'Not yet, Bartholomew, not yet,' she murmured.
'Er, no. I agree. First, Jenny must earn her kitten,' Hoare whispered.
'That is not precisely what I meant, Bartholomew.'
Eleanor Graves offered Hoare tea, which was brought by an old acquaintance, Eleanor's abigail, Agnes. The widow seemed pleased rather than otherwise to know he would be remaining in the area for some days but did not probe into the nature of the crime he had mentioned. She did not invite him to dine.
Perhaps, Hoare thought, as he proceeded on his next errand, he had made some progress in his campaign for Eleanor Graves's hand. She had not objected to his using her Christian name and had willingly adopted the use of his own. She had quietly accepted his offer to accompany her to church tomorrow, it being a Sunday. She could hardly know he was no churchgoer.
Captain Israel Popham of the revenue cutter Walpole, a lieutenant in the Customs Service-his 'Captaincy,' like Hoare's own, being the mere courtesy due his command- received him like the old friend he was. After toasting Hoare's new swab in his own fine contraband Bordeaux, he sat back to hear what his guest might have to say. At Hoare's mention of the Nine Stones Circle, he whistled softly and thoughtfully.
'That's a very interesting spot, sir, on several counts. You've been there, I take it?'
Hoare nodded.
'Then you know it has an unearthly air about it, as though the spirits of the old… but I wax poetic. It's an odd place, to be sure, and the folk thereabouts steer clear of it, especially of nights. Especially of a moonlight night. Ghosts walk there, they believe.
'Now, I know for certain that there are those of the Upright Men who make use of that superstition as a cover for their work. My predecessor in Walpole told me of catching a gang of 'em sorting out a cargo in the Circle itself.
'I'll tell you who would have more to tell you about the place. He's an acquaintance of yours, in fact.'
Popham paused for a sip and watched his guest, evidently waiting for his curiosity to get the better of him.
'Very well, Mr. Popham, who?' Hoare whispered at last.
'Dunaway, that's who. Abel Dunaway,' Popham said. 'You may remember fishing him and a friend out of the Channels t'other day.'
'I'll be damned,' Hoare whispered.
'Yes. The old rascal and I are ancient adversaries. He wins some, I win some, and nobody's hurt-so far, at least. He's probably won more than I know of. As long as Sir Thomas Fat-Arse is the law hereabouts, Dunaway's safe enough in the courts. Just the same, a bad little bird chirped in my ear not so long ago, and my men took up a nice parcel of his brandy. Have a drop?'
Hoare demurred.
'Speaking of birds,' he said, 'one of them told me that Dunaway's passenger-Jamie, he called himself-had an odd accent… As though he were French, perhaps, trying to talk cant. And the lugger bore a cargo of pigeons. I saw them escape.'
'Oho!' Popham said. 'Was Dunaway outward bound, d'you think, or homeward?'
'Homeward would be my guess, though I cannot be sure. I never thought to ask. He and his man, or his passenger, would still have been clean-shaven, wouldn't they, if they were fresh from home?'
'I'd imagine so. In that case, old Dunaway is getting into deeper waters than he should, wouldn't you say? Perhaps your waters rather than mine?'
'It might be,' Hoare said.
'I wouldn't take it amiss if someone were to pass him a friendly warning, if so,' Popham observed.
'I'll do so gladly, since I want to chat with him in this other matter. If you'll give me his whereabouts,' Hoare said.
'Well, I hear he's been flitting up and down the coast between Plymouth and Dymchurch, looking for a vessel to replace his lost Fancy. When he settles, it's usually within hail of the White Hart along the shore there, under the castle. Weaver's woman there brews the finest ale in Dorset. It would be a kindness, Captain, for you to speak with him. After all, his regular trade is all in the day's work, so to speak. So long as he don't overreach himself, there's no one the loser. Except King George, of course.'
'I said as much to the man's face,' Hoare said.
The two King's officers laughed, touched glasses and tossed them off, and bade each other farewell. Hoare went ashore to find Dunaway's lair.
• • •
Weaver at the White Hart denied all knowledge of anyone named Dunaway until he learned that Hoare had been the man responsible for saving the latter's life and that of his passenger. He then revealed that while Jamie had long since gone, Dunaway might be only down the road a piece, over to Easton, where he had heard a suitable vessel might be found. He should return any moment now. Meanwhile, would the officer care for a spot of the needful?
Hoare's stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had had nothing to eat since breakfast in Dorchester.
'You brew your own ale, Mr. Weaver, I think.'
'Indeed. My old woman's ale is what brings Mr. Dunaway to our doorstep, and many another besides, if I do say so.'
'A mug of her ale, then, and a platter of eggs, if you please.'
The proprietor and his potboy were a bit greasy for Hoare's taste, but the White Hart's ale was as rich as had been promised and vanished quickly. Just as the last scrap of Hoare's egg followed it, Dunaway appeared in the doorway. Shaven now and clad in a neat blue coat, he looked just as prosperous as if he had not lost his ship. Hoare rose to greet him.
'You'll 'a' come for the clothing you lent me,' Dunaway said.
'Not so, Mr. Dunaway,' Hoare whispered. 'I have quite a different purpose in mind. Two purposes, in fact: a warning and a question. Ale first. You look dry.'
'Drier than I were when last we met,' Dunaway said.
'And prosperous as well, if I may say so, for a Captain who has just lost his ship,' Hoare said.
'My only real loss, sir, was the boy Jethro Slee,' said Dunaway, taking up his mug. 'Your good health, Captain, and thankee once again.
'Jethro were my partner's only boy, and he took the loss mortal hard. 'Twere my fault, me most grievous fault. I were a fule not to 'a' taken another 'and aboard, if not two.
'No, for the rest of it, I were mortal sad to lose me little Fancy lugger, for she'd been mine these ten years past, and me da's before me. But for a truth she was old and tired, and I'd insured 'er well. For more than 'er worth, fact is.'
'Insured? At Lloyd's, Mr. Dunaway?' Hoare asked incredulously. 'Do the names at Lloyd's offer coverage to smugglers, then?… If so, how about highwaymen? Or pirates? Or slavers, or wreckers, eh?'
'Now, Captain, be easy,' Dunaway said reprovingly. 'That 'wrecker' bit be nothin' more than a tale put about. No one on these shores beguiles the ships ashore. They's enough of'em come ashore of a winter, without our help. Salvage, yes. Who's to say a poor man can't pick up what 'e may along the beach once 'e's wore out a-savin' of life, like you done for me, sir?'
'Beg pardon, Mr. Dunaway,' Hoare said, and meant it.
'Nor 'ave them fine London gentlemen at Lloyd's aught to do with affairs down 'ere. 'Tis Sir Thomas Frobisher insures us… fishermen. Aye, and makes a tidy shillin' from the business, mostly.
'I'll say this for 'im: when I showed up on his doorstep the very day you set us ashore, 'e took the news like a game chicken. 'E went straight to his strongbox and counted out the notes an' the guineas then and there, an' 'anded 'em over without so much as blinking them goggle eyes of his. So I'll be at sea again within the week, mark my word.'
Hoare was of no mind to reveal his astonishment at this news.
'I hope so,' he said, 'and may your new craft be as long-lived as your Fancy lugger was.' He sighed. He felt oddly reluctant to broach the matter of Jamie and the pigeons with Dunaway.
'Now for the warning, Mr, Dunaway,' he said at last. 'As I said the other day, sir, I have no wish to pry into
