CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Bingley and his man took a circuitous route to the shore home of Lord Bertram St. John. Over the final patch of road, they discreetly crossed into the thicket, taking great care to ensure they had not been observed, and made slow progress toward the house through the thick brush. The night was still and frigid, the moon only sporadically making its presence known through cracks in the cloud cover overhead. At the edge of the coppice, they paused and observed. The house was, indeed, built like a castle, though far too modern to have been there very long. Wilshere soon informed Bingley that the house had been erected within the last ten years. Bingley surmised that Lord St. John must have been something of a medieval-period enthusiast. Wilshere did not contradict him. But what was the purpose of so large a house, fortified as it obviously appeared to be, for a man who was, by all outward appearances, an upstanding and gentlemanlike citizen in the empire.
“Perhaps they bring their victims here,” Bingley mused gravely.
“Perhaps,” the steward replied solemnly.
“Gives me a shiver in my spine to think on it.”
“It certainly is formidable.”
“Can we be sure that Maitland was right about the number of guards and where they are stationed?”
“His report was rigorous enough in detail to earn my confidence,” answered the servant. Bingley looked toward the house soberly. “Does my confidence not inspire?”
“Wilshere,” Bingley began thoughtfully, “I do not believe I have to mention how utterly you have gained my trust—in your hands, I have laid my reputation, my fortune, and even my very life. However, this particular portion of our mission does not inspire confidence in my own abilities.”
“Sir, do not doubt yourself, now—”
“Stealth I can accomplish, and in ruthlessness of purpose I shall not falter, but the physical and mental demands of this objective are vast, indeed, and the chances that innocent bystanders may enter the fray are significant enough to give me pause.”
“May I speak bluntly, sir?”
“As always, good man.”
“Are you certain that the rigors of the task at hand are what cause you trepidation, and not the situation of the target?”
“Explain your meaning.”
“Mr. Bingley,” Wilshere said as the two turned from glaring at the house to face each other, “Lord St. John is, after all, the Earl of Canterbury.”
Bingley did pause. He turned his gaze back toward the imposing fortress beyond the clearing. “If your information is right, Wilshere, this man is involved in acts so gruesome, so evil, that I would not hesitate to slaughter the king himself—”
Wilshere raised a hand: “I would not dare to question your character in such a way, sir.”
The two men sat astride their horses in silence for another few moments before Bingley spoke. “Let us ride through the thicket and skirt over to land’s end and see what we might observe.”
They trod on in silence, both of them scrutinizing entry points, guard positions, and the general layout of the place. By this time, it was after midnight and to their sight, only a single lamp burned in the whole place—in the tower window overlooking the channel. They made some calculations, discussed various scenarios—pointing and motioning and speaking in near whispers until they had exhausted themselves. The two men witnessed the extinguishing of the lamp in the tower shortly after one, just as Maitland had reported. With that sight, they began their slow and furtive movement back to the main road, from whence they galloped back to Brighton in record time. Back in Bingley’s room, they drew up their plan, replete with contingencies and alibis, had a few drinks, and then slept—the master in the bed and the steward on the sofa. Had it not been for the wine, neither would have slept well, as both their heads were full of all the possible outcomes, including the dreadful ones. They were determined, more than ever though, to bring the mighty and evil scheme to an end, and if all went according to their projections, would be able to accomplish the daunting feat in less than twenty-four hours’ time.