CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Wilshere spent the better part of the evening detailing plans with his master, while simultaneously reasserting his position that the Cardinal should be left in peace. His continuing overtures to the effect included arguments concerning caution and the difficulty of adjusting their plan at this late hour—how, for instance, would Bingley manage to shoot both targets with a single pistol? The steward additionally inserted his distaste for eliminating a clergyman—no matter how morally bankrupt the man might be. Wilshere believed the more prudent course would be to gather more evidence of the plot to sell rigged munitions to the British navy and then return home—possibly, as a national hero. Bingley stirred the fire and sipped his brandy in silence as these diatribes went on. He had looked over the pistol and it was, to his taste, quite satisfactory. He pondered that he might even keep it for his collection at home. At half past one, Bingley sent his man to bed, once again assuring him that his recommendations would be fully and carefully considered.
The next morning the three men shared pastries and tea in a cafe near the water. Their noses were accosted in equal measure by the fresh baked confections and the salty mist from the sea. It was a chilly morning, but the intensity of sun’s early rays carried the promise of a warm day. From the bake shop, they had walked through a public park and down to the edge of the sea where they sat while Wilshere once more recounted every detail of their plan as formed.
The Cardinal would travel from his offices separately from the Lord and Lady and reach the restaurant at eight that evening. It was expected that St. John and his wife would arrive to the ‘ Volpe e Cane ’ from an engagement with a countess a quarter-hour later. Maitland had managed to learn, in exchange for five cavalli from a beggar who sat near the fountain in the centre of the piazza, the most valuable intelligence—that the Cardinal’s favourite table was the first near the window on the left, if one were facing the establishment. The three then inferred that this table would be reserved for him and his foreign guests that evening. Wilshere had, accordingly, made a reservation at ten to eight for two under the name William Collins. He thought he might have known someone by that name at home in England but could not put his finger on who —it had just popped into his mind. Bingley would take the seat facing the front window—and therefore facing his target—order a glass of wine and wait as if he were anticipating the second half of his party. Once Lord and Lady St. John arrived, Bingley would allow them time to be seated and order drinks. At precisely eight-thirty, Maitland was to cause an apparently drunken commotion outside, which would serve as enough distraction for Bingley to fire a single shot into St. John’s head and be outside in nearly a single stride. From there, he would break through the crowd and meet Wilshere, who was to be waiting with a lantern at the entrance to the catacombs. A hired carriage would be ready on the surface at the main road; from there, they would be dropped off at the back door of the hotel. One last piece of forethought by Wilshere was to hire Carlotta to stay in Bingley’s room and order food and wine on the account. He hoped that if somehow his master was implicated in the shooting, the room bill and the woman’s testimony would be enough to establish a consequential alibi.
Maitland spent the afternoon in his room in the company of Carlotta and, presumably, had a nap. Wilshere familiarized himself more closely with the catacombs, walking the dark and anfractuous passages back and forth, again and again. His concern was that he would be well enough acquainted with them to guide his master through them and to safety quickly and efficiently. Bingley returned to his room where he composed a letter to his friend Darcy, though he did not mean to send it. He sealed it and left it on his writing table with the intention that Wilshere should send it if he, Bingley, were apprehended or worse. He had a glass of wine and then found that he could not quiet himself enough to sit still. He spent several hours walking the city aimlessly. At half-past five, he even came across Wilshere outside the entrance to the catacombs along the main thoroughfare which would serve as their exit route. They nodded solemnly toward each other, and Bingley walked on. Once back inside the hotel, he made a point to be seen and noticed, entering with greetings and gestures toward guests and staff alike, before climbing the steps in the direction of his lodging. He returned to his room at a quarter past six to find that Maitland’s ladybird had already taken up occupancy in it. He left the room door open after calling down the hall for Wilshere.
“Oh, how do you do?” he stammered nervously to the olive-skinned woman lying stretched on the chaise lounge.
“Ciao,” answered she with a smile. He smiled back and nodded skittishly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Wilshere!” he called down the hall again.
