He had already collected more evidence than he knew what to do with. He bundled up the soggy coat, remounted, and resumed his interrupted return to Portsmouth.
Hoare proceeded to Admiralty House, where Sir George Hardcastle, Rear-Admiral of the Blue, commanded the naval base and all that lay therein. From the admiral's flag secretary he requested information about any ships' pursers or masters gone adrift.
"Severn, 28, just reported her master, Timothy Tregallen, two days overdue from leave. She's under twenty-four hour orders to weigh for Gibraltar. But why should you care? Has he been pilfering ship's stores, or buggering the mids?"
"As to that, I don't know," Hoare whispered. "Probably both, considering his position. But he's changed his ways now, for certain." He stepped to the door of the admiral's sanctum.
Admiral Hardcastle was a busy man, Hoare knew, and a grim, merciless one to boot. He heard Hoare out, reading and signing papers as he listened. Then he said, "Find out who killed him, have him hanged, and tell me when you've done it. Good day, sir; you know your way out."
"Where does Severn be?" Hoare asked the secretary as he closed the admiral's door behind him.
"Just beyond Vantage. You know; that new frigate just commissioning."
Taking advantage of his authority to use any of the pulling boats assigned to the port admiral's office, Hoare selected one of the four-oared gigs lying at the Sally Port and told its coxswain to take him out to Severn. The breeze was easterly and the course southerly, so he had the cox rig the gig's mast and lugsail and took over the tiller himself. Even after twenty years on the beach, the sea still affected him like some addictive drug.
Hoare swung the gig under Severn's lee and swarmed aboard her starboard side briskly, glad of the chance to prove himself still a proper seaman. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and asked to be taken to the first lieutenant.
Hoare bitterly envied any seagoing officer. But with his power over all her other people, a ship's first lieutenant (after a post captain, of course) was the luckiest afloat. This one, a Mr. Barnard, was obviously preoccupied with preparing his frigate for sea. He wasted no time in pleasantries.
"What brings you aboard us, sir?" he asked as soon as Hoare had identified himself.
Since Barnard made none of the usual fatuous comments about his name or his whisper, he must already know of Hoare, his odd position, and the disabilities of voice and name that had made him notorious about Portsmouth.
"I understand your master has gone adrift," Hoare whispered.
"True enough," Barnard said.
"I'm afraid he's lost the number of his mess."
"What?"
Hoare told his sorry story, leaving out the details. He knew he would have to tell it again and again; his whisper tired easily, and he wanted to save it.
"Captain Drysdale will want to hear this. I'll take you to him. Pray come with me, sir."
Hoare trotted obediently after Barnard down to Captain Drysdale's cabin. Like every active naval captain when in port, Drysdale spent his time anchored behind his desk. "Ah. Admiral Hardcastle's Mr. Hoare, isn't it?" The captain set down his pen. "Welcome aboard, sir."
"Mr. Hoare bears ill tidings, sir," Barnard said. 'Tregallen."
"He has been found dead, sir," Hoare whispered.
"Oh my," said Captain Drysdale. "Well, take a pew, gentlemen, and let's hear the story."
Twice Hoare had to interrupt his report to refresh his whisper; twice Captain Drysdale had to interrupt it to demand silence above his quarters so he could hear it. At length Hoare fell silent.
There was a pause.
"Obviously, some body-snatcher did it, or the doctor," said Barnard. "It's none of our affair now."
Barnard rose, stooping instinctively to avoid stunning himself on the low overhead. He glanced at Hoare as if expecting him to follow suit, but Hoare remained seated.
"As Mr. Barnard says, sir, it does appear as though some resurrection man did the deed, or even Dr. Dunworthy," he said. "Nevertheless, it is essential-especially since Severn and her people will soon be out of reach-that I take this opportunity to question Mr. Tregallen's shipmates."
Barnard sat down again with a thump and glared at Hoare. "Do you have the gall, sir, to suggest that one of my men killed him?"
"I must make certain that that cannot be the case, Mr. Barnard."
"By whose authority?"
'The authority of Admiral Sir George Hardcastle, whose immediate subordinate I am. Do you question that? If so, pray send a signal of inquiry ashore." Hoare eyed the other officer coldly.
