" 'Urts zo, zur… Make it stop, do… That pigeon man, I think 'e left sumpin' on table."
"You say the mistress was taken?"
"Aye, took, zur. Too many for 'er, too many for Tom. Poor Tom's a-cold. Oh, it 'urts."
Candle in hand, Hoare stepped across to the kitchen table, which he found had been swept clear except for a fresh red stain that told him where Agnes's rape and gutting had taken place, and an envelope placed four-square at its midpoint. It was addressed to Commander Bartholomew Hoare, in a neat clerkly hand. He knew Hancock's semi-educated script from his work in Royal Duke; this writing was not his. He broke the seal and read the contents.
Mr. Hoare:
I have recently learned that you have, quite improperly and in defiance of my wishes, taken into your possession certain portrait drawings by Timothy Pickering, Esq., which he in turn had, equally improperly, retained in his own keeping in the course of his work for us. Since these drawings are the rightful property of myself and my colleagues, I now require that you return them to me forthwith, in their entirety, withholding none of them whatsoever. As you now know, I have taken steps to insure that you do so.
Immediately upon receiving this communication, therefore, you shall bring the aforesaid drawings to 18, Gracechurch Street, presenting yourself by night. You shall, it goes without saying, be unaccompanied; I shall consider the presence of any companion, aide, or follower as exhibiting bad faith on your part, and shall act accordingly, to the certain detriment of your dependents and yourself.
The same stricture applies to your bearing any arms whatsoever; upon arrival at Gracechurch Street, I warn you, you shall be subjected to a close search.
Upon your having delivered the portraits to my satisfaction, I give you my word of honor as a gentleman that your wife and stepdaughter (or ward) will be released to you in more or less the condition in which my people gathered them.
The consequences of your deviating, whether by intent or inadvertence, from these instructions need not, I am certain, be discussed at this time.
I look forward to receiving you and your documents in Gracechurch Street, and to concluding this matter in a way that I find agreeable.
The letter was unsigned.
Hoare took a last precious moment to slip up to the bedroom he and Eleanor shared. Usually tidy, it was littered now with their personal goods; in the midst of the clutter lay a long serpentine object of tough cotton cloth-his wife's savior sling. He sought out a shawl and brought it back downstairs, where he laid it across Agnes and tucked it in.
"I must leave you, Agnes," he whispered. "Rest now. I'll send help as soon as I find it." He bent, brushed the straggling hair from the girl's forehead, and kissed her there. It was cold.
Outside Dirty Mill's door, the two horses stood, still steaming lightly in the frosty air. Hoare stopped long enough to examine his choices. He must return to Royal Duke, for no longer than needful to retrieve the drawings that the unknown message writer was demanding. Thence, whether by land or river, he must move at utmost speed. In all truth now, not a moment was to be lost. He checked the position of the moon and, from it, verified his estimate of the tide. It was as he feared; it would be on the ebb. He must ride. The dead Barnaby's horse looked the fresher, perhaps… No, it was a stranger horse, while he and the cob at least knew each other's ways. He would take the cob. He led Barnaby's horse around to the stable and dumped in a manger the hay that the cob ought to be enjoying. Then he ran back to the cob, mounted, spurred the startled beast, and was off. Behind him, Dirty Mill and its inhabitants lay in the dark, its front door still swinging gently in the frosty, light night breeze.
Sweeping aside the startled anchor watch at Royal Duke's entry port, Hoare put fingers to mouth and sounded his whistle of alarm once more. Unlike the fruitless blast he had uttered at his own doorstep, the response to this second shriek was as it should always be. From belowdecks came a humming as of a hive of enormous disturbed bees. First to come on deck was Mr. Clay, nightgowned, nightcapped, and barefoot to the icy planks, buckling his serviceable sword about his waist as he came. He was followed by Leese and two of his men, also carrying their swords, as they, like the riflemen they copied in all things, termed their long bayonets. Others followed.
As had become instinctive with him by now, Clay stepped up to his captain's side to assume his duty as stentor.
"My wife and child have been taken," Hoare began. "Kidnapped."
The hum of bees rose to an enraged pitch.
