To himself, Hoare had long compared Eleanor Graves to a partridge, albeit a dauntless one. Now, with her snort, she resembled a moor pony, one like the beast he had seen her astride when, between them, they had put Edouard Moreau to death.
"Do you wish me to take Sir Thomas aside and reprove him?" he asked. He rather looked forward to the idea.
She stopped in midstreet and looked up at him. "You shall do no such thing, Bartholomew. I am a tub that stands on its own bottom, as well you know. He and you are sufficiently at odds already. It would do you no good were you to spring to my defense and would put poor pompous Sir Thomas into harm's way. No. We shall attend matins in peace, as we planned, and all the world may stare."
She tucked her arm in his; his heart leaped.
All the world stared, indeed, as the little party marched into St. Ninian's. The congregation's whispering made Hoare feel quite at home. Eleanor Graves was no person to hide herself. Chin high, her black-gloved hand resting lightly on the arm of her blue-and-gold escort, her progress followed by the staring faces of all Weymouth's best, she paraded up the aisle as if going up to dance.
The service having concluded and the Reverend Mr. Witherspoon duly congratulated on his endless sermon, the two left the porch of St. Ninian's only to come face-to-face with Sir Thomas Frobisher. No words passed between them, only stiff nods, though Hoare thought to hear the other breathe the word bats. Sir Thomas's footman opened the emblazoned door of his berlin, and he entered. As Hoare knew, he had all of four hundred yards' journey ahead of him.
Foursquare, high of cheekbones, with slanted eyes and a shock of unconventional coarse black hair, the knight's coachman had an oddly familiar look. Where had Hoare seen his like?
It came to him at last. During his station in Halifax, when he had courted his dear Antoinette, married her, and lost her, he had run across a family of wandering Esquimaux walrus hunters from the upper Labrador. Someone had told him that the first Sir Martin Frobisher, the famous one, had brought a family or two back with him to England, where they had become as much a nine days' wonder as would have been one of Dean Swift's Struldbrugs. Could this merry-looking manservant be one of their descendants?
Eleanor Graves's murmur returned Hoare to the autumn Sunday.
"The frog and the crane," she said.
"Sir Thomas and myself?" Hoare asked.
"Or you and myself," she said with a smile, and Hoare's heart leaped once again.
"You are no frog, my dear," he whispered.
They walked on in companionable silence for a while, arm in arm, trailed at a discreet distance by the girl Agnes. Then Eleanor looked up at him.
"That was pleasant, Bartholomew. To make the congregation stare so! Oh! I must dress only in this horrid black, which I know does not become me. I must remain at home for years, receive only my relatives and Simon's- or the widowed Sir Thomas Frobisher, who is hopping about, turning up every stone within fifty miles in his search for a new wife to cover. Yet I know what my beloved Simon would have wished for me."
"What would he have wished?"
"That as soon as possible I would commence to live the life of a normal woman. I want children, Bartholomew, and the time grows late."
Chapter V
On Monday morning, as Hoare walked out of the Dish of Sprats for a constitutional before breakfast, he saw the clerk Rabbett striding toward him down the cobbled street, a bundle tied to a stick over one shoulder and his other hand wielding a stout staff. Rabbett, Hoare realized, had benefited by this venture out of his customary hole in Admiralty House, Portsmouth.
Heretofore, in Hoare's opinion, Rabbett had not only resembled the creature with which he shared a name; his actions had also been leporine. Lately, however, Rabbet even seemed taller. Was he standing straighter?
Fleetingly the thought entered Hoare's mind that he, Bartholomew Hoare, might have been thinking and acting in error throughout his life. Ever since he learned that his precious name was applied to Bad People, and female ones to boot, Hoare had been defending that name against misuse as if against dishonor. To him, Rabbetts were timid, Wolfes predatory-and Hoares sinful. Others shared his obsession, he knew; he had once been acquainted with a fellow Orkneyman by descent who bore the even more unfortunate name of Bugga. Poor Mr. Bugga had defended his name on the field of honor no fewer than four times before falling at last, a brave Bugga to the end.
