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Chapter 38
By the time John reached the town of Harring, he had transformed himself into an anxious young gentleman in search of temporary lodgings for his family. His fragile wife, unable to bear the rigors of town during her laying-in, had received advice from her physician to leave London for the peace and quiet of the country. John was going ahead to find and feather the nest. Stopping at a local solicitor, he was given the name of a promising property in need of a tenant. Now established as a prospective tenant of Rothfield Hall, no one would think it at all odd that the young man (in light of his circumstances) would need to find, and be acquainted with, the local physician and midwife. Dr. Milton proved to be thoroughly professional, competent, closed mouthed, and of no use to John whatsoever. Mrs. Gates, on the other hand, proved very useful indeed.
An inquiry regarding that lady's schedule for the upcoming months revealed that she was in for a busy time of it. Adding to the hectic pace of an unusually fertile local growing season, a sudden influx of outsiders ('beggin' your pardon, sir') were also in need of her services.
"So, there are others newly arrived in Harring besides myself?"
"I never seen the likes of it sir!" Mrs. Gates went ticking them off in audible fashion, "Let's see now, there's the Carringtons, the Wilsons, the Barnets, poor Mrs. Hempstead the widow, and..." she lowered her voice to a whisper, "...there's that cousin of Mrs. Jarvis. What a piece of work... Oh mind! Forgive me for runnin' off, sir! A decent young man like yourself don't want to hear about that sort of thing!"
Miss Pope was staying with cousins of that name. John knew he'd found her, "Mrs. Gates, I owe you apology. I have misrepresented myself, and must be forthcoming immediately, else I cause you to slander. You speak of Miss Pope, do you not?"
Mrs. Gates turned ghastly pale, "Oh sir! I meant no harm..."
"Say nothing of it Mrs. Gates, the fault is all mine," John's tone was kindly. He'd given her a fright, " I would like to be frank with you madam, but I must be assured of your secrecy."
The poor woman, too stunned to speak, nodded her agreement. Looking earnestly at her, John continued, "Very well then. I have no wife and no intention whatsoever of staying in this place. My history is entirely fabricated for the simple reason that a single man would have no reason to seek you out, and would draw unwanted attention if he did so. My sole purpose in coming to Harring is to check on Miss Pope's well being. You see, I have very good reason to be concerned with her present state of health. For the better part of a year, Miss Pope was my constant companion." From Mrs. Gates reaction, John could tell she did not question his veracity. She was scandalized.
"So madam, it's now my turn to feel ill at ease," John's manner was embarrassed, and as the fading vestiges of a rueful smile left his face he continued on, "I believe that I'm to blame for Miss Pope's current dilemma madam, and wanted to take full responsibility. But before steps could be taken to provide for her we quarreled, and she left me. I still want to do everything in my power to see her through this difficult time, but I know she would neither desire nor accept my assistance. This is where you come in Mrs. Gates. I want you to see to her every comfort. The child is due in about seven months time?"
"More like four or five sir!"
"Four or five? Do you base this on Miss Pope's information, or your own observation?"
"I been at this since before you was born! Beggin' your pardon sir, but I know when a child is due! She tried to tell me different as well, but I know better!"
"Yes. Yes of course. I did not mean to cause offense, madam, you are my ally," he waited till Mrs. Gates appeared sufficiently mollified before giving voice to his thoughts, "I am surprised that she waited so long to tell me, that is all. When I think of her suffering alone..." John roused himself from his apparent revere, "Mrs. Gates, I would like a firm commitment from you to see to her every need during the balance of her confinement. I want you to give her your full attention. I think you will find it profitable."
The sight of a ten pound note was enough to commit Mrs. Gates to paper. The document, signed and dated by her own hand, specified the exact time period during which her services would be needed, and included the expected due date of the infant. In that short space of time, ten pounds would earn Miss Pope a good deal of unwanted attention, and provide Mrs. Gates with a welcome source of extra income. John mentally added ten pounds to Lord Metcalf's bill. That good man would consider it a bargain.
It would prove to be an even better bargain than could possibly be imagined. As John made to leave he felt a slight tug at his sleeve. He turned to see Mrs. Gates, with maternal concern on her face, and the ten pound note clutched securely to her bosom. She observed John thoughtfully as she made her decision to speak, "Sir, I think highly of you for doin' what you are for the young woman. And it's in light of that fact that I feel I must tell you somethin'. I wouldn'a feel right if I didn'a tell you."
John intuitively knew what Mrs. Gates wanted to say. Assuming a demeanor of sad resignation, John said, "Don't be concerned madam. Whatever you have to tell me will in no way change our agreement. Has she deceived me here as well?"
A great weight seemed lifted off that woman's shoulders, "Oh, cut her off, sir! The list is long!"