“You do not have to be uneasy,” Carlotta said slowly in a thick accent. He smiled back and nodded again. “Though a man as handsome as you is always a welcome sight for me.”
“Why, thank you,” he muttered, looking back down the hall for his steward.
“You have una moglie?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do not worry, I see many married men.”
“Oh, no, no,” sputtered Bingley. “I am not married, though I hope to be, and someday soon.”
“So, you have one ragazza—oh, how do you say in English?”
“Lady?”
“Yes! Maybe… girl ?” replied the courtesan, her dark eyes widening with excitement that she’d stumbled upon the right word. “You have one girl you love?” He hesitated to speak, though his thoughts fixed immediately upon Miss Jane Bennet. “I can see that you do from the way you smile now,” she said gently.
At that moment, his steward entered. “Oh, I see you have found Miss Carlotta.”
“Indeed, I have, thank you,” came Bingley’s agitated answer.
“I apologize, sir,” Wilshere began. “She needed to be seen to come in before you arrived.”
“I see. Please bring my clothes to your room, Wilshere. I will dress there.”
“As you wish.”
“Good luck,” called Carlotta just before he left. “You are a man of much virtue—unless you simply find me unattractive?”
“On the contrary,” Bingley replied. “You are far too handsome to be in your line of work. I would wish much better for you.”
“And I would wish you to marry the girl that you love !”
“Thank you,” he said with an unaffected smile before turning down the hall. Wilshere bowed and closed the door behind him, following behind Bingley toward his own room. He helped Bingley dress for the evening, making sure to have his master insert the Francotte pistol into the hidden pocket Wilshere had sown inside his jacket once they had loaded and inspected it. Bingley also insisted on carrying his knife in its sheath. “Sir… to what end—”
“If anything were to happen and the gun were to misfire or something worse,” Bingley replied slowly, “you know that I am much more comfortable—”
“Say no more, sir,” the steward answered. At this moment, he was tying his master’s cravat and their pair of eyes were a mere six inches apart. They fell silent after this. In another moment there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” Wilshere called.
Maitland opened the door and looked inside. “It is quarter-past seven. The carriage is waiting downstairs.”
“Thank you, Maitland,” Bingley answered.
“And Carlotta?” Wilshere inquired.
“She has ordered a bottle of wine and fish of some sort.”
“Good,” the steward answered as he put the finishing touches on Bingley’s cravat. He looked up at his lord, who stood several inches taller than him. “Godspeed, Mr. Bingley.”
“Godspeed, Wilshere.”
Bingley followed Wilshere down the steps which led to the rear exit of the hotel. The carriage had been situated as close to the door as could be arranged to allow as little chance of him being seen leaving the building as possible. The two men joined a waiting Maitland inside the closed coach. Wilshere shouted toward the driver, and they were off. The three men rode in silence for most of the journey, Wilshere wiping his forehead occasionally with his kerchief. Bingley and Maitland occasionally held eye contact which would be broken by a subtle, but confident nod. At twenty-minutes to eight, the coach entered the piazza and slowed to a stop outside the ‘ Volpe e Cane ’. Bingley shook hands with each man before the door was opened, and he departed. From there, the driver slowly crossed through the crowd and allowed the two servants to decamp near the alley between the florist and the tannery.
Upon entering and giving the name William Collins— why had Wilshere picked that name? —Bingley was seated directly behind the Cardinal’s choice table. He ordered a glass of wine and waited. In a matter of a minute’s time, an enormous barouche arrived and from it an enormous man in ecclesiastical regalia emerged. Bingley thought the man must have weighed nearly twenty stone, but as impressive as was his heaviness, his height surpassed that of any Englishman he had ever seen. The Cardinal was truly gargantuan. Bingley swallowed a lump in his throat as Endrizzi entered, ducking as he crossed the threshold as to not strike his forehead against the stanchion. He was greeted ardently by the Majordomo who proceeded to kiss the Cardinal’s enormous ring. Endrizzi was seated at the front table—just as anticipated—facing the window, hence with his back to Bingley.