Some other Hoares, he knew-the eponymous bankers of Stourhead, for example-must certainly be happy Hoares as well as wealthy ones, and their bank could scarcely be mistaken for a bordello. Why, then, should he, Bartholomew…
"Sir," Rabbett said, "a message came to you in Dorchester last night. The man would not go beyond Dorchester, and I knew of no quicker way to bring you the message than to carry it myself. So I rose before dawn and set off for Weymouth without breaking my fast."
The clerk extended an envelope. Hoare broke its Admiralty seal, to find a note to which had been attached a slip of tissue.
The note read:
Admiralty House, Portsmouth,
17 October
Sir:
The attached arrived momentarily by carrier pigeon, from your command.
In the future, pray arrange for communications of this kind to be transmitted by a more direct route.
Your humble, etc., etc.,
G. Hardcastle
The enclosure bore a mere handful of lines in a minuscule handwriting:
Royal Duke, 17 October
Sir:
This by pigeon to Admiralty House Portsmouth, with request it be forwarded to you by courier.
I have broken the "Ahab-Jehu" cipher. I respectfully submit that it would be most desirable were you to return aboard forthwith, to examine the messages I will have decoded by your arrival.
Your obedient servant, in haste,
F. Taylor
Master's Mate
"S. Taylor?" Who the devil was S. Taylor? Hoare cudgeled his mind, then remembered. S. Taylor was the big woman whom Mr. Clay had identified as Royal Duke's resident cryptographer and mathematician. She was Sarah Taylor, and she was, indeed, rated Master's Mate.
"Hell," Hoare whispered to himself. Here he was, in hot pursuit of the Captains' killers and his courtship, and this petticoat sailor had the audacity to virtually order him back aboard his own command. Really, between her and the nearly insolent Thoday, he began to wonder who commanded whom. It put him quite out of patience. Besides, why could she not have given him some clue as to what made the matter so urgent, so as to help him make up his mind whether to go or to stay?
He returned to the inn, Rabbett at his heels, and called upstairs for Thoday.
"Mr. Thoday," Hoare said when the man appeared, "what is your opinion of Taylor?" "Sarah Taylor, sir?"
"Is she a levelheaded person or a flibbertigibbet?"
Thoday pondered. "A competent seaman-sea person, perhaps I should say, sir, and an arithmetician of distinction. I have even heard that, were she a man, she might be admitted to the Royal Society."
"That's all very well. But how is she for common sense?" Hoare showed Thoday the message.
"If she thinks you should return to Portsmouth, sir, you probably should-"
"Not, I hope, sir, before I hand you whatever crumbs of knowledge I have been able to gather up from beneath the tables of Dorchester."
"You may do so over breakfast, Rabbett," Hoare said. "Judging from the speed of your march, you must be hungry."
"I'll not deny it, sir," Rabbett said, and began. Indeed, he found it possible to take on a small mountain of steak-and-kidney pie without interrupting his report.
"The folk for miles about the Winterbournes," he said in a whining narrative drone, as if he had memorized it, "for there are twelve of them-Winterbourne Abbas, which you know already, sir, Winterbourne Monckton, Winterbourne Herringston, Winterbourne Steepleton, and eight others- are convinced that the deaths are connected with Satan worship. Or, if not, the worship of the Old Gods.
And who is to say which of the two is the lesser evil?"
"Who, indeed?" Hoare breathed, letting his mind escape the clerk's recital. Rabbett's mention of "the lesser evil" reminded him of the jape invented by one of the more successful frigate Captains-Bolitho? Cochrane? He was wont to challenge a new acquaintance to a wager upon which of two beetle larvae, chosen at random from among those tapped from a piece of ship's biscuit, would be the first to reach the edge of the table. The unwitting newcomer naturally chose the larger grub. When it lost, as it always did, Captain Whoever would joyfully advise the stranger "always to select the lesser of two weevils" and nearly burst his breeches with laughter at his own paltry jest.
Aubrey. That was the joker's name. Lucky Jack Aubrey, they called him, from the wealth of prize money he had won at sea-and squandered ashore.
Hoare kicked himself back to what Rabbett was saying.