"Hancock, our pigeon man, was one of them. He's dead. Here's a letter my people's takers left behind. I'll have Mr. Clay give you its gist while I prepare to follow them. Alone, as you will learn."
He ducked below to his cabin forward of the orphaned pigeons. As soon as he had a chance he would slaughter them all and hang them around Hancock's neck like Mr. Coleridge's albatross. But first, he must get together the likenesses with which he must ransom his family, and bring his people home. He had lost his first family; he would never let this second one out of his sight again. They had become unutterably precious.
"After hearing what you told us about Hancock, sir"-Clay told Hoare when he reappeared, the roll of drawings slung across one shoulder like a scabbard in lieu of the sword he must leave behind tonight-"I took it upon myself to take a muster of all hands, since they were already on deck. Besides Hancock, and of course Thoday and little Collis, the cook Green is missing, sir. Run, I suspect."
From one of the many Londoners in his crew, Hoare now took directions to Gracechurch Street, absorbing them as best he could, given his present mental state. He remembered, at least, that he should cross the river by the Westminster Bridge. He shook off the man's pleas to let him guide him there. "Can't risk it, Eddison," he whispered, "but thank you."
After issuing a few last-minute instructions, in which he stressed again his absolute veto of any attempt upon the part of the Royal Dukes to follow him up to London in the hope of being helpful, Hoare wrapped the Pickering drawings into a long cylinder, strapped it to his shoulder, and mounted. As he set off in the cold moonlight, he heard Mr. Clay's astonishing roar of a voice from Royal Duke behind: "Now Godspeed, sir, and good luck! Bring us back your women!"
Mr. Clay's farewell was followed by three quiet, grim cheers. Well, Hoare thought, at least he had not made enemies of them all.
He must not force the cob's pace. The night air was icy, the snow could hide all sorts of traps in the London road, and he was conning the animal's nose into the moonlight. So, though his heart kept urging him to gallop, gallop, gallop to the rescue, he held the beast to a sober trot. Under close-reefed topsails, so to speak, with a leadsman in its chains. He had the time now to think about what had happened, and what lay ahead of him.
The pigeon man and the cook. For sure, the cook had run. Besides being a Portsmouth "brute" by trade as well as build, she was an evil witch as a cook, and she had not been well-liked, so it could be no surprise that she had left the ship. Perhaps she had been in league with Hancock, who was dead and could not tell his tale.
As to Hancock himself: even in as unconventional a ship's company as the Royal Dukes, there was no traditional role in a ship's company for a captain of the pigeons. Such a rating had never existed before. Besides, there was the matter of stink-the stink of his feathered, cooing charges, and worse, the stink of the man himself. Hancock had become a pariah.
The fact might well have eaten into his soul, as Hoare knew from experience could happen to any Jonah: shunned, neglected, imposed upon, often beaten up. As Hoare must now confess, to his own belated chagrin, Hancock might well have taken Hoare himself into a deep hatred, for he himself had not even tried to conceal his disgust whenever the man's stench reached his nose. Certainly, Hoare recollected with a shudder, the pigeon-master's man's grin, as he rode onto him only an hour or so ago, had been a welcoming one-of a sort. Hancock had been seeking the life of an enemy.
Besides, through his work, Hancock had been in close,
frequent touch with persons off ship, and with the ciphering and deciphering task directed by Sarah Taylor. (Hoare hoped, in passing, that Taylor herself had not been tainted. Surely not.) In the eyes of whomever might be trying to penetrate the operations of Royal Duke, the pigeon man would have been a logical target for seduction.
By now, Hoare estimated by the sinking moon in his eyes, it would be past four bells in the middle watch-two o'clock in the morning. The London road was a street now, lined with solid buildings of a mercantile nature, clear of snow but not of clutter, and he all but alone in it. When he had rounded a jog in the street, Westminster Bridge hove into sight. He would be another half hour to Gracechurch Street, provided he did not lose himself. He had best add on still another half hour in which to untangle his way.
At the bridge's near end, he spied lantern-light, and in it two huddled men. The watch, he supposed. He came to a decision. He could not stand the idea of wandering a-horseback through the London labyrinth, lost and despondent, Gracechurch Street ever receding. He would take a pilot aboard, and throw himself on the mercy of his family's captors.
