'We have another unexplained killing on our hands. Or two, rather. A message has just reached me to the effect that the bodies of Francis Getchell, Captain of Agile, twenty-eight, and his cousin Benjamin, Captain of Argilla, thirty-two, have been found in the Nine Stones Circle near Winterbourne Abbas.'
'This is dire news, indeed, sir,' Hoare said. He had known both officers, liked one, and admired the other.
'You know Winterbourne Abbas, of course.'
'I fear I am not acquainted with the gentleman, sir,' Hoare whispered.
'It's a place, Hoare, not a person. Nor, to be candid, did I know of it. Rabbett had to enlighten me; it appears that he used to nibble the farmers' cabbages thereabouts.'
Rabbett, Hoare knew, was a minor clerk in the office of the Admiral's secretary, Patterson. Heracles, when Sir George was in a jovial mood, was Hoare himself.
'I'm little acquainted with the inland geography hereabouts,' Sir George confessed. 'I'm a Staffordshire man myself. It seems Winterbourne Abbas lies west of Dorchester. The Nine Stones Circle, Rabbett tells me, is one of those ancient British temples, a miniature Stonehenge, if you will. You do know of Stonehenge?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, I am told the two Captains were en route from London to Plymouth by hired coach to rejoin their ships. A shepherd found their bodies in the Circle, beheaded and robbed. They were both under orders to join Nelson. Since Nelson is already desperate for frigates, this strikes him a hard blow at a bad time. The two vessels will sail, of course, but neither First Lieutenant has enough experience to be put in permanent command. Their Lordships are taking two jobbing Captains off half-pay to replace the dead men. With frigate Captains in such short supply, you can imagine those fellows' caliber. Barrel scrapings, I'll warrant.
'Nobody saw fit to inform me about this until this morning, which is why I did not call it to your attention during your previous visit. However, that is beside the point. What is to the point, sir, is that I am requesting your new command to take it upon itself to investigate these killings, find the perpetrator or perpetrators, and bring him or them to justice. Sir Thomas Frobisher thinks himself King in the region. You know all too well what he thinks of the Navy, and of you in particular. I can hardly rely on him to pursue this outrage with the requisite energy.'
Hoare heard Sir George's next words with only half an ear. The Nine Stones Circle was in Dorset. Weymouth was in Dorset. The recent plot to blow up His Majesty's ships had been spawned in Weymouth, by Edouard Moreau. Moreau had been all too hobnob with the frog-shaped Sir Thomas, who, as Sir George had said, considered himself the absolute ruler of southern Dorset. Ever since Sir Thomas had goaded Hoare into an ill-timed jape about bat fanciers in the Midlands who flew their treasures against flies and used the prey to nourish their pet frogs, the Baronet had loathed him.
Sir Thomas was a rare breed, both a Baronet, the title he had inherited from his forebears, and a made knight like Sir George himself. When they had last run athwart each other's hawse, the knight had elected to encroach upon Hoare's destruction of Edouard Moreau and insisted on riding victoriously all the way back to Portsmouth, ahead of the troop of horse marines bearing the renegade's body, leading his own mesne of retainers. In fact, the two knights, Sir Thomas Frobisher and Sir George Hardcastle, had held an oral passage at arms thereafter, in this very office.
The thought had passed through Hoare's mind before that Sir Thomas might be 'Himself,' as he had heard agents call the mysterious personage believed to lurk behind Moreau and perhaps others. Could this be a new initiative on the part of Himself?
'You are not attending, Mr. Hoare!'
'Sorry, sir. What you were saying made me recollect Sir Thomas Frobisher to mind.'
'Him? The man's mad, mad as King George. If he had his way, he'd be King Thomas the First, that's what. 'Crown of Ethelred,' indeed! But, as I was saying, I cannot require you to accept this request. After all, I do not command the movements of Royal Duke. She and now you come directly under Admiralty orders. In principle, I have only the same administrative responsibility for your ship as I assume as Port Admiral the moment the anchor of any of His Majesty's ships is dropped at Spithead.
