CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Scarcely a week after the Netherfield Ball, Bingley and his party quit the house for London. Bingley had further news from his steward, Mr. Wilshere, that Lord Bertram St. John’s travel abroad had been once again postponed, due to his wife’s falling ill in Brighton. Her condition was not severe, but it did prevent the couple from traveling. Therefore, Bingley allowed his sisters to believe that they had convinced him to consent to spend Christmas in town, while his true intention was to travel to Brighton to deal with the delicate matter of the life of Lord St. John, before the demon was allowed to depart for the continent. In Bingley’s plan, he would return to Netherfield the week after Christmas, and spend the winter in the most pleasant surroundings and, particularly, the most pleasant company he had ever enjoyed.
So, a fortnight before Christmas Bingley and Mr. Wilshere left London by landau carriage. Their journey was delayed at every turn by mud, broken vehicles, and other hazards until a full eight hours later they reached Crawley and elected to dine and stay the night at an inn there. The following morning their campaign progressed much more smoothly, and they arrived at the hotel in Brighton at half past two in the afternoon.
Bingley was anxious to be apprised of the current whereabouts of Lord St. John and perhaps even drive by his home along the coast. Mr. Wilshere, however, was adamant that they keep a low profile at the hotel, in part because he expected news from one of his hired investigators regarding St. John’s location, itinerary, and more. Bingley had lunch sent to his room and penned a note to Darcy to try to pass the time. Following his hastily written letter, however, he spent the remaining time pacing the room like a caged lion. It was only thoughts of Jane Bennet which allowed him to settle down, but even then, only momentarily. Finally at a quarter till six that evening, Mr. Wilshere’s messenger, a young man by the name of Maitland rang and was shown to the room by the steward.
“What have you to say, boy?” Wilshere asked.
The young man, tall and lean with eyes the colour of emeralds held his hat in his hand. “Lady St. John is lately on the mend. In regard to their travel plans, their vessel leaves two mornings from now, at nine. Everything looks to be running bang up to the mark in that quarter.”
“Thank you, Maitland,” answered Wilshere, turning to Bingley: “Do you require anything else, sir?”
Bingley sat pensively for a moment, then looked up at the young man and asked, “Have you been into the house?”
“Of course, sir,” answered Maitland. “Mr. Wilshere gave me a sham recommendation—with a set of Banbury stories like you’ve never heard—a chimney sweep that’s come to clear some birds out the chimneys.”
“Did you clear out the birds?”
“Aye, sir. What ones there were.”
“If you were to try to sneak back into the house, how would you do it?”
Wilshere gave Bingley a cautionary glance. His network of informants and couriers was well apprized that their activities were not strictly for legal ends, but none of them were aware of any more serious crimes that might take place due to their investigative work. He was even careful to hire such free-traders, those who would have direct contact with the targets at hand, from varying parts of the country. By the time the act was finished, they were a hundred miles away and certainly not likely to keep abreast of the news. Maitland, for example, had been sent to Brighton ten days preceding from the same street as Letitia Yates in Birmingham. Wilshere thought it fitting that in a small way, the information Maitland had acquired would serve to avenge his fellow Brummy.
“It depends on which part of the house you’d like to end up in, I suppose,” the hired man replied.
“It’s a large house, then?”
“It’s a fort, to my mind,” declared Maitland with a laugh.
“Walls?”
“Fifteen feet high.”
“All the way round?”
“Yes, sir. And a moat.”
“A moat ?” Bingley asked flabbergasted, glaring at Wilshere. Maitland nodded.
“It lets out into the sea at low tide, though,” the secret agent offered. “Around the back there’s a spot where you can walk clean across the rocks. A man could probably use the vines and what tree limbs there are to get over the wall without hardly a soul every seeing him. It is awful dark back there and it’s only the pigs and horses inside the yard.”
“Is that so?” Bingley inquired with interest.
“Would put you into the kitchen, but at least you’re in the house,” Maitland offered with a curious smile.
“Does he have any protection?”
“It isn’t the King’s Guard, but—”
“But, what?” Bingley demanded.
“Five men, round the clock,” said the young man, measuring the questioner’s disappointment. “I never did see one at the kitchen door.”
Bingley’s face lightened drastically at hearing this. “No one watches the kitchen door?” Maitland shook his head. “Into the kitchen or into the house?”
“Into the kitchen,” stated Maitland. “There’s two who stand inside the main hall outside the dining room.”
“I see,” Bingley quipped.
“But the hall might not be how I would get in—if it were me getting in the house.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Lord likes a nibble before bed it seems. There is a staircase that leads directly from the kitchen to the master’s sleeping chamber, but it takes a keen eye to find it.”
“Why is that?”
“The door is made to look like regular stones in the wall—a bit of a secret passage, you might say.”
“How do you identify the door?”
“A burlap bag hangs down to about the height you might expect to find a knob. Push on that bag and the door opens.”
“Excellent information.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered the servant proudly.
“What time does he go to sleep?”
“Not sure, but his room is lit until at least one each night.”
“You have done very well, Maitland.”
“I take my work seriously, sir.”
With that, Bingley stood and crossed the room. He opened a bag and pulled from it his money purse. He turned and handed the young man a couple of notes. Maitland’s eyes grew wide and he quickly thumbed through the money.
“Sir, I have already been paid… for reconnaissance ,” he said glancing at Bingley nervously, fearing he might be asked to partake in something truly nasty.
“And you’ve done fine work,” Bingley replied.
“But,” Maitland muttered, staring down at the hard cash in his hands, “this is two pounds .” Bingley nodded solemnly. “Who are you, sir?”
Bingley glanced at Wilshere and then back to Maitland. He read the young man’s eyes and considered his words carefully. “I am a ghost ,” he said slowly.
“Sir, I have never held this much money in the whole of me life.”
“Then use it well—enjoy it and do good with it. And forget about me—forget my face, forget the sound of my voice.”
“I could never forget you, sir,” said Maitland calmly, “but I will forever be in your service.”
“You are a good man, Maitland,” replied Bingley. “Mr. Wilshere may very well call upon you again.”
“I would be most pleasantly obliged, sir.”
“Thank you and goodnight.”
With that, Wilshere showed the young man out. When the door was closed and the two were alone again, Bingley stood up and accusingly said, “You did not inform me that I would be storming a bloody castle .”
“I did not know, sir—”
“You did not know?” Bingley demanded incredulously. “With all the information you have managed to gather from the four corners of the globe, this particular, and highly relevant detail somehow escaped your attention altogether?”
“Mr. Bingley,” Wilshere answered stoically, “I cannot know every detail. The young man’s correspondence over the last weeks indicated nothing about a wall, or a moat, or guards whatsoever.”
“Then what good was the information he gave?”
“He told you how to get into Lord St. John’s bedroom undetected, did he not?”
Bingley turned and shook his head in irritation. The steward remained silent and serene. “What other options do we have, then?”
“You could kill him in broad daylight in view of a hundred onlookers.” Bingley glared back at him. “Or, like our initial plan dictated, since we have now heard from the informant, we could drive by the house and survey it ourselves.”
“This business will be the death of me.”
“Let us hope not, sir,” said Wilshere calmly. “You have more than halfway accomplished the mission. Granted it is a dark mission, but a noble one, and I am better acquainted with your character than to believe that you could at the first true obstacle abandon it so easily. Your conscience would not allow it.”
Bingley watched his hands as he flexed his fingers into a fist and then stretched them out. “How far is the castle , then?”
“But six and a half miles, sir.”