As John slipped Mrs. Gate's agreement into an inner pocket, he derived keen satisfaction from a job done well. Within two days of leaving Kent, his business in Harring was essentially complete; the Honorable William Metcalf was safe. Even though Miss Pope was with child, the young man had been in blissful ignorance at Oxford when it was conceived. And now John had the proof.
Barrow stayed the night at a small local inn then, not wanting to leave behind any reasons for inquiry, stopped at the solicitor's office first thing the next morning. John informed the man that he'd just received sad news. His wife had miscarried As a result, he had no further interest in leasing Rothfield Hall. Leaving Harring as inconspicuously as he had entered it, he made his way back to his client in Kent.
His client was a happy man. So pleased was Lord Metcalf with John's success that he rounded out his draft to the next fifty pounds, and considered it a bargain indeed! All signs of apoplexy were gone, and would likely remain dormant till his son's next adventure. Since it was rather late in the day, John gladly accepted Lord Metcalf's offer of an overnight stay, but an invitation to dinner on the following evening was politely declined. There was unfinished business in town, he explained to his host, an urgent matter demanding his undivided attention.
That next morning, the very first light of day saw John on the road to London.
Chapter 39
The bell rang signaling entrance of a customer. Mr Smith looked up in pleasure, as he did not get to see this young man very often any more.
"Good morning Mr. Barrow!"
John needed nothing from this place but the one person it did not provide. Still, he listened with studied patience as Mr. Smith showed in great detail all stock, merchandise John had already seen and purchased months ago. The only reason he'd come here was to extract some news of Arabella. But to his great surprise, all of his well laid plans for interrogation were rendered unnecessary. Mr. Smith offered up information of his own volition.
"By the way Mr. Barrow, If I'm not taking too much of a liberty, I have a message of sorts from my daughter."
It took all John had to guard his expression, of face and voice, "I'd consider it an honor."
"I thank you, sir! I received a letter from Arabella two days ago. She was most particular in her desire to send her regards to all the regulars, and I do consider it a privilege to include you in that number. In fact," Mr. Smith perused the letter briefly, adjusting his spectacles as he did so, "Yes, yes, you were one of those she mentioned by name. I believe the dear girl misses our society. She says that, outside of her aunt and a few lady friends, she does not keep much close company there."
John wondered what to make of this. He wanted to think that all this was done for his benefit, but dismissed the idea as false hope. He knew what he had seen, and doubted that Arabella thought of him in that way anymore. If, in fact, she ever had. Yet, even on the distant chance... Heeding Sir John's advice, Barrow would not squander this opportunity, "If you wouldn't mind returning the favor sir, please send my particular regards when next you write. And let her know that I anticipate with great pleasure the time when she will be here once again."
Immediately after saying this, John reddened at the implication, since this event would in all likelihood only occur after the death of Mr. Smith's sister. Aware that he had lost his countenance, and the knowledge of how else this might be construed, made him flush deeper still. Barrow gave a resigned sigh, drew a hand through his hair and glanced anxiously at the old shopkeeper, attempting to discern what damage his stupidity might have caused.
But Mr. Smith was a man painted with remarkably wide strokes. He saw nothing amiss in the expression, or John's subsequent performance, "I thank you kindly, sir! And I'm very glad you chanced to come by today for I'll be sending off my reply this evening, " Mr. Smith took a moment or two to jot a quick note by way of reminder, "Just between the two of us sir," the old tradesman lowered his voice, "I thought she might be settled there by now, as she's had several of the young men there to call on her. But she says they are all rather silly and not worth her time," He shook his head sadly, "I fear the girl is too particular Mr. Barrow, and will die an old maid," Mr. Smith went on to attend to business again, "Now, before I forget as I'm prone to do, I would like to show you some fine new walking sticks just in this Tuesday..."
Both men silently rejoiced, but for very different reasons. John felt exceedingly grateful towards a particular young woman in Meryton. And Mr. Smith marveled that his meager stock could bring such a smile to the face of so fine a young gentleman as this one.
Chapter 40
"Do any of you fine gen'l'men know of a Mrs. Younge? Keeps a boarding 'ouse?"
The grimy cluster of men standing by the corner were far from fine, and even further removed from gentle. They paid the wiry, bandy-legged crier no heed. But he did not mind their sullen inattention. A quid or two would be waiting for him one way or the other. His only qualifications for this job were current unemployment, and the ability to read, more or less. At least well enough to comprehend the simple instructions written in precise script on the dog-eared square of paper he carried in his hand. After a few seconds more of silent hostility, he wound his way through the crowded street down towards the next corner. One man, standing slightly apart from the unwashed assemblage, broke away unnoticed and followed him in his course.