Even seated, the Cardinal was a full foot taller than Bingley, who was himself not uncommonly the tallest man in a given room. The Neapolitan’s shoulders were square and exceedingly wide, though they tapered to a slim waist. His hair was oiled and combed back, his skin olive and bright in complexion. Bingley glanced down and caught a glimpse of the man’s shoes which were so large that they must have been custom fitted. Just at that moment, Bingley’s wine arrived at the table. Suddenly, the colossal shoulders turned, and the Cardinal shifted in his seat, glancing directly at Bingley.
“Buonasera,” he said in a deep and resonant voice. His chin was square and large, his eyes dark and confident. The black moustache on his lip had obviously been combed and neatly trimmed. Bingley nodded and muttered something nervously.
“Inglese?”
“Sì.”
“I am meeting an Englishman here in a few minutes,” Enrizzi answered, nearly without accent. “What wine have you ordered?”
“Gaglippo,” squeaked Bingley.
“ Excellent choice,” he boomed, cupping his hand and kissing his fingertips. “Had you not ordered it, I would have recommended it. Here , they only serve Gaglippo directly from Calabria. If you get it from Marche or Abruzzo, it’s …” he cocked his head and tilted his hand from side to side. “I hope you enjoy!”
“Thank you.”
The Cardinal turned back toward the door just in time for both men to witness Lord Bertram St. John enter the establishment. He himself was a rather bookish man with beady, narrow eyes and a short, upturned nose. Bingley guessed that he might be exactly half the size of the Napolitano. His hair was grey and thin. In essence, he was very much the opposite of what Bingley had expected he would appear—particularly after becoming familiarized with his imposing portrait. With a bow and a handshake, he sat across from Endrizzi, facing Bingley; although he could not see the Earl, once he was seated, due to the enormous Italian in his path of vision.
Bingley took a sip of the wine and momentarily marvelled at its apparent paradox of structure and lightness. He thought he detected hints of plum and rosemary. It was quite a pleasant experience. He made a mental note to have Wilshere procure several bottles before they departed for home.
“Grazie for coming Lord St. John,” Endrizzi spoke. “Is your wife to join us this evening?
“Unfortunately, she has a headache,” St. John replied in a shrill voice.
“I am sorry to hear it. I always relish the company of Lady St. John.”
“I thank you, and I apologize for her absence.”
“There is no need to apologize,” said the Cardinal cordially. “It will allow us the chance to discuss business. May I order the wine? The Gaglippo is wonderful, in my opinion. Is it not?” Endrizzi asked suddenly, twisting his massive frame again in the direction of Bingley, who found himself, at that moment, in St. John’s direct line of sight.
“Yes, yes,” he stammered in reply. “It is superb.”
“It makes me very happy that you enjoy it. And I must apologize for my rudeness earlier, sir, I failed to even introduce myself. I am Ignazio Endrizzi, and this is my guest, Lord Bertram St. John, Earl of Canterbury—an Englishman like yourself!”
St. John bowed his head ever so slightly. Bingley was in a near panic—he had not anticipated thus conversing with his target. In a moment of befuddled, near-absent mindedness, Bingley nearly had the “ch” at the beginning of Charles on his tongue before he blubbered, “William Collins.”
“William Collins ?” St. John asked in astonishment.
“Aye, sir,” answered Bingley hesitantly.
“Of the Hunsford Parsonage in Kent?”
Bingley could hear the blood rushing in his ears. His tongue went numb, and he suddenly felt himself unable to speak. For some mystifying reason unknown to his conscious self, he observed himself to be nodding his head.
“What a peculiar coincidence!”
“Are the two of you acquainted?” Endrizzi queried.
“Yes,” replied St. John suddenly. “Though I do not believe we have ever met . Instead, I have heard such a marvellous account of your faithful and modest service from Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. Our families’ estates are not but thirty miles apart, and we both summer on occasion in Ramsgate, though I, myself, fancy several locales on the south coast.”
Bingley smiled and nodded again.
“And I believe congratulations are also in order,” declared St. John.
“Are they?” Bingley inquired.
“On behalf of your recent nuptials.”
“Aye, thank you.”
“Are you expecting Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes,” declared Bingley. “Yes, she is due any minute.”
