Chapter Twenty-One
London
The Colonel began his campaign to find Wickham by utilising two sources: first, the Bow Street Runners, and second, a number of army men who had retired or been invalided out.
To each of these men, he offered payment for their efforts and a substantial bonus to any man who gave the Colonel information leading to apprehending the man.
The Colonel made no secret of the fact that this would be a difficult chase. He had no drawings of Wickham and knew not how to get any, so all there was to go on was the man’s name and that of his comrade, Mrs. Younge. This might not even be her real name!
His efforts, and those of his team, were focused on the poor areas of town – St. Giles Rookery, for example, and Whitechapel.
The Colonel knew that Wickham could not resist the opportunity to find a place where he could get a pint and a chance at a game, so they focused on pubs.
And if enough men went into enough pubs and asked enough questions, something, some small fact, some small arrow pointing to the villain, might surface.
The Colonel did not exempt himself from the task of visiting pubs. He emerged from Matlock House every day, wearing dusty old clothes and a cap pulled down over his face. He would then walk to the end of the street, hail a hansom cab, and begin his rounds.
Typically, he would pay for a pint – thus making himself a friend of the landlord – and then ask if anyone by the name of George Wickham had made an appearance. He would say that he owed the man money and wanted very much to repay him.
Invariably, the landlord would say that he knew of no one by that name, but would keep an ear out.
And then the scene would repeat itself at the next pub.
The Colonel did not enjoy the process, certainly, but he kept on, doggedly. When his energy flagged, he would imagine what he would do to Wickham when he found him, and that was incentive enough to move him on to the next pub. And the next. And the next.
Each day, his men – his Bow Street runners and his ex-army fellows – would send a message to Matlock House. And each day, the messages would say two words: No luck.