CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Down the lane, Darcy and Bingley sat astride their equines, repulsed into astonished silence by their recent experience at the hands of Mrs. Younge.
“Darcy, I’m sorry—” Bingley finally started.
“It is of no consequence,” Darcy interposed. “If it leads us to George Wickham in time to save Miss Lydia Bennet—”
“And therefore, her sisters—”
“Yes, and therefore her sisters, any degree of harm it shall be the most well invested money I should have ever spent.”
Bingley nodded in agreement. “It is curious, however, the whole business. If he customarily sent word of his arrival in advance, why not this time? Could it be, perhaps, that he truly intended upon marriage?”
“Impossible,” Darcy commented with no lack of certainty. “His debts are great, and he is a man incapable of any notion of love or loyalty. If she did not serve his own purpose in some way, and I am sure you have surmised what purpose she might serve, he would not have absconded with her. George Wickham is selfishness and greed personified, and perhaps, as we have now discovered, even more wicked than we might have ever imagined.”
“Here they come,” Bingley said, glancing over his shoulder as Wilshere and Maitland approached.
“Mr. Bingley,” Maitland called. “There is something I must share with you at once.”
“With haste,” Bingley answered. “And let us move on while you tell.”
“Not two minutes after you had entered the house, I spotted a man exit from the back. He was young and tall, and though it was exceedingly dark, so I could not be sure, I thought I recognized his face, so I followed behind him. His gait was rapid as if he was departing in some urgency. Once he reached the side street, he mounted his horse and under the lamp I caught a proper look at his face.”
“Was it Wickham?” Bingley queried.
“No. It was Captain Carter, of the Meryton regiment.”
“ Captain Carter ?”
“Aye, and he headed off in this very direction.”
“He must be on the hunt for Wickham at the direction of Colonel Forster,” Wilshere stated.
“Colonel Forster came to town to search, himself, did he not?” Bingley asked.
“He went to Meryton first and consorted with Mr. Bennet,” answered his steward. “Together they searched in town before the Colonel was compelled by duty to return to Brighton.”
“Yes, I remember now. Let us be on the watch, then, for Captain Carter—as he might be privy to information we have not yet uncovered.”
Once the band reached Dover Street, they turned in to find it a dark lane with degenerates lying all about, many asleep already, or perhaps worse. Broken glass and waste littered the road, whilst small fires burned at seemingly random intervals. Intermittent screams and howls and laughter pierced through the clamour and the smell very much resembled that of Edward Street near Ms. Younge’s establishment. A mangy dog chased a rat across the way, and out of sight down an alley.
“Stick together closely,” Bingley remarked, receiving subdued nods in return.
As they began their inquiries into the various brothels, dilapidated warehouses, and inns, the two gentlemen began to wonder if they had not been altogether duped by Mrs. Younge. Perhaps she had let the couple a room and simply lied. They had paid her a near fortune and, in actuality, not gained an ounce of concrete specifics in exchange. Had the compulsion of their task, coupled with the lack of sleep, caused them such a fatuous lapse in judgement as to put their trust in such a woman? In each of their minds they considered that the matter could not be settled resolutely until their probe of the dregs of Dover Street was complete. As they exited the front room of one particularly raucous brothel after making inquests about the couple, they realized that Maitland had not entered with them at all. In fact, he was down the lane, waving toward them. The three others joined him with haste.
“I spoke to a beggar who pointed me to an inn in Flint Street,” he said hurriedly.
“But we have not concluded our search of this area,” Bingley remarked.
Maitland shook his head. “He seen them go in less than an hour ago—it’s the Bishop’s Whistle, just round the corner,” he pointed.
“How much did you pay him?” Wilshere inquired.
“I didn’t,” came the reply.
“Where is the man?”
“He went off down the alley back yonder,” Maitland answered. “He gave me their description—matches perfectly. The man would have no motive to lie.”
“Then off to the Bishop’s Whistle, no?” Wilshere asked.
Darcy and Bingley exchanged a glance and then both nodded their assent. At that precise moment, Bingley’s eye caught sight of a man—much out of place in the current surroundings—leaving an establishment further up the street. It was clear to him that the man was, indeed, Captain Carter. He was studying a piece of paper in his hand, from what Bingley could tell.
“There,” pointed Bingley. The other three turned and saw the man, who had his back toward them and proceeded in the opposite direction.
“Let us leave him be,” Wilshere said. “I have a notion of something unsettling as regards that man and his quest. Let us find Wickham and Miss Bennet before he does.”
With that, they were off toward Flint Street and the Bishop’s Whistle.