Mr. Timothy Scoggins, though far from perfect, was a man of his word. After his employer was injured three months ago, Scoggins vowed to look after his safety. Part of that resolution involved finding out as much as possible about those responsible for the deed. The above mentioned name figured prominently. Understandably, every hackle raised as Scoggins heard the name 'Younge' spoken once again. John Blevins was his bread and butter, and Tim would guard his interest at any cost. One trait Scoggins shared with his master was natural curiosity. Talents from his second vocation made it a simple matter to satisfy this nature.
A well-timed bump from behind discomposed the man long enough for Scoggins to extract the paper from his hand, and let it drop it to the ground. In stooping to pick it up, one glance was all it took. It was now committed to memory. "Hallo there, professor!" Tim called the man back, "Ain't ye' a clumsy one. Ye' dropped this 'ere paper," With that Scoggins returned the note to its owner. After receiving copious thanks Tim took his leave, and within seconds was indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd.
John Barrow, after several moments of staring in blank incomprehension at the date on the morning paper, came to the conclusion that time must have taken flight. The last occasion when he actually remembered paying any mind to the date was when he'd returned home from Kent sometime back in June. After an illuminating visit to Smith's shop (where his purse was lightened considerably by the purchase of four new walking sticks) he remembered coming home and ticking off all the months of living that might possibly remain to the surprisingly stalwart Mrs. Flora Tillison.
Having received information that Arabella was not a worshipper of gilded deities after all, and supposing that his message to her would be relayed and comprehended, John felt a glimmer of hope that there might soon be understanding between them. But he'd learnt a valuable lesson. Since his recent impulsive venture into Meryton had, in his mind at least, constituted ungentlemanly behavior, and was the cause of his own self-inflicted misery, he would wait, as Arabella had requested, till she returned to town before attempting to see her again. With the purpose of making time pass more quickly he concentrated on his livelihood with almost single-minded determination. As usual, whenever he was so focused, time's hands did move swiftly. This could be the only explanation for the remainder of June passing by unnoticed, as well as its sister month July. And now here it was far into the second week of August.
With time now fully on his mind John attended to his watch and, realizing the closeness of the hour, made haste to leave for his standing appointment. Timothy Scoggins would soon be waiting at his corner, and there were several matters John wanted to discuss with him.
Every meeting with Timothy Scoggins was productive, for no one else knew so much of what was going on, in every quarter, as that man did. In addition to supplying facts and rumors relating to John's current case load, Scoggins was always quick to volunteer seemingly unrelated tidbits of information. Wise man that he was, Timothy knew that, what might seem at first to be useless flotsam would often prove useful to his employer in unexpected ways. And useful to himself as well.
"... an' by the way, there's someone out lookin' for that Mrs. Younge of yours, some gen'l'man by the name of Darcy," Tim prepared to gauge his employer's reaction. He was surprised by the strength of it.
"How do you know this!"
With that Scoggins produced a ragged piece of paper. Written in his own crude hand it was, word for word, an exact duplicate of the note he'd 'borrowed' earlier in the day. Tim's mind was at work. It would appear from his employer's response that he might possibly have given Mr. Blevins reason to place himself in harm's way once again.
"Is anythin' wrong, guv'nor?"
Completely distracted by the contents of the note, John did not answer for several moments, "No, not at all. Thank you Scoggins, you've done well." Barrow's mind was racing. His first thought was wonder. What could possibly induce such a man as Fitzwilliam Darcy to seek out the likes of Mrs. Younge? With his injury still fresh in his mind, John knew better than anyone what dangers might await Darcy there. His second thought was dread. There were few men who, out of concern for their safely, might possibly induce John to go back into that part of town. Fitzwilliam Darcy was one of them.
Chapter 41
"I told ye' once, I'll tell ye' again! The feller set the paper down to fix his shoe. I happen to be there, and I happen to read it when he wasna' lookin' (I can read well enough, if ye' don't mind!). And, as I also 'appen to know where this Mrs. Younge is, I say to myself, 'What a pity someone else should get the reward an' not me, especially seein' as I'm the one knows 'er whereabouts.' Now, of course, if you do na' want to know..."
"Don't be daft, man," Darcy reached for his purse.
Shown out of the fashionable townhouse by an inattentive footman, Timothy Scoggins could not help but regret his promised good behavior. As he passed vast quantities of elegantly carved, easily transportable silver stuff, he had to consider how much more satisfyingly weighed down his specially made pocket might have been. With a melancholy sign, he dropped the five quid he'd received from a grateful Mr. Darcy into its cavernous maw.
Several streets away, a carriage door opened as Scoggins came near. Called to sit within, Tim briefly recounted the conversation he'd just had with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. John Barrow now knew what Darcy's next move would be. And his intention was to be right behind him.
