CHAPTER FORTY
When he arrived back at the house on Grosvenor Street, Bingley was a mix of dread and exhilaration. He entered with a clamour and proceeded immediately to his study—ignoring entirely the greetings of his sister, Caroline—and rang for Wilshere. Bingley poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed it in a single swig, while pacing around the room. Suddenly feeling flushed, he discarded his waistcoat and cravat on the chair beside the bare fireplace and immediately proceeded to unfasten the window that opened into the private courtyard. Wilshere entered to see him sitting atop the sill and fanning himself with a stack of parchment.
“Mr. Bingley?”
“Wilshere,” he began rapidly and with verve, “please be so good as to remind me why we thought it prudent to bestow my riding boots to the stable-keeper at Lambton?”
“Sir, we’ve been over this more than once—”
“Just indulge me, please.”
“As we approached the village, sir, you took them off in the box and said that you wanted to be rid of them because they were covered in sludge and blood. I advised you to toss them into the wood or burn them in the pit at Pemberley, but when you saw the old stable-keep and his bare feet, you ordered the carriage stopped, and bade me to give them to him.”
Bingley nodded and asked for another glass of whiskey which his man was dutiful to pour. Once again it disappeared in a single motion. “I met with the Constable earlier,” said he.
“I figured you might.”
“He has the boots and has matched them to a print in the mud where we left Fraser’s horse.”
“Is that all he has?”
“And I admitted to him, in a moment of sheer vacuity that I was at Pemberley the evening of the murder.”
“An alibi can easily be provided—”
“He also has a witness who can connect my boots to my carriage and observed its departure in the direction of Darcy’s estate.”
“There are many carriages in the world, Mr. Bingley.”
“I want it burned,” he suddenly demanded.
“The coach?”
“Aye.”
“Burned?” the stupefied steward blurted.
“Immediately,” Bingley ordered. “And I want it noted in your records that it happened in an accident last summer.”
“But sir, that coach cost upward of three hundred pounds—”
“Wilshere, I have the utmost respect for you and trust you with my very life, but do not dare question me when I make a command in respect to my property. Your duty is fulfilling my instructions, and you are compensated fairly for it.”
“I do not argue with you on the latter score, but as for the former, my duty is the management of your estate. Respectfully, I am not a farm hand to be ordered to and fro at your every whim—particularly when your typically sound judgement has been clouded by paranoia and fear.” Bingley ceased fanning himself and tossed the papers on the small table beside him. He rubbed his eyes with both hands and mumbled an apology. “There is no way your coach could be properly identified by that old man. It was dark and raining and I would have grave concerns about his mental capacity to withstand any serious type of examination. That coach is a popular style—a lavish one, yes, but not terribly uncommon. The road through Lambton may lead a man to countless destinations.”
“Does it not trouble you?”
“Mr. Bingley,” the steward started deliberately, “that coach is under lock and key and out of sight at Netherfield Park. There may come a time that it becomes prudent to dispose of it, but the present is not that time, and if I may be so direct, I will not obey an order that is not in your best interest.”
Bingley glanced up at him. “You are a good man, Wilshere. We have been to hell and back these last two years and I do not know where I would be without you.”
“Thank you, sir. As always, I hold you in the highest esteem. I would be unable to work for a man of lesser quality; and men of your nature are far more rare than the coach in storage.”
“Pour us both a glass, will you?” Bingley asked with a smile.
His steward obeyed him at once.