Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities (12 page)

“Ahoy, the pinnace!” came a hail from the pier overhead. Hoare stuck his head out the companionway.

Peter Gladden was looking down at him. “Glad you're back, Mr. Hoare,” he said. “I've been waiting for you since yesterday. I've news.”

Hoare climbed out of the cuddy to greet the other officer. “Come aboard,” he said. Hoare thought Gladden looked ready to burst.

“Kingsley's dead,” Gladden reported as soon as he stood on
Insupportable
's narrow clean deck.

“What?”

“Kingsley's dead. Taken and killed.”

“Come below and tell me about it.”

Over a mug of neat rum at
Insupportable
's table, her alternate names brushed to one side, Gladden recounted the details.

As Gladden told Hoare, Kingsley had apparently laid no plan for strategic withdrawal in the event of need, so had simply followed his high-bridged nose into the hills behind Southampton Water. He might have been intending to hide in Sherwood Forest, adopting the carefree life of that greenwood's most famous inhabitant. One of the press took him at a poor inn in Bishops Waltham during the night. He had disguised himself as a drover and, as his Maid Marian, was accompanied by Maud, Mrs. Hay's former abigail. He had in his possession the clerk Watt's missing file and several other pieces of interesting private correspondence. One part of it showed that Kingsley had long been rogering both mistress and maid—although not, apparently, on the same occasions. This, of course, would only make matters worse for them all in the public opinion.

Kingsley's other correspondence, Gladden went on, included several peculiar messages. Admiral Sir George Hardcastle desired Hoare to present himself forthwith, to examine these documents and render his opinion about them. It was to give him this order that for two days Gladden had been lying in wait for him at the Swallowed Anchor.

Meanwhile, until a new court-martial could be convened, Kingsley had been placed under close arrest in the selfsame Spartan quarters formerly occupied by his junior in
Vantage,
Mr. Gladden's brother.

“Well, sir,” Gladden said, “this very morning, the sergeant of Marines was changing the guard outside Kingsley's door when he saw the sentry was standing in a puddle of blood. He says his first thought was that it was the sentry's blood and that Kingsley must have attacked him somehow, but the sentry was at his post, just as surprised as his sergeant. He hadn't noticed the blood, it seems. When the two Lobsters opened the cell door, there was the prisoner, stone cold on the floor, with a bullet hole in his head. I hear it went through the back of his head and blew the front of his face clear across the room.”

“There was a naughty soul,” Hoare whispered, “who had a little hole, right in the middle of his forehead … Excuse me. I couldn't help it.

“So
that's
finished,” he added—he thought—to himself, but he had apparently articulated the words, for Gladden raised his eyebrows.

“What do you mean? What's finished?”

“Why … why,” Hoare said, “the case of the captain and the Lobsters. What else?”

He knew very well that he was prevaricating to the other. What he had meant was that he now had no chance of eliciting from Kingsley the true motive for his stabbing of Captain Hay. Adultery was not uncommon in these circles. As long as it was not open, it seldom resulted in violence. Why, then, had Kingsley decided that he must silence his cuckolded captain?

“Be that as it may,” said Gladden. “The Admiral sent me to find you and to ask you to be so good—”

“And this was two days ago? Shit,” said Hoare. “Bear a hand, then, will you?”

Between them the two officers snugged
Insupportable
down in no time. Then they dashed ashore to the Swallowed Anchor so Hoare could shift into a respectable shore-going rig. They were on the way out the inn door when the pink girl Susan caught Hoare by the sleeve.

“Your sword, sir! Would you be forgetting your sword?”

She bent, shaking her head and frowning prettily, fastened the useless thing deftly about Hoare's waist, and let the gentlemen go.

“I have other news, sir,” said Gladden, keeping up with Hoare's near-trot through the streets of Portsmouth. “My brother is to take holy orders next month.”

“Hardly surprising, do you think?” Hoare asked.

“Not in the least.” Gladden had already begun to puff. An officer's confined life at sea did not make for a fit body, Hoare reminded himself, however finely it might hone his judgment.