And, by the merest coincidence, Scoggins also knew with great certainty where he would be this evening.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was no fool. Aware that this part of town held some danger, Darcy had taken care to change his attire before setting out to encounter Mrs. Younge. But even dressed down, he still looked very much out of place and, as he stepped down from a nondescript carriage, was uncomfortable with the amount of attention he seemed to be attracting. After asking a ragged old man for additional directions, Darcy felt fortunate indeed that the walk to Mrs. Younge's door would be a short one. Grateful for the assistance, he gave the ancient beggar several coins by way of thanks, and proceeded on his way. Glancing up at the darkening sky, he hoped that he could finish his business here before night fell completely. The sooner he washed his hands of this unpleasant episode the better.
But Darcy's attention was seized by the sound of violent activity going on behind him. A young woman, or perhaps a girl, was crying in alarm. Her pitiable entreaties were punctuated every few seconds by the sound of a harsh male voice, and once by the unmistakable sound of an open-handed blow. Incapable of turning a deaf ear to whatever was going on, Darcy set off in the direction of the commotion. Perhaps he could be of assistance.
It was rare that Bert Younge needed to partake of sweet fruit without invitation. Most were more than willing, and he was not accustomed to such usage. He'd had an eye on the fishmonger's pretty daughter for some time, though she would always repel his advances. But when she passed the tavern a short while ago he decided that he would wait no more. Besides, business was too slow for his presence to be needed. So with a curt nod to the proprietor, he tossed his towel down and left to follow her path. Coming suddenly from behind he drew his arm through her own, providing rough escort towards a familiar secluded alley.
And now she was digging in her heels, making such ruckus as to draw attention to them both. But any who noticed her struggle would also see who she struggled against, and would know better than to interfere. In fact, her exertions served to excite him still further. He drew his hand back to strike some of the fight out of her, But not too much! he thought to himself, and smiled in anticipation of the sport ahead. The cover provided by encroaching darkness was convenient, but not necessary, his passions far too high to be deterred by the few pitiful remaining rays of sunlight. This tender young morsel, still untried, would soon be his.
Suddenly his progress was blocked. He looked up to see a tall man, a gentleman from the looks of it, standing before him. Holding his walking stick by its end, the man seemed determined to use the carved handle as some sort of weapon. The sight almost made Bert laugh out loud.
"Unhand that girl!"
"Ye would do well not to attend to matters what don't concern you!"
"You would do well to do as I say!" Darcy relied solely on subterfuge, "I've dispatched my man to alert the magistrate. If any harm comes to her I promise you'll be bound for the gallows. I suggest that you unhand her, now!"
That train of logic, coupled with the sudden appearance of the girl's father and several other male relatives, encouraged Bert to back away from his prey. The girl, crying hysterically, was immediately surrounded by her friends, who could not thank Darcy enough for his interference on her behalf. He now made certain that the magistrate was summoned in earnest and left his card in case further assistance might be needed at some future time.
"I must apologize to you all," genuine regret was in his voice, "I would gladly stay longer, but urgent business awaits me that cannot be delayed." After receiving numerous assurances from the girl's father that all would be well, Darcy executed a clipped bow and prepared to take his leave.
Plans thwarted, Bert vowed that, if at all possible, he would exact revenge from this interloper before the evening was done. But now was not the time. He knew better than to take on a gentleman in front of this many witnesses, so he continued to back away. But as he made his retreat something caught his eye! An abrupt movement from someone standing behind the gentleman caught Bert's attention. Someone worthy of his notice was nearby. Someone he knew. The appearance of this certain someone was timely indeed! Looking forward to an immediate outlet in which to vent his frustration and rage, Bert pushed through the crowd and strode away with renewed purpose.
Bert Younge possessed an orderly mind, of sorts. The opportunity presenting itself, he would settle old scores first. Having an idea that this man might be planning to pry into his mother's affairs once again, Bert knew of an ideal place to lie in wait. He also knew of a short cut. The stable close to his mother's boarding house had been abandoned long ago, and there was seldom any activity on the old mews at all, especially at this hour. The man's path would likely carry him in that general direction, and Bert's intention was to be there to meet him.
But little did he know that the hunter was being hunted.
Barrow had been spotted, of this much he was certain. And, though Bert Younge was nowhere in sight, it seemed reasonable that this vicious coward would try once again to sneak up on him from behind. John's desperate plan to divert Bert Young's attention away from Darcy appeared to be successful. And so far Darcy was still completely unaware of his presence.
John had been ready to defend the girl himself, only to end up watching in horrified amazement as Darcy placed himself directly into harms way. And what perverse irony that his new enemy Bert Younge should be the cause of an old friend's danger. Unfortunately, drawing the danger away from Darcy meant turning it onto himself.
But this time Barrow had come prepared for the worst. Reaching into his pocket he felt for the knife that he knew would be there, seeking to reassure himself with its presence. Instead of reassurance though, all he felt was regret that he needed it at all. Sir John had shown him years ago how to defend himself and now, Barrow considered, he might just be forced to test his abilities. He had never before killed a man, and had no desire to do so, but there would be no hesitation on his part should the need arise. He much preferred living, and would rather kill than be killed, or suffer the pain and humiliation he'd endured in that wretched alley months before.
