hat. “Good day, Constable.”
With that, he rode Quinton off in the direction of the open field at a gallop. The Constable sat upon his horse, mulling the entire conversation over. He thought he would find a pub and have a drink. A shrewd smile crept across his face. His suspect had put himself of his own accord at Pemberley the night of the murder.