London, Hoare decided the next morning, offered even tougher navigational challenges than pine-clad, rockbound Penobscot Bay or the blockaded, cannon-girt shallows around Brest. On making his way from the Golden Cross, he took himself into and out of three blind alleys in the warren surrounding Whitehall before he finally tracked down the privy entrance to the Admiralty to which Sir George Hardcastle had directed him. It was a wearisome passage, and he feared he had found his way only by fool luck.
Once found, however, the privy entrance was easily breached. Having presented his orders to an ancient, he waited while the man shuffled off to return with an eager-looking mouse of a man. The mouse took out a list and read down it until he found Hoare's name as one expected by Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie, KB. He then guided him down a series of stately corridors and through a web of unimpressive byways to the lair of the spider himself. The lair was lofty, spacious, well heated by a pair of glowing fireplaces, and overlooked the Horse Guards Parade; Hoare was reinforced in his expectation that the admiral was high in the councils of the mighty.
Sir Hugh was occupied with a ferret-shaped, sinuous man. The escorting mouse took one look at the ferret and fled into some bolt-hole of his own.
"You'll be Hoare," Sir Hugh rumbled from out of a pasty, puddinglike head. "Take a pew. I'll be finished with Lestrade here momentarily."
After exchanging a few more words in an undertone, Lestrade withdrew. Sir Hugh could now turn his attention to Hoare. He did not rise, for the simple act of coming to his feet would obviously have been hard for him. Now, Hoare understood why it had been necessary to devise that reinforced hanging chair in the late Captain Oglethorpe's cabin-now Hoare's own-aboard Royal Duke; Sir Hugh was vast.
"Stand up straight," the admiral said. Hat under arm, Hoare came to attention and stood to be inspected, staring at the invisible horizon.
"You have a report for me. Hand it over."
After receiving the papers over which Hoare had labored two nights ago, Sir Hugh steepled his hands and for several minutes examined his visitor in silence, his cold gray eyes nearly hidden in the pudding of his face. Finally, he spoke.
"So. Take a seat, sir. I have read the memoranda you drafted for Hardcastle. You're his deus ex machina, then. His Hercules. The man he uses to drag his chestnuts out of the fire. Good record at sea, respectable navy family, no voice. Pity about that.
You look as though you were otherwise fit for command. But the fleet's loss is the service's gain. Perhaps.
"Let me read these reports, however, so as not to try your voice with unnecessary questions. Be seated, if you please."
Sir Hugh drew a long churchwarden pipe from a rack behind him, packed it carefully, and lit it. When the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he began to read, puffing thoughtfully at the pipe as he read and giving off thick clouds of smoke. Within a minute, the room was befogged; within three minutes, his reading ended.
Setting the most recent report down, Sir Hugh now fired a fifteen-minute barrage of questions at Hoare. He covered every aspect of the Vantage affair, and the events surrounding the Nine Stones Circle, whether or not Hoare had set it down. He inquired about Hoare's odd little yacht, about his bride, and about the child Jenny Jaggery. He reached back into Hoare's past, to the Amazon and Hebe affair and even to his previous marriage in Halifax. He seemed to know everything.
After each question, Sir Hugh waited patiently for Hoare's increasingly painful answer, but before his cloud of pungent verbal powder smoke drifted away, Hoare was sweating freely and his feeble whisper had drifted into mere mouthing.
"Very good," Sir Hugh said at last. "Or at least, good enough. Between you and Hardcastle, the two of you may have concocted a French farrago of lies, but at least you have enough brains to be consistent with each other.
"Now. Listen carefully. You are to repeat nothing said in this or any other conversation you and I may have, and subsequently shall neither make notes of them nor prepare any writings about them. Is that clearly understood?"
Sir Hugh accepted Hoare's nod and continued. "Hardcastle will have told you a little about this office, and the activities I direct on their lordships' behalf. Those activities, of course, include your own, and those of the vessel you command.
"You have now cut off two tentacles of Bonaparte's secret service, but there are many others. Since you will have earned their extreme displeasure, you will need to walk with care henceforth. A word to the wise, sir.
