Hoare and the matter of treason cbh-3

by Wilder Perkins

  "Is Thoday about?" he asked Mr. Clay.

  "In Whitechapel, sir, I believe."

  Hoare remembered now. He had sent Thoday there himself, at the man's own suggestion-one did not order Titus Thoday about arbitrarily, he had learned. There had been word from Collis that he had seen a man in close conversation with Floppin' Poll. He had seemed a gent, out of place in that particular shebeen, and Collis was set to drop the woman and follow the man.

  Bold had already brought Hoare's gig to the yacht's starboard entry port. He held it close while his captain and Lestrade boarded.

  "Give way, boys," Bold told his four oarsmen. Then, turning to Hoare, he said, "If we comes along like extra, sir, we can keep the tide all the way up to Westminster Steps. Which you'll be wantin', I suppose, sir?" At Hoare's nod, he relapsed into silence, except occasionally to correct the others' stroke.

  Sir Hugh's immense corpse had already been hauled away to his apartments and laid on a long black table, where candles burned at its head and foot. At the foot, too, a tiny woman stood. She was silent now, but it seemed to Hoare as if the echo of her wailing still resounded through the room.

  "His wife?" he breathed to Lestrade beside him.

  "His Housekeeper, sir," Lestrade whispered in reply. "He was a widower, sir."

  "Next of kin?"

  "Only a brother, so far as Hi know, sir, somewhere in Scotland. Or thereabouts, Hi believe. There'll be a record somewhere, of course."

  In death, the admiral was sadly diminished. With the departure of his stubborn, clever spirit, Hoare thought, he looked somehow deflated, like a huge pig's bladder that had been over-kicked in some cruel game. Face and limbs as well as body had been badly chopped. An edged weapon had peeled the scalp back from the forehead, so that the pale pink bulge of the skull lay exposed over the staring blue eyes and under the sparse clotted white hair. Another blow had hacked into his cheek, so that two rows of gleaming false teeth lay exposed to view. Some of these blows, it seemed, had been inflicted after death, for they had not bled significantly. The two first fingers were missing from the admiral's left hand, suggesting that he might have raised it in self-defense. His white breeches, soaked in red, suggested that here was where he had received his death wound. His sword, more decorative than practical, remained gripped in his right hand. It, too, had been bloodied. So, then, Hoare thought, Sir Hugh Abercrombie, KB, Vice-Admiral of the White, had not gone gently to his death.

  "Some'un 'uz drug away, zur," one of the sentries told Hoare in confirmation. "I zaw blood trail meself, I did. Went toward river, it did. There-see?"

  Like a jinni, Thoday appeared at Hoare's side. How the man always seemed to know when there was a need for him, Hoare could never understand. It was as though he controlled an invisible semaphore system, or perhaps a private flock of ghostly pigeons.

  "There were three attackers, sir," he said. "The admiral killed one of them. From the amount of blood, Sir Hugh struck him in the aorta or one of his carotids. A creditable blow, I must say. The two others fled, dragging their dead confederate with them. The body will be in the Thames by now, of course.

  "One of them dropped a bollock-knife, sir."

  "Bollock-knife, Thoday? What's a bollock-knife?"

  "An old-fashioned knife with a guard shaped like a pair of calf's bollocks, sir. Here, as you can see."

  He extended this weapon to Hoare, hilt first. A good ten inches long, the blade, Hoare saw, was bloody over the rust of neglect-presumably the blood had been the admiral's. The pommel did indeed resemble the neat spheres that juvenile males of most species carried about so proudly beneath their tails.

  "I never saw a knife like it before," Hoare whispered. "What can you tell me about it?"

  "A very good question, sir," Thoday said. "You might have seen one like it being carried by that shepherd we met at the Nine Stones Circle. They are an ancient model, used latterly mostly by animal herders to geld the young creatures."

  "So its owner would be a countryman."

  "Perhaps. But I cannot help but wonder, sir, how it happened to be dropped in the first place, and abandoned in the second. The admiral's assailants were apparently in no hurry to escape after completing their assassination; they had time to cut the body up a bit more, and then drag their dead comrade off with them. Why, then, did this knife's owner not pause to retrieve his weapon? They are generally heirlooms, and this one would be a valued possession."

