Hoare and the Ffrog Prince (captain bartholomew hoare)

by Wilder Perkins

  "And then?" he repeated.

  "My husband arrived in the afternoon with a lackey, to remove Guillaume's-the duc's-belongings. That was all."

  Hoare was silent for a spell, then rose to take his leave. "Permit me to offer my condolences, madame la comtesse," he whispered.

  "None are necessary, Monsieur 'Oare. After all, it was une affaire du cour, pas une affaire de coeur." She smiled bitterly.

  By this feeble pun the comtesse told Hoare that it was an affair of the court and not of the heart. She would not meet his eyes nonetheless but stared out the window as he made his bow and departed.

  Hoare went in search of the combative cits who had discovered the duc's body. It took him nearly the rest of the day to find them, their seconds, and the surgeon who had pronounced the corpse a corpse, and interrogate them. None had anything useful to tell him. Both principals were suffering from fresh hangovers; all members of the party would prefer to put the whole matter out of their minds. So, after stopping at a food shop for a piece of roast beef slapped between two slices of bread (Lord Sandwich's recent invention) Hoare proceeded to the Portsmouth bridewell. He was known here.

  "Friend of yours, Mr. 'Oare, I suspects," said the port-faced bailiff on duty when Hoare asked to see De Barsac. "Decent man for a Frog, I'd say, even if 'e did do 'is lordship in. 'Ere you are, sir. Thanky, sir."

  The prisoner was small, leathery, gloomy looking. He looked up as Hoare hove into sight. "You! I might have known. I did not kill him, you know." De Barsac's English was precise though heavily accented.

  "I am sure you did not," Hoare whispered. "But the evidence is strong against you. After all, you and Provins-" he stopped for breath "- had words the other day, and all the world saw it. Then, sometime last night, he was killed by one of the swords you keep for your students."

  "Your first point is true," De Barsac said. "We had very harsh words. As to your second point, I must believe what you say. But I was not present at the event, so I can tell you nothing of the weapon used."

  "Tell me about your contretemps with the duc."

  "I was surprised, 'Oare, at the news he gave me. I would have expected better of him, for he had the reputation of being a man of his word. More so at least than some others of his family."

  "What was the news that surprised you so?"

  "That I was not to have Vendee. She had been promised me as soon as your admiralty released her to ours. She was to go to Dominique Montrichard."

  Hoare was about to ask him what Vendee might be, besides the rebellious, royalist French province, but then remembered. By some back room arrangement among the French court-in-exile, the admiralty, and the Foreign Ministry, a few old decayed vessels of the Royal Navy, instead of being laid up in ordinary or broken up, were to be sold to Louis XVIII at pence in the pound. Once again the lily banner of the ancien regime could fly at sea. For a monarchy without a country to rule, it was a matter of pride.

  Hoare remembered too, ruefully, that Vendee had once been the Eole frigate from whose main top a French marine had fired the shot that broke his larynx and his career. Since his Staghound had taken her in the same action, Hoare would have been put into her as commander as a matter of course, and he would have been made instead of broken. Now the French navy was to have her back. It was bitter.

  "Forgive me, my friend," Hoare said, "but the gods of our admiralty, at least, are capricious. Like your seamen, we English sailors must learn to weather that kind of blow."

  "But she was to go to Montrichard. Montrichard, parbleu!" Barsac breathed scorn like fire. "Dominique Benoit Jean-Baptiste de Montrichard, who could hardly take a skiff out of La Rochelle without putting her on the rocks! Simply because the upstart is a comte and his equerry, while I, Marc-Antoine de Chatillon de Barsac, am a mere vicomte. Or because of his liaison with the lovely comtesse."

  "Then why did you not kill Montrichard instead of the duc?"

  "I remind you, 'Oare, I killed no one. I was angry at the duc, yes. But not a tuer, mon ami, not angry to kill. I merely protested a decision that I had not expected and did not deserve.

  "Why, I had even begun conversations with Marciello, that dancing master of a man, to sell him my academy so that my wife could live decently while I was at sea in Vendee. Now, here I am, immured, without a ship, without my liberty. It is too much, 'Oare, too much. My poor wife…" De Barsac stared vacantly at the wet stone wall a mere four feet from his nose.