Bert remembered his last encounter with this man. To say he had a personal grudge with him was to put it mildly. It was bad enough that he'd awakened from it with a sore head and bruised pride, but there was more, much more. His mother was forced to retrench from what had been a lucrative business arrangement, and The Bull and Crown had missed out on three whole months worth of increased profits because of this man. To Bert Younge, this was the same as if money had been taken from his own purse.
As though prompted by the thought his hand went to his pocket, but it was not money he sought there. He felt an odd thrill as his hand glanced the sheath hidden from public view. The blade that it held was sharpened, tested and ready. This time there would be no cat and mouse game, he would make it quick. This time, Bert promised himself, he would not fail.
But the plotter was being plotted against.
Knowing that Darcy would soon make his way to Mrs. Younge's residence, and fully aware of what dangers might lie in wait for him if he did so, John had no choice but to turn back in the direction of Edward Street. But his attention was divided. Intent on protecting both Darcy and himself, his eyes were just as often trained over his shoulder as on the path ahead.
Completely dilapidated, what had long ago been an active stable was now barely more than two walls and a fallen roof. But there was still enough coverage for concealment. Hearing footsteps, Bert glanced through a chink in the weather-worn wall. The man was approaching, just as he knew he would! Methodically, deliberately, Bert removed the knife from its sheath and drew it from his pocket.
Two hunters set their sights.
With his eyes never wavering from his approaching victim, Bert tested his knife's sharpness one last time, slashing a gorge in a young sapling that had presumed to push itself up through the hard-packed earthen floor. It gave way with no resistance. Satisfied at last that his weapon would do very well indeed on a much softer subject, he prepared to make his final move.
And final it would be, for so keen on making his own preparations, and so certain of his own abilities, Bert made one unforgivable error. He did not watch his back. Albert Younge would not succeed in this quest or, for that matter, any other. And he never lived to know who it was that drove a slender blade into his back and through his heart. The deed was done quickly and quietly, with no malice aforethought.
And solely in defense of bread and butter.
Chapter 41
"I told ye' once, I'll tell ye' again! The feller set the paper down to fix his shoe. I happen to be there, and I happen to read it when he wasna' lookin' (I can read well enough, if ye' don't mind!). And, as I also 'appen to know where this Mrs. Younge is, I say to myself, 'What a pity someone else should get the reward an' not me, especially seein' as I'm the one knows 'er whereabouts.' Now, of course, if you do na' want to know..."
"Don't be daft, man," Darcy reached for his purse.
Shown out of the fashionable townhouse by an inattentive footman, Timothy Scoggins could not help but regret his promised good behavior. As he passed vast quantities of elegantly carved, easily transportable silver stuff, he had to consider how much more satisfyingly weighed down his specially made pocket might have been. With a melancholy sign, he dropped the five quid he'd received from a grateful Mr. Darcy into its cavernous maw.
Several streets away, a carriage door opened as Scoggins came near. Called to sit within, Tim briefly recounted the conversation he'd just had with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. John Barrow now knew what Darcy's next move would be. And his intention was to be right behind him.
And, by the merest coincidence, Scoggins also knew with great certainty where he would be this evening.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was no fool. Aware that this part of town held some danger, Darcy had taken care to change his attire before setting out to encounter Mrs. Younge. But even dressed down, he still looked very much out of place and, as he stepped down from a nondescript carriage, was uncomfortable with the amount of attention he seemed to be attracting. After asking a ragged old man for additional directions, Darcy felt fortunate indeed that the walk to Mrs. Younge's door would be a short one. Grateful for the assistance, he gave the ancient beggar several coins by way of thanks, and proceeded on his way. Glancing up at the darkening sky, he hoped that he could finish his business here before night fell completely. The sooner he washed his hands of this unpleasant episode the better.
But Darcy's attention was seized by the sound of violent activity going on behind him. A young woman, or perhaps a girl, was crying in alarm. Her pitiable entreaties were punctuated every few seconds by the sound of a harsh male voice, and once by the unmistakable sound of an open-handed blow. Incapable of turning a deaf ear to whatever was going on, Darcy set off in the direction of the commotion. Perhaps he could be of assistance.
It was rare that Bert Younge needed to partake of sweet fruit without invitation. Most were more than willing, and he was not accustomed to such usage. He'd had an eye on the fishmonger's pretty daughter for some time, though she would always repel his advances. But when she passed the tavern a short while ago he decided that he would wait no more. Besides, business was too slow for his presence to be needed. So with a curt nod to the proprietor, he tossed his towel down and left to follow her path. Coming suddenly from behind he drew his arm through her own, providing rough escort towards a familiar secluded alley.
