Part 25.
An announcement of the wedding made a notice in the paper, simple and discreet. 'Miss Elizabeth Bennet to marry Mr William Hurst,' without a syllable said about her who her family or where she came from. But for those who possessed an eagle eye, the notice was immediately caught and the news spread.
"To lose the ward and the secretary in one afternoon, that is extremely impudent of Mr Reynolds," Lady Catherine de Bourgh bemoaned. "What is worse is that Miss Elizabeth Bennet and that Hurst fellow have run off together." She turned to her nephew, her hapless companion at this present moment, and now a source for admonishment. "Oh really Richard, when you know the man needs counsel."
Richard Fitzwilliam shrugged. Though he learned of the news before the union was made public, it was still second hand, via Mr Reynolds, his client, who despite all reports seemed little disappointed to hear of the event. "I hardly see how I can be to blame. If two people are inclined to run off with one another, a lawyer is the last person to prevent it."
"I said no good would come of settling so much money on a dustman," Lady Catherine reminded all present, confident and proud of the strength and proof of her convictions, holding no desire to be magnanimous. "How will he protect himself from the jackals now? The man is a mere novice in the ways of the world."
These words of warning were said in the presence of two such jackals, who did their best to appear as innocent of such a low and degrading practice as any such progeny of that dubious pedigree should. Caroline exchanged a glance with her husband, causally flicked her fan, and took a sip from her glass, while George inhaled another lungful of tobacco, before affecting to maintain his previously bored and indifferent expression.
Younge looked up from his latest additions to the shop floor as the bell signalled the arrival of his comrade in crime and arms.
"So have you found anything?" He asked, studying the old squaddie curiously, searching for the merest hint of deception. "Do not attempt to conceal anything from me."
"Well man and brother and partner in feeling, equally in undertakings and actions, I have found a cashbox on the dustheap." Wickham Senior reported. "On the outside was a parchment label saying 'my Will, George Darcy, temporarily deposited here.'"
"We must know its contents," Younge remarked, in a tone still awed by the wonder of the discovery.
"That was my feeling exactly comrade, so I broke the box open," Wickham reported eagerly.
Younge froze, a suspicion of doubt entering his mind about his supposedly loyal comrade in arms and crime. "Without coming to see me first?"
"Exactly so," Wickham replied. "I was bent on surprising you, sir, before we were surprised by that rogue Reynolds. I examined the document, regularly executed, regularly witnessed. In short, he, George Darcy, leaves to Edmund Reynolds the little mound which is quite enough for him and he leaves the whole rest and residue of his property to the crown."
"The date of the will must be proved," Younge murmured, scarcely daring to believe what he was hearing. "It may be later than the one generally accepted."
The old squaddie beside him nodded triumphantly. "Exactly my thinking, comrade. I paid a shilling, mind I did not ask you for sixpence, to look up that will. It is dated months after the generally accepted one."
"I would have thought that you would have consulted your partner earlier as to a course of action," Younge remarked, glancing at his comrade with a raised brow.
Wickham was all innocence. "But sir, think of the surprise!"
Younge hesitated for a moment, then relented. "Let's see this document at last."
His companion obliged, retrieving the parchment from his dusty old rag-worn coat, placing it on the table, so that Younge could run his magnifying glass over the elaborate legal wording and attempt to translate it into layman's understanding.
"Am I correct in its content, partner?" Wickham asked.
"Partner, you are," Younge confirmed.
Wickham slapped his hands together in eager satisfaction of the bounty that was to come their way. "We'll extract a hefty payment from Reynolds to keep this secret."
Younge frowned a moment as a sudden black thought entered his mind. "What if he's honest and gives up all according to what is written legally?"
"Him?" Wickham queried, incredulous at the suggestion. "Prove honest? He's grown too fond of money for that."
"The question is, who is going to take care of this will?" Younge mused as he rolled the parchment into a cylinder. "Do you know who is going to take care of it?"
"I am?" Wickham sought to confirm.
"Oh dear, no," Younge replied. "That's a mistake. I am."
Wickham grabbed the free end of the bundled legal document and for a moment a brief struggle of possession ensued.
"Now I don't want to have any words with you," Younge remarked, "and still less do I want to have any anatomical pursuits with you."
"What do you mean?" The old squaddie asked.
Younge glared at him a little. "What I mean is that I'm on my own ground. And I'm surrounded by the trophies of my art, and my tools is very handy."
Wickham resisted for a moment, confident having served in a war and lived in the gutter that he could do some damage, until he caught sight of the unusual items for sale, placed within handy reach of the proprietor, who looked more than capable of using them to his advantage.
Reluctantly, he surrendered hold and possession of the Will.
"Now, I presume, having had the advantage of time, you have formed a view of how we should proceed?" Younge questioned.
Wickham nodded. "Yes comrade. I propose that we wait while Reynolds clears the mounds to see if we can profit equally. And then we can use this to make him pay in money and in humiliation."
Fortune continued to favour the rogue that was Jenkinson, granting him the means and opportunity to acquire a roomy dwelling by the river, some distance upstream from the cavernous city, with leasehold of a good, hardy lock, to fund the rest of his natural life. This profession, though difficult in colder weather, granted him not just monetary gifts from those who requested passage along the river, but also information, which might prove useful to his further, future advantage.
"Lock, ho!" One of these passerbys called out as their wooden boat glided towards the solid, secure impasse.
Jenkinson rose up from his reflective pose to raise the doors, catching sight of the man's profile, and recognised him. "Mr Charles Bingley t'other governor," he murmured to himself, consideringly. "What exercises you on the river today?"