  "Keep up your spirits, man," Hoare whispered, though he had no tangible support to offer the prisoner.

  As he left the lockup, someone pulled at his cloak. The face beneath the shawl, tight-clutched against the cold, was no lady's; her complexion was too coarse. But she looked respectable, so Hoare did not pull free. She might be a lady's maid.

  "Zur, zur!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes?"

  "Would you be Mr. 'Oare, zur?" She blushed. Hoare was long resigned to seeing blushes on young women's faces the first time they used his name. At least they seldom snickered, as did some men who did not know that, while Bartholomew Hoare had yet to kill his man, he had yet to miss whatever part of an opponent he chose for target.

  "The same," he whispered, and waited. She gave a little bob.

  "I be Molly, zur, Madame de Barsac's maid." The girl spoke with a strong Dorset buzz.

  "Yes, Molly?"

  "Ma'am wonders, zur, if you'd kindly step by and zee 'er for a moment or two?"

  "Lead the way, Molly," Hoare said, though he needed no guide to this destination.

  He followed close on her heels to a decent but shabby building. The sign at the door read:

  MARC-ANTOINE DE CHATILLON DE BARSAC

  MAITRE D'ESCRIME

  ENGLISH SPOKEN

  ENQUIRE ABOVE

  Molly led him down an alley behind the school, into a rear doorway and up two flights of stairs. Here she opened an inner door and bobbed again for him to precede her.

  "Mr. 'Oare, mum," she whispered, and blushed again.

  Her hand outstretched, her mistress advanced to greet him. A woman-shaped woman, she would be a few years younger than her husband or Hoare.

  "Madame la Vicomtesse," Hoare whispered as he made his leg and bent over the hand. Actually to kiss it would have been unduly suggestive.

  "So kind of you, Mr. 'Oare," she said in French. "My husband has spoken of you often."

  "I am told he has been taken up in connection with the sad death of the Duc de Provins," Hoare said.

  "Which is why I told Molly to find you and beg you to wait on me. He had nothing to do with it, of course."

  "Of course. But the town authorities believe otherwise, and one can hardly blame them. After all, he is known to have quarreled with the duc, and his broken sword was the murder weapon."

  "Anyone, monsieur," she said, "could have filched a broken sword from our salon. Marc-Antoine collects them in a corner. I record them and then sell them to Tompkins the cutler, for we cannot afford weapons of a quality high enough to be worth repair."

  "How often is a weapon broken?"

  "Perhaps two a week. There are some awkward pupils who break one almost every lesson. They are hopeless, and I charge them extra for the breakage."

  "Then you keep the books for your husband?"

  The vicomtesse nodded.

  A notion tiptoed reluctantly into Hoare's mind. "Could the Comtesse de Montrichard have acquired one of the broken swords?" he asked.

  "Why yes, I suppose she could. She sometimes accompanied the duc, especially if he wanted to display his proficiency by taking up a blade himself."

  "She would come with her husband, I presume?"

  "Hardly, monsieur. That would have been gauche in the extreme, would it not?"

  "And about yesterday's quarrel between the duc and your husband?"

  "It was hardly a quarrel," she said. "Provins took Marc-Antoine aside and told him that instead of giving command of Vendee to him he must give it to Montrichard. My husband had been counting on obt
aining the post; it had become a matter of honor as well as the pocketbook. He protested, too vehemently, perhaps. The duc turned on his heel and left the salon, followed, of course, by his attendant."

  "Who was… "

  "The comtesse." Her eyes opened wide. "Why, the comte was there as well. How louche! Yes, I remember now. Montrichard was already practicing when the duc arrived, before the mirror, of course, being the sort of person he is."

  "So, madame, any of four people could have taken away the broken sword."

  "Four, monsieur?"

  "Yes. The Comte de Montrichard, his comtesse, your husband… or you."

  "Monsieur!" Her lip curled. For a moment Hoare feared she would order him to the door, but then she laughed. "Yes, I too, I suppose, although you are not to know I can hardly tell which end of the weapon to hold. But then you must add to your list of suspects every pupil of my husband, past or present."