'No, I can only request this service of you, Heracles. Of course, I am reasonably confident that, if pressed, Sir Hugh Abercrombie would accommodate me. If I took steps to do so, nothing would be lost but time, I assure you.
'Happy to be of service, sir, as always,' Hoare whispered.
'Very good. Carry on, then, Heracles.'
In another of his classical moods, Sir George had dubbed Hoare 'Heracles' by reason of the endless series of tasks that he was required to perform. This meant, as the Admiral had happily added, that he himself must be the hero's eccentric master and monarch, while Patterson, flag secretary, was Talthybius, the herald who brought the missions to lay upon Heracles' back. Clumsy, in Hoare's opinion, but it made Sir George happy, and that was no small task itself.
'Aye aye, sir.' Just as his hand was on the doorknob, a thought struck Hoare, and he turned.
'May I borrow Rabbett, sir, if need be?'
'Rabbett? What on earth… oh. Of course. Excellent notion. I'll have Patterson hold him in his hutch for you. Don't let the Whispering Ferret get him.'
The Admiral chuckled. He knew, it seemed, that Whispering Ferret was one of the names used by people who bore an antipathy to Hoare. The Admiral, in fact, knew a great deal.
'Now go.'
'Here you are, sir.' Outside the Admiral's door, Patterson held out a folder of papers. And, in response to Hoare's whispered request, 'Yes, of course. I'll hold Rabbett for you, sir, by the ears if I must.'
As the gig rowed him back to Royal Duke, Hoare found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it was that made people persist in jesting and japing over others' unusual names. Surely they must realize that the name's owner had long since heard every possible weary play upon it. Moreover, the jester often went in harm's way. Mr. Clay's understated story this noon had demonstrated that. For his own part, even before Captain Joel Hoare had arranged for his son to go into Centurion, 60, as midshipman, young Bartholomew had run a jeering schoolmate through the thigh with a carving knife.
Hoare shrugged. He was used to the weary custom by now and had learned ways of either diverting or damaging those who offended him. So far, he had avoided killing anyone in his affairs of honor.
The nights were drawing in, Hoare noticed as the gig shoved off. It was more than halfway to its destination when he saw that Royal Duke was now accompanied by another, still smaller, more familiar vessel. So Mr. Clay had already complied with Hoare's request and had Neglectful brought over from the little estuary where Hoare had kept her. Very brisk of Mr. Clay. Hoare made a mental note to have a spare rifle put aboard her; his own had been missing since he made that first momentous call in Weymouth. The rifle had, he supposed, been carried off to France in Moreau's schooner Marie Claire after her owner had died in the surf off Portland Bill. It had been a work of art, but since there would be no replacing it this side of the Atlantic, he would have to make do with one of the Marines' standard-issue Baker weapons.
Neglectful's larboard bow, Hoare saw, bore a fresh, raw, newly painted patch.
'I'm pleased to see our new tender, Mr. Clay,' he said as he returned the Lieutenant's salute. 'But somebody has been mishandling her.'
Clay's face reddened in the dusk. 'Yes, sir. Joy, sir; boatswain. Timothy Joy.'
'Boatswain, is he? And he can't bring a boat alongside without tearing her sides out? He should be disrated.'
'Aye, sir. But…'
'But what?' Hoare demanded.
'We haven't a better. He's our quarterstaff instructor. And he's excellent with the brightwork and a superb marlinspike seaman.'
'Hmph.'
'He's waiting to report to you, sir.' Clay nodded toward a wrinkled man who stood beside Royal Duke's mainmast, twisting his hat anxiously in both hands. When Hoare beckoned to him, he came up and knuckled his forehead, looking at his enormous boots, shamefaced.
'Well, Joy, I see you've managed to practically wreck our new tender. How long have you been rated boatswain?'