"It is my task to seek out the remaining agents and destroy them, wherever they may be found, to turn them, or at least, if appropriate, to deceive them to His Majesty's advantage. It is also my task to manage the navy's own network of agents, but that is neither here nor there."
For a full hour, Sir Hugh discoursed in his low thunder of a voice upon case after case, technique upon technique. From time to time a minion padded in to place a document before his master. Without interrupting the flow of his lecture, Sir Hugh would peruse it, pen a marginal comment, sometimes sign it, and return it to the minion. The latter would then pad out. Except for an occasional remark, from Sir Hugh and never from the minion, these encounters took place in silence. Between them, Sir Hugh's deep voice droned on, and on, and on.
Just as Hoare was about to raise a hand and plead for an interval of rest, Sir Hugh said, "We now come to the immediate reason for your presence here. Hardcastle will have told you of the disappearance of certain documents of state at a time when this office had them in its charge. Their import is international and major. In the hands of the French, their misuse would be dire. They must be found. If possible, they must be recovered. If not, they must be destroyed.
"The other departments of His Majesty's government have not been notified of the loss. For them to learn of it would diminish the navy materially, to its cost and eventually to the disservice of the Crown."
So far, the admiral had told Hoare no more than he had learned from Sir George Hardcastle-less, in fact. Now, however, Sir Hugh leaned forward in his heavy chair and peered through the remaining tobacco smoke at him.
"More than that. I did not inform Sir George of this, but one of my senior confidential clerks has also gone missing. The very man, in fact, who is charged with preserving documents of confidence, among which the missing papers were to be numbered. He has not been seen since Thursday week. His nonappearance was, in fact, the event that prompted us to take the inventory of the documents in his charge, and to discover the absence of the documents in the case."
"Pray tell me about the man, sir." These were Hoare's first words since Sir Hugh had commenced his narrative.
"He is Octavius Ambler by name. Forty-four years of age, but looks older. He has been in Admiralty service for twenty-eight years, rising from apprentice writer to his present position, separated by only two degrees from myself. An only child, he has never married but lived with his widowed mother in Lambeth until her death eighteen months ago."
"His appearance, sir?"
"He is heavyset, fully fleshed, unhealthy of complexion. Much like myself, in fact…" Sir Hugh looked down at his own massive, soft form with obvious distaste, and went on.
"But not so excessively bulky. Unlike me, he gets about nimbly enough for a man in his sedentary position. I am ruddy; he is pallid. Old-fashioned as to his dress. Look here."
The admiral turned, bent over his hampering belly and began to rummage through a drawer in the cabinet at his side. From where he sat, Hoare could see that the drawer was laid out with orderly labeled partitions of what might be veneer, enclosing space for files. An admirable arrangement, he thought, and one which he would see copied in Royal Duke's 'tweendecks.
"Here," Sir Hugh said at last. "We have likenesses made of all our principal staff, including myself. The man who makes them apprenticed under Mr. Rowlandson or Mr. Gillray-I disremember which. This is the one he made of Ambler."
Hoare took the drawing Sir Hugh extended to him. His wiry hand and Sir Hugh's pudgy one nearly touched; with a sharp motion,
the admiral snatched his paw out of danger.
Hoare examined the likeness, a silverpoint on durable hard gray paper that showed the subject's head and shoulders. As Sir Hugh had said, it also showed a full-lipped man in the worst of physical condition, heavy of jowls, petulant of expression, cleft-chinned, bewigged, and heavily pockmarked. Hoare believed the artist had tried to capture every little circular pit.
"May I see your own likeness, sir?" Hoare asked.
Sir Hugh bridled. "Damn you, sir, you see the original before you. What need have you for my simulacrum? Taken a fancy to me?" His grin was quite hideous.
"By your leave, sir," Hoare said firmly, "I would like to compare the artist's view of you with my own." He looked expectantly at his superior.
The admiral grumbled, but eventually returned to his orderly files.
"Here you are," he said. This time, he did not hold out the likeness for Hoare to take from his hand but set it on the desk between them, where Hoare could reach it easily enough without bringing their two hands too close together for his admiral's comfort.