  Hoare shuddered at the thought and dismissed it.

  "Well, madame la vicomtesse, I have now spoken with you, your husband and the Comtesse de Montrichard. It remains for me to question the comte." Having run out of breath, Hoare merely raised his eyebrows hopefully. She caught his meaning.

  "He keeps chambers at The Lilies in Dover Street, I believe," she said. "I hope you will be able to establish my husband's innocence, monsieur. Strange though it may seem, our children and I love him."

  "I share your hope, madame." With that Hoare prepared to take his leave, leaving unspoken his fear that powerful evidence indeed would be needed if De Barsac were to depart the Portsmouth bridewell unhanged.

  "Un moment, monsieur," said the vicomtesse. She disappeared into an adjoining room, returning with a paper in her hand. "As I told you, I handle my husband's business affairs. Here is the commission Provins gave him, days ago. Perhaps you will believe me."

  "It is not I who must be convinced, madame, but an English jury. May I take this with me?"

  She shrugged. "It will be no use to him if he is dead, monsieur. Take it, then."

  De Montrichard's "chambers" might be no more than a pair of garret rooms at The Lilies, one in a warren of similar quarters let out to titled emigre paupers, but he kept a lackey nonetheless, and he or the lackey kept Hoare pacing the low corridor outside his door for a half-hour's eternity.

  The comte received him in a bare bleak chamber. It smelled of damp plaster and contained one hard chair, one desk, and a number of spanking-new seachests and boxes. Hoare had, he guessed, caught him in mid-move. Some, he saw, bore different crests. Could they, or some of them, belong to the late duc?

  The comte's pale, narrow face was set in lines of sour and apparently permanent disapproval. He wore the same oddly different naval uniform that Hoare had seen on the duc's body, and like the duc's, the heavy bullion epaulettes he wore on each shoulder could never have seen salt air.

  He received Hoare standing and began without greeting. "You have come here, I understand, to solicit information concerning the death of the Duc de Provins. Is that the case?" Hoare was not one to be outdone in matters of icy courtesy. He nodded assent and waited. "It should be obvious even to an Englishman," said the outwaited count at last, "that De Barsac killed him. Or perhaps you did not notice the provenance of the broken sword."

  "I did, monsieur." Hoare waited again, counted fifteen of his slow pulses, and continued. "You are a member of his late grace's court, sir, I believe?"

  "Your belief is in error. Until yesterday I was indeed a member of His Royal Highness's 'court,' as you are pleased to call it, though how it is any concern of yours escapes me entirely. In fact, I was his sole equerry. As for the comtesse my wife… that, now, was quite a different matter and is not one for discussion with you."

  De Montrichard, Hoare said to himself, had probably been born sneering. Tucking the expression into his mental commonplace book for possible future use, he renewed the waiting game. Again he won; the count continued. "However, since yesterday I have had the honor to command His Most Christian Majesty's ship Vendee."

  "Have you been read in, then?"

  Montrichard visibly choked down an order for Hoare to take his questions and swallow them. Perhaps he recalled just in time that he would be at the mercy of Hoare's master for the fitting out of his new command, for he simply said, "In the French navy, monsieur, command takes effect when the officer receives his appointment, as I have." For the first time, the comte offered the honorific common between gentlemen. "Indeed, I have just returned from Admiralty House, where I presented the document in question to your admiral."

  "My congratulations, then, mon capitaine," Hoare whispered. "And when do you actually board your new command?"

  "As soon as arrangements for the ceremony of transfer have been completed. Tomorrow, I expect. You are, of course, welcome to be present."

  To Hoare's ears the invitation lacked something of sincerity.

  "I shall be overjoyed to accept," he answered as he made his farewell bow. He found himself more than curious to tread, as a guest, the quarterdeck he himself might have paced as commander. It would be a bittersweet experience, he expected.

  At Admiralty House, the flag secretary, Patterson, informed him that the comte had, indeed, presented the precious document.

  "It's right here," he said. He handed it over for Hoare to peruse. "Sir George is closeted with Captain Pottle again. Will that man take no for an answer? Never on your life, sir."