“He wants you to attend his ordination,” the smaller man went on. “Apparently, he credits you with having kept him from being strung up for the day at
Vantage
's yardarm, like a
Bounty
mutineer or a jammed signal.”

“Where and when are the hands to be laid upon him?”

“The twenty-first of July, I think he said. Since Bath and Wells have agreed to direct the thing, I imagine it will be in his cathedral at Wells.”

Interest or no interest, Hoare thought, Arthur Gladden might never have made more than an incompetent sea officer, but he could well be a decent cleric. Furthermore, his family moved in exalted circles indeed if the occupant of one of England's oldest sees consented to preside at the ex-lieutenant's priesting.

“I shan't be present,” Gladden went on. “
Frolic
's under orders.”

“Oh?” Hoare whispered. His belly churned with envy.

“And so, by the way, is
Vantage,
as soon as her new captain has picked his second and third officers.”

“Are the pickings his to make, then?” Hoare asked. “Who is he?” Perhaps—just perhaps—the man would be an old friend who would stretch common sense for friendship's sake and take him on as second, or even third.

“Kent,” Gladden said. “John Kent. Weatherby's predecessor in
Crocus
just made post. They say he's decided to make his appointments by interview instead of interest. He's sitting on the candidates today, with Sir George.”

The procedure was odd, but perfectly proper. Hoare had never heard of a Captain Kent. “A bit of a jump for him, isn't it?”

“Yes. He was slated for
Eager,
28, but Their Lordships at the Admiralty had to give
her
to Plummer. Then Kent's uncle, Featherstonehaugh, put up such a row in the House that they gave him
Vantage
instead to keep him quiet.”

He pronounced the name of Kent's uncle as “Fanshawe,” the way he should. With his courtier's ear and his own family's interest, Hoare thought, it would not be long before Gladden himself climbed another rung or two up that tarry, slippery ladder toward post rank.

“A
Plummer
for Kent, eh?” he whispered. Hoare surprised himself at the words. He could not remember the last time he had uttered an impromptu joke. Perhaps it was a sign affairs were about to look up for him.

Gladden raised his eyebrows at his companion and laughed. “Very good, sir! Next thing you'll be saying is that the news of my departure
gladdens
your heart, eh?”

“It does no such thing, my dear fellow. We shorebound bodies will miss you, you know.”

“Thank you, Hoare. I hope another, softer heart will miss me, too.”

So that was the way the wind blew. Mr. Gladden's pursuit of his Admiral's dumpy, spotty, popular daughter was a serious matter. If he landed her, their joint interest would have him commanding a 74 within two years. Perhaps, then … Hoare smiled bleakly.

Once the Marine guard had saluted them into Sir George's offices, Hoare took Gladden's arm gently and turned to face him.

“You've done the task the Admiral sent you on, Peter, and I'm here for my chastisement. Now go; seek out Miss Felicia, and good luck to you—both with your damsel and with your new ship.”

“Thank you, Bartholomew. You've been a good friend to the Gladdens. I shall not forget.” Mr. Gladden's towhead disappeared down the street. Hoare smiled after him. He had not forgotten what it was like to be twenty-four, well-connected, and full-voiced.

Chapter VII

A
FTER NAMING
himself to the rabbit-faced clerk outside Sir George's inner door, Hoare sought out an out-of-the-way corner in which he could lean without being bothered while he awaited the Admiral's pleasure and, himself unobserved, could observe his fellow officers. He suspected he would have a long, long wait.

Except for a few who, like himself, were present on other business, the gathering outside Sir George's sanctum consisted of eleven hopeful lieutenants, candidates pursuing the two choice spots in the virgin
Vantage.
Each bore his precious, irreplaceable letters of testimonial, some visibly a decade or more old. Each had dressed in his finest and stood as trim as he could; each glared at any rival who came eye to eye. Among them Hoare counted three weary old trots, older than he by ten years or more, and two downy-cheeked youngsters with rows of shiny new buttons on their uniform lapels and cuffs. The other six were run-of-the-mill serving officers, somewhat scarred but, unlike himself, still serviceable at sea. Of the eleven, three were already flushed with drink.

