weapon. For a moment, his unorthodox jabs seemed to disconcert the attacker, but he recovered and thrust forward again with a hoarse croak, his saber raised over his head, ready to divide Bartholomew Hoare as he sat.
Hoare leaned forward and jabbed. In his onset, the other impaled himself on Hoare's point. It took him in the throat. Momentum, if nothing else, carried him on, the point sinking deeper until Hoare felt it grate on bone. The strange horse crashed into the cob, which jarred back with the shock, but the attacking horseman was lifted over his cantle. He slid off the croup, twisting Hoare's sword out of his grip and carrying it with him, and sprawled in the moonlit snow. As Hoare watched, he kicked convulsively twice before going limp.
Hoare dismounted and bent over his victim, panting heavily.
First, he withdrew his sword and wiped it on the dead man's fouled breeches before returning it to its scabbard. Then he searched the body. A purse, a kerchief… ahh. A slip of paper, covered with writing too small for him to read in the moonlight. It would have to wait until he reached Dirty Mill. The stranger's horse bent over the body and whickered softly, as though mourning its master.
Another smell, Hoare could tell now, accompanied the odor of death. It was not excremental, though equally unpleasant, and it was one he had smelled not so long ago. Looking at the corpse a second time, he knew now who it was: Hancock, captain of Royal Duke's own pigeon loft.
With a heave, Hoare hoisted the body across the newly emptied saddle, then hoisted himself back aboard his own cob. He gave a cluck and a nudge with his heels, and the beast moved off toward home and hay, not unwilling, the other animal following in its wake. Rest was not far off.
In the distance, Dirty Mill loomed dark. That should not be. Eleanor and the child would be awaiting his arrival-why had they not lit the house properly? With his knees, Hoare urged the cob on, and it broke readily into a trot. At his unlighted door, Hoare pulled the animal to a stop before it could carry him around to the back, from whence that wonderful hay was calling it.
The front door was open. Within, all was silence.
Hoare gave his chirrup of summons for someone-Tom, he hoped-to come and take the cob off to the stable with its new companion and the corpse. He himself would not tarry, however, but dismounted and left animals and corpse to fend for themselves.
Inside, there was still no sound, until at last, with his own plaintive chirp, the gray cat Order appeared from nowhere and commenced to wind himself around Hoare's ankles. Hoare's nose detected the faintest scent of burnt powder and, once again, faint but real, the reek of recent death. He groped his way to the shelf on the other side of the hallway, where he knew flint and steel lay ready, groped on until he found them, and lit a candle. For a moment, his eyes were dazzled. When they recovered, he understood why Tom had not answered his call.
'Jesus,' he breathed.
The manservant lay prone next to the open green baize door separating offices from family quarters, a dark pool spread below his face, a discharged pistol dropped from one outreached hand. Order chirruped again, impatient for attention. An overturned chair lay beyond.
Putting fingers to his mouth, Hoare produced the piercing whistle of urgent command that, to friend and stranger alike, could only mean 'Attention!' or 'All hands!' depending on circumstances. Surely someone would hear and come a-running. He listened. Off in the distance, somewhere toward the back of the house, he was sure he heard a faint grunting sound. Leaving Tom's remains behind, he followed his ears toward the sound, along a thin trail of crimson that led him, candle in hand, past the baize door and into the pantry. The grunts were coming from the kitchen.
Except from a faint red glow from the hearth, the kitchen was as dark as the front of the house. By the light of his candle, Hoare saw the maidservant Agnes, hair and clothing awry, slumped against a cabinet, emitting the grunting sounds. She had managed to draw her skirts partway back down her discolored thighs, but a dark stain marred the apron, usually spotless, which she wore about her waist whenever she was within doors. As he watched, the stain widened. He lifted the skirts gently and viewed what lay beneath, then covered them again. He had seen worse in his time, but not much worse.
Ignoring the cat's insistent yowls, Hoare squatted beside Agnes and took her gently by the shoulder.
'Agnes,' he whispered. 'It's Mr. Hoare. What has happened? Where are your mistress and Jenny?'
'Uh.'The girl's eyes opened. ''Urts.'
Hoare repeated his question. Now her eyes seemed to gain focus, and fixed on his candle-lit face.
'Too-took,' she muttered. ''Urts zo.' She clutched her bleeding belly.
'You'll be all right, Agnes. It won't hurt much longer.' He knew he spoke truth.
'Who…,' he whispered.
'Men,' she said. 'Too many for Tom.' Gathering strength, she added, 'Done it to me, they did. Three of 'em done it to me. No, I lie, they was more. Took turns, they did… 'gainst my will, tu. Town folk, they was. All but that pigeon man what smells zo bad.
' 'Urts zo, zur… Make it stop, do… That pigeon man, I think 'e left sumpin' on table.'
'You say the mistress was taken?'
'Aye, took, zur. Too many for 'er, too many for Tom. Poor Tom's a-cold. Oh, it 'urts.'
Candle in hand, Hoare stepped across to the kitchen table, which he found had been swept clear except for a fresh red stain that told him where Agnes's rape and gutting had taken place, and an envelope placed four-square at its midpoint. It was addressed to Commander Bartholomew Hoare, in a neat clerkly hand. He knew Hancock's semi-educated script from his work in Royal Duke; this writing was not his. He broke the seal and read the contents.
Mr. Hoare:
I have recently learned that you have, quite improperly and in defiance of my wishes, taken into your possession certain portrait drawings by Timothy Pickering, Esq., which he in turn had, equally improperly, retained in his own keeping in the course of his work for us. Since these drawings are the rightful property of myself and my colleagues, I now require that you return them to me forthwith, in their entirety, withholding none of them whatsoever. As you now know, I have taken steps to insure that you do so.
Immediately upon receiving this communication, therefore, you shall bring the aforesaid drawings to 18, Gracechurch Street, presenting yourself by night. You shall, it goes without saying, be unaccompanied; I shall consider the presence of any companion, aide, or follower as exhibiting bad faith on your part, and shall act accordingly, to the certain detriment of your dependents and yourself.
The same stricture applies to your bearing any arms whatsoever; upon arrival at Gracechurch Street, I warn you, you shall be subjected to a close search.
Upon your having delivered the portraits to my satisfaction, I give you my word of honor as a gentleman that your wife and stepdaughter (or ward) will be released to you in more or less the condition in which my people gathered them.
The consequences of your deviating, whether by intent or inadvertence, from these instructions need not, I am certain, be discussed at this time.
I look forward to receiving you and your documents in Gracechurch Street, and to concluding this matter in a way that I find agreeable.
The letter was unsigned.
Hoare took a last precious moment to slip up to the bedroom he and Eleanor shared. Usually tidy, it was littered now with their personal goods; in the midst of the clutter lay a long serpentine object of tough cotton cloth-his wife's savior sling. He sought out a shawl and brought it back downstairs, where he laid it across Agnes and tucked it in.
'I must leave you, Agnes,' he whispered. 'Rest now. I'll send help as soon as I find it.' He bent, brushed the straggling hair from the girl's forehead, and kissed her there. It was cold.
Outside Dirty Mill's door, the two horses stood, still steaming lightly in the frosty air. Hoare stopped long enough to examine his choices. He must return to Royal Duke, for no longer than needful to retrieve the drawings that the unknown message writer was demanding. Thence, whether by land or river, he must move at utmost speed. In all truth now, not a moment was to be lost. He checked the position of the moon and, from it, verified his estimate of the tide. It was as he feared; it would be on the ebb. He must ride. The dead Barnaby's horse looked