“Wonderful. May I dare say that it is a testament to your service that Lady Catherine would allow you and your wife to accompany her to Naples for your honeymoon—and a tribute to her generosity which, I must admit, surprises me the least bit.”
“Lady Catherine… in Naples ?” Bingley mumbled.
“She is ever so attentive to her daughter’s health—is she not?—to holiday each winter in a much warmer climate such as this.”
“Yes, she is very attentive,” came the stuttering reply.
“Well, Mr. Collins, it is very pleasant to meet you at last. Please be sure to introduce me to your wife when she arrives.”
“I shall,” Bringley answered with a queasy smile.
Endrizzi smiled from ear to ear. “Fantastic! What luck! And you are also a servant of the church?”
“Sì,” blurted Bingley.
“I have always marvelled at how simply the English clergy dress—I do not mean to say that your clothes are simple, in fact, they are quite exquisite,” the Cardinal mused, looking Bingley over with admiration. “This Lady Catherine must be generous indeed.”
At this, St. John squinted and eyed Bingley askance. For his part, Bingley could do nothing but grin uncomfortably. The large churchman then turned back toward his table guest, and to Bingley’s relief, their private conversation began. Bingley clutched his knees under the table to halt them from shaking. He took another swig of wine but was not nearly as distracted by its delightfully rounded flavour as he had been just five minutes earlier. After several minutes of ceremonious discourse, particularly regarding Lady St. John’s wellness, the conversation between Lord and the Cardinal turned to business. Their tone was cautious, but not particularly reserved, as if they were so well insulated from any type of consequence of their deeds that anyone might hear their words to no effect. Eventually, Bingley managed to overhear the following:
“Ignazio, I am grateful for the opportunity.”
“I wondered if you would hesitate on behalf of your loyalties to crown and country.”
“My primary loyalties are to pound and shilling, as you are well aware.”
“We find once again a commonality across language and borders.”
“A few dead sailors are a small price to pay for what it will afford us both. And if, in addition, it perhaps prevents England from entering into full-fledged war against France, there is a secondary benefit.”
“I could not agree more.”
The two men raised their glasses and drank.
“And you have been able to secure the military advocate who will ensure our contract?”
“After the unfortunate death of Sir Andrew—”
“ Che Dio lo riposi ,” the Cardinal said while crossing himself.
“Certainly,” St. John said dismissively. “I have been able to procure the support of an active commander. He will soon move his troops closer to one of my estates, where the details of the contract with the crown will be finalized.”
“And this man is trustworthy?”
“He is also a new partner in my other venture.”
“Very good,” Endrizzi said, lifting his glass once more.
“Now, as concerns my offer with regard to the ragazze ,” St. John began again, “are you decided on the matter?”
Endrizzi shifted his massive form in the comparably tiny seat. “There are not many lines that I would not cross. However, and this not a moral judgement, of course—I care not how a man provides for himself—I do not believe I would have interest, personally. Having stated that, I would not oppose introducing you with some Turks who would savour the opportunity to buy pale young English girls, and as you know, the virgin kind are their particular favourite.”
“I assume your normal fee would apply?”
The Cardinal’s mountainous head shifted back and forth, his brawny fingers tapping on his chest over his heart. “Because of my conscience , I would charge one hundred-fifty percent.”
“I accept,” the Earl answered, lifting his glass. “ Saluti .”
Without warning, a large bang was heard against the glass, followed by shouting and general ruckus. Endrizzi leaned over the table to get a better look out the window, while St. John turned in his chair to do the same. Bingley rose quickly and unsheathed his knife. He stood beside St. John and said, “Letitia Yates gives her regard.” St. John’s head swung around quickly, his formerly small eyes as large as apples, suddenly full of comprehension and fear. Bingley slit his throat in a single motion. He gargled and gasped for air as bright red blood spurted across the table, bespattering the Cardinal’s white frock. Endrizzi rose with astounding agility and grabbed Bingley’s wrist with the strength of a colossus. It was more evident than ever, the two men standing face to face, how herculean the Italian truly was. In his grip, Bingley felt like his bones would snap. St. John meanwhile flailed to the floor, his blood-soaked hands clasped round his gullet in desperate futility. The enormous Cardinal raised his right hand above his head to strike, while Bingley fished frantically for his pistol. Through his coat, he aimed and fired. A blast like a rocket and then the top of Endrizzi’s skull spattered against the ceiling. His teeth gritted together, his massive arm still dangling above his head, before he slowly crumpled to the floor. The Cardinal’s grip on Bingley’s wrist was so tight that even after the man expired, it was a struggle to pry the massive fingers from his arm. Bingley dropped his coat, sheathed his knife, and was outside in a moment.