  "You think we are intended to believe the assassin was a countryman."

  "I think it a possibility, sir."

  Having been the bearer of the bad tidings to their Lordships of the Admiralty that they stood in need of a new chief of intelligence, Hoare was left to sit and observe the result of his having done so. He sat humbly there, in a corner of the great room with its globes and its charts of the world's oceans, well away from the glowing fire. To his astonishment, besides the usual factotums-secretaries, flunkies like Hoare himself, and the like- the only other person in attendance who was not a flag officer was Henry Prickett, Esquire. The advocate sat, as episcopal in demeanor as always, at the long gleaming mahogany, among persons who clearly perceived him as a colleague and an equal.

  An admiral unknown to Hoare leaned over to whisper in Mr. Prickett's ear. The latter shook his head.

  "Too soon, sir, in my opinion. The right choice, yes, but far too soon."

  "It's obvious, my lord," the First Sea Lord declared dismissively. "Hardcastle's the man."

  "Oh, but my lord," the First Lord said, "while I quite understand

  … after all, though, Sir George is a mere… a mere"-he bent his ear to his secretary's urgent, whispered prompting-"a mere, as I was saying, rear admiral. Of the blue," he added in obvious repetition, his demeanor making it clear he was uncertain what the matter of an admiral's color had to do with the matter of settling upon Sir Hugh's successor.

  Lord Manymead is interfering, Hoare mused as the First Lord droned on, in matters that he does not understand. The phrase reminded him of something he knew he had put into that mental commonplace book of his. What was it, now? Ah, he had it. It had been in connection with Miss Jane Austen, that interfering lady, who had so adroitly played matchmaking juggler with the hearts of Miss Anne Gladden and Harvey Clay. With the horrible example of this First Lord at hand, he could now improve upon the trope he had then begun. "And while the House of Peers withholds… its legislative hand, and noble statesmen do not itch… to interfere in matters which… they do not understand. " Very good.

  But he must pay attention. The First Lord was still droning away.

  "Besides, there is Admiral Deere to be considered."

  Richard Deere was a recent creation known to Hoare, by reputation only, as a conniving, toad-eating vindictive man with a bilious digestion and an over-accommodating wife.

  At this, Mr. Henry Prickett steepled his hands.

  "If a mere layman may introduce his sentiments, First Lord," he said modestly, "the interests of the service would appear in this case to override the individual personal interests of the parties involved. In these perilous days, the nation faces an insidious, deadly enemy, one whose servants-be they in his pay or merely self-deluded-have just assassinated the head of the navy's intelligence operation.

  "With all due respect, my lords, I must urge the selection in his stead of the best man for the job, one who has already demonstrated courage, wisdom, and energy in a position very similar to the one which is vacant. That man is unquestionably Rear Admiral Sir George Hardcastle."

  "If we were to appoint Hardcastle," the First Lord said, "Deere would be insulted and consternated. He might even resign."*

  "A consternation devoutly to be wished," came a powerful voice from the far end of the table. There was a murmur of agreement. Seeing that he had fated to lose this battle with the admirals, the First Lord conceded, and, mentally, at least, withdrew from the conference. In such company, he was not a very strong man.

  "There, Captain Hoare," Mr. Pricke
tt said as the room emptied of chattering dignitaries, "Upon my soul, I do believe I just struck a blow for England."

  "I do believe you are right, sir," Hoare replied. "And without even getting out of your chair. Pray accept my hand, sir."

  "So, Hoare, you persist in your efforts to rise up the ladder of promotion, even if it means killing off the flag officers of the navy, one by one. As if you were a French marksman in a main top, with a rifle."

  By this, Hoare knew, Admiral Sir George Hardcastle intended him to understand he was jesting. Sir George knew quite well how Hoare had come to lose his voice.

  "Sir," he whispered, with a properly obsequious smile. Sir George had made himself quite at home in the spot his vast predecessor had chosen; behind the vast desk, tailored for Sir Hugh's tun of a body, Hardcastle's spare, square form looked almost like a child's except for the short, coarse, white Brutus-cut hair. Hoare was still accustomed to seeing a figure there that, in bulk though not in competence, minimized the present occupant. Mr. Clay would be pleased to see the change, he supposed, then chastised himself for a lack of charity toward the afflicted.

