CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
George Stoop arose in high spirits. Business was good, his son had recently obtained a university post in Cambridge, and he himself had just enjoyed a rousing and unexpected morning romp in the hay with Mrs. Stoop. He set about his daily duties with a smile on his lips whilst she began to prepare for breakfast.
“Mr. Stoop,” she called from the back as he flipped dining chairs upright from their overnight resting place atop the tables. “I need water, please.”
“Just a moment, love,” he called.
“I need it now , Mr. Stoop, or the soft-boiled eggs won’t be boiled at all!”
“Put some tea on, love,” he implored.
“No water, no tea, Mr Stoop!”
He laughed to himself, put the last of the chairs in their place, and snatched the bucket from behind the bar. Outside, he was met with a harsh chill in the air and shivered as he crossed the lane, a heavy fog dangling overhead. Stoop tied his bucket to the rope with a shiver and began to lower it as he had done ten thousand times since he took ownership of the inn, when a ghastly shriek came from the baker’s shop across the street.
“Ghosts!” a woman screeched. “ Ghosts! ” Mr. Stoop inclined his head toward the shop when the baker’s wife threw open the door and flung a bucket out into the street. Leaving his own bucket on the lip of the well, he sauntered over to see the spilled contents of the baker’s bucket, red and curdled across the cobblestones. “Blood in the well!”
By this time, Bingley and Wilshere had already changed horses in Buckden and were within fifty miles of London. The Wickhams for their part, had also departed early and had reached Stamford where they dined and changed horses.
“How do you feel, sir?” Wilshere asked.
“Relieved,” answered his master. “Though I still feel the tension of the task as yet being incomplete.”
“We shall shortly rectify that,” prompted the steward. “And at least it is now confirmed beyond contestation,” he added, tapping his fingers on a small stack of the late Captain Carter’s correspondence.
“Forster, then Trippier,” Bingley mused. “And the head shall be cut from the snake.”
“And how, do you think, did it come to pass that Forster would take on Trippier after the death of Lord St. John?”
“If St. John relied half as heavily on his steward as I do mine, then I suppose Mr. Trippier was indispensable. I believe he is in fact the one key spoke in the wheel which we failed to notice, though I wonder how his having been hired to the post of the Colonel’s steward evaded the attention of Maitland.”
“All of Trippier’s letters to Carter are addressed from Ashford, the home of Colonel Forster’s estate in Kent,” answered Wilshere. “I suppose he has kept busy there running the place in the Colonel’s absence.”
“I believe your deduction is very likely to prove true.”
“Brighton, first then? —Or Ashford?”
“Makes no difference to me,” Bingley lamented. “All I know after all these hours and days spent cooped in coaches watching mile after mile pass aeon by aeon, is that when this business is finally over, I shall return directly to Netherfield, and if Miss Jane Bennet will consent to be my bride, I shall not leave Hertfordshire for a decade at least.”
“I would not blame you in the slightest, sir.”
Eventually, they reached London where they spent the evening at the house in Grosvenor Street. Word awaited their arrival that Mr. Hurst had taken seriously ill the morning they left, but during the night, an express rider bore news that the gentleman had recovered considerably and was thought to be fully on the mend. So, early that morning, they set out for Brighton.
They took the same rooms where they had stayed when the first attempt on Lord Bertram St. John was made—the same night that Maitland saved Mr. Bingley’s life. Not long after they had settled in, they were called upon by that very same man. Maitland had left Gallagher with the task of keeping watch over the house of Colonel Forster.
“Maitland, my man!” Bingley called as he stood to his feet and greeted his favoured servant. “How are you fairing?”
“Quite well, Mr. Bingley,” the young man answered amiably. “It is a pleasure to see you again, sir.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” answered Bingley.
“Mr. Wilshere,” Maitland greeted the steward with a bow.
“Mr. Maitland,” came the reply with an unexpected twinge of austerity.
“Were your travels easy?”
