CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“Drive on!” Wilshere shouted as he closed the coach door behind him. Handing his master a tankard brimming with coffee, he sat with a thud, caddy-cornered from Mr. Bingley, whose elbow was propped on the window ledge, his head resting in his hand. The master sipped his morning beverage with nonchalant deftness, as though he were incapable of spilling the steaming liquid on himself while they rocked along. It was still dark, save the first streaks of violet which betokened the imminent ascent of the sun. The chill in the air was aberrant for the first week of September, and a thick mist shrouded every turn as the carriage rumbled up the drive leading out of Pemberley Park.
“Can you believe it, sir?” the steward posed as the driver turned the horses out onto the main road—the very same road which led into Lambton from the estate, though they would deviate from it in a southernly direction before reaching the village.
“Once more,” Bingley began, taking a sip while he spoke, “in a former life, never would I entertain such rubbish. However, I believe we have safely crossed beyond into a second existence in which there is nothing which would cause me shock.”
“Still, it has not been confirmed outright.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam’s account of Colonel Forster does, however, elucidate the mystery of Captain Carter—particularly why Maitland and Gallagher were never to discover his contact.”
“The two could easily speak in confidence without ever venturing from their camp.”
“Never an incautious word in a tavern, never a clandestine excursion by dark of night. It was the perfect partnership, and we did not see it.”
“I dare say we could hardly be blamed,” answered the steward. “And as we have already established, it is very unlikely the operation would be capable of harming any young maidens until the conclusion of this Wickham business.”
Shaking his head, Bingley declared, “We wish to think it, Wilshere. We hope to God we have done enough. We will soon cause the complete desistance of the whole enterprise, and only then I will be at rest.”
Bingley gazed out the window, sipping the last of his coffee. After a moment or so, with enough light to read, Wilshere opened his ledger and began sorting through accounts. The two rode on in silence for quite some time.
When, in due course, they reached the city of Leicester, they were greeted by an express rider who summarily informed them that the Wickhams had departed Meryton the previous day and were expected to stay in a village north of Peterborough the following evening at the curiously named Bloody Bucket Inn. Carter and Denny were to meet them there, murder them in their sleep, and vanish back to London. The killers’ room was to be reserved under the alias “Del Patrick.” Rather than staying on in Leicester then, Bingley decided that they would ride on toward Peterborough that very eve. Fresh horses were ordered, as well as a meal and a bottle of whisky for the road, and they were off. An express was dispatched ahead to have the Wickhams removed to a neighbouring inn called the Lucky Servant, where Mr. Wickham was warned in no uncertain terms, that if they wished to see the sun rise the next morning, to be sure they remained indoors and out of sight until further notice.
Once they had arrived in the outskirts of Peterborough, Wilshere took a room under a fictitious name in the Lucky Servant. Bingley was clear that he was not to be seen—particularly by Mrs. Wickham—so he was whisked in rather furtively. After some hours of sleep, he and Wilshere rose, took a meal in the room, and devised their plan.
Early that evening, Wilshere headed down to the Bloody Bucket and occupied a table near the bar with full view of both the front door and the staircase. He ordered a couple of scotch eggs and an ale and unfurled a large newspaper to shield his face. When the barkeeper brought his drink, he allowed his piqued curiosity to get the better of him.
“I beg your pardon,” Wilshere began.
“Yes, sir?” the man asked as he set the ale down in front of his guest.
“Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”
“I am. George Stoop at your service,” the innkeeper answered. He was an extraordinarily tall man whose bald head nearly touched the rafters above him when he stood fully upright. His wide shoulders tapered to a slim waist, and his hands were each large enough to nearly encircle a pint glass completely.
“How do you do, Mr. Stoop? May I enquire after the name of this inn? It seems most unusual.”
“Certainly,” the barkeeper answered with a proud smile. “But I must know, are you in for a Hookee Walker?”
“Seems I have the time,” answered Wilshere with a chortle.
“Very well, then. This building was erected in the year 1628. The first owner, a man by the name of Samuel Dawkins, named it ‘The Old Haunt,’ because at the time, the little patch of land you might have noticed across the lane—where the well is situated—was rumoured to have been haunted by ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Wilshere laughed.
Stoop held up a finger before continuing on in his deep, resonant voice. “A year or so prior to that, when the well was installed, the patch of land was populated by some very large, old, and as it turned out, hollow trees. Now, as the tale goes, when the townsmen felled the trees, they discovered that some of them were filled with human bones.”
“How ghastly,” declared Wilshere.
“The popular legend, then, became that the ghosts, on account of having their resting place disturbed, would haunt the well and turn the water to blood.”
“Charming.”
“Except, then it happened,” said the innkeeper with a twinge of foreboding.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Just a month after the inn opened, Mr. Dawkins went across the way to fetch a pail of water, as he had done several times each day he had been in business. When he got back inside, he discovered that the pale was filled not with water, but with blood.” Wilshere’s face twisted in disbelieving horror. “A very short inquest was held, during which it was learned that a young lad just returned from soldierly duty in Ireland to his mother’s house up the street had fallen in and perished. His corpse was removed, and it was found rather badly battered. Some people chalked it up to the ghosts. That was enough for old Mr. Dawkins. He sold quickly and left the village, not to be heard from again. And that very year it obtained its name from its new owner.”
“How fascinating!”
“Then, just as the famous old incident threatened to wane into local folklore, the ghosts lashed out once more!”
“I do not believe it,” proclaimed Wilshere.
