Eleanor crouched down beside the child and swept her into her arms.
" 'Tis all right, lass, all right. There, there. We understand. You are a brave girl." Her words faded off into mere comforting murmurs. Hoare stood above the little Pieta, his heart sore for the blooding of his charge. In an act of mercy, he had put her father to death as he lay hopelessly pinned by a beam in a burning warehouse. Some day, perhaps, she would have to know; meanwhile, her innocence had been assailed by her own doing. Now, he pocketed her victim surreptitiously, picked her up, and, cradling her against him, walked, his wife beside him, back in the direction of Dirty Mill. Behind, around, about, between his three charges, the cat Order wove his scampering way.
"Don't you think, Bartholomew," Eleanor asked as they walked, "that it is time we adopted our Jenny formally?"
"Past time," Hoare replied over the child's head. She was getting heavy, he noted with approval. "I must spend tomorrow in London. Could you find the time tomorrow to look up a solicitor and have him draw up the necessary papers?"
"Yes. I think, though, that the Church must enter into it somehow. Have you been baptized, my dear?"
"Baptized?" the child asked sleepily. "What's that?" Curiosity had stopped her sniveling.
"I think we can assume she hasn't," Eleanor said. "Besides, a second baptism can do her no harm. I know that from my childhood. After all, Father is in orders. I'll see to that as well."
"Will you be back by Sunday?"
"I hope so, my dear."
"Then I'll see to it, and gladly," she said. "Jenny, would you like it if Mr. Hoare and I were to become your papa and mama?"
"But you are my papa and mama," Jenny said into Hoare's shoulder.
"We'll tell you all about it in the morning," Hoare whispered. "Now, it's time for tea. There'll be sandy biscuits."
So it was that, after Matins in the church that served Blackheath parish, jenny Jaggery was at once confirmed in her Christian name and became the youngest Hoare.
Reflecting on the music he had heard, Hoare shook his head a trifle sadly.
"You won't have known it, of course, but when I had a voice, I sang quite a fair baritone. On the Halifax station, Antoinette and I made a popular duet."
"Oh?" Eleanor Hoare's own voice was rather cool.
"In fact, I do believe I miss the singing more than the speaking," he added.
"To be sure," she said. "After all, Bartholomew, you do speak, albeit a trifle softly, perhaps. Do you think you might take up whistling?"
"Whistling?"
"Yes. You do know how to whistle, for Simon told me that when you and we first met, you showed him off your musical prowess. 'Drink to Me Only,' was it not?"
" 'Come into the Garden, Maud.' "
"The difference is immaterial. Besides, I have heard you at it, signaling to people in your employ. The pink girl Susan at the Swallowed Anchor, for example. You could develop a very nice descant to my contralto."
"What an extraordinary idea, my love. I had not thought of making harmonies with my lips before. Let me put it to a trial."
With that, Hoare commenced to twitter. By the time the three had reached home at Dirty Mill, he was managing brief trills, and the child Jenny was looking up at him with a face that was far more full of worship than it had been at morning prayer.
Chapter IX
I have it!"
"Eh?"
"The wife, and the child. He dotes on them, I hear."
"Come, sir. Assault on men like one's self is a matter of course. But women… ladies in particular… and their children? Surely not."
"We shall see. Excuse me, I have urgent business to undertake."
"Something must be done about your pigeon shit, Hancock. I shall not abide it another minute." Hoare was below, arguing with his foul-breathed captain of the cote, or whatever the proper title was for the post. He was tired of working in the fecal fetor that seeped continually across the partition between his truncated great cabin and the pigeons' domain, dead aft, in the most desirable spot aboard. He was in no mood to care whether or not the pigeons needed his precious wide stern window and gallery to arrive and depart on their missions.
At the knock on his door, he interrupted himself to utter the chirrup that every Royal Duke now knew meant "Come in." The sentry, one of the yacht's Green Marines as usual, appeared, sworded rifle at the carry. It was the Dutchman Frits Boom, a man who looked the perfect dullard but was no such thing.
"Dere's a man down from London, sir. Sayzz his name's Lestrade, sir, an' sayzz it's urgent."
Before Hoare could tell Boom to admit Sir Hugh's pet ferret, the man himself was before him, having slipped under the guard's elbow. He had been bleeding profusely onto his dark overgarment, and his low forehead still oozed.
"It's the admiral, sir. Admiral Abercrombie. 'E's dead."
"What?"
Stunned at the news, Hoare still noted that Lestrade had left elsewhere his habit of mishandling his aspirates in a futile attempt at gentility.
"Dead, sir. Stabbed, over an' over again. I tried to 'elp 'im, 'deed I did, but they was too many of 'em. Wen I saw the admiral was down, I cut an' run. You was the first I thoughta, so I come down 'ere."
"When did this happen?" Hoare asked.
" 'Baht two this mornin, sir."
"And here it is four bells-ten o'clock. What kept you?"
"Tide, sir. 'Twas against me. An' besides, Hit ain't-Hisn't- that Heasy to find a wherry at two in the morning."
Lestrade was recovering himself, as Hoare could hear, and no longer needed to make excuses. With this returned his usual veneer of genteel accent.
"Sit down, man. Out, Hancock. Talk to me later." Sullen, the man departed.
Before Hoare could whistle up Whitelaw and have him bring the messenger some refreshment, the silent servant appeared. On one palm he balanced a carafe of brandy on a tray with a pair of small glasses. In the other hand he carried a basin. A moistened cloth hung over his arm. He spoke not a word, but set right to work and began to repair his master's guest.
"Thank you, sir," Lestrade said over his glass. "Your good Health-and my apologies for breaking in on you with such dreadful tidings."
"Tell me what happened, Lestrade," Hoare whispered.
"Well, sir, you know, of course, that Sir Hugh lodges- lodged, I should say-with Mrs. Pettibone behind Downing Street. No more than a ten-minute walk, even for Him."
Hoare had not known this, but remained silent.
"For some years past, she has kept House for Him, on her ground floor, naturally. Since Sir Hugh took me into His confidence some years ago, Hi have made it a Habit to accompany Him Home in the Hevenings, if it should be dark. Has it often His, Sir Hugh being the man of duty He His. Was.
"Hi did so last night, it being foggy as well as late. About two o'clock, Has Hi think Hi said. Just Has we were turning the corner past Downing Street, we were assaulted, Hoverwhelmed by at least three Hassassins. Poor Sir Hugh drew His sword and attempted to defend Himself, but He was knocked over, and Hi was wrestled to the pavement. My assailant simply sat on me, Holding me by the Hair and bashing my Head against the stones. Hi fear that Hi lost my senses for a moment. When Hi recovered them and sat up, the Hattackers Had disappeared, and Sir Hugh was lying on His back. His sword lay at his side. It had been broken. He was quite dead."
Lestrade seemed to choke, then went on.
"Has soon as Hi could, I shouted for the watch. Some marines came running. I told them what had occurred, and they put together a party large enough to carry Him off. To the Admiralty, Hi suppose, but Hi do not know, for Hi betook myself to the Thames and roused up a wherry to be brought Here."
Lestrade took another sip of brandy. Having patched up his patient, Whitelaw took his departure, leaving the two men alone. He returned, however, bearing Hoare's hat, sword, and boat cloak, and helped his master into them. Hoare nodded at him and led Lestrade on deck.