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 the fresher, perhaps… No, it was a stranger horse, while he and the cob at least knew each other's ways. He would take the cob. He led Barnaby's horse around to the stable and dumped in a manger the hay that the cob ought to be enjoying. Then he ran back to the cob, mounted, spurred the startled beast, and was off. Behind him, Dirty Mill and its inhabitants lay in the dark, its front door still swinging gently in the frosty, light night breeze.
Sweeping aside the startled anchor watch at Royal Duke's entry port, Hoare put fingers to mouth and sounded his whistle of alarm once more. Unlike the fruitless blast he had uttered at his own doorstep, the response to this second shriek was as it should always be. From belowdecks came a humming as of a hive of enormous disturbed bees. First to come on deck was Mr. Clay, nightgowned, nightcapped, and barefoot to the icy planks, buckling his serviceable sword about his waist as he came. He was followed by Leese and two of his men, also carrying their swords, as they, like the riflemen they copied in all things, termed their long bayonets. Others followed.
As had become instinctive with him by now, Clay stepped up to his captain's side to assume his duty as stentor.
"My wife and child have been taken," Hoare began. "Kidnapped."
The hum of bees rose to an enraged pitch.
"Hancock, our pigeon man, was one of them. He's dead. Here's a letter my people's takers left behind. I'll have Mr. Clay give you its gist while I prepare to follow them. Alone, as you will learn."
He ducked below to his cabin forward of the orphaned pigeons. As soon as he had a chance he would slaughter them all and hang them around Hancock's neck like Mr. Coleridge's albatross. But first, he must get together the likenesses with which he must ransom his family, and bring his people home. He had lost his first family; he would never let this second one out of his sight again. They had become unutterably precious.