And now she was digging in her heels, making such ruckus as to draw attention to them both. But any who noticed her struggle would also see who she struggled against, and would know better than to interfere. In fact, her exertions served to excite him still further. He drew his hand back to strike some of the fight out of her, But not too much! he thought to himself, and smiled in anticipation of the sport ahead. The cover provided by encroaching darkness was convenient, but not necessary, his passions far too high to be deterred by the few pitiful remaining rays of sunlight. This tender young morsel, still untried, would soon be his.
Suddenly his progress was blocked. He looked up to see a tall man, a gentleman from the looks of it, standing before him. Holding his walking stick by its end, the man seemed determined to use the carved handle as some sort of weapon. The sight almost made Bert laugh out loud.
"Unhand that girl!"
"Ye would do well not to attend to matters what don't concern you!"
"You would do well to do as I say!" Darcy relied solely on subterfuge, "I've dispatched my man to alert the magistrate. If any harm comes to her I promise you'll be bound for the gallows. I suggest that you unhand her, now!"
That train of logic, coupled with the sudden appearance of the girl's father and several other male relatives, encouraged Bert to back away from his prey. The girl, crying hysterically, was immediately surrounded by her friends, who could not thank Darcy enough for his interference on her behalf. He now made certain that the magistrate was summoned in earnest and left his card in case further assistance might be needed at some future time.
"I must apologize to you all," genuine regret was in his voice, "I would gladly stay longer, but urgent business awaits me that cannot be delayed." After receiving numerous assurances from the girl's father that all would be well, Darcy executed a clipped bow and prepared to take his leave.
Plans thwarted, Bert vowed that, if at all possible, he would exact revenge from this interloper before the evening was done. But now was not the time. He knew better than to take on a gentleman in front of this many witnesses, so he continued to back away. But as he made his retreat something caught his eye! An abrupt movement from someone standing behind the gentleman caught Bert's attention. Someone worthy of his notice was nearby. Someone he knew. The appearance of this certain someone was timely indeed! Looking forward to an immediate outlet in which to vent his frustration and rage, Bert pushed through the crowd and strode away with renewed purpose.
Bert Younge possessed an orderly mind, of sorts. The opportunity presenting itself, he would settle old scores first. Having an idea that this man might be planning to pry into his mother's affairs once again, Bert knew of an ideal place to lie in wait. He also knew of a short cut. The stable close to his mother's boarding house had been abandoned long ago, and there was seldom any activity on the old mews at all, especially at this hour. The man's path would likely carry him in that general direction, and Bert's intention was to be there to meet him.
But little did he know that the hunter was being hunted.
Barrow had been spotted, of this much he was certain. And, though Bert Younge was nowhere in sight, it seemed reasonable that this vicious coward would try once again to sneak up on him from behind. John's desperate plan to divert Bert Young's attention away from Darcy appeared to be successful. And so far Darcy was still completely unaware of his presence.
John had been ready to defend the girl himself, only to end up watching in horrified amazement as Darcy placed himself directly into harms way. And what perverse irony that his new enemy Bert Younge should be the cause of an old friend's danger. Unfortunately, drawing the danger away from Darcy meant turning it onto himself.
But this time Barrow had come prepared for the worst. Reaching into his pocket he felt for the knife that he knew would be there, seeking to reassure himself with its presence. Instead of reassurance though, all he felt was regret that he needed it at all. Sir John had shown him years ago how to defend himself and now, Barrow considered, he might just be forced to test his abilities. He had never before killed a man, and had no desire to do so, but there would be no hesitation on his part should the need arise. He much preferred living, and would rather kill than be killed, or suffer the pain and humiliation he'd endured in that wretched alley months before.
Bert remembered his last encounter with this man. To say he had a personal grudge with him was to put it mildly. It was bad enough that he'd awakened from it with a sore head and bruised pride, but there was more, much more. His mother was forced to retrench from what had been a lucrative business arrangement, and The Bull and Crown had missed out on three whole months worth of increased profits because of this man. To Bert Younge, this was the same as if money had been taken from his own purse.
As though prompted by the thought his hand went to his pocket, but it was not money he sought there. He felt an odd thrill as his hand glanced the sheath hidden from public view. The blade that it held was sharpened, tested and ready. This time there would be no cat and mouse game, he would make it quick. This time, Bert promised himself, he would not fail.
But the plotter was being plotted against.
Knowing that Darcy would soon make his way to Mrs. Younge's residence, and fully aware of what dangers might lie in wait for him if he did so, John had no choice but to turn back in the direction of Edward Street. But his attention was divided. Intent on protecting both Darcy and himself, his eyes were just as often trained over his shoulder as on the path ahead.