"Make the necessary arrangements for our visitor, Mr. Barnard, if you would be so kind," Captain Drysdale said. With a sigh he returned to his manifests.
Outside the cabin, Hoare and Barnard eyed each other. "Well, sir?" Hoare asked.
Barnard counted to himself. "There are not that many, I'm glad to say. There's the crew of the leave boat, of course; that would be eight men and Simpkins, cox. Two of the mids, Blenkiron and Fallowes. Gamage the purser, McTavish our lieutenant of marines, Grimes- he's surgeon. And Tregallen, of course, if you want to count him. That makes fourteen-no, fifteen in all."
"I suppose that the purser, the surgeon, and the mids berth in the cockpit, and Mr. McTavish in the wardroom?"
Barnard nodded.
"I'll question them there. But let me talk with the man Simpkins first. If he can convince me his men were under his eye at all times, I should not need to question them."
"That, at least, would be a small kindness, Mr. Hoare. It don't please me at all, you may be sure, to have any of my people taken away from their duties when we're making ready for sea. Kindly be brief with them all."
"Of course," Hoare said.
"Pass the word for Simpkins," Barnard called to the ship at large. The coxswain's name went forward like a moving echo. Soon a regulation barefooted bronzed British tar appeared, knuckled his forehead, and looked apprehensively at his officer.
"Ah, Simpkins," Barnard drawled. "Mr. Hoare here is from the port admiral. He has some questions to ask you. Answer them, and truthfully, mind. Now, sir, I'll be about my own affairs, if you please. We sail tomorrow morning, on the flood."
Before Barnard could turn away, Hoare recalled him. He did not care for the other's attitude toward his visitor-or, for that matter, his top-lofty way towards his shipmates. He would give him a taste of his own medicine.
"Be so kind as to clear the cockpit of its present occupants and have the others you named assemble outside it-outside, mind. If I need to question Simpkins' men, I will have him muster them. Thank you; that will be all for now."
Now it was Hoare who turned away dismissively. He could almost smell Barnard fuming at being ordered about by this whispering admiral's poppet and hugged himself in secret glee. He knew he was being unfair to a harried fellow officer, but he could not help envying the man. With his ship, Barnard was preparing to go in harm's way, and perhaps fame's way with it, while he, Bartholomew Hoare, had to hang about ashore, mutely hauling smelly corpses about. It was not fair.
"Yes, sir?" Simpkins was waiting. He looked much afraid.
"You cox the leave boat, I'm told."
"Aye, sir, I did, but we're disbanded now; preparin' fer sea, ye know. All shore leave stopped, all hands aboard."
"Of course. And you row eight oars?"
"Aye, sir."
"How do you handle them while you're ashore?"
"Handle 'em, sir?" Simpkins asked. "Beggin' yer parding, sir, but I don't handle 'em at all. I don't get yer drift."
"Which men do you keep within sight, and which ones do you let off now and then for-shall we say-a spot of refreshment?" Hoare was sure he knew the answer, but the question must be asked.
"In this ship, sir? Nary a man gets further away from the boat than to ease 'imself in case of need. Never. There's them as 'ud take advantage of me like an' drink 'emselves pukin' before I could wink. Or even run. An' if I lost one of me crew… oh my God, sir, no
t in this ship."
"Then your men were within eyesight at all times whenever you had them in charge ashore?"
"Aye, sir. Bless my soul, yes." Simpkins could not have looked more sincere.
He was scared green of his first lieutenant, Hoare thought, and none of his oarsmen would have had the wherewithal to bribe him.
"An' me, too, sir," Simpkins added hastily before Hoare could ask him. "I was always in their sight, I mean. Oh my God yes, sir."
"Very good, Simpkins. Thank you. Now show me to the cockpit, if you please."
Simpkins started as if no officer had ever said "please" to him before, but took Hoare below to the orlop, where he left him at the foot of a ladder. Before the low entrance to Severn's cockpit several men, including one in the scarlet and gold of a marine officer, loitered. The news was out, then.
"Thank you for waiting, gentlemen," Hoare whispered. Without preamble, he took out the peculiar purse.
"Do any of you recognize this?"
