Chapter Thirty
...And Sprung
At Stanton’s suggestion, they hired a horse and cart for their mission.
The machine, said the baron, would be heavy and awkward to carry either on foot or on horseback, and Darcy did not apprise him that he, himself, had carried the bulky apparatus for over a half mile through the heavy snow that blanketed the ground.
Better allow His Lordship the assumption that he had seen, but never touched, the device.
Whatever Stanton might suspect, Darcy was of no mind to confirm.
The horse supplied by the inn was a solid and biddable creature, if none too swift on its hooves, and the thick snow seemed little challenge.
The beast dragged the small cart down the lane towards the woods, and then across the snow-shrouded ground with plodding and uncomplaining diligence, edging around trees and boulders where the path through the woods narrowed.
Darcy had chosen this route, which followed his own steps from just the other day, as it was both direct and brought them into little contact with any tracks that might have been made by Hastings’ soldiers on their reconnaissance.
The weak sun filtered through the watery sky, neither warming the two travellers nor providing the depth of shadow that might reveal obstacles beneath the snow. But that would also betray tracks, and the only marks in the snow upon which Stanton made any comment were Darcy’s own.
“I needed to come out after the heavy snowfall last week,” he explained, “to ensure the machine was still there. I am pleased to see no other footprints, for it means the device is still unattended and uncared for.”
“Indeed,” was all that Stanton replied as he followed the path through the woods in the direction Darcy had suggested.
Furthermore, he nodded distractedly when Darcy suggested coming out the following day to set the scene for the supposed theft of the machine by some wanderers.
The rest of the ride was conducted in silence.
There, at last, just in from the edge of the woods and in clear sight of the frozen river, sat the cottage, squat and solid and ugly in the diffuse light.
The low stone wall that had served as his landmark grew almost organically from the banks of the stream and stretched only a few yards past the cottage before crumbling, as fallen leaves, back into the ground from which it appeared to spring.
“I wonder the purpose of it,” Darcy murmured as he alit from the cart and walked to the ancient and crumbling structure.
It might once have penned a few thin pigs or provided a shield against foraging badgers or deer; it seemed never to have been designed to protect against a human enemy, and any remaining sides to an enclosure had long since returned to dust and pebbles.
The cottage itself fared better. It had been maintained over the years, and likely by the current master of Longbourn, for some amount of money had gone into rethatching the sloped roof and plastering the crannies between the hewn stones that made up its walls.
The interior dust, thick on the floor, paid homage to the integrity of the walls.
There must be very few draughts inside. The door, thick and wooden, boasted a shiny lock which was of far more recent vintage than the old walls or the brown thatch roof.
Stanton had also descended from the cart but remained at the side of the vehicle, watching Darcy with wary eyes.
Eventually, seemingly satisfied that the cottage was empty, he looped the horse’s reins over a nearby branch and stomped through the snow towards the door.
It was, Darcy noticed, locked. Stanton raised his mild eyes at him, and Darcy shrugged.
“I found a set of keys in one of Bennet’s drawers and took them when he was not looking.
None seemed to work, and he never seemed to miss them.
Eventually I resorted to a set of lock picks.
” Darcy reached into a pocket in his greatcoat.
“I did venture inside just once to check the fire. You can see my footprints on the floor.”
“Where did you learn to use the picks?” Stanton’s voice held a note of levity, and something else.
“My cousin believed it an amusement—”
He stopped in mid-thought as Stanton, too, plunged his hand into a fold in his own coat and withdrew a pistol which he now aimed at Darcy’s heart.
“Good God, Stanton, what is the meaning of this?” He did not have to feign the alarm in his voice.
“What else is in those pockets? I can trust no one. Continue, Mr. Darcy, very slowly, to withdraw your set of picks. Try no tricks on me.” The mild eyes were gone, the cultured voice incongruous with the fierce expression on the man’s face.
Did Stanton believe he had a pistol or other weapon concealed in the garment?
