"Is Thoday about?" he asked Mr. Clay.
"In Whitechapel, sir, I believe."
Hoare remembered now. He had sent Thoday there himself, at the man's own suggestion-one did not order Titus Thoday about arbitrarily, he had learned. There had been word from Collis that he had seen a man in close conversation with Floppin' Poll. He had seemed a gent, out of place in that particular shebeen, and Collis was set to drop the woman and follow the man.
Bold had already brought Hoare's gig to the yacht's starboard entry port. He held it close while his captain and Lestrade boarded.
"Give way, boys," Bold told his four oarsmen. Then, turning to Hoare, he said, "If we comes along like extra, sir, we can keep the tide all the way up to Westminster Steps. Which you'll be wantin', I suppose, sir?" At Hoare's nod, he relapsed into silence, except occasionally to correct the others' stroke.
Sir Hugh's immense corpse had already been hauled away to his apartments and laid on a long black table, where candles burned at its head and foot. At the foot, too, a tiny woman stood. She was silent now, but it seemed to Hoare as if the echo of her wailing still resounded through the room.
"His wife?" he breathed to Lestrade beside him.
"His Housekeeper, sir," Lestrade whispered in reply. "He was a widower, sir."
"Next of kin?"
"Only a brother, so far as Hi know, sir, somewhere in Scotland. Or thereabouts, Hi believe. There'll be a record somewhere, of course."
In death, the admiral was sadly diminished. With the departure of his stubborn, clever spirit, Hoare thought, he looked somehow deflated, like a huge pig's bladder that had been over-kicked in some cruel game. Face and limbs as well as body had been badly chopped. An edged weapon had peeled the scalp back from the forehead, so that the pale pink bulge of the skull lay exposed over the staring blue eyes and under the sparse clotted white hair. Another blow had hacked into his cheek, so that two rows of gleaming false teeth lay exposed to view. Some of these blows, it seemed, had been inflicted after death, for they had not bled significantly. The two first fingers were missing from the admiral's left hand, suggesting that he might have raised it in self-defense. His white breeches, soaked in red, suggested that here was where he had received his death wound. His sword, more decorative than practical, remained gripped in his right hand. It, too, had been bloodied. So, then, Hoare thought, Sir Hugh Abercrombie, KB, Vice-Admiral of the White, had not gone gently to his death.
"Some'un 'uz drug away, zur," one of the sentries told Hoare in confirmation. "I zaw blood trail meself, I did. Went toward river, it did. There-see?"
Like a jinni, Thoday appeared at Hoare's side. How the man always seemed to know when there was a need for him, Hoare could never understand. It was as though he controlled an invisible semaphore system, or perhaps a private flock of ghostly pigeons.
"There were three attackers, sir," he said. "The admiral killed one of them. From the amount of blood, Sir Hugh struck him in the aorta or one of his carotids. A creditable blow, I must say. The two others fled, dragging their dead confederate with them. The body will be in the Thames by now, of course.
"One of them dropped a bollock-knife, sir."
"Bollock-knife, Thoday? What's a bollock-knife?"
"An old-fashioned knife with a guard shaped like a pair of calf's bollocks, sir. Here, as you can see."
He extended this weapon to Hoare, hilt first. A good ten inches long, the blade, Hoare saw, was bloody over the rust of neglect-presumably the blood had been the admiral's. The pommel did indeed resemble the neat spheres that juvenile males of most species carried about so proudly beneath their tails.
"I never saw a knife like it before," Hoare whispered. "What can you tell me about it?"
"A very good question, sir," Thoday said. "You might have seen one like it being carried by that shepherd we met at the Nine Stones Circle. They are an ancient model, used latterly mostly by animal herders to geld the young creatures."
"So its owner would be a countryman."
"Perhaps. But I cannot help but wonder, sir, how it happened to be dropped in the first place, and abandoned in the second. The admiral's assailants were apparently in no hurry to escape after completing their assassination; they had time to cut the body up a bit more, and then drag their dead comrade off with them. Why, then, did this knife's owner not pause to retrieve his weapon? They are generally heirlooms, and this one would be a valued possession."
"You think we are intended to believe the assassin was a countryman."
"I think it a possibility, sir."
Having been the bearer of the bad tidings to their Lordships of the Admiralty that they stood in need of a new chief of intelligence, Hoare was left to sit and observe the result of his having done so. He sat humbly there, in a corner of the great room with its globes and its charts of the world's oceans, well away from the glowing fire. To his astonishment, besides the usual factotums-secretaries, flunkies like Hoare himself, and the like- the only other person in attendance who was not a flag officer was Henry Prickett, Esquire. The advocate sat, as episcopal in demeanor as always, at the long gleaming mahogany, among persons who clearly perceived him as a colleague and an equal.
An admiral unknown to Hoare leaned over to whisper in Mr. Prickett's ear. The latter shook his head.
"Too soon, sir, in my opinion. The right choice, yes, but far too soon."
"It's obvious, my lord," the First Sea Lord declared dismissively. "Hardcastle's the man."
"Oh, but my lord," the First Lord said, "while I quite understand
… after all, though, Sir George is a mere… a mere"-he bent his ear to his secretary's urgent, whispered prompting-"a mere, as I was saying, rear admiral. Of the blue," he added in obvious repetition, his demeanor making it clear he was uncertain what the matter of an admiral's color had to do with the matter of settling upon Sir Hugh's successor.
Lord Manymead is interfering, Hoare mused as the First Lord droned on, in matters that he does not understand. The phrase reminded him of something he knew he had put into that mental commonplace book of his. What was it, now? Ah, he had it. It had been in connection with Miss Jane Austen, that interfering lady, who had so adroitly played matchmaking juggler with the hearts of Miss Anne Gladden and Harvey Clay. With the horrible example of this First Lord at hand, he could now improve upon the trope he had then begun. "And while the House of Peers withholds… its legislative hand, and noble statesmen do not itch… to interfere in matters which… they do not understand. " Very good.
But he must pay attention. The First Lord was still droning away.
"Besides, there is Admiral Deere to be considered."
Richard Deere was a recent creation known to Hoare, by reputation only, as a conniving, toad-eating vindictive man with a bilious digestion and an over-accommodating wife.
At this, Mr. Henry Prickett steepled his hands.
"If a mere layman may introduce his sentiments, First Lord," he said modestly, "the interests of the service would appear in this case to override the individual personal interests of the parties involved. In these perilous days, the nation faces an insidious, deadly enemy, one whose servants-be they in his pay or merely self-deluded-have just assassinated the head of the navy's intelligence operation.
"With all due respect, my lords, I must urge the selection in his stead of the best man for the job, one who has already demonstrated courage, wisdom, and energy in a position very similar to the one which is vacant. That man is unquestionably Rear Admiral Sir George Hardcastle."