Completely dilapidated, what had long ago been an active stable was now barely more than two walls and a fallen roof. But there was still enough coverage for concealment. Hearing footsteps, Bert glanced through a chink in the weather-worn wall. The man was approaching, just as he knew he would! Methodically, deliberately, Bert removed the knife from its sheath and drew it from his pocket.
Two hunters set their sights.
With his eyes never wavering from his approaching victim, Bert tested his knife's sharpness one last time, slashing a gorge in a young sapling that had presumed to push itself up through the hard-packed earthen floor. It gave way with no resistance. Satisfied at last that his weapon would do very well indeed on a much softer subject, he prepared to make his final move.
And final it would be, for so keen on making his own preparations, and so certain of his own abilities, Bert made one unforgivable error. He did not watch his back. Albert Younge would not succeed in this quest or, for that matter, any other. And he never lived to know who it was that drove a slender blade into his back and through his heart. The deed was done quickly and quietly, with no malice aforethought.
And solely in defense of bread and butter.
Chapter 42
Bert Younge was dead!
That information caused ripples of shock to flow. From The Bull and Crown on Edward Street all the way down to the docks, word of it spread like wildfire. But though there might have been a remarkable shortage of silent lips and unwilling ears, there was an over abundance indeed of dry eyes on this occasion, everyone accepting the news with almost philosophical composure. Even the law seemed curiously untroubled at having no suspect or witness to the crime, and the magistrate's buoyant demeanor seemed almost more inclined to mete out reward than punishment.
And what of his beloved mother? Not even she seemed overly saddened by his passing. The one handkerchief spent on it did not require turning over. Despite his love for her, Mrs. Younge often thought her son a brute and a hindrance. And on that propitious future day when she made her fortune and re-entered more polite society, her son would have been a burden indeed. And there were other, more immediate, considerations to account for her evident lack of anguish. Apparently concerned that one of their joint enemies had committed the deed and might now make her his next target, she felt far more fear than sorrow.
In fact, so discomposed was Mrs. Younge that she gave up information to that vexatious Mr. Darcy on his third attempt, when she normally would have held out much longer. And she settled for a much smaller amount than she might have, had she been in her usual form. But while she lost financially, she did not lose sleep, at least not concerning her friend. Having so many other problems of her own at present, Mrs. Younge was firmly convinced that Wickham could fend for himself. Him and that worthless little baggage of his.
John Barrow heard of the murder early on. His response was shock and, after brief contemplation, relief. He found out about it by means of his usual source, Timothy Scoggins, who delivered the information on the very next day, and in an even more nonchalant manner than usual.
As unpleasant as the previous day's event had been, John was grateful for one thing. He'd gotten a glimpse of the Darcy he remembered. Barrow now had first hand proof that the Darcy of old, the one quick to come to the aid of anyone in need of assistance, was still alive and well. What he'd seen was so far removed from the malignant rumors he'd heard regarding Darcy's change of character that Barrow was now inclined to think them mere idle gossip, and nothing more. Or at the very least, any recent imperfection of temper must be on the surface only, and not effecting the inner man.
Having already put a halt to his busy work load for several days, during which his persistent friend made additional visits to Edward Street, John decided to see this personal matter through to the end. And then, quite suddenly, his protection appeared to be no longer necessary. Darcy returned to Mrs. Younge's residence no more. But John was still curious about what might have prompted these visits to begin with for, if his far-flung theory about Ramsgate was correct, this woman could only be an enemy to Darcy and his sister. Was she perhaps attempting blackmail?
John's curiosity was soon to be partly satisfied, for it was around this time that Barrow heard, from various sources, an interesting piece of news. There appeared to be some sort of race on to find the whereabouts of a Mr. George Wickham. Nearly every merchant in town, at least those selling wearable, edible or intoxicating stuff, had a warrant out for his arrest. And several gentlemen were searching for him as well. It seems that he'd made off with someone's daughter.
The conversation John overheard months ago at the Bull and Crown between Mrs. Younge and someone resembling Wickham quickly came to mind, as well as the gist of that conversation. And now here was Darcy seeking her out. Could it have been to find Wickham's whereabouts? Connecting these occurrences with his previous conjecture on events at Ramsgate, Barrow now reached the conclusion that Georgiana must again be a victim. And that thought could not be borne.
With the intention of helping to thwart any plans of that nature, John Barrow added his own name to the long list of those interested in finding George Wickham. And suspecting that his old friend Darcy had, in all likelihood, already accomplished that task for him, Barrow once again made plans to follow his friend. He would set out on the morrow, and only hoped that there would be time enough to assist in some way.