In the piazza, not fifteen paces from the door of the ‘ Volpe e Cane ’, a tussle was ongoing, and it was but a second before Bingley saw Maitland being choked mercilessly. With the butt of the pistol, Bingley struck his man’s attacker. The stranger collapsed and Maitland gasped for air. Through the dense crowd, the din of screams and shouts and chaos, Bingley lifted Maitland by the shoulder and hurried him toward the far corner where Wilshere would lead them through the catacombs. Just before they reached the alley, Bingley caught sight of Lady Catherine, seated beside her daughter Anne, in a cafe. The gaze of both ladies, fortunately, was focused across the way, toward the uninterrupted bedlam outside the ‘ Volpe e Cane ’. Bingley lowered and turned his head as to not be identified. When they reached the passageway, Bingley perceived a look of shock across his steward’s face. He looked down at himself and for the first time observed that his own shirt was spattered with blood.
“Give me your coat,” he demanded. Wilshere quickly shook himself out of it and helped Bingley on with it.
“This way, this way,” Wilshere directed, lifting the lantern, and leading down a stone stairwell.
The catacombs, flame from the steward’s lamp aside, were as dark as the inside of a coffin. Disquieting moans and shouting reverberated from seemingly all directions. Bingley breathed heavily as they moved as fast as the dearth of light would allow. The deeper they descended under the city, the more enveloped in darkness he felt; it was like a cloak around his body and a pillow over his face. When they finally emerged from the depths, the coach awaited them as directed. Once safely inside, Bingley shook uncontrollably while Wilshere held his shoulders and tried to calm him.
“We must depart this very evening,” Bingley declared.
“Sir, there are no ships that—”
“The cost is irrelevant. We must not be in this kingdom come sunrise.”
“Mr. Bingley,” Wilshere started, “I do not understand. Are you concerned that Endrizzi might identify you?”
“Endrizzi is dead.”
Wilshere’s expression betrayed his surprise. “The Cardinal is dead? And St. John?”
“Both,” declared Bingley calmly. “St. John by the sword; Endrizzi by lead.”
“And Lady St. John?”
“She was not present.”
“Then it is over, sir. You have accomplished your aim and then some.”
“No,” Bingley shook his head. “First of all, George Wickham is still alive. Secondly, Sir Andrew Fraser’s replacement has been commissioned.”
“Who is it?”
“I do not pretend to know with any degree of specificity. He is another military man but not of any particularly great rank. That is all the information I have been able to ascertain to this point. We must work to confirm this man’s identity and move swiftly against him.”
“But sir, the plot is surely foiled.”
“It may be, but that is of no consequence,” said Bingley. “I cannot allow a man as depraved as would involve himself in such an enterprise to simply carry on without repercussion.”
“I understand sir, but there is nothing to be done about that tonight . We must rest this evening and make our departure plans tomorrow.”
“Wilshere, I may have been seen by Lady Catherine de Bourgh or Miss Anne de Bourgh or both of them!”
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh? Mr. Bingley, whatever do you mean?”
“They are here on holiday—and were eating at the cafe near the alley.”
“Good God.”
Bingley had, by this point, managed to calm his physical convulsions, but he looked down at his blood-stained hands and trousers in disgust. He glanced over at the silent Maitland whose head rested on the carriage door. There were dark red marks in the shape of fingers around his neck. He breathed slowly.
“Are you hurt, Maitland?”
“No, sir,” came the breathy answer. “You surely saved my life.”