The offer of a golden half-crown was more than enough to make the younger of the two watchmen snatch at the prospect of bringing this night-bound gaby in uniform to his destination.
"Swift, safe an' sahnd, sir," he promised, "an' will exercise the 'oss while I wytes, to boot."
Hoare got the man's name from his partner-he was Job Threadneedle, as in the street where the limner Pickering lived-and hauled him onto the cob to ride pillion. The beast must be weary. But necessity knew no mercy, and besides, it was due for a rest of unknown duration.
They crossed the bridge together to the music of a travel narrative from Hoare's pilot, who had a story about every corner they passed, told in a nasal drone that sometimes Hoare failed altogether to understand. When Threadneedle spoke, he breathed, and the stench of his breath reminded Hoare of Hancock. By now, the pigeon man's body should be under the scrutiny of the team Mr. Clay had ordered sent down to Dirty Mill. When his passenger began to give his directions in rhyming cant, Hoare shut him off with a harsh whispered snarl to speak English.
" 'Ere we be, sir, syfe an' sahnd, jest lyke I promised yer we'd be," Threadneedle said into Hoare's ear at last, with a final putrid puff. By Hoare's estimate, only twenty minutes had elapsed since he had brought his vile-smelling pilot aboard.
"Well done, man," Hoare whispered. He slid off the cob, and Threadneedle slid onto the warm saddle.
"Wait till they admit me," Hoare went on. "Then take the animal to the nearest inn, stable it and have it tended to, and make yourself at home there. If you're still sober when I join you, there's another sovereign in it for you."
"Walk-er!" To a mere watchman, two whole golden boys would be a fortune.
"Where will you put up?" Hoare asked.
After scratching his head, Threadneedle decided.
"Bow and Forest, sir," he said, and pointed with the itching head. "No more'n a 'undred yards dahn Grycechurch, that wye. Coachin' inn, it is; tykes in all kines, so long as they got the blunt, any time o' night."
Incredibly, Hoare realized he knew where the Bow was. It was the London terminus of the coach line to Cambridge, and the Hoares would have been using it overnights on their passages to and from Great Dunmow.
"Very good, Threadneedle. By the bye, tell them you are in my employ… Commander Hoare, of the navy."
"Commander 'Oare, of the nyvy," the pilot repeated. "An'… an' good luck, sir. Don't you worry, sir, Hi'll be waitin' you. 'Opes to see you there, syfe an' sahnd."
Chapter XI
I cannot be troubled with your petty complaints at this time, sir," said the smaller man. "I have more important matters on my mind, and so should you, if your interest in bringing this matter to a successful conclusion is as important to yourself as you have been claiming."
The host could not stifle a gasp of outrage.
"You do not dare, sir, to adopt that tone to me-not to me, above all."
"Spare me your bombast for the nonce, sir," the guest said. "You have yet to achieve your objective, and hence to deserve the homage you believe will become your due. You need my help; you know that.
"Now, here is what we must do. The females are safe, gagged, and secured, as I directed?"
"Bound, sir, seated at opposite ends of my own bedchamber. In reasonable comfort. And guarded."
"Bedchamber, eh? So you have… er… intentions with respect to one of them? Or both, perhaps?"
"Sir!"
"Pray step up and confirm that all is well. Oh, and while you are at it, make sure that the guard is firmly instructed to remain outside your bedroom door. Should the least hint reach my ears that either female has been interfered with, by anyone, the person or persons responsible will be subject to my extreme displeasure."
"After what your men told us about their behavior toward the woman Agnes, I am surprised at your sudden missishness."
"She was a servant. The females abovestairs are a different matter entirely."
