Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the matter of treason

"No, I lie. It took him a good half-hour of my time. I had to sit there while he fiddled, fiddled, fiddled. If you want to meet him-though damned if I can tell why-he keeps a studio in Threadneedle Street. Number fourteen, over Baker the mercer's. Pickering's his name."

Hoare had no better idea than the admiral of why he should want to meet the artist, except, perhaps, that since he had taken command of Royal Duke's extraordinary crew, he was always on the lookout for new and potentially useful talents.

"To return to the man Ambler, sir," he said. "Have his lodgings been searched, and if so, by whom?"

"They were searched, sir, and by an expert. Lestrade. The man with whom I was closeted when you made your appearance. But the place had already been ransacked when he broke in. He found nothing of any relevance; the man's clothes were in disorder, and his personal belongings strewn about the place.

"Lestrade concluded that, whatever happened to Ambler, it is most likely that he has suffered foul play."

Hoare came to a decision, but decided that he was not quite ready to act upon it.

"I shall want to meet Mr. Lestrade, sir, if you please." Sir Hugh nodded.

"Tell me, sir, does Ambler have any particular friends, any personal habits of interest?"

The admiral was silent for a moment. He reloaded his churchwarden pipe while thinking. At last he said, "As to friends, I am unaware of any. Like so many men of our cerebral calling, he is of a solitary nature, almost cenobitical. As to habits, I can think of none.

"Any more questions? If not, I have much to do."

Hoare looked at the clock that ticked softly in a corner. Good heavens; it had gone four. For more than four hours he had been closeted with his superior officer. He rose hastily, with a whispered apology.

"Just a minute, Hoare," the admiral said. "You have not returned the sketch of Octavius Ambler. Pray do so."

"With all respect, sir," Hoare whispered, "I shall need it if I am to identify the man reliably."

He felt Sir Hugh prepared to roar, and mentally reduced sail and battened down against the blast in the offing. It did not come.

"Quite right," the admiral finally said. "Thy need is greater than mine-or that of me files. Keep it, then, and take yourself off."

"The man's address again, sir? I neglected to take it down."

With bad grace, Sir Hugh gave it.

"A last request, sir, by your leave," Hoare asked. "Has this establishment a pigeon from a Greenwich cote? I should like to send an urgent message to my ship, for one of my men to join me."

"Of course, we have, although, this tide, a pair-oar gig would be just as fast." The admiral's voice was testy. Long since, Hoare had learned that, like lamb and rosemary, admirals and testiness went together. "And ones I can send off to Portsmouth, as you must know. And several for Paris. Not, however, for St. Petersburg or Halifax or Jerusalem. There's no call for 'em. Besides, they're too far off. Hand it to Cratchit outside the door, with your instructions. He'll deliver your message.

"Tomorrow, make yourself known to Goldthwait. John Goldthwait. Eleven, Chancery Lane. He'll be expecting you."

Hoare made his bow and prepared to take his leave. Just as he had his hand on the door, the admiral addressed his back. He turned.

"Thoday would be a good man to bring into the case, Hoare." He pronounced the man's name as though it were spelled "Today," just as the man himself insisted it be pronounced. Being sensitive about matters of names himself, Hoare had understood from the first, and had obliged. As a matter of fact, Thoday was the very man he had in mind.

"Knows his way about, that man does," Sir Hugh went on. "Pity he's a Papist; otherwise, he could go far in His Majesty's service.

"Oh, and by the bye, Hoare," he said in conclusion, "I just recalled. The man Ambler is a dedicated falconer. An armchair austringer. I'm certain he never had one on his wrist, but short of that, he knows all there is to be known about falconry. Jesses, you know, and eyasses. Mutes. That sort of thing."

As he bent to his papers, Sir Hugh rang a small bell. Instantly, his mouse appeared, looked about as if to make certain the ferret Lestrade was not lying in wait to pounce upon him, and took Hoare in hand once again.

"Thank you, sir," Hoare said, and closed the door behind himself and the mouse. Sir Hugh's afterthoughts, he mused as he wrote down his message on the slip of thin paper the mouse handed him, were enlightening. He remembered both Hancock and Thoday, including their salient qualities. Hancock was a smelly man; Hoare found his presence almost unbearable. And Thoday knew his way about very well, indeed. If Hoare himself was, as he knew the Portsmouth underworld called him, the "Whispering Ferret," Titus Thoday was a sleuth-hound, a bloodhound, a born detective.

Before he left the Admiralty, he remembered, he wanted to make the acquaintance of Lestrade. He ordered Cratchit to take him to the man's lurking place. Trembling, Cratchit obeyed.

Lestrade's lair lay in one of the Admiralty cellars. He was in. He leered at Cratchit. Hoare might be a ferret in Portsmouth opinion, whispering or not, but Lestrade out-ferreted him by a cable-length or more. Hoare could have sworn he displayed small, needlelike fangs, ready to drink the blood of any wee, sleekit, cow'rin' tim'rous beastie he could catch. When Lestrade rose to greet his visitors, Cratchit squeaked, blanched, and fled.

Alone, the two creatures eyed each other.

"To what do I owe this Honor?" Lestrade asked. He stressed the "H," Hoare noticed.

"I wanted to hear about Ambler, Lestrade. Sir Hugh tells me you

… inspected his quarters."

"Indeed I did, sir, from top to bottom, back to front. I left no stone unturned, so to speak. Hit Had been searched before me, However, and I found nothing of Hinterest. Hit seems Mr. Hambler kept His official life and His private life separate."

Lestrade also pronounced the personal pronoun as if he were referring to the Deity. He evidently Haspired to rise in this accent-conscious society.

"What do you know of Mr. Ambler's personality and habits?" Hoare asked. Before replying, Lestrade looked at him with head tilted slightly to one side, appraisingly.

"An admirable Hindividual, sir. Completely reliable. Would Have entrusted Him with me life. Yes." Lestrade nodded, Hoare remained silent, waiting for more.

"Hof course, sir, Mr. Hambler was-is-Sir Hugh's confidential Helper, and not mine. For more detail, you would be well to speak with Him, or with Mr… never mind." Lestrade winced at his last words, as though he would retract them if he could. When Hoare pressed him for the name he had suppressed, he had no more to say, but pled an urgent appointment away from the building. He offered to escort Hoare to the Admiralty's principal entrance, and Hoare was glad to accept. Underground labyrinths were not to his liking.

Once outside, Hoare found it was raining. He was quite sure he could find his way back to the Golden Cross without a guide. He would try it. As he strode down Whitehall in what he hoped was the right, easterly direction, he chewed over the missing man's avocation as recalled by Sir Hugh. Falconry. He remembered the unsuitable jape he had been mad enough to utter during his first, disastrous encounter with Sir Thomas Frobisher. He had described to that powerful batrachian baronet how, while he did not hunt as the baronet had asked, he batted.

He and other like-minded folk in the north country flew trained bats, he had said, to retrieve insects, just as falconers flew their fierce birds. Sometimes, he had added to the astonished Sir Thomas, the largest species-the chiropteran equivalents of gyr-falcons or even eagles-could take on small birds.

Sir Thomas had not been long to twig, and had never forgiven him the insult. That Hoare had then interfered in the man's marriage schemes had not improved their relationship. As the man's own son had warned him, he must walk warily.