He had not thought of such a thing! Carefully, Darcy did as ordered and pulled out a thin case which, when opened, revealed a set of thin prongs all bent and crimped in unusual ways.
Stanton did not apologise, neither did he lower the pistol. “Open the door,” he commanded.
“You cannot need the weapon, sir! I mean you no threat; I only meant to get the picks. We are working together, are we not?”
Stanton remained grimly silent and waved Darcy over to the doorway where he set to work.
He looked over the various picks and selected one with which to begin the operation.
It had been years since those misadventures with Richard at school and then university, and he had most often been the spectator and lookout rather than the instigator and perpetrator of whatever mischief was planned.
But he had opened a door or two in his foolish youth, and he knew that some of that skill would now return to his fingers.
It must, for he had claimed to have done this just days ago.
He did not mention that the key designed to fit this lock was safely in Bennet’s desk drawer at Longbourn, where he had seen it only this morning.
He manoeuvred the picks in and out, twisting them when they found a purchase and replacing them when they did not, and at last he felt the tumbler lift just enough for the bolt to slide open.
He released a ragged gust of air and allowed the door to swing open.
“You have been inside?” Stanton waved at the cabin with his free hand.
“Yes, only once, after I saw the machine through the window there.” He looked towards a pane of glass set into the thick wall, at the base of which a muddle of his own boot tracks gave silent testimony to his visit some few days before.
“I could see at once there would not be ample light to draw, and when my eyes are strained, it can bring on a relapse of the megrims that plagued me after the attack. I entered then, as now, and came only so far as to check the fire and see that the machine seemed to be what you were looking for.” He took a breath.
“Really, Lord Stanton, must you point that pistol at me? I mean you no danger; if I did not wish you to have the machine, I should hardly have brought you here!”
“I have said before that I can trust no one, and I shall repeat that now. Please step aside.”
Darcy moved to the side to allow Stanton to look inside the small cabin.
The weapon remained in the baron’s hand, although the barrel dropped slightly.
There, on a small table to the side of the window on the opposite wall, all but invisible in the weak light, sat the damaged code machine.
It was covered in a heavy layer of dust only slightly thinner than that which carpeted the stone floor.
The dust on the floor was broken only by a single set of a man’s footprints that passed by the table.
That same set of prints made a small muddle by the dead fireplace and the empty cupboards along one wall.
Dusting the machine was a clever thought of his, Darcy reflected as he recalled sprinkling the fine powder on the code machine those handful of days earlier.
His handiwork might not stand up to great scrutiny, but to a casual eye, and in this faint light, the machine looked like it had been untouched for a great many weeks.
Stanton must have been satisfied with what he saw, for his stance relaxed ever so slightly. “Bring it to me.”
Darcy slid into the gloomy space and retrieved the device, which he brought outside with little fuss. He feigned surprise at the weight of it.
“Put in on the cart.”
“I’m happy to oblige, Lord Stanton, but can you please lower that pistol?
It is making me nervous, and it is quite unnecessary.
I would, however, appreciate an explanation for why you feel it is needed.
” Darcy covered the few feet between the cottage and the wagon and placed the machine in the back, blowing the layer of dust off of the discs and casing.
Where the casing was damaged and the inner workings destroyed, some of the powder remained, but it was now obscured enough that one could not determine how long the dust had lain upon it, or whether that dust were natural or the result of some careful collections from whatever piles Mrs. Hill’s staff had swept into the corner of Longbourn’s grand rooms, supplemented by sawdust, old flour and sand from the barns.
Without lowering the pistol, Stanton walked over and peered at the machine.
“I do not know whether I can trust you, Darcy. I have had my man Nobbs watching you. Yes, the spy has been spied upon in turn. His reports have made me uneasy. You seem all too close to these Bennets, almost one of the family. How can I know you have not been seduced into their fold? Are you loyal to them, or to me?”
“I do protest, Lord Stanton! You have declared yourself an agent of the government, and my loyalty remains firmly with England! Can there be any question? I am offended that you must ask.”