  "Tell me about your discussions with Sir Hugh. I have not time for you to write a report for me, nor to read it. So you must whisper away as best you can. I'll order shrub, if it will help you along."

  At Hoare's nod, the admiral did as he had suggested. Hoare took a sip of the bland stuff, and commenced. Physically, it was hard work, but he found the intellectual part advanced by the recency of his repeated interrogations, not only by Mr. Goldthwait and Mr. Prickett but also by his late commander himself. Nonetheless, the morning was well advanced before he came to a close. Hoare barely stopped himself from mopping his forehead-instead, he refreshed himself with a sip of shrub and sat back to take his medicine.

  "So," Sir George declared, "above and beyond the certainty that this office has been penetrated and its confidentiality broken, Sir Hugh believed that at least one party is engaged in a deeper, broader conspiracy against the Crown. Two, perhaps, if there are two, they may be working in concert, or they may not. The 'who's' and the 'how's' are blanks, it seems. Am I correct?"

  Hoare could only nod; the dregs of the shrub filled his mouth.

  "Well then, sir, since you are already underway, maintain your course. Keep me informed as necessary; avoid rocks and shoals. Now be off with you, sir; I have much to do and no time in which to do it. Hammersmith!"

  As the flag secretary opened the door to let Hoare pass and enter himself, Sir George halted Hoare in place.

  "Oh, and by the way, Hoare, I shall have no need for those seamen ye borrowed from me so long ago and never thought to return. Stone, I think, and Bold. You may keep 'em, with my compliments."

  Since Hoare had intended to do just that, with or without permission, he merely bowed and took his leave.

  Chapter X

  I don't understand you, Saul. What have you against Hoare? I hate the bastard myself, I admit, but what do you gain by capturing him and toying with him the way you say you want to do?"

  "I choose to do so, sir. It's as simple as that. He has defeated my people, opposed me. I do not brook opposition. I shall break him…. Break him, do ye hear? Break him, let him remain in place, and make a tool of his shards."

  The tracks of hoofs and wheels marked the thin snow cover, black against the moonlit white. That was odd; Hoare had passed neither cart nor carriage on his way home from Royal Duke, and there were more hoofprints than even a chaise and pair could explain. As far as he could tell-for, unlike Thoday, he was no tracker-the hoofprints went in both directions. Had there been visitors at Dirty Mill, come and gone?

  Out of the moon-shadow of a spinney, a horseman rushed upon Hoare pell-mell. Hoare's cob shied, swerved, bucked, tossing last week's frozen snow in a hard spray about its hoofs. Hoare was nearly unseated and saved himself only by a strong heave on the reins. He forced his animal about so that it faced the attacker. To his astonishment, the man swung a saber at him; awkwardly wielded, it gleamed silver in the moonlight. His sparse teeth gleamed likewise, in a determined grin.

  Why he was being attacked in this fashion, Hoare had neither a notion nor the time to consider. This was no swordsman, he realized as he backed the cob to gain time, nor was he a highwayman. Highwaymen these days commonly stood off and aimed a pair of barkers at their prey; they did not go in for escrime. Had they both been afoot, Hoare would have had no trouble in drawing his own weapon and disarming the silly ass. As it was, though, he had never in his born days played hussar, and he felt uncertain of the outcome. Hastily and awkwardly, he grappled and drew. Before he could parry, he must duck a wild slash, and his hat flew off. Instead of taking off Hoare's head, the attacker's blade cropped the cob's left ear.

  The poor beast screamed and reared, and Hoare lost a stirrup. He gripped with his thighs as tightly as he would have gripped the mizzen when a-slide deckward from the crosstrees, and began to jab-jab-jab with his own weapon. For a moment, his unorthodox jabs seemed to disconcert the attacker, but he recovered and thrust forward again with a hoarse croak, his saber raised over his head, ready to divide Bartholomew Hoare as he sat.

  Hoare leaned forward and jabbed. In his onset, the other impaled himself on Hoare's point. It took him in the throat. Momentum, if nothing else, carried him on, the point sinking deeper until Hoare felt it grate on bone. The strange horse crashed into the cob, which jarred back with the shock, but the attacking horseman was lifted over his cantle. He slid off the croup, twisting Hoare's sword out of his grip and carrying it with him, and sprawled in the moonlit snow. As Hoare watched, he kicked convulsively twice before going limp.