One of these procured a chamber pot from a nearby cabinet and walked toward Hoare's corner, unbuttoning himself as he came.

“Kindly find another pissing place, sir,” Hoare said in his harshest whisper. “I do not care to be splashed.”

The other started and paused as if deciding whether to take umbrage. Upon taking stock of Hoare's dire aspect, he mumbled an apology and went off in search of a less controversial corner.

Only three candidates for
Vantage
remained when the rabbit-clerk answered a bellowed summons from within, entered the Admiral's sanctum, and returned, looking flustered.

“Lieutenant … ah … Hoare? Has Mr.… a gentleman by that name presented himself?”

Hoare overlooked the expected titters and wove his way through the thinning crowd to the rabbit. “I gave you my name over two hours ago,” he said.

“Oh, dear. And now Sir George is
most
displeased. Oh, dear.” The rabbit's ears seemed to droop. It hastened to open the door and squeak out Hoare's name.

It might have been early July, but Sir George was frosty. He was wearing his own hair, almost as frosty as the half-wig he had sported at his reception. As was natural, the three others in the room had caught their Admiral's chill. They were a post captain with the single epaulet carried to starboard that signified less than three years' seniority, a languid elegant in a uniform coat like Hoare's own, and a slim, pallid civilian. These must be Captain Kent of
Vantage
and Sir George's flag lieutenant and his secretary, respectively. Hoare felt himself under four pairs of icy eyes.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, gentlemen…,” Sir George began, and then, as his companions began to rise, added, “No, no. Please, simply bear with me for a trice, while I deal with this officer.

“Now, sir, you have damned well taken your time in obeying orders. You have kept me waiting, not only for one morning, but for two entire days. This is hardly the behavior of a dedicated officer of the Navy. What do you mean by it, sir?”

“I was afloat until this morning, sir,” Hoare whispered, “on personal leave, to recover my voice.”

“You evidently require additional leave, then,” the captain began, and drew to himself some of the Admiral's chill.

“Mr. Hoare's affairs are none of yours, sir,” said Sir George.

The captain reddened and subsided.

“And this morning's delay?”

“I presented myself in your anteroom more than two hours ago, sir, within an hour of tieing up.”

“Hmmph. Then we'll set your dilatory behavior to one side for the time being. Now, as to the purpose for which I requested your
immediate
presence
two days
ago…” Sir George's qualified absolution notwithstanding, he was not going to forget whatever inconvenience Hoare's absence had caused him.

The Admiral began to leaf through the papers lying before him, but the secretary was quicker off the mark. “The papers you were looking for, Sir George,” he announced smugly.

“Damme, Patterson, you're bold indeed to decide for me what I am looking for. D'ye think me a wittol?” Sir George took the packet sharply from his aide's hand.

“Here, Mr. Hoare,” Sir George said. “You will have been told that the man Kingsley was found shot this morning.”

Hoare nodded.

“It is obvious that Kingsley's murder was intended to stop his tongue. Since the story of his adultery with his own captain's wife was already out and the cuckolded man is dead in any case, that can hardly have been the motive for his murder. He must have been privy to some other, greater secret … something which justified silencing him so effectively.

“The question, Mr. Hoare, is: what? And whose secret was it? Perhaps these papers offer the answer. I know of nothing else that can. They were aboard him when he was taken. Some of 'em belonged to Hay himself. Some, which I have turned over to his successor, relate to
Vantage
's business. Here are the rest of them.”

The Admiral interrupted himself. “I don't believe I have yet made you gentlemen known to each other,” he said as Hoare tucked the packet under his arm.

“This officer, Kent, is Mr. Bartholomew Hoare of my staff—more or less, when he is pleased to feel like appearing. Hoare, John Kent, now captain of
Vantage.
”

“Servant, sir,” Hoare said.

Captain Kent acknowledged Hoare's stiff bow with a curt nod. He would be unwise indeed to seek a berth in
Vantage,
Hoare decided.