"For it is well known that our ancient ancestors did, indeed, hold their ceremonials there. The Circle antedates even the Druids, as I understand. Even now, shepherds and travelers report strange lights by night, and peculiar offerings have been found from time to time on the great flat stone in its middle-a bunch of mistletoe, for instance, a corn dolly in season, even a white cockerel."
Thinking back to yesterday's visit with Dunaway, Hoare was certain he could account for the strange lights. And Thoday had drawn what must be the right conclusion from the withered fragments of flower garlands. They were involved with Rabbett's "offerings."
"And what did you discover among the officials of the town?" Hoare asked.
Rabbett shook his head. "Nothing, sir. The gentry are closemouthed to such as I. But the other captain, Captain Spurrier, that is, is ill-regarded among us common folk. Feared, in fact. He was once preached against in the Church of All Angels-you remember, where they took the poor Captains' bodies. Captain Spurrier has done almost nothing to track down the murderers of the two Captains."
"And the inquest?"
"Has been indefinitely postponed, sir. Captain Spurrier departed Dorchester at speed on Saturday for an unknown destination, directly after your own departure for Weymouth."
Thoday, too, had drawn a blank. No one in Weymouth town had more than rumor to pass on about the deaths of the Captains Getchell. In fact, they had seemed reluctant to discuss the matter at all. More than one had suggested that Thoday apply to Sir Thomas Frobisher for information, but Sir Thomas was away.
" 'A-courting,' one of them told me, sir," Thoday said. " 'At his age.'
"The frog he would a-wooing go," he added.
Hoare sighed. A block had been put in the way of his chase. He might as well face reality and return to duty.
"Our business here in Weymouth seems to be concluded for now," he said. "There is nothing to keep us here.
"You two, Rabbett and Thoday, return to Dorchester and keep the investigation moving from there. I shall accompany you in the chaise and continue on to Portsmouth… Find the missing evidence-the head, the two drivers, the Admiralty chaise. Surely the chaise, at least, can be traced. Learn of any strangers, especially any with foreign accents. Keep me informed.
"In fact, I shall need to be kept informed on a frequent, regular basis. But none of us can afford the time to travel between Dorchester and Portsmouth… So as to halve the time needed in travel, then," he whispered, "let us arrange regular meetings-weekly, say-at a point halfway between here… and Portsmouth. A place that we can reach easily by sea or by land.
"You, Thoday, can meet with Rabbett beforehand to collect whatever news he may have gathered, and bring the… consolidated information to-to where?"
He turned to Rabbett, whose knowledge of the land he was beginning to find invaluable.
"Christchurch, I'd suggest, sir," the clerk said. "As you know, 'tis well south of the direct way from Portsmouth, but 'tis on the coast. By land, I believe it a long day's ride from either direction, perhaps forty miles all told. And you would know better than I, sir, about access by sea.
"The Crown would be your best base there, sir."
Hoare sighed again. Planning of this kind implied that the road to the solving of the two Captains' deaths would be a long one, and dreary.
Thoday had raised his eyebrows halfway through Hoare's orders, and they were still raised.
"You look dubious, Thoday. Spit it out, man."
"The plan is less than satisfactory, sir," he said. "There may be times when a lack of progress makes it injudicious to waste any time whatsoever on travel, and there may, I would hope, be times when the need to confer is urgent."
"True enough, Thoday," Hoare said. "But I can hardly change the geography of Britain to suit our convenience. Do you have a better proposal?" Mentally, he crossed his arms smugly and waited for the man to admit he did not.
"Hancock, sir. Yeoman of signals in Royal Duke, as I need not remind you. He gives me to understand that within a few days of their removal to a new location, weather permitting, his birds can be trained to return thence quite reliably. I think it requires several trips, each of which increases the distance they must travel. You could send Hancock here to Dorchester with a covey or flock, or batch, of them. He could train them to think of a local cote or pen or hutch as home, then return with them to Royal Duke. They can then be used to carry the news to us in Dorchester. And vice versa, of course, for messages to your ship."