  Hoare dismounted and bent over his victim, panting heavily.

  First, he withdrew his sword and wiped it on the dead man's fouled breeches before returning it to its scabbard. Then he searched the body. A purse, a kerchief… ahh. A slip of paper, covered with writing too small for him to read in the moonlight. It would have to wait until he reached Dirty Mill. The stranger's horse bent over the body and whickered softly, as though mourning its master.

  Another smell, Hoare could tell now, accompanied the odor of death. It was not excremental, though equally unpleasant, and it was one he had smelled not so long ago. Looking at the corpse a second time, he knew now who it was: Hancock, captain of Royal Duke's own pigeon loft.

  With a heave, Hoare hoisted the body across the newly emptied saddle, then hoisted himself back aboard his own cob. He gave a cluck and a nudge with his heels, and the beast moved off toward home and hay, not unwilling, the other animal following in its wake. Rest was not far off.

  In the distance, Dirty Mill loomed dark. That should not be. Eleanor and the child would be awaiting his arrival-why had they not lit the house properly? With his knees, Hoare urged the cob on, and it broke readily into a trot. At his unlighted door, Hoare pulled the animal to a stop before it could carry him around to the back, from whence that wonderful hay was calling it.

  The front door was open. Within, all was silence.

  Hoare gave his chirrup of summons for someone-Tom, he hoped-to come and take the cob off to the stable with its new companion and the corpse. He himself would not tarry, however, but dismounted and left animals and corpse to fend for themselves.

  Inside, there was still no sound, until at last, with his own plaintive chirp, the gray cat Order appeared from nowhere and commenced to wind himself around Hoare's ankles. Hoare's nose detected the faintest scent of burnt powder and, once again, faint but real, the reek of recent death. He groped his way to the shelf on the other side of the hallway, where he knew flint and steel lay ready, groped on until he found them, and lit a candle. For a moment, his eyes were dazzled. When they recovered, he understood why Tom had not answered his call.

  "Jesus," he breathed.

  The manservant lay prone next to the open green baize door separating offices from family quarters, a dark pool spread below his face, a discharged pistol dropped from one outreached hand. Order ch
irruped again, impatient for attention. An overturned chair lay beyond.

  Putting fingers to his mouth, Hoare produced the piercing whistle of urgent command that, to friend and stranger alike, could only mean "Attention!" or "All hands!" depending on circumstances. Surely someone would hear and come a-running. He listened. Off in the distance, somewhere toward the back of the house, he was sure he heard a faint grunting sound. Leaving Tom's remains behind, he followed his ears toward the sound, along a thin trail of crimson that led him, candle in hand, past the baize door and into the pantry. The grunts were coming from the kitchen.

  Except from a faint red glow from the hearth, the kitchen was as dark as the front of the house. By the light of his candle, Hoare saw the maidservant Agnes, hair and clothing awry, slumped against a cabinet, emitting the grunting sounds. She had managed to draw her skirts partway back down her discolored thighs, but a dark stain marred the apron, usually spotless, which she wore about her waist whenever she was within doors. As he watched, the stain widened. He lifted the skirts gently and viewed what lay beneath, then covered them again. He had seen worse in his time, but not much worse.

  Ignoring the cat's insistent yowls, Hoare squatted beside Agnes and took her gently by the shoulder.

  "Agnes," he whispered. "It's Mr. Hoare. What has happened? Where are your mistress and Jenny?"

  "Uh."The girl's eyes opened. "'Urts."

  Hoare repeated his question. Now her eyes seemed to gain focus, and fixed on his candle-lit face.

  "Too-took," she muttered. "'Urts zo." She clutched her bleeding belly.

  "You'll be all right, Agnes. It won't hurt much longer." He knew he spoke truth.

  "Who…," he whispered.

  "Men," she said. "Too many for Tom." Gathering strength, she added, "Done it to me, they did. Three of 'em done it to me. No, I lie, they was more. Took turns, they did… 'gainst my will, tu. Town folk, they was. All but that pigeon man what smells zo bad.