CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The fog hung thick like a blanket over the city. His lungs burned and his heart pounded as if it might leap from his chest. Sweat flecked from his forehead and his boots clapped the paving stones at a sprint. Down the alley and cornering out onto the lane, he was nearly struck by a barrel of sherry that had flown off a cart. His legs underneath him began to feel like rubber and his side began to cramp, but he darted on in panic. Somewhere in the race from the docks to the inn he had lost his cap, but not to worry, he still had the money in his pocket. The information at hand was too valuable, anyway, and might, after all, save his mysterious benefactor’s life. Through the empty pub he raced toward the stairs and up two flights. He found the ghost’s room, paused just momentarily to acquire some semblance of decency, then proceeded to knock vigorously.
“Good Lord, what is the matter?” came a shout from inside.
“Sir, please, open the—” he struggled to catch a breath, “—it’s Maitland, sir.”
The door flung open and there stood Mr. Wilshere, dressed already for the night.
“Is… is the master in?” Maitland panted.
“No,” stuttered Wilshere, “he’s gone out for the evening.”
“He’s not gone to Lord St. John’s, has he?”
“Why would he—”
“Mr. Wilshere,” the agent interrupted, “I may be young and poor, but I’m not thick.”
Wilshere peered both ways down the hall and ushered the boy inside. “Keep your voice down. What have you to say?”
“St. John is departed.”
“Departed?” gasped the steward.
“Aye, sir—but not that way!”
“Then which way?”
“ Decamped —he has left Brighton,” stuttered the young man.
“He is gone?”
“Aye, sir,” gasped Maitland. “He and Lady St. John sailed for Le Havre this evening.”
“Well, then,” Wilshere stammered as his mind raced toward France.
“But, sir,” Maitland said, his breath finally catching up with him, “I am afraid that our master shall not find the house empty.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Wilshere snapped.
“I happened to be down the wharf in search of a trollop or two—oh, I should not have said that—” Wilshere waived his hand to dismiss the young man’s indiscretion, “—when I saw the most massive barouche I have ever laid mine eyes upon roll up the lane. There was not a doubt in my mind as to who it could be and sure enough, Lord and Lady St. John themselves emerged by the dock. As their luggage was unloaded and they directed their servants this way and that, I managed to work myself within ames-ace of the gangplank to eavesdrop on Lord St. John and his steward, Mr. Trippier—”
“Was your presence detected?”
“Not in the least,” declared Maitland.
“You are sure of this?”
“Between the fog and the dark and my silence, there is no way I could have been detected.”
“All right, what transpired next?”
“The Lord told his steward to have a ship dispatched immediately to meet them in Le Havre with what he called, ‘the outcome of the evening’s entertainment.’”
“The evening’s entertainment?” mused Wilshere.