Hoare glanced between likeness and subject. Given the artist's training and the sitter's grossness of feature, he had feared that the silverpoint would be more or less of a caricature, but it was nothing of the kind. It was neither flattering nor cruel, but coolly objective. Sir Hugh had been depicted according to Oliver Cromwell's wish, warts and all. The drawing pointed out that the admiral had two of them altogether, one just beyond his left eye and the other beside the opposite nostril. Hitherto Hoare had observed neither, but there they were. Moreover, the artist had precisely captured Admiral Abercrombie's expression of cold, experienced power. He could have been a Renaissance cardinal. It was the portrait of a master, by a master. He now believed he could count on the actual presence of those pock-marks that marred the face of the missing Octavius Ambler.
"Whoever he is, sir," Hoare whispered, "he is a man of genius. I should like to make his acquaintance." He returned the drawing.
"It took him fifteen minutes, as I recall," the admiral observed, putting his own likeness back into its slot. "He did the last one a year ago. I must have him bring me up to date; I've faded a bit since then.
"No, I lie. It took him a good half-hour of my time. I had to sit there while he fiddled, fiddled, fiddled. If you want to meet him-though damned if I can tell why-he keeps a studio in Threadneedle Street. Number fourteen, over Baker the mercer's. Pickering's his name."
Hoare had no better idea than the admiral of why he should want to meet the artist, except, perhaps, that since he had taken command of Royal Duke's extraordinary crew, he was always on the lookout for new and potentially useful talents.
"To return to the man Ambler, sir," he said. "Have his lodgings been searched, and if so, by whom?"
"They were searched, sir, and by an expert. Lestrade. The man with whom I was closeted when you made your appearance. But the place had already been ransacked when he broke in. He found nothing of any relevance; the man's clothes were in disorder, and his personal belongings strewn about the place.
"Lestrade concluded that, whatever happened to Ambler, it is most likely that he has suffered foul play."
Hoare came to a decision, but decided that he was not quite ready to act upon it.
"I shall want to meet Mr. Lestrade, sir, if you please." Sir Hugh nodded.
"Tell me, sir, does Ambler have any particular friends, any personal habits of interest?"
The admiral was silent for a moment. He reloaded his churchwarden pipe while thinking. At last he said, "As to friends, I am unaware of any. Like so many men of our cerebral calling, he is of a solitary nature, almost cenobitical. As to habits, I can think of none.
"Any more questions? If not, I have much to do."
Hoare looked at the clock that ticked softly in a corner. Good heavens; it had gone four. For more than four hours he had been closeted with his superior officer. He rose hastily, with a whispered apology.
"Just a minute, Hoare," the admiral said. "You have not returned the sketch of Octavius Ambler. Pray do so."
"With all respect, sir," Hoare whispered, "I shall need it if I am to identify the man reliably."
He felt Sir Hugh prepared to roar, and mentally reduced sail and battened down against the blast in the offing. It did not come.
"Quite right," the admiral finally said. "Thy need is greater than mine-or that of me files. Keep it, then, and take yourself off."
"The man's address again, sir? I neglected to take it down."
With bad grace, Sir Hugh gave it.
"A last request, sir, by your leave," Hoare asked. "Has this establishment a pigeon from a Greenwich cote? I should like to send an urgent message to my ship, for one of my men to join me."
"Of course, we have, although, this tide, a pair-oar gig would be just as fast." The admiral's voice was testy. Long since, Hoare had learned that, like lamb and rosemary, admirals and testiness went together. "And ones I can send off to Portsmouth, as you must know. And several for Paris. Not, however, for St. Petersburg or Halifax or Jerusalem. There's no call for 'em. Besides, they're too far off. Hand it to Cratchit outside the door, with your instructions. He'll deliver your message.
"Tomorrow, make yourself known to Goldthwait. John Goldthwait. Eleven, Chancery Lane. He'll be expecting you."
Hoare made his bow and prepared to take his leave. Just as he had his hand on the door, the admiral addressed his back. He turned.
"Thoday would be a good man to bring into the case, Hoare." He pronounced the man's name as though it were spelled "Today," just as the man himself insisted it be pronounced. Being sensitive about matters of names himself, Hoare had understood from the first, and had obliged. As a matter of fact, Thoday was the very man he had in mind.