“We were not robbed,” chuckled Bingley. “But if I were to be planted in the dirt up to my waist and watered twice a day, I believe you would hear not a single complaint from me.”
“I comprehend your meaning,” Maitland answered with a laugh.
“What news have you, if any, of the Colonel’s movements or schemes?” Wilshere asked suddenly.
“He is increasingly on edge,” replied Maitland. “We did not see him out of doors for two days complete after the news of the fates of Captain Carter and Mr. Denny reached him. The camp does not seem to have been alerted, nor do the officers. Each one that remains appears to be largely under the impression that their comrades in arms simply remain away on official business.”
“Any unusual visitors of late?” Bingley inquired.
“None out of the ordinary. However, I have confirmed with a particularly talkative corporal that he has sent for his personal steward from his estate in Ashford.”
“Mr. Trippier,” Bingley blurted, exchanging a knowing glance with Wilshere.
“Yes, how did you—”
“We discovered his new employment arrangement from letters Mr. Bingley was keen enough to nick from the lodgings of Captain Carter.”
“Wonderful,” Maitland nodded. “And you believe him to be the same steward of the late Lord St. John?”
“I have not a doubt,” stated Bingley. “There is additionally no doubt that he is more intimately and centrally involved in the entire business than we ever might have guessed.”
“Whilst I may never have suspected him of anything more than cursory involvement on behalf of his master, I cannot declare that I am wholly surprised.”
“And why not?”
Maitland bit his top lip and shrugged his shoulder. “If you will recall, I had infiltrated St. John’s household staff with some success. There was not a single member of it who spoke favourably of Mr. Trippier. He was known to be quite severe in his treatment of the servants, and even had a scullery maid sacked when she refused to bed him—and now that I think back upon it, I am sure that she was quite young.”
“We are now of the opinion that Mr. Trippier has, all along, been the impetus behind the plot in terms of daily operations,” stated Bingley.
“As I said, I cannot feign surprise at it.”
“Have you observed any opportunity in the Colonel’s daily routine for me to get close enough to him?” Bingley queried.
“ Perhaps ,” answered Maitland cautiously. “He has recently kept himself under guard as inconspicuously as possible, but he is also concerned for the safety of his wife.”
“What then? —He stays with her at all times?”
“On the contrary. At the same time he called his steward from his estate, he sent his wife there—and much to her vexation. The house here, is guarded all night—though typically by ponderous men on punishment for drunkenness or the like—and he sleeps in it alone.”
“That is fine news, Mr. Maitland,” asserted Mr. Bingley. “Now, if you will excuse me, I would very much like a few hours of sleep. Meet us here at nine this evening to dine, and then we will scout our target by darkness.”
“Yes, Mr. Bingley,” rejoindered the young man.
Wilshere bowed to his master and the two servants left the room. In the hall, the steward asked, “May I have a brief word with you Mr. Maitland?”
“Of course, sir.”
Once they were down the hall and in Wilshere’s quarters, the steward closed the door quietly behind them. He gave Maitland a cursory once over while nodding furiously as his tongue pushed out his bottom lip.
“I know not how you spend your spare time, Mr. Maitland,” he began sharply. “But a single month of your wages ought to allow a young man like yourself to live comfortably for an entire annum.”
“Mr. Wilshere, I do not grasp—”
“Is it women? —Or drink? —Or both?” Wilshere demanded. The young man stood before him, brow furrowed in mystery, his eyes darting about the floor in search of some invisible shred of information that might allow him to understand the verbal assault under which he now found himself. Before he could mouth another word, the steward continued his reprimand: “I cannot fathom how a man of good sense like yourself could not only run through such sums so wantonly, but then arrive to his master’s door in such disarray. In fact, your appearance, coupled with an astonishing lack of forethought on your behalf, has given me reason to question your judgement entirely—and that not only compromises our ability to bring this task to completion at such a late stage, it also endangers the very life of your master and benefactor.”