"It's the master's, sir," said one of the midshipmen. "It held a bull's bollocks. He was used to say that what was in it now meant just as much to him as those bollocks meant to the bull that once owned it."
"Mr. Barnard has told me that all of you were ashore in the last few days, either on ship's business or your own. I wish to speak with each of you privately."
A portly, blotched, soft-looking man spoke up. "Perhaps my shipmates would let me precede them, sir, so that I may return to my duties."
"You would be Mr. Gamage?" Hoare asked.
"Ernest Gamage, sir, at your service."
"Very good, Mr. Gamage. After you, if you please." Hoare ushered him into the cockpit.
Hoare's own first quarters at sea had been crannies like this-sometimes smaller, sometimes larger, but always fetid, always cluttered, always dark. Four narrow, shuttered berths and as many hammocks crowded the space. Some of the occupants' sea chests served as seats, others as a table. In action, Hoare knew, the latter would be cleared for Grimes the surgeon and the loblolly boys who would hold down the patients and cart away the lopped-off limbs and their former owners. Now the makeshift table was littered with the surgeon's tools-probes, retractors, saws, a peculiar object that resembled a thumbscrew but Hoare knew was a trephine, a few scalpels. A compact chest sat empty on one corner. Apparently Mr. Grimes had been interrupted in a last-minute inventory of his equipment.
Hoare shoved the instruments to one side. They were filthy, unsightly, and he did not want them under his eye. He needed no distractions now; once again he was-figuratively speaking-at sea. Once again he wished he had withstood the call of curiosity last night and left Dr. Dunworthy in the dark to shout his lungs out.
"I understand, sir," he whispered, "that you were ashore lately and that you returned aboard only last night. Pray tell me where you went, whom you saw, and what you did while there."
According to Mr. Gamage, his run ashore had been humdrum. He had arranged to have a supply of slops put aboard Severn so he could replace crew's clothing that might have worn beyond repair or simply gone adrift. For selling in the wardroom he had arranged for a small supply of better-grade tobacco, some soft soap, and some Bohea tea.
On his first night Gamage had made a fourth at whist in the home of a reputable ship's chandler. He had dossed down in a corner of his host's parlor. His second day had been much the same as the first.
"And the Saturday night?"
Mr. Gamage's glance strayed into the dim corners of the cockpit.
"I entertained myself in a private manner, sir."
Hoare pressed him.
"If 'twas your last night ashore, sir, what would you have done?" The purser winked broadly. "Need I said more to a fellow officer?"
Obviously Mr. Gamage had enjoyed a last orgy of a dignified sort at some such establishment as the One More Round-one that served all sexual tastes and hence would be favored by the naval establishment's older members. Given his name, Hoare was sensitive to matters of sexual impropriety, so he let the matter pass.
Gamage was quite sure that it was his first night ashore that he had encountered Mr. Blenkiron and Mr. Fallowes. All hands had been more than half seas over. No, Mr. Gamage had not acknowledged the young gentlemen; they were mere children, after all, and he was happy to leave them to their own filth.
This interested Hoare, and he demanded details. He sensed that the purser merely wanted the chance to tattle.
"I cannot feel that their-er-behavior in-ah-private matters is in keeping with the traditions of the service," Mr. Gamage said.
"Kindly be more specific, sir," Hoare whispered.
"I refer to the sin of Onan, sir. And-worse-to that other abomination, the one mentioned in the Articles of War."
Hoare suspected that Mr. Gamage might be displeased less by the amatory activities of Severn's mids as by his own nonparticipation in them. He was about to dismiss the purser when a further question came to mind. It might be useful; heaven knew nothing else seemed to be.
"What sort of a man was Mr. Tregallen?" he asked.
Mr. Gamage hesitated.
"A good seaman, sir-none better. As good a navigator as our captain; in fact, he was the officer who taught our young gentlemen, and a hard taskmaster he was, I heard them say. A prudent sailor, too, he was, generally ready to take in sail before the other officers thought it needful. Or so I heard. Self-educated I'm sure, for I know he sailed before the mast in the seventies."
"And as a man?"
Again the purser hesitated.
"He was fond of a wager, always urgent to be paid and slow to pay. I had no use for him. In a word, he was a liar. He made unwarranted charges. He ruined more than one man's career. You might speak to McTavish about him, or Grimes."