Hoare found the house at 18, Gracechurch Street imposing enough-little less than a mansion. The steps up to the high door were wide and marble, and the balustrades wrought iron with polished brass rails. The windows were as dark as those he had left behind at Dirty Mill. Hoare knocked sharply. After a short, endless wait, a small port appeared in the door, a darker spot in the black, and a cold neutral voice said, "You brought support, I see. You were instructed to come alone, and warned of the consequences should you disobey. Good…"
"Wait!" Hoare's whisper was an agonizing rasp. "A hired guide, and no more. I lose myself in London. Please…"
The craven sound of his own pleading voice revolted him, but it must have satisfied the doorman. There was a further wait. Then, "Very good. A pleasure to see you again, sir." The voice was no longer cold, but cordial. With the grinding of a rusty key, the door was opened and held for Hoare to enter. The entryway being dark, Hoare could not make out the doorman's features, but the voice was familiar.
"This way, sir," it said. "We can begin to carry out our little piece of business more comfortably in our host's library." He opened the inner door, and the lamplight from within revealed his face. A small, lean, weary-looking man, he was Mr. John Goldthwait.
Without remarking on Hoare's startle, Mr. Goldthwait led him down a hall and past a graceful sweep of stairway, to a heavy walnut door, guarded by two persons. The one to larboard was Floppin' Poll, the dollymop who had taken part in the attack on the wherry bearing Hoare and Thoday down to Greenwich. The other, a swarthy man clad in a simple livery, must belong to the owner of the house. His shock of coarse black hair was unpowdered, his cheekbones prominent, his eyes slitted. He looked oddly familiar.
When the man gave him an unmistakable wink out of one of those slits of eyes, Hoare remembered. He had seen him on the box of a certain berlin, waiting at the door of Weymouth's St. Ninian's Church. He had identified him then as an Esquimau.
Mr. Goldthwait stopped at the door.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he said, looking up at Hoare with a winning smile. "The search. Pray raise both arms in the air." He produced a small, plain pistol.
"I believe I have seen that pistol before, sir," Hoare whispered. He had secreted it in his own little pinnace. In fact, come to think of it, he had not seen it since Nemesis had been searched and looted last summer, off Weymouth. Like his beautiful Kentucky rifle, it had flown.
"Perhaps you have, sir," Goldthwait said dismissively. "Never mind. I told you to raise your hands."
Hoare obeyed. Mr. Goldthwait ran his left hand swiftly along both sides of Hoare's body, pausing suggestively at the bulge at his crotch. Hoare could not restrain himself from flinching. Floppin' Poll snickered.
"Hmm," said the searcher. "Well-hung. And long deprived, I see." He continued the search down Hoare's legs.
"Very good, sir. And now…" He opened the walnut door. Upon sighting them, the library's occupant rose, as if re
luctantly, from a Russia leather chair. One of three such chairs that surrounded three sides of a well-lit mahogany table, it was identical with the two in which Hoare and Mr. Goldthwait had sat, not so long ago, in the latter's apartments, and with the ruined one in the late Mr. Ambler's chambers. The fourth side of the table faced a warm, welcoming fire of clean cannel coal.
"Here we are, then," Mr. Goldthwait said. "You know Sir Thomas Frobisher, I believe. Our roy… er… eminent host." His voice was loaded with ironic laughter.
"You brought the portraits, Captain? Yes, of course. I see you did. I trust you enjoyed their perusal, and that they suffered no damage while in your possession."
"They are in the same condition, sir, as when I purchased them from the artist's wife," Hoare whispered. "Purchased them, I say, should you wish to pursue the manner of my acquiring them.
"Now, where are Mrs. Hoare and Miss Jenny? I wish… to have done with this business and begone."
"Tsk, tsk." Mr. Goldthwait made the sibilant little sound seem almost reproachful. "Oh, not so fast, sir." he said. "The matter is just a wee bit more complex than you appear to believe."
Hoare felt his heart grow cold.
"'Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?' " he murmured.
Mr. Goldthwait's eyes opened a trifle, only to that extent did he drop his armor of cordiality.
"I do not understand you, sir," he said.
"Oh, I believe you do, Mr. Goldthwait," Hoare whispered. For, upon the sight of the woman at the library door, the hard truth had dawned on him. The man before him was both the "Saul" mentioned in those ciphers that had puzzled him so deeply, and the "Sol" to whom Floppin' Poll had referred during her interrogation aboard Royal Duke.
Goldthwait shrugged. His smile returned.
"So be it, then," he said. "As I just said, the matter is more complex than you believe. As you shall learn shortly."
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