"Interesting," Hoare whispered. "I shall inquire of Hancock. Meanwhile, I shall leave you two behind me in Dorchester, as I originally planned."
He ordered one of the inn's menservants to find the Admiralty's driver and tell him to prepare for their return to Portsmouth, via Dorchester. Hoare went upstairs, then, to pen a temporary farewell to Eleanor Graves.
Back in Dorchester, Hoare found Captain Spurrier, just returned from where ever he had gone in such secrecy and with such speed, all officious smiles.
"Come this way, if you will, sir," he said to Hoare, taking him by the arm in a brotherly way. "I have something to show you."
Spurrier led Hoare to the mortuary where the two Captains' corpses lay. Thoday followed them, uninvited, while the curious Rabbett trailed behind.
"There," he said, pointing.
Both bodies now had heads. Someone had carefully replaced the one that had gone adrift upon the shoulders where it belonged. It was much the worse for wear. The crows had taken its eyes, while they or other scavengers had enjoyed other easily accessible parts-ears and lips most noticeably. In both corpses, corruption had palpably advanced. Finding that an odor he might relish in connection with a properly hung grouse was less appealing in these circumstances, Rabbett made a smothered coughing noise and dashed for the door.
"Thank you, Mr. Spurrier," Hoare said icily. "You might wish to salt the remains down, pending the arrival of the dead men's next of kin."
"You need not teach me my duty, Hoare," Spurrier said.
"On the contrary, sir, I evidently do. You have much to learn." Hoare turned on his heel.
Outside, Hoare instructed Thoday and Rabbett to remain in Dorchester as he had previously ordered. They could put up at the Mitre, if they wished, or arrange for other accommodations.
"There is a daily Admiralty post between Portsmouth and Plymouth, is there not?"
"Yes, sir," Rabbett said. "In fact, I myself, when at Admiralty House, am charged with receiving the post for us and placing our signals in the postboy's hands. When not occupied with other duties, that is, sir."
"And would he not change mounts in Dorchester?" Hoare asked.
"Indeed, sir." He consulted a large silver watch. "In fact, the westward post should be stopping at the Mitre just about now, if he has not already departed."
"Then, as soon as I arrive in Portsmouth, I shall arrange for the postboys to leave there any messages I may have for you. Do you likewise leave with the innkeeper a daily report to be delivered to the eastward-bound messenger, addressed to me."
"A regular matter of that kind would soon come to the ears o
f others, sir," Thoday objected. "Instead, Rabbett's mother and father dwell on the highway just east of town. Their home is out of sight of here, and hence not under the eyes of prying strangers. His father, of course, is town clerk, so he must be at his desk in the town hall during the day, but his mother could receive and transmit our communications."
Hoare looked at the clerk to seek his reaction.
"She'd be happy to, I know, Mr. Hoare," he said. "Life is quite quiet for her now, since I left home and can no longer entertain her by recounting my adventures when I come home of nights."
"Very good, then. As soon as I arrive at Admiralty House, I shall arrange matters with… To whom do you delegate your duties, Rabbett, when you are absent from your post?"
Rabbett suppressed a snicker at Hoare's inadvertent play on words. "Witherspoon, sir. Jabez Witherspoon. Tell him I sent you."
"Be sure that I shall. Good-bye, then."
Before Hoare could board the chaise, he remembered and stopped.
"By the by, Rabbett," he said, "while I have you in my power."
Quickly he summarized the general concern about missing information, as epitomized by the lost word about those ciphers' being in French, which had irritated Sarah Taylor so.
"Are you aware of a lack of discretion on the part of any of your colleagues on the Admiral's staff?" he asked.
"Oh, no, sir!" Rabbett's reaction was one of shocked surprise. "Never!"
"Well, when you return to your post from this vacation of yours, pray remember to keep a weather eye out."
"Oh, yes, sir. I shall, you may be sure. I can…"
Rabbett's last words of reassurance were lost at the appearance of another vehicle coming down the street, a berlin. It drew up abreast of Hoare, and its occupant looked out the window, a lean, swarthy man, somberly dressed.
"Can you direct me, sir, to the Church of All Angels?"
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