"I shall, Mr. Gamage," Hoare said, and dismissed him. "Be so kind as to ask Mr. Grimes to step in."
Gamage turned in the doorway for a last word.
"I'm glad the bastard's dead, Mr. Hoare."
No sooner was Grimes seated across from Hoare than he slapped the covered chests between them. "Someone has been meddling with my instruments," he said. "No one meddles with my instruments."
"I moved your instruments, sir," Hoare whispered. "They were in my way. Besides, they were disgusting to look upon, and I wanted them out of my sight. Why do you not wash them?"
"Wash them?" Grimes laughed with ill-concealed contempt. "Why should I do a thing like that? Every properly apprenticed surgeon knows better than to clean off his instruments; cleaning removes the protective film of blood. Wipe them off, indeed!"
"Never mind. I believe you were ashore for several days during the last week. Kindly tell me what you did and whom you met."
Like the purser, Severn's surgeon had spent the day completing his supplies-equipment, medicines, ointments, and the like. The port surgeon, Davis, would confirm this, as would the several apothecaries upon whom he had called.
"The first night I spent at the Blue Posts," said Grimes.
"And whom did you meet there?"
"Meet? No one. There was a band of noisy Scots upstairs, making as much ado as so many Mohocks, so I decided to betake myself to the country in search of peace. I rambled about the rural environs for the remainder of my brief leave, botanizing and living rough."
"What sort of shipmate was Mr. Tregallen?" Hoare asked.
"A fine seaman, though who am I to judge? Not an easy man to know. Intelligent? Yes. Ambitious? Yes. Demanding; just ask the mids. He would have made a bad enemy."
"How so?"
"Things went only one way with Mr. Tregallen; he took, but I never knew him to give. He watched; he watched. When he saw advantage to himself, he moved like lightning.
"That was how he advanced. He came aft through the hawsehole, you know. He left ruined reputations behind him wherever he went, peaching on pilfering petty officers so he could replace them, tempting young gentlemen-and others not so young-into outrageous wagers. He was a bad shipmate, Mr. Hoare, and I confess I do not
regret his death. You might ask the same question of the marine officer, or the purser. How did he die, by the way?"
"His throat was cut," Hoare whispered.
"Ah. I would have expected you to say stabbed or bludgeoned."
"How so?"
"He was that sort of a man. Enraging. Ah well… de mortuis, as we scholars say." Mr. Grimes smiled patronizingly at Hoare. "Will that be all?"
"I shall detain you no longer," he whispered. "As you leave, be so kind as to ask Mr. McTavish to join me."
Sweeping his instruments into the chest on the table and picking up the lot, the surgeon departed.
It having been some obscure Gaelic feast-day, the lobster, Lieutenant McTavish, had forgathered at the Blue Posts with several others of his nation and had his fill of haggis, whisky, and melancholy song. None of the party, he said, had left the inn that night.
Most of the evening was a blank to him. In fact, he had awakened the next day at noon, alone and abandoned, in some inland village, completely at sea as to his whereabouts.
"I confess, sir, I didna know what day it was, let alone what toun. I was that frichtit of havin' missed me ship that I hired a vee-hical-at an unco' price, I tell ye-and retairned to Severn forrthweeth.
"The mon was a bad shipmate, bad," the marine said when Hoare asked him about Tregallen. "The fairst evenin' aboard he fills me wi' thot vile liquor he carries, an' the next thing I knaw, I've geeven him me note o' hand for mair guineas than I've sichtit me life lang. An' he kept dunnin' me for it. He kept havin' at me an' at me. Well, I'm free of that the noo. An' I wasna the only mon he troubled so," he added. "Ye might ha asked Muster Gamage or the sawbones aboot that."
"Who could vouch for your whereabouts while ashore, Mr. McTavish?" Hoare whispered.
"The Friday nicht, ony of my fellow Scots, tu be sure, an' the host. Aye, we had a braw set-to there, we did. As tu the Saturday, wull, I canna say. As I told ye, I wasna so bricht mesel'. An' the folk at the inn in the village, where I hired the shay to brring me back tae Portsmouth, I suppose."
Hoare and the Passed Master (captain bartholomew hoare) Page 2
