"If I was right, the altercation between Arthur Gladden and his captain gave Kingsley his chance to create a red herring in the form of the hapless young officer. After Arthur fled, Kingsley entered the cabin on some pretext and bayoneted the captain. He switched his bayonet and the one the captain had in his possession, dropped the bloody uniform coat over the side, and disappeared into the anonymity of nighttime aboard a newly manned vessel."
"But all this is speculation, Mr. Hoare," Captain Wright said.
"Precisely so, sir. That is why I had to lay a trap for Kingsley by means of a piece of theater of our own. We continued the court-martial, but in camera so that Kingsley was excluded. Thus it appeared to him to be the court's secret that it was now in search of a naval person with acting experience.
"But even secret proceedings will out, as we all know, all too well. I made sure they would, by instructing young Mr. Prickett here to be a trifle loose-mouthed."
Mr. Prickett grew pink, either with embarrassment or with pride.
"Sure enough, the word spread, as the word will, and Kingsley was deceived into believing the law was on his trail. He panicked, as we all know, and fled. That's all, gentlemen."
The room broke into applause and cries of, "Hear him; hear him!"
"Present him, Weatherby."
From where Hoare stood, across the room and surrounded by admirers, he could hear His Royal Highness's quarterdeck command. He saw Weatherby working his way through the crowd.
"This way, if you please, Mr. Hoare. You know the drill, I suppose?"
"Go to one knee and kiss his ring, isn't it, sir?"
"Gad, no. He's a prince, not the pope, and he's incognito besides. Just hat under the arm-like that, yes-and bow in salute. A bit deeper than usual wouldn't do any harm."
Clarence's circle of courtier-officers opened to admit Captain Weatherby and his prize. Hoare made what he hoped was the proper bow. His Royal Highness put out an affable hand.
"Well done, Mr… er… Hoare, by Jove. Clever chap, what what? Amazin'. Should you ever be in need of a friendly word, sir, you may call on me. Short of a ship, of course… can't have an officer on the quarterdeck who can't make his orders heard, eh what?"
All too true, Hoare thought for the thousandth time, as the nodding circle of sycophants regathered itself around their duke. The small, lean, weary-looking man drew him aside, named himself as John Goldthwait, and asked that he call the next time he was near 11 Chancery Lane in London.
"Present him." With those two magic words from royalty, Hoare's credit account with the hypothetical Bank of Advancement had doubled. His interest had grown by a cubit tonight. But, even so, it could never give him back his voice, put him aboard a fighting ship, and return him to the ladder of promotion.
The court-martial reconvened on the morning of 1 July, another sparkling day, to acquit Arthur Gladden of the charges against him. When Peter bent to buckle his sword belt about his brother's waist, Arthur seized the weapon and flung it out the open window of Defiant's cabin, scabbard and all.
"Bugger your bloody sword, and bugger the Navy, too!" he shouted. "I resign your bloody service, and be damned to you!"
He pushed his brother and Hoare aside, stormed out through the paralyzed crowd, summoned a wherry, and was off before anyone of the court or the ship's company could summon the wit to stop him. They let him go.
Hoare took his place in the line of officers and dignitaries waiting for passage ashore but caught a lift from the friendly Commander Weatherby. He went straight out to Insupportable and took her out into the light morning breeze.
As the sun was setting two days later, Hoare sat at Insupportable's cabin table, looking down at several trail boards and wondering what he would rename the pinnace today. They had just tied up after forty-eight hours of personal leave, granted by his master of the moment so he could recoup his exhausted whisper.
"Ahoy, the pinnace!" came a hail from the pier overhead. Hoare stuck his head out the companionway.
Peter Gladden was looking down at him. "Glad you're back, Mr. Hoare," he said. "I've been waiting for you since yesterday. I've news."
Hoare climbed out of the cuddy to greet the other officer. "Come aboard," he said. Hoare thought Gladden looked ready to burst.
"Kingsley's dead," Gladden reported as soon as he stood on Insupportable's narrow clean deck.
"What?"
"Kingsley's dead. Taken and killed."
"Come below and tell me about it."
Over a mug of neat rum at Insupportable's table, her alternate names brushed to one side, Gladden recounted the details.
As Gladden told Hoare, Kingsley had apparently laid no plan for strategic withdrawal in the event of need, so had simply followed his high-bridged nose into the hills behind Southampton Water. He might have been intending to hide in Sherwood Forest, adopting the carefree life of that green-wood's most famous inhabitant. One of the press took him at a poor inn in Bishops Waltham during the night. He had disguised himself as a drover and, as his Maid Marian, was accompanied by Maud, Mrs. Hay's former abigail. He had in his possession the clerk Watt's missing file and several other pieces of interesting private correspondence. One part of it showed that Kingsley had long been rogering both mistress and maid-although not, apparently, on the same occasions. This, of course, would only make matters worse for them all in the public opinion.
Kingsley's other correspondence, Gladden went on, included several peculiar messages. Admiral Sir George Hardcastle desired Hoare to present himself forthwith, to examine these documents and render his opinion about them. It was to give him this order that for two days Gladden had been lying in wait for him at the Swallowed Anchor.
Meanwhile, until a new court-martial could be convened, Kingsley had been placed under close arrest in the selfsame Spartan quarters formerly occupied by his junior in Vantage, Mr. Gladdens brother.
"Well, sir," Gladden said, "this very morning, the sergeant of Marines was changing the guard outside Kingsley's door when he saw the sentry was standing in a puddle of blood. He says his first thought was that it was the sentry's blood and that Kingsley must have attacked him somehow, but the sentry was at his post, just as surprised as his sergeant. He hadn't noticed the blood, it seems. When the two Lobsters opened the cell door, there was the prisoner, stone cold on the floor, with a bullet hole in his head. I hear it went through the back of his head and blew the front of his face clear across the room."
"There was a naughty soul," Hoare whispered, "who had a little hole, right in the middle of his forehead… Excuse me. I couldn't help it.
"So that's finished," he added-he thought-to himself, but he had apparently articulated the words, for Gladden raised his eyebrows.
"What do you mean? What's finished?"
"Why… why," Hoare said, "the case of the captain and the Lobsters. What else?"
He knew very well that he was prevaricating to the other. What he had meant was that he now had no chance of eliciting from Kingsley the true motive for his stabbing of Captain Hay. Adultery was not uncommon in these circles. As long as it was not open, it seldom resulted in violence. Why, then, had Kingsley decided that he must silence his cuckolded captain?
"Be that as it may," said Gladden. "The Admiral sent me to find you and to ask you to be so good-"
"And this was two days ago? Shit," said Hoare. "Bear a hand, then, will you?"
Between them the two officers snugged Insupportable down in no time. Then they dashed ashore to the Swallowed Anchor so Hoare could shift into a respectable shore-going rig. They were on the way out the inn door when the pink girl Susan caught Hoare by the sleeve.