  Except for being in French, the letter of appointment, crudely printed except for spaces where names were added in manuscript, was virtually identical to the form employed by the admiralty. A tidy signature and an ornate seal appeared at the foot of the paper.

  "Made the translation myself for the poor duke last month," Patterson said with modest pride.

  It had grown late. Hoare betook himself to his own quiet quarters at The Swallowed Anchor in the eastern part of the town.

  The sky was was still an arctic blue the next morning when Hoare emerged into the street. Facing south, he was buffeted by a biting northerly breeze; he must needs hold onto his hat.

  Hoare first returned to The Three Suns, where he asked the porter a question. Pollard demurred but upon being fixed with Hoare's glittering eye told him that no, the countess and that 'orrible maid had remained in her rooms from the time the late dook departed until she went out to view his corpse yesterday. Strike him blue if he wasn't telling God's truth.

  As Hoare turned away, a worn notice struck his eye. Partially obscured by a recent playbill and partially obscuring an ancient recruiting poster, it read:

  TO BE SOLD, UPON ATTRACTIVE TERMS

  A RECENTLY OVERHAULED SMALL BARGE

  CONVERTED FOR PLEASURE SAILING

  BY A NAVAL GENTLEMAN

  INQUIRE AT 14, HIGHBURY STREET, IN CARE OF MASON.

  Ever since being forever barred from going to sea again as a naval officer, Hoare had itched at least to sail saltwater again. Upon the signing of peace, he had received a gratifying dividend on some of his shares in John Company. He had now questioned everyone he could think of, and he was at a loss. Perhaps a change in viewpoint would help. He shrugged and made his way to Highbury Street.

  His smart rap on the door to Number 14 was answered by a squat woman with a commanding look. To Hoare she bore the insignia of "landlady" as clearly as if the word had been tattooed across her red forehead. "About the yacht, advertised for sale," he whispered.

  She looked him up and down. "Wait here," she said, and closed the door in Hoare's face. He did not catch the name she roared up the stairs within.

  In a moment a blaring sneeze sounded from behind the door, and a fellow lieutenant emerged, wiping his streaming nose. He was about Hoare's own size and frame but appeared ten years or so younger. Like Cassius, Hoare thought, this officer wore a lean and hungry look; a mark on his unornamented left shoulder suggested that at one time he had held commander's rank. The eyes above the inflamed nose looked anxious. "You called about the yacht, sir?"
r />   "Yes, sir," Hoare whispered. "Hoare, Bartholomew Hoare."

  "Hornblower, sir. Horatio Hornblower."

  "Not Hornblower of Retribution?"

  "The same, sir," said the other.

  "Oh dear," Hoare said. Hornblower's ill luck was well known. He had been made commander and brought to England the sloop Retribution-Gaditana, as she had been at the time of her capture in Samana Bay. But then the commissioners had not confirmed his appointment because it had been made after peace had been signed. Now the wretch was being compelled to return, bit by precious bit, the pay he had drawn during his brief tenure in the rank.

  "Would your cold prevent you from showing me your craft?"

  "Not at all, sir. Happy. This way."

  Hornblower did not return for an outer garment but raised the collar of his uniform coat to protect his ears, hunched his shoulders, and thrust his hands into his pockets. He sneezed.

  It came out as the two betook themselves to the berth of the vessel in question that during his happy few weeks as master and commander in Retribution Hornblower had indulged himself by squandering his prize money on a small naval barge and refitting it as a yacht in which he could carry himself and a companion on short cruises about the Solent. Now, of course, keeping her was out of the question. He must put his beloved up for sale and live upon the proceeds somehow until he had paid off the rapacious clerks of the Admiralty Office.

  Hoare lost his heart to Thunderer at once. She lay snug at a small floating pier below the Hard, to which the more knowledgeable captains chose to direct their coxswains. Like a lass well aware of her beauty, she glowed. She was under thirty feet in length, a seven ton craft at the most. Either of the two tall officers could reach halfway to her miniature crosstrees. Forward of her mast lay a cuddy. Sadly yet proudly Hornblower unlocked it.