“But, aye, they did,” the barman continued. “And exactly one hundred years to the day. Barkeep by the name of Blevins fetches water across the lane, returns to the pub, and finds the blood. Another soldier—this one just returned from Boston in the American colonies.”
“Surely this is but a Banbury tale.”
“Perhaps,” Stoop laughed. “But even so, it’s only 1812. We won’t expect the ghosts for another sixteen years. And we shall be sure to warn off any soldiers within a full ten miles of the place!”
At that moment, the steward’s eggs arrived from the kitchen. Wilshere thanked the man for the tale and commenced his second supper. Once he had consumed his meal, he ordered another ale and rested back with his newspaper, while keeping a watchful eye on the door. Over the course of the next two hours, he paced his ale consumption while he read, as to keep his faculties intact. Eventually, the door jarred open, and the wind blew in Captain Carter and Mr. Denny. They approached the bar and gave the name “Patrick,” after which they were shown to their lodgings. With great chary Wilshere rose from his seat and followed them up the stairs at a cautious distance. From the midway point on the landing, he was able to peak over the top step to observe them enter the second door on the left of the hall. When Wilshere remerged downstairs, Stoop was drying a glass at the bar and eyed him curiously.
“Would you like a room, sir?”
“Thank you, no,” Wilshere answered. “I am waiting on friends who are expected to stay here.”
“Friends?”
“Yes, sir, a Mr. and Mrs. George Wickham—can you tell me, have they arrived?”
“Not as of yet,” Stoop replied.
“And in which room are they to stay, if you do not mind my asking?”
“Second room on the right.”
“I thank you,” said Wilshere warmly. “I have business to attend to but will call upon them tomorrow.”
With that, Wilshere left the inn and rode back to the Lucky Servant where he briefed Mr. Bingley. That evening they dined in their room on smoked gammon and summer vegetables. Bingley had two glasses of wine with dinner and a single of brandy once the barmaid had cleared the plates from their room. For all the nerves he had felt on such previous occasions as this, he was calm and steady this evening, convinced of the necessity of the task at hand, as well as his ability to complete it. Wilshere asked him if he felt any apprehension about handling two victims at once.
“You forget, I dispatched two in Naples, and one rather a colossus at that.”
Wilshere nodded. “Surprise is a most powerful tool.”
“Though, why any man involved in such filth should be surprised at meeting the swift hand of judgement is beyond my comprehension.”
The two sat in silence as the dark of night took the village firmly in its grasp.
Two hours past midnight, Captain Carter and Mr. Denny crossed the hall furtively, dressed in socked feet that the sound of their steps might raise no alarm. They took a steely glance at each other as they reached the Wickhams’ door. Carter took the curved handle and twisted it ever so gently. The planked door opened with the slightest creak and the two marauders entered the room, knives raised in hostile expectation. They each crossed around to opposite sides of the bed and reached down in the dark to identify their victims. The thought had been to dispatch with Wickham instantaneously, though they had planned something a bit more protracted and heinous for Miss Lydia. After all, she had caught their eyes first, and there was an element of injustice that Colonel Forster had planned to keep her to himself. Tonight, they would rectify that inequity. However, their hands rummaged through the blanket until their fingers met each other’s in the middle. They both startled and leapt back in shock, knives aloft and panting in the blackness.
“Where are they?” Denny whispered.
“How should I know?” Carter barked back quietly.
“Perhaps their stay was planned for tomorrow?”
“No, they were to have arrived this afternoon.”
“They could have been delayed and lodged elsewhere.”
Carter shook his head adamantly. “ Something is not right. Let us make haste back to our room. We shall formulate a plan in the morning.”
They closed the Wickhams’ door, crossing the hall back to their room and shut themselves in soundlessly. The candle still burned on the table in the corner and its light flickered on a cloaked figure seated there in a wooden chair. Carter gave a start when he caught sight of the man.
“Pardon me, sir—have you found the wrong room?”
The man’s face was turned down and shielded from view by the brim of his hat. “I would be much comforted if you would sheath your knives.”
“Certainly,” Carter answered. He and Denny both placed their weapons on the table. “But sir, you have entered the wrong chamber. This room is let to us.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“I am not convinced,” said Bingley, raising his gaze to meet theirs.
“Mr. Bingley ?” Denny exclaimed.
“Are you staying in the inn?” Carter asked in astonishment.
“Not for long,” Bingley replied, shifting his weight backwards onto the arm of the chair. His legs were crossed in perfect insouciance; his mien relaxed and even chilling.
“Sir, I apologize for our mutual astonishment upon seeing you, if it caused any slight—”
“None whatsoever,” he said coolly. “You have no cause to apologize… to me .”
“May I then ask to what we owe the honour of seeing you here?”
“It is indeed an honour to be here,” Bingley said, casting his glance casually about the room. “In your bedchamber, and at this very hour, on this particular eve.” Denny and Carter exchanged a perplexed look. The single flame cast a menacing and enormous shadow on the plaster wall behind Bingley. “The Bloody Bucket,” he continued. “Curious name for an inn, is it not?”
“Very peculiar, indeed,” stammered Denny.
“I have heard,” whispered Bingley, “that its origin lies in a rather grisly tale of soldiers and ghosts .”
“It sounds fascinating,” Carter blurted.
“We should enquire with the innkeeper in the morning, then,” Denny’s voice cracked.
“There shan’t be need for that,” retorted Bingley. With that, he very slowly deliberately leaned over the table, whet his lips, and blew out the candle. “Do either of you believe in ghosts?”