Hoare and the matter of treason

Chapter IX

I have it!"

"Eh?"

"The wife, and the child. He dotes on them, I hear."

"Come, sir. Assault on men like one's self is a matter of course. But women… ladies in particular… and their children? Surely not."

"We shall see. Excuse me, I have urgent business to undertake."

"Something must be done about your pigeon shit, Hancock. I shall not abide it another minute." Hoare was below, arguing with his foul-breathed captain of the cote, or whatever the proper title was for the post. He was tired of working in the fecal fetor that seeped continually across the partition between his truncated great cabin and the pigeons' domain, dead aft, in the most desirable spot aboard. He was in no mood to care whether or not the pigeons needed his precious wide stern window and gallery to arrive and depart on their missions.

At the knock on his door, he interrupted himself to utter the chirrup that every Royal Duke now knew meant "Come in." The sentry, one of the yacht's Green Marines as usual, appeared, sworded rifle at the carry. It was the Dutchman Frits Boom, a man who looked the perfect dullard but was no such thing.

"Dere's a man down from London, sir. Sayzz his name's Lestrade, sir, an' sayzz it's urgent."

Before Hoare could tell Boom to admit Sir Hugh's pet ferret, the man himself was before him, having slipped under the guard's elbow. He had been bleeding profusely onto his dark overgarment, and his low forehead still oozed.

"It's the admiral, sir. Admiral Abercrombie. 'E's dead."

"What?"

Stunned at the news, Hoare still noted that Lestrade had left elsewhere his habit of mishandling his aspirates in a futile attempt at gentility.

"Dead, sir. Stabbed, over an' over again. I tried to 'elp 'im, 'deed I did, but they was too many of 'em. Wen I saw the admiral was down, I cut an' run. You was the first I thoughta, so I come down 'ere."

"When did this happen?" Hoare asked.

" 'Baht two this mornin, sir."

"And here it is four bells-ten o'clock. What kept you?"

"Tide, sir. 'Twas against me. An' besides, Hit ain't-Hisn't- that Heasy to find a wherry at two in the morning."

Lestrade was recovering himself, as Hoare could hear, and no longer needed to make excuses. With this returned his usual veneer of genteel accent.

"Sit down, man. Out, Hancock. Talk to me later." Sullen, the man departed.

Before Hoare could whistle up Whitelaw and have him bring the messenger some refreshment, the silent servant appeared. On one palm he balanced a carafe of brandy on a tray with a pair of small glasses. In the other hand he carried a basin. A moistened cloth hung over his arm. He spoke not a word, but set right to work and began to repair his master's guest.

"Thank you, sir," Lestrade said over his glass. "Your good Health-and my apologies for breaking in on you with such dreadful tidings."

"Tell me what happened, Lestrade," Hoare whispered.

"Well, sir, you know, of course, that Sir Hugh lodges- lodged, I should say-with Mrs. Pettibone behind Downing Street. No more than a ten-minute walk, even for Him."

Hoare had not known this, but remained silent.

"For some years past, she has kept House for Him, on her ground floor, naturally. Since Sir Hugh took me into His confidence some years ago, Hi have made it a Habit to accompany Him Home in the Hevenings, if it should be dark. Has it often His, Sir Hugh being the man of duty He His. Was.

"Hi did so last night, it being foggy as well as late. About two o'clock, Has Hi think Hi said. Just Has we were turning the corner past Downing Street, we were assaulted, Hoverwhelmed by at least three Hassassins. Poor Sir Hugh drew His sword and attempted to defend Himself, but He was knocked over, and Hi was wrestled to the pavement. My assailant simply sat on me, Holding me by the Hair and bashing my Head against the stones. Hi fear that Hi lost my senses for a moment. When Hi recovered them and sat up, the Hattackers Had disappeared, and Sir Hugh was lying on His back. His sword lay at his side. It had been broken. He was quite dead."

Lestrade seemed to choke, then went on.

"Has soon as Hi could, I shouted for the watch. Some marines came running. I told them what had occurred, and they put together a party large enough to carry Him off. To the Admiralty, Hi suppose, but Hi do not know, for Hi betook myself to the Thames and roused up a wherry to be brought Here."

Lestrade took another sip of brandy. Having patched up his patient, Whitelaw took his departure, leaving the two men alone. He returned, however, bearing Hoare's hat, sword, and boat cloak, and helped his master into them. Hoare nodded at him and led Lestrade on deck.

"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. Prickett 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.