CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When Wilshere finally awoke, he sat up slowly and parted the curtain by the bedside window. The sky was grey and what tree branches he could see fluttered and swayed in the wind. It did not appear to be raining at present, but a misty spray hung on the street side of the glass. The steward’s head pounded, though he felt much better being on dry land. He rang the bell and ordered tea and rolls from the man who came to attend him. The small breakfast helped further settle his stomach and calm his pounding temples. He washed and dressed, then walked to the window that overlooked the harbour. At first glance he merely enjoyed the view, but he then noticed a solitary figure seated under a canopy near the water’s edge, and after squinting tender eyes, became quite positive it was his master.
Wilshere wondered at the toll all this nasty business was taking on Mr. Bingley—the hunting, the hiding, the secrecy, and of course, the act of killing itself. For a man of such breeding, character, and gentle kindness, even the ends could not possibly alleviate any anguish caused by the horrendous nature of the means. His master—a wealthy, cultured, and sophisticated man —truly was at heart, a servant of the least connected and most vulnerable members of society. Wilshere reflected on the personal cost of this journey to his master, in not only sterling, but in mental and emotional throe. Mr. Bingley, by all accounts, should be enjoying the advantages of his rank and his youth. He was the most agreeable man Wilshere had ever met, let alone worked for. He was handsome and tall, affluent and easy-going—he should be, at this time in his life, consumed with thoughts of marriage and starting a family. His master was universally admired for his generosity, his gentility, and his easy manners. It was, unfortunately, these very qualities that suited him, perhaps above all others, for the grotesque calling into which he had been unwittingly hurled. He was equal parts selfless, capable, and just. Wilshere could only hope the vile plot, and its loathsome culprits could finally be dismantled—and quickly.
The steward donned his coat and walked down to where his master sat near the dock. “Mr. Bingley,” he said calmly.
“Mr. Wilshere,” came the weak reply.
“Are you well, sir?”
“Aye,” he answered. His face was turned down and away from his steward, his collar flipped up over his neck to block the wind.
“Have you eaten, sir?”
“I have not.”
“Shall I retrieve something for you?”
“I thank you, no.” Bingley looked up at him and sighed deeply. His eyes were red; his cheeks tear stained. He sniffled and wiped his nose with his kerchief.
“It is nearly over, sir,” stated Wilshere.
Bingley nodded solemnly, then turned his eyes back toward the sea. “Does a man ever become accustomed to killing?” he asked, nay, pleaded.
“Many do, sir,” replied the steward. “But to your credit, you shall not .”
“That does not make the task any easier.”
“If the task were easy, Mr. Bingley, it would not have fallen to you.”
“I do not grasp your meaning.”
“Your mission is a just one, sir. If you were the kind of man whose conscience could become callous to taking life, you would no longer be worthy of it—it would cease to be just. I am convinced, sir, that you are among the very best of men, and such acts of justice can truly fall only to a man of stalwart character and decency like yourself.”
“Will it ever end, though? Will there ever be justice?”
“One day, there will, and it will not be retributive, it will be restorative. But until that remarkable day, you have been tasked with defending the innocent, the assailable, and that is a holy duty, indeed.”
“Thank you, Wilshere,” answered Bingley, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Looking back toward the open expanse of sea, he said, “I believe that we should avoid Marseille.”
“Why is that?”
“I have just committed double murder on territory controlled by the French. I do not suppose it would be entirely safe to put into shore there.”
“I see. I will inquire about a boat that might take us straight back to England.”
“Inquire about Lisbon,” Bingley said. “I have always desired to journey there, and I believe we are due some time in ease and repose.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Also, have thirty pounds sent to the father of Leticia Yates as soon as possible, and anonymously, of course.”
“As you wish.”
The party stayed on in Palermo for four days before boarding the Portuguese vessel named Senhora Sagrada , which Bingley came to learn translated into English as Sacred Lady . The journey to Lisbon took six days—six miserable days, in Wilshere’s case. The three men stayed in a seaside hotel for more than a fortnight before setting off for London. From the dock along the Thames, Maitland was given a fortnight’s leave to Birmingham, while Wilshere and Bingley arrived at the house on Grosvenor Street that same day—Friday, the Fourteenth of March.