Hoare believed he remembered Lord Manymead as being the father of one of the four midshipmen he had gathered up a year or so ago and returned to their ship, the light frigate Hebe. They had been kidnapped by a ramshackle gaggle of would-be Irish rebels. If it was the same portly peer-and there would hardly be two of them- he agreed with his admiral's opinion.
'Find Ambler?' the admiral asked.
'No, sir.'
'Why not?'
'I think he's dead, sir. Thoday is visiting the city's dead-houses, and… I believe, some of the underworld haunts he seems to know so well.'
'Hmph. What did Goldthwait have to say?'
'Nothing, sir.'
'Nothing, Captain Hoare? Goldthwait never says 'nothing.''
'I have yet to meet with Mr. Goldthwait, sir. When I called on him an hour or so ago, he was not in… nor were any of his servants.'
'Nonsense, Hoare. Goldthwait never goes out-when he's in Town, that is-except to come here. And he's not here. What have you to say about that, sir?'
Did the admiral look worried? Did he fear that John Goldthwait, Esquire, had followed Octavius Ambler into the… Ewigkeit? Besides 'gnadiges Fraulein,' Ewigkeit was one of the few German words Hoare knew. He was not quite sure where he had learned it or what it meant, but for him it carried connotations of a wan, empty nothingness in which lost souls wandered. A special word for which he had never found an English equivalent, it seemed appropriate to this occasion.
To Vice-Admiral Sir Hugh Abercrombie, however, there was nothing Hoare could say, so he doused sail, hove to, and sat mute while the admiral hissed at him in a soft, spiteful roar. Sir Hugh must have had an unpleasant morning, and Hoare was there to receive the backlash. For Sir Hugh, Hoare knew, it would be like kicking the cat or breaking up poor Ambler's dinnerware; futile, yet strangely satisfying.
His ire assuaged at last, Sir Hugh bade Hoare go and try again for Goldthwait.
'And if you are unsuccessful in this simple task, I have been overestimating your modest competence. In that case, you are to return to your command and await further orders.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' Hoare replied.
This time, Mr. Goldthwait's manservant was within, informed Hoare that his master was at home to him, and admitted him to the apartments. The place was larger than it appeared from the outside. On seeing his host, Hoare recalled him instantly, for his intimate knowledge of Hoare himself, displayed at their only previous meeting, in Portsmouth's Navy Tavern, had engraved itself in his memory. Mr Goldthwait was a small, rust-colored, lean, undistinguished-looking man; his world-weary face reminded Hoare strongly of an engraved portrait he had once seen of one Francois Marie Arouet, Frederick the Great's pet philosophe, alias Voltaire. Come to think of it, there was something Frederician about him as well.
The gentleman must have a substantial income, above and beyond the emoluments due an Admiralty official of medium rank such as Mr. Goldthwait. The easy chairs on either side of the glowing grate were covered in the finest Russia leather, as were many of the books lined tidily upon the high shelves. Where there were no books, the walls displayed an occasional piece of art, of a mildly pornographic nature. Other than these, there was no sign that humankind comprised more than one sex. Altogether, the place glowed with walnut, mahogany, polished brass, and unobtrusive prosperity.
Over the mantelpiece was a long vacant space that must have borne an object of importance to Hoare's host-a painting, presumably, a panoramic landscape of some sort.
Mr. Goldthwait's sharp eye must have detected Hoare's casual interest.
'A cluster of muses hangs there,' he explained. 'I have had the thing carried off for a cleaning and for the opinion of an impartial connoisseur as to the artist. It leaves an ugly gap, I must confess.'
Mr. Goldthwait now made himself most agreeable. Having shown Hoare to the chair on the other side of the grate from the one he obviously used himself, he offered port and biscuits with his own hand.
'Your very good health, Captain,' he said with an affable smile, raising his own glass, 'and my felicitations on your promotion and your marriage. '
Hoare made the appropriate appreciative noise, and waited.
Thereupon, while never dropping his show of cordiality, Mr. Goldthwait embarked on the same inquisition as Sir Hugh Abercrombie had applied to him not long before, demonstrating in doing so the same familiarity with Hoare's life as Sir Hugh and then Mr. Prickett had displayed, if not more. Before long, Hoare felt himself being pressed beyond endurance. As a result, perhaps, he had entwined his tale first in his adventures in and around the Nine Stones Circle, and then in the story of his accidental removal to the schooner Marie Claire.
'The two little craft-my own pinnace and Moreau's schooner-were all ahoo, sir, I must confess,' he whispered.
'Ahoo, sir?' Goldthwait's look was blank.
'Awry, sir. Out of order. A piece of nautical lingo.'
A grandfather's clock chimed in one corner; Hoare realized it was sounding seven bells. From the feel of his throat, he realized he had been gabbling-as much, at least, as a mute could gabble-and he fell silent.
As if to fill in an embarrassing silence, Mr. Goldthwait shook his head.
'You sailors use as many bells, it seems, as all the parishes of London put together,' he said, and renewed his inquisition.
Hoare began to feel as if he were some exotic animal that had been subject unawares, all his life, to the unwinking scrutiny of too many invisible savants. He found the sensation somewhat disquieting and not at all pleasant. These intense examinations of his doings left him feeling uneasy between the shoulder blades.
At length, Goldthwait reverted to the present.
'So Ambler is dead,' he said.
'Is he, sir?' Hoare asked. 'I did not know that. In fact, one of my men is going about the… dead-houses of every likely parish this very day, in search of him.'
'He must be dead,' Goldthwait answered. 'For over a week now, he has not been seen in his usual places. He is-he was-a sedentary man, and his movements were circumscribed. Across the bridge to the Admiralty every morning, the same chump chop in the same chophouse at noon, back across the bridge to Lambeth in the evening. A rump steak at the inn around the corner from his dwelling place, once a month to the whorehouse… excuse me, sir. The reference was inadvertent.'
'Not at all, sir,' Hoare whispered. 'I am quite accustomed to inadvertencies of the kind. A peculiar name like my own attracts them, just as a pile of shit does flies.'
With this, the interview wound down gracefully. Hoare paid his compliments and took his leave.
Mr. Goldthwait, he thought as he traced his way carefully back to the Golden Cross, had seemed remarkably knowledgeable, not only about Hoare's past life, but about Octavius Ambler's movements as well. Furthermore, the detail with which he had described Ambler's daily habits made no sense. And what had made him so certain he was dead? The matter needed thought.
Before returning to the Golden Cross, Hoare decided, he would go on to Threadneedle Street and call on Mr. Pickering. He hoped that Threadneedle Street was at the same end of London as Chancery Lane. This time, however, he would take no chances. He caught the eye of an urchin, to have him pilot him there. The child looked interchangeable with the first.
'Lorst again, mister sailor man?' The child's voice was pert, and familiar as well. Following him to Threadneedle Street, Hoare felt himself blush.
The establishment of Mr. Baker the mercer was graced by one of the newfangled bow windows, which offered more room to display his goods than the conventional flat window. Hoare paused outside the shop and negotiated with the ragamuffin to wait for him until he had finished his visit. Within, the hopeful face of the apprentice or clerk who hastened up to serve this prosperous-looking naval customer fell upon hearing Hoare's unprofitable inquiry. With a backward jerk of his head, he indicated a narrow stairway.
'Third floor,' he said in a voice burdened with scorn. Up, up, and up Hoare climbed, until the stairway came to an end in front of a low garret door. On the door the tenant had nailed a little sign, neatly inscribed, which