Charles Bingley guided the boat through the upward passage, then drew out the coins for payment. As he prepared to toss the fee to the lockman, he also acquired recognition. "Ah, its you is it?" He remarked, before throwing a coin. "Honest friend."
Jenkinson caught the circle of metal and answered. "Yes I'm the keeper here. No thanks to you for it, or lawyer Fitzwilliam."
"We shall save our recommendation for the next candidate," Charles replied, "the one who offers himself when you are transported or hanged. Don't be long about disappointing him, will you?"
Jenkinson glared at the carefree boater long after he had ceased to become a concern of his, watching him as he progressed up river, his mind quietly speculating if it were possible to do that lawyer some personal damage. When the boat was nothing but a speck upon the horizon, his gaze travelled amongst the hedgerows which covered the opposite bank. And there he spied another man whom he knew from the city.
"Oy there! Lock ho," he called out. "Mr Schoolteacher if I'm not mistaken. Lock ho." he cast a speculative look upon the man's profile, startled and suspicious to see a curious resemblance between them. "Well bless me t'otherest if you haven't taken to imitating me. Never thought myself so good looking before."
"These are my holidays," Collins replied, his gaze travelling from Jenkinson to the boat now far up river, his expression turning stormy.
"Well your working days must be stiff'uns if these is your holidays," Jenkinson commented. He grinned inwardly as he divined the object of the man's stare. "Don't worry. He takes it easy that one. But you know you could have outwalked him."
Collins turned back to his companion. "Would you say I'm following him?"
"I know you're following him," Jenkinson answered.
"Yes, well, I am," Collins confirmed, before seeking to move on, only for a staying hand of Jenkinson's. "He may land,..."
"Be easy," the lock keeper murmured. "He'll leave his boat behind as a marker won't he? He can't carry it ashore under his arm."
Collins found little fault with that observation so he took a breath awhile beside the lock and river. "What did he say to you?"
Jenkinson shrugged, showing that the insults traded between him and the lawyer Bingley hardly troubled him. "Cheek. Spite. Affronts. Said I'd be better hanged."
"Damn him!" Collins swore. "Let him get ready for his fate when that comes about."
"Oh, then I make out, t'otherest, that he is going to see her," Jenkinson deduced, remembering his last conversation with the schoolteacher, concerning Jane Bennet, niece of his late partner, Gaffer Philips.
"He left London yesterday," Collins revealed sombrely. "Until now he has done nothing but torment me by walking the streets of that city. And now he suddenly ceases and leaves, taking care to do it discreetly? I have little doubt he's going to see her."
Jenkinson stilled as he observed the schoolteacher. There was a quiet deadliness about him, as if a passionate fire of dark purpose was burning deep within. "Are you that sure?"
"As sure as if it were written here," Collins replied, placing a hand over the piece of his shirt that covered his chest, where his heart beat below.
The lock keeper caught the tell tale shadows under the eyes, along with the certain hollow pallor to his face, indicating that the schoolteacher had undergone many stresses since their last passing encounter. "But you have been disappointed before, it has told on you."
"I've followed him day and night now, through the summer holidays," Collins revealed. "And I won't leave him till I've seen him with her."
"And then?" Jenkinson prompted.
Collins rose up from the grassy bank. "I'll come back to you." He retrieved a few coins from his pocket and handed them over to the rogue. "Now I must go. Though he'd have to make himself invisible before he could shake me off."
"You'll put up at the lock on your way back?" Jenkinson asked, which caused Collins to nod before he left.
"Now why did you copy my clothes, schoolmaster?" Jenkinson murmured to himself as he watched the man walk on in search of the lawyer that could lead him to a glimpse of her. "What is your plan?"
He entered his dwelling and went to the clothes chest, retrieving a red scarf, which he placed around his neck. "Now if I see him in a similar, I'll know its not by accident."
Later, as the afternoon gradually surrendered to the dusk, the sombre figure that was the schoolmaster returned to Jenkinson's dwelling by the dock. The owner awaited his return, leaning upon the bow of the lock, pipe in his mouth, the small chimney of smoke visibly indicating the coldness of season.
"He's put up for the night," Collins informed the lock keeper. "He goes on early in the morning. I'm back for a few hours."
"You need them," Jenkinson diagnosed, for the schoolmaster looked worn out, as though he had been trekking through the mountains, not an easy stroll down the river bank on the trail of a boat and its rower.
"I don't want them," Collins replied. "But if he won't lead, then I can't follow." He glanced down at the sheer, dangerous looking shaft which led to the bottom of the river and the lock. "This would be a bad pit for a man to be flung into with his hands tied."
"The gates would suck him down afore he'd have a chance of climbing out," Jenkinson observed, before darting across the narrow bridge to join the schoolmaster on the other side of the river bank.
Collins watched in admiration of his seemingly reckless manoeuvre. "Yet you run about over six inches of rotten wood. No wonder you don't fear being drowned."
"I used to," Jenkinson confessed, "but I can't be drowned now."
"You can't be drowned?" Collins echoed dubiously.
"Nah, Its well known," Jenkinson confirmed, "I've been brought back out of drowning and I can't be drowned again. You should better come along and take your rest." He led the schoolteacher into his dwelling.
Down in the city, where night was illuminated by the gas lamps adorning many a fine residential street, a dark avaricious figure stalked the brightly lit windows that belonged to the Reynolds' house.
"Honest," Wickham murmured, echoing the word his partner and comrade in crime had previously uttered that day. "He's grown to fond of money for that. What wouldn't you give me for my box? Look out for a fall, my lady dustwoman, I'm gonna have your Reynolds, I'm gonna turn him upside down and grind him down."