"Knows his way about, that man does," Sir Hugh went on. "Pity he's a Papist; otherwise, he could go far in His Majesty's service.
"Oh, and by the bye, Hoare," he said in conclusion, "I just recalled. The man Ambler is a dedicated falconer. An armchair austringer. I'm certain he never had one on his wrist, but short of that, he knows all there is to be known about falconry. Jesses, you know, and eyasses. Mutes. That sort of thing."
As he bent to his papers, Sir Hugh rang a small bell. Instantly, his mouse appeared, looked about as if to make certain the ferret Lestrade was not lying in wait to pounce upon him, and took Hoare in hand once again.
"Thank you, sir," Hoare said, and closed the door behind himself and the mouse. Sir Hugh's afterthoughts, he mused as he wrote down his message on the slip of thin paper the mouse handed him, were enlightening. He remembered both Hancock and Thoday, including their salient qualities. Hancock was a smelly man; Hoare found his presence almost unbearable. And Thoday knew his way about very well, indeed. If Hoare himself was, as he knew the Portsmouth underworld called him, the "Whispering Ferret," Titus Thoday was a sleuth-hound, a bloodhound, a born detective.
Before he left the Admiralty, he remembered, he wanted to make the acquaintance of Lestrade. He ordered Cratchit to take him to the man's lurking place. Trembling, Cratchit obeyed.
Lestrade's lair lay in one of the Admiralty cellars. He was in. He leered at Cratchit. Hoare might be a ferret in Portsmouth opinion, whispering or not, but Lestrade out-ferreted him by a cable-length or more. Hoare could have sworn he displayed small, needlelike fangs, ready to drink the blood of any wee, sleekit, cow'rin' tim'rous beastie he could catch. When Lestrade rose to greet his visitors, Cratchit squeaked, blanched, and fled.
Alone, the two creatures eyed each other.
"To what do I owe this Honor?" Lestrade asked. He stressed the "H," Hoare noticed.
"I wanted to hear about Ambler, Lestrade. Sir Hugh tells me you
… inspected his quarters."
"Indeed I did, sir, from top to bottom, back to front. I left no stone unturned, so to speak. Hit Had been searched before me, However, and I found nothing of Hinterest. Hit seems Mr. Hambler kept His official life and His private lif
e separate."
Lestrade also pronounced the personal pronoun as if he were referring to the Deity. He evidently Haspired to rise in this accent-conscious society.
"What do you know of Mr. Ambler's personality and habits?" Hoare asked. Before replying, Lestrade looked at him with head tilted slightly to one side, appraisingly.
"An admirable Hindividual, sir. Completely reliable. Would Have entrusted Him with me life. Yes." Lestrade nodded, Hoare remained silent, waiting for more.
"Hof course, sir, Mr. Hambler was-is-Sir Hugh's confidential Helper, and not mine. For more detail, you would be well to speak with Him, or with Mr… never mind." Lestrade winced at his last words, as though he would retract them if he could. When Hoare pressed him for the name he had suppressed, he had no more to say, but pled an urgent appointment away from the building. He offered to escort Hoare to the Admiralty's principal entrance, and Hoare was glad to accept. Underground labyrinths were not to his liking.
Once outside, Hoare found it was raining. He was quite sure he could find his way back to the Golden Cross without a guide. He would try it. As he strode down Whitehall in what he hoped was the right, easterly direction, he chewed over the missing man's avocation as recalled by Sir Hugh. Falconry. He remembered the unsuitable jape he had been mad enough to utter during his first, disastrous encounter with Sir Thomas Frobisher. He had described to that powerful batrachian baronet how, while he did not hunt as the baronet had asked, he batted.
He and other like-minded folk in the north country flew trained bats, he had said, to retrieve insects, just as falconers flew their fierce birds. Sometimes, he had added to the astonished Sir Thomas, the largest species-the chiropteran equivalents of gyr-falcons or even eagles-could take on small birds.
Sir Thomas had not been long to twig, and had never forgiven him the insult. That Hoare had then interfered in the man's marriage schemes had not improved their relationship. As the man's own son had warned him, he must walk warily.
Chapter V
Hoare and the matter of treason cbh-3 Page 6