Chapter 43
Darcy alighted from his carriage, in front of a boarding house not too different from the one on Edward Street. At seeing Darcy prepare to approach the house, Stevens knew to go a certain distance and stop. Meanwhile, John quickly pulled the shades and made a few quick alterations. In a small sack was a partial change of clothes and a bottle of spirits. Jacket and waistcoat were already removed, additional changes took no time at all. Cambric was soon replaced by a rough woven work shirt. Well worn high-lows replaced slippers and oversized cap replaced silk hat. A liberal sprinkling of gin added to the effect. John quickly exited his carriage without assistance and, at a brisk pace, turned back towards the boarding house. Stevens noted how much different his employer looked upon leaving the carriage than when he first entered it, but was not surprised. There was not much that did surprise him when his master was at work.
Upon entering the house, Barrow listened for sounds of a recent entry, which he followed up the steps, and down a long corridor. John now approached the door in question and, after listening for the voice he wanted to hear, settled in. Anyone passing would hardly take note of the drunken laborer sprawled on the floor with his head resting against the entry, except perhaps to drive him away. But this was a perfect perch from which to listen to all. Unfortunately, what John heard were the sounds of two men making immediate plans to leave. There was business to conduct, and it would take place elsewhere. John quickly propelled himself off the floor and, keeping his face down, leaned against the wall in drunken posture. At that moment the door was flung open and two men stepped out.
But Barrow would be saved from immediate discovery by the sudden cry of a voice within, of feminine variety, which seized the attention of both gentlemen, "Wickham, dearest, would you please bring back something for tea? La, I'm so hungry! Don't be surprised if I faint dead away in your absence, though from love or from hunger I do not know!" An immature giggle accompanied the last sentiment.
"If you wait till my return, dearest, you can swoon into my arms," John took quick note of Wickham's face as he came near. His expression was grim. There was no love on his countenance, yet his reply was all sweetness, "On second thought, my love, we might be gone for several hours at least. Hold out but a short while angel, and I'll send something up for you."
In apparent need to vent his true feelings he shoved John as he passed, and raised his voice in disapprobation, "Go on with you!" Wickham's push caused John to lose his balance. As Barrow reached for the wall to steady himself he happened to look up just as Darcy was passing. And Darcy chose that exact moment to look down.
In that instant, their eyes met and locked.
A chill passed through Darcy, and his brow furrowed in concentration as he sought to place the face before him, a face growing increasingly pale under his unrelenting scrutiny. "I beg your pardon, sir," the man muttered under his breath, finally lowering his countenance as he eased his way past in the narrow corridor.
The voice, though low, was distinctive. Baritone textured with gravel. Darcy felt he'd heard that voice before, years ago, in intermittent intervals when its change was still incomplete. Every intuitive feeling said that he knew this man as a boy. So overwhelming was this sensation that he tried to force a line of association, anything to help attach a name to the face. But too much was on his mind at present to make a quick connection. With great reluctance he finally continued down the hall. Then, not ten paces away, he stopped in his tracks as it came to him with shocking clarity. Eton! John Barrow! His voice! Darcy quickly turned round to look once more, but the man was now gone!
Darcy felt hairs on his neck ascend. How disconcerting to see a ghost from the past amongst the living! He shook his head to clear it, but recollections crowded in all the same. Barrow left Eton without a trace. It must be almost eight years since I last saw him, and six years since we despaired of ever finding him. By then father was dying, else I would have done more. Then a less emotional, more rational line of reason tried to gain the upper hand in Darcy's intellect. But surely I must be mistaken. That man was a drunkard, almost a beggar. John could not have sunk so low. Darcy remembered Barrow's own words, I will have my share of happiness! At the time those words were spoken, there was no doubt in Darcy's mind that the young lad standing before him would make it so. But now Darcy felt little comfort in the remembrance.
As they quit the steps and neared the doorway he lengthened his stride to keep close to Wickham, but before he crossed the threshold, he allowed himself one more glance back up the steps and strained to see down the still empty corridor. With a sigh of resignation, he once again turned his full attention to the man two steps ahead of him. A fully grown man who possessed not one tenth of the worth of that boy from seven years ago.
There were windows at each end of the long hallway. As soon as Darcy and Wickham passed, John quickly and soundlessly went to the closest one, the one overlooking the back of the house. He lifted himself out and onto a wide ledge. There, with shallow gasps, he caught his breath. Equal parts of emotion and exertion had taken his breath away. He knew me! I'm certain of it! A flood of memories came to him, and then the reality of the present. As he considered his outward appearance, John gave a wry smile. I suppose I've given him good reason not to regret our separation. The humor of that thought went as far as his lips only, it chilled his heart.
Down in the dusty yard below were two women hanging laundry. "Look'it Fanny, over there... " One of them pointed in John's direction with her chin, "... on the lover's ledge. I wager Molly Tipper's 'usband done come 'ome early again. He'll catch 'er yet!" With that the women dissolved into laughter. John let out a short sigh in deference to his ridiculous situation and, seeing his way clear once again, pulled himself back in through the window. He would save his recollections for another place. And another time.
For right now there was work to be done.