CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The morning came to see Mr. Wilshere in much higher spirits. A couple of bland meals and sixteen hours on land had made a world of difference. At breakfast he was surprised by the cheerfulness of his master who, it seemed, could not stop recounting the splendour of a lately discovered Italian dish. In time, the steward was able to settle his master enough to get down to the details of their aim for the day. Maitland had been out early on Wilshere’s instructions to get word of the location of the Cardinal’s residence. Once he returned, they would hire horses and ride out to make their initial observations. Wilshere had hesitantly hoped that Endrizzi might keep a humble apartment somewhere in the city so that an easy escape into a crowd might be possible after the strike took place. He also wondered if Endrizzi himself might be embroiled in the dirty business of St. John, though for all his worldly knowledge, he still found it difficult to accept that a man of the church would be so debased. It was one thing to be rich or powerful, and iniquitous; it was wholly another, to his mind, for a man devoted to the Lord to be involved in such duplicitous malfeasance.
Maitland entered at half-past ten. Bingley waved him in and toward the buffet which had been laid out. The young man wholeheartedly obliged and began rather unceremoniously piling bread with butter and jam, fresh fruit, pastries, and various cheeses onto his plate. The attendant brought him a glass of Chianti which he also accepted eagerly. Wilshere looked keen to begin discussions, but his master motioned for him to wait until Maitland had had a chance to eat. Once he was sure that their new underling was very near completion of his meal, Wilshere commenced: “What have you learned?”
Maitland nodded his head and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Much to tell, sir.”
“Well, let’s have it,” said the steward.
“Endrizzi keeps a town home—”
“Excellent news—” Wilshere cut in.
Maitland shook his head. “But he is never there, save three nights per week, and then only for an hour or two.” Bingley rolled his eyes. The circles he moved in back home prepared him patently for the declaration Maitland was about to make. “He sees a ‘light o’love’ there, as one might say.”
“Oh, I see,” a slightly dejected Wilshere replied.
“Now, where he lives is a much more interesting dilemma. His home was appointed by the king but is owned by the church.”
“And what does that mean?” Bingley inquired.
“ Protection —and lots of it,” Maitland answered as he took a last swig of his wine. “Gates, walls, soldiers, and the like. The way my man explains it, the Cardinal’s residence makes gaining entrance to the castle at Brighton look like opening the door to a sweet shop.”
Wilshere and Bingley exchanged glances. “Mr. Bingley, please—” Wilshere tried to head his master off at the thought.
“We may be forced to address the problem publicly.”
“Sir,” Wilshere started, “with all due respect, there would be hardly time to plan; their movements have been difficult to discover, and—”
“Not quite so fast, Mr. Wilshere,” Maitland interrupted. “My man has learned where they are to dine on Thursday evening.”
“You keep saying ‘my man,’ Maitland,” blurted Wilshere. “You have been in this country not forty-eight hours—how have you come to develop a trustworthy source in such a short amount of time, pray tell?”
Maitland shrugged and glanced toward Bingley, then back at the steward. “I learned from the best, I suppose.”
“You do not even speak Italian!”
“The language of love is universal,” the lad countered with a chuckle.
“Maitland, my man,” Bingley laughed, “your information may be sound, and no one can discredit your zeal for your work, but the last thing we need is for some trollop to tip you the token.”
“Mr. Bingley?” Wilshere asked quizzically.
“To give me the clap,” Maitland clarified.
Bingley winced slightly and nodded. “All right, Maitland, well done. Where are they to dine on Thursday evening?”
“A little place called ‘ Volpe e Cane .’ I am told it overlooks the piazza.”
“It will be very crowded ,” uttered the steward.
“ Noted , Wilshere,” Bingley quipped.
“I did not mean to disregard the fact as a negative, sir.”
“How so?”
“A large crowd would make for a quick strike and an even quicker exit,” explained Wilshere. “Perhaps you use a pistol—fire your shot and disappear into the chaos. You would hardly be noticed at all.”
“What if there are two targets, though?”
“Lord and Lady?” Wilshere asked, appalled.
“Lord and Cardinal , is more in line with my thinking.”
“Mr. Bingley, we have two days’ time—I am almost positive we will not be able to ascertain whether or not the Cardinal is involved. Assassinating as high a ranking church official as Endrizzi and on his home ground, no less, would be paramount to a declaration of war between nations if our activities were ever discovered.”
“Then we would need to provide proof, if he were involved.”
Wilshere exhaled sharply. “And where do you supposed we get this proof?”
Bingley took a bite of an apple and pointed toward Maitland. “He seems to have a knack for that kind of thing.”
“Sure, sure,” Wilshere started. “Why doesn’t he just wait until tonight so that he can interrogate his source again? What was her name?”
“ Carlotta —at least that is the name she gave me,” replied Maitland casually.
“And what name, may I pry, did you give her?”
“I told her my name was Robin Hood.” Bingley could not help but chortle under his breath, particularly at how cross his steward looked during that moment. “If I hurry, though, I do not believe I will need to wait until this evening.”
“And why is that?”
“When I left my room, she was still sleeping.”
Small chunks of apple flew from Bingley’s mouth as he burst into laughter.