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.'
