The fat man had been cold in his carriage, a problem with breeze through the bottom board across his stockinged shanks. Now, with tea in hand and Sir Arthur's keen eyes on him, he started to get hot. He blew his cheeks.
"Hhmph," he went. "I take it bad in you you do not think I am. Blood, I would not traipse all down here for anyone, you know. On a horse it's bad enough, but I'm too fat for horses now, except across the park. I can't tell you nothing, sir!"
Petulant, Sir A observed. His heart sank. Maybold was Surveyor General of the Riding Officers, but it was a grace and favour rank in many ways. His wife Laetitia had young lovers, it was held, and so Sir Peter dabbled in his offices to keep his mind engaged, instead of leaving all the hard business to his juniors, more competent by age and brain. On the other hand, if he knew anything, it should be winkle able so to speak.
"I beg your pardon," he replied. "Forgive me, Maybold, I do not mean to be insulting. You know my feelings on the wicked trade, you know it touches me both as a merchant and a man. Indeed, you know the debt I owe you for the hand you have put behind my nephew, the fillips you have vouchsafed him in his calling. Of course you take it serious, and I am truly grateful. Your perception, sir, was exactly nice: I am beside myself with worry. I beg you; reassure me."
The fat pink face was wreathed in smiles. Sir Peter thrust his chubby legs out, nodding. As he did so, he shook his jowls.
"I was right, you see. A good judge, is my dear wife's opinion. But Fisher, I really cannot tell you anything that you do not -naughty, but I'll forgive you! that you do not seem to know. Let us say that I confirm for you that the Charleses Yorke and Warren are "under the cloak" on this one. Well, if they are, then what of it? They've gone to ground, let's say, they've taken cover. They are both stout men, sir. Charles Warren has for many, many years been acting as a ... well, let's say below the parapet, shall we? Fisher Sir Arthur do not worry, sir, I beg you."
Sir Arthur sipped his tea, and tapped his nail, and worried. Sir Peter was a foolish man, he thought; but then, what in this instance could he give away? Yorke had spoken of a bold new undertaking, an uplifting of violence being brought in to the Hampshire trade, and said that he and Warren were to win some confidences, get close in with some dangerous, ruthless men. He had also given notice of a 'final meeting', and promised news of it, good or bad. Both men had horses at the Lodge Warren was quite mad for horses and papers, too, and spare clothes and everything. If they failed, they'd said, they would retire here a place of secret safety to regroup.
All this he thought about, but did not say. After some long moments, he tried another tack.
"Sir Peter, you are an honourable man, and I count you as a friend. My feeling is, your men are overdue. They marched into danger and for whatever reason they have not come back. The Collector at Portsmouth is not unknown to me, nor is the man at Chichester, and I have other people further west. I must tell you, I will contact them."
The eyes narrowed in their fat. Sir Peter Maybold sighed. He made a gesture of acceptance, which meant, Sir Arthur guessed, that he would learn little going 'directly to the servants', so to speak. He dropped a name.
"Lord Larcher has his nose in every pie down this neck of the woods. Especially when it comes to Customs business. Perhaps if I asked him? We have been ... very close."
It was a lie. Embarrassment as blackmail was the ploy. Lord Larcher was a model of vapid indiscretion, whom Sir A had only ever heard of, never met. He'd heard, specifically, that he had rogered Maybold's wife. Yorke, much amused, had told him that. The eyes slid downwards, to the chubby lap. Sir A said quietly: "It is not a lot I ask. Reassurance would be the best of it. But if they have gone missing ... well, that would have to do. They have gone missing, have they not?"
Sir Peter Maybold sighed once more, more heavily. He nodded, and his eyes were sad.
"We have by no means lost our hope," he said. "Charles Warren is well versed in this life, very well, and Yorke your Charles ... well, he is stout indeed, a stalwart officer. We have brought in men from Dorset and the Isle of Wight, we have informants, we have people on the seek. I may guarantee, in two days or three, we'll..."
He stopped. Outside they heard a bell, a small bell, tinkling. It was a signal from Mrs. Houghton to Sir A that a luncheon was ready, if he should want to share it with the visitor. Sir Arthur's heart was heavy. Guarantee what, that was the question. Just what could Maybold guarantee? He did not wish to share his food with him. He wished him to begone, begone and do some good for Charles and Warren.
"There is some luncheon, sir," he said. "Something light and cold. I wish that you could find the time to take some with me? You have been very kind and generous."
"Well quickly, then," replied Sir Peter. "I must stir myself betimes. But Fisher, let me promise this. I will keep you in the picture, if I can. Indeed I will, sir."
"You do me honour, sir," Sir Arthur said. "My gratitude is boundless."
The Biter, when Sam Holt and Bentley had arisen that morning, was little changed, and little like a fighting vessel, still. When Kaye returned before the forenoon watch was ended, she swarmed with dockyard men, while Taylor and his seamen worked desultorily at ship keeping tasks the two midshipmen found for them. Kaye seemed little interested in any progress they had made, and hastened to his cabin and Black Bob. It was not until an hour later, when the men were eating, that some smartness entered in with the arrival from upriver of Swift.
He did not come on board. His men hung on their oars while he spoke to William, the penetrating power of his voice transfixing all on deck. It was suggested that his nephew come with him immediately put on a coat beforehand as he had urgent business between the pair of them. William, whose body was for use of his commander, not his uncle, was in a quandary, until Kaye's door came open to reveal Black Bob, nodding vigorously.
"He's saying go," Samuel said, quietly. "Here; your coat. You've smudges on your face; wipe 'em."
In the pinnace, which Swift, he said, had borrowed with its crew, William sat uncomfortable for some while. His uncle's face was pale, as if from drink, and his mood appeared extremely brittle. William, even after all the years and all the thinking he had gone through, knew that he was afraid of this man, and guessed he always would be. He considered him as relentless, ruthless, cold; and feared the most of all that he had been his hero and his aspiration.
"Well," said Swift, at last, 'how do you find your new ship? You have settled in?"
It was a loaded question, its barbs well hidden. Glancing at his uncle's face, he could only guess at what the answer should be, to be correct. But he knew, he thought he knew, the high opinion Swift held of Richard Kaye.
"She shapes up, I think," he tried. "Of course, the dockyard hands are slow, and there is much to do, but "
Swift made a noise, dismissive, aggravated.
"She is a tub. She is filthy, slow, and ancient. One good blow and her bottom would drop out, with everybody in her. What of Kaye, then? What do you think of Kaye?"
They were pulling down the river, and the tide was low and slack. The acres of exposed mud, black and green, exhaled a rich and pungent vapour. Christ, thought William. What sort of truth?
"I hardly know him well, sir. He has a very ... a very easy condition with the company."
Slack Dickie. What would his uncle make of that'? He caught the stroke oar's eye, which slid away immediately. But not before Will had sensed a gleam that could be humour. Swift, to make him suffer, maintained his silence.