Maitland stood in silent inscrutability before meekly speaking: “Mr. Wilshere, I would beg your pardon if I knew what infraction has caused such a severe declaration about my character and judgement.”
“Your coat, Maitland,” the steward pronounced. “Look! —There is a hole worn clear through it!”
“My coat ?” Maitland demanded.
“As trivial as your appearance might seem to you, if you are to function as a servant of a proper gentleman like Mr. Bringley, such trivialities must not escape your notice.”
“Is it likely that Mr. Bingley noticed the condition of my coat, then?”
“For your sake, I would hope not,” Wilshere answered. “But it certainly has not escaped my notice. And on your wages, there is absolutely no excuse for such a blatant oversight.”
“I have not recently kept much, in terms of my wages, sir.”
“That is obvious,” stated Wilshere, though his tone had softened. “You are a young man, but you must more carefully consider how your wages are spent.”
“Mr. Wilshere?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when I recounted to you and Mr. Bingley the story of my fiancée, Leticia Yates?”
“Of course, but what does that—”
“Her father is ill, sir.”
Wilshere exhaled and closed his eyes. “And you have been sending your wages to Birmingham to support the family.”
Maitland nodded. “At the beginning of April, his son wrote a letter, explaining that Mr. Yates had been unable to work due to a sudden and serious onset of sciatica. During my week of leave I made a hasty trip home to see the family. What I witnessed was truly difficult for me to bear. He has horrible pains which shoot down his leg and tightness in his muscles that forces him to collapse, howling in pain after only being on his feet a matter of less than a minute. In his current state he is no more capable to sweep a chimney as he is to swim the channel. The children were hungry, the house a catastrophe. Since then, I have been living as modestly as possible in order to send every spare farthing to support the family. I would like to apologize for the condition of my coat, Mr. Wilshere—it did not escape my notice, but I had not the means to have it replaced, although I suppose I should have sought out a tailor to have it patched. Mr. Gallagher was kind enough to mend my shoes already.”
“Forgive me, Maitland,” Wilshere said with kind sincerity. “I should not have reacted as harshly as I did without affording you the opportunity to explain yourself, and I certainly should not have used the occasion to judge your competence.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Why did you not come to me when you learned of the condition of Mr. Yates?”
“Sir, you, and Mr. Bingley have been kinder to me than I could have ever dreamed. The wages that I am paid are so far above what I could have ever hoped to earn, that I could not, in good conscience, entreat you for more.”
“You are fully aware of his generous nature, are you not?”
“Very much so,” replied Maitland. “And as much as he has sacrificed on behalf of the Yates family by avenging their daughter and serving as a guardian of dozens more like her, it would be entirely selfish and cowardly of me to not care for them with what means I might possess.”
“When this is finished,” began Wilshere, “we shall have it arranged that the Yates family will be well taken care of in an ongoing manner. You have my word.”
“It is too much to ask, Mr. Wilshere.”
“You have not asked,” the steward answered, fishing in his pocket for a bank note. “And here,” he continued, handing the bill in the young man’s direction. “For God’s sake buy yourself a coat.”
Maitland took the money with much reluctance. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now, if you will allow it, I would also like to rest. I shall see you this evening.” The young man bowed and left. The steward flopped on the bed, but slumber evaded him.
At the foreordained time, the three men dined then took hired horses out to the regiment’s encampment on the edge of the city. After tying the animals at the post, they met Gallagher in the small room they had taken which directly overlooked the Colonel’s Brighton residence. After exchanging pleasant greetings, Gallagher informed them that Colonel Forster had arrived home from dinner an hour earlier and had not had any visitors since. With that, the cobbler was released for the evening. After Maitland acquainted them with the general layout of the camp and the house, they quit the room and rode round the entire property slowly, making copious notes as they went. It was after four in the morning when they finally returned to the inn where they hatched a plan before each man went off to sleep. This time, Mr. Wilshere fell into repose with no trouble whatsoever.