Bingley nodded. “I could do nothing less.”
The coach halted at the back door of their hotel.
“I will see to it that you are washed and comfortable, sir,” Wilshere pronounced. “Then I will find a ship that can depart this evening for either Palermo or Cagliari.”
“I can manage to wash myself, Wilshere,” retorted Bingley. “You must go and see to the ship with great urgency.”
Bingley helped Maitland up the stairs and to his room, before sending Carlotta to tend to him. The master then took off his boots from the Marylebone Collection and stripped down completely. He threw all his clothing, save Wilshere’s outer coat, in the fireplace and prodded it repeatedly to ensure that it burned. From the basin of fresh water, he washed and dried himself as quickly as he could manage and then donned fresh attire. He poured a full glass of brandy and grabbed a hunk of bread from the bounty Carlotta had ordered up before he sat down heavily in the chair by the fire. He ate nervously and swigged heartily. Then taking up the letter he had written to Darcy, he placed it in the fire, as well, and then stirred it again. Once he had finished his bread and brandy, he began packing what remained of his belongings into his trunks. Though he was not at all accustomed to putting his own things away, he felt that every advantage toward readiness of flight would be beneficial. Just when he was nearly through, his door flung open without a knock. Wilshere entered; his face was covered in sweat.
“Mr. Bingley, we must make haste this instant,” he panted.
“Is the ship ready?”
“Yes, but also, the gendarmerie has arrived downstairs.”
“ What? ”
“ Now sir, I beg you. The coach awaits at the rear exit.”
“Have you got to Maitland?”
“Not yet, sir. But we must not linger a moment longer.”
“Take this,” Bingley said, handing him a trunk. “I shall carry the other two then come back for your trunks. Get Maitland and get to the coach.”
“Mr. Bingley, there is not—”
“There is not time for you to question me, steward,” Bingley snarled.
Wilshere took the chest and spun back out into the hall in the direction of Maitland’s room. There was a mad rush down the stairs, up the stairs, and back down. Commotion could be heard in the direction of the foyer and Bingley even caught sight of a uniformed officer mounting the front stairway. He dashed out with the last of Wilshere’s trunks and had the driver hastily mount them before he climbed into the coach. Anxiously Bingley peered out the windows, waiting for his men to appear while simultaneously keeping watch. Just as he began to consider the very real possibility that his men had been arrested, Wilshere and Maitland burst from the exit. Bingley opened the carriage door, and they shot inside with Maitland’s trunk, all the while Wilshere shouting at the driver to be off. Bingley only managed to close the door as the coach sped off, leaving a gaggle of running gendarmes in its wake.
“Wilshere?”
“They have traced you to the hotel, sir, but no further, I assure you.”
“How can you be certain?”
“The room was reserved under the name Boykov. I left Carlotta with another twenty cavalli to confirm that we are Russians and are heading across the country for the port of Bari. As long as we get to our ship and set sail, we are safe.”
The ride was maddeningly long. Bingley continued to nervously spy out the small back window to discern whether they were being pursued. After what seemed an eternity, plus some, the coach stopped at a pier and the three men inside disembarked, gathering their trunks with the help of the driver and a member of the ship crew. The boat was alarmingly small for overseas travel, but was ready for immediate departure and was, additionally, had at a price reasonable given the circumstances. After being reassured that the crew of four and the captain routinely made voyages of such delicate nature back and forth to Sicily, Bingley and Maitland sat in the mess room where, to their pleasant surprise, they were offered rum and salted fish. Wilshere stayed atop the deck, and once they were but sixty meters from shore, began to heave into the sea.
The voyage of roughly one hundred and seventy nautical miles progressed slower than they might have hoped, and the total journey spanned just over twenty-two hours. However, once the party had alighted onto the soil of the Kingdom of Sicily, the three fugitives felt an enormous sense of relief, Mr. Wilshere in particular. They took a hotel just across the lane from the port, which had been recommended by the ship’s captain. Once their various belongings were situated in their various rooms, each man collapsed onto his bed. None of the three stirred until after noon the following day.