CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
In actuality, Mr. Trippier had stayed the night in Hastings and set out for his master’s quarters the following morning. The forty or so miles could be covered with relative ease, and he might arrive in time for lunch. The news of Captain Carter and Mr. Denny’s demise was less of a shock to him than it must have been to the Colonel. After working through the deaths of Eoin Walters and Andrew Fraser, as well as the brutal murder of his own master, Lord Bertram St. John, who was at the time so near to settling what would have been a wildly lucrative contract with the Cardinal in Naples, Trippier had come to expect the worst from the phantom butcher. The ghost had even escaped the clutches of a previous attempt to snare him in that very city. This time, however, with the aid—naive as they might be—of the regiment under his new master’s control would be a different story. He was firm in his belief that this trap would be the end of the vigilante. Then, the Wickhams could be dealt with decisively, and the recruitment of other members could proceed without threat of exposure or slaughter in their own beds. He had also just received a reply from Cardinal Endrizzi’s nephew who inherited his estate, a man by the name of Iago, who himself, possessed considerably influential contacts within Napoleon’s army. As it was, Iago had great interest in reviving the idea of a secret munitions arrangement which might benefit the French on the battlefield but would certainly benefit their own coffers at home. Now, it was only a matter of convincing Colonel Forster of the benefits of such an arrangement for his long-term prosperity. Tripper also had no doubt of his success in winning his new employer over to the idea, as the Colonel was much more easily led than his previous master. The fact that he had worked a twenty percent fee in for his own efforts would remain surreptitiously figured into the final accounts. In preparation for such a conversation, he went over the figures in a ledger once more as his coach approached Pevensey.
The steward was a short and unsightly man, so skinny that whatever clothes he wore hung from his frame like a sack over a fencepost. It seemed that all the features on his face had been squeezed to the center, leaving them crumpled between a long, pointy chin and an expansive forehead replete with pockmarks and wrinkles. His hair, what bit was left of it around the sides of his small head, was greasy and dark. Greenish-yellow eyes harkened back to a childhood full of violence and an adulthood filled with the lust of power and flesh. Though he was not a moral or sensible man, he was cunning, and this may have been his only appreciable trait.
As he again surveyed his work on the munitions agreement with the Neapolitan, a shout was heard up ahead and his coachman reared the vehicle to a sudden halt. What the devil? thought Trippier. Glancing out the windows, nothing but dark woods appeared on either side. Must be an animal or another tree down in the road after the storms.
Suddenly, the carriage door flew open and in an instant, the small stain of a man was flung from it and into the mud, his papers and articles flapping in all directions. He looked up to see a hooded figure standing atop him. With shock giving way instantly to fear, he pulled his pistol from his coat and fired a round toward the masked man. In the haze of smoke, Mr. Trippier saw not what hit him, but the whole world went dark.
When he came to, all was still black around him, though by the smell and the intimate and scratchy feeling across his nose, he could tell that he was now hooded. There were voices around him, and seemed to be movement, but much more subtle and gentle than a coach or cart. After rocking rhythmically for several moments, he realized he was in a boat. He tried to shake his head free from his hood but was unable to as it was tied under his chin. His small, claw-like hands were also bound behind his back.
“Can you believe after all that trouble you gave me, the bastard shoots a hole in me brand new coat?” a voice bellowed with laughter. Trippier could hear water lapping against the sides of the boat and, by this, determined he could not be aboard any vessel larger than a skiff.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded in his screechy, nasal voice. The men around him went silent. The diminutive steward breathed heavily. “There is money in a chest on the back of the—”
“We have already seized it,” a deep voice cut in.
“Then what do you want with me? Who are you?”
A long pause ensued—only the sounds of the water and a far-off gull—until at last, the deep voice began again: “We are the long arm of justice, Mr. Trippier.”
“What the devil do you mean?”
“We are the wind, we are the waves, and we are the storm. You are the sum of your urges, and we are the calamity you have called down upon your own head.”
“I do not understand.”
“We are voices from beyond the grave—a heavenly chorus of maidens who cry out for justice, mercy, and peace at last.”
“You are the butcher ,” Trippier rasped.
“I was .”
“We are not far off from knowing you. If you kill me, Colonel Forster will no doubt—”
“Your master and I have already reconciled accounts.”
The steward was caught off guard by this declaration. “Impossible,” he declared. “I had an express from him yesterday evening. He was guarded by five men round the clock!”
“That he was—guarded by five bungling, feckless drunkards,” the voice replied. “Not very well thought out on his part, I dare say.”
“Then what? —You are to butcher me as well?”
“Luckily for you, Mr. Trippier, I am relinquishing my role as executioner. Perhaps you could think of me more as a constable.” Another man chuckled behind him.
“You are a murderer .”
“A killer , no doubt; but a murderer , nay. Anyway, that was, as of this morning’s sunrise, in a former life. With you in my possession, the last and final link in a chain of evil and disgraceful men, I lay down all claims to justice evermore. From now on, I shall be a citizen, a faithful servant, and someday, by the grace of God, a husband. I shall enjoy the finer things in life—from a proper glass of brandy, to aiding a family who cannot afford a doctor to attend their sick child—I shall have it all. I will dance and I will love, and I will live in peace until the day all things are restored, and all of God’s children are safely tucked beneath the shadow of his wing. And on that day, in the hopes of God’s great and healing mercy, I shall see you again and even greet you as a brother. But until that day—”
The boat tipped slightly as it bumped against something to the steward’s left. “And here we are,” remarked another voice.
Trippier was grabbed stoutly about the shoulders and lifted onto dry land. He was walked at a pace much brisker than he was accustomed, up a set of stairs and across what he surmised to be a field of some sort. His shoulder was tugged, and his back was pressed against the trunk of a large tree. Someone said, “Have you the rope?”
The steward swallowed hard. “Am I to be hung like a common criminal?”
“I am afraid you have hanged yourself, Mr. Trippier.”
With that, the rope squeezed tightly round his waist and his hood was removed. Night had fallen but he could clearly make out the shape of a Martello tower in the near distance. The men around him vanished off into the darkness in the direction of the sea. Trippier began to shout and holler for help. In a moment’s time, lanterns were lit all about the fort and to his relief, a series of redcoats descended on him. Before he was untied, however, the commanding officer picked up a sack from the grass at his feet and removed a letter tied to a series of books. The officer’s eyes darted from left to right as he read by the light of a nearby torch. He suddenly looked up at the steward, a mixture of quandary and disgust strewn across his face.
“What are you waiting for?” Trippier cried. “I demand to be untied this instant!”
“What is your name, sir?” asked the officer.
“Trippier! I am the steward of Colonel Forster of the militia regiment stationed in Brighton. I was on my way there but was attacked by brigands!”
“Colonel Forster , did you say?”
“Yes, and if you do not release me this instant, I shall personally see to it that you are court-martialled and disgraced!” Trippier searched the man’s insignia but could not make them out in the dark. “What is your name, Corporal, that I might recommend such action?”
“Fitzwilliam,” the soldier answered. “That would be Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he clarified as he opened Trippier’s ledger books, detailing his munitions plot with Iago Endrizzi. “Take this man into the fort at once, and make sure he is detained securely.”
Mr. Trippier was charged and convicted of high treason and was hanged for his crimes against the crown by the week’s end.