Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the Passed Master

He plodded first to the Town Hall, where he put his case for arresting Dr. Dunworthy before a bored functionary. At last the man scribbled on a form and called a minion-a bailey? a shreeve? — to go to Durley Street by Bishops Waltham and seize the portly physician. Then he plodded on. At the Bunch of Grapes, where Tregallen had been seen and which he had saved for last, no one answered his hammering at the door.

His own quarters at the Swallowed Anchor lay not far away. Wearily, Hoare made use of his key to enter the sleeping inn and fell on his bed fully clothed, telling himself to awaken at sunrise.

The morning sun in Hoare's eyes woke him with a start. God, it must be gone eight bells-and Severn due to catch the flood. Dashing ice-cold water into his face, he raced below. "No time, Susan, no time," he whispered to the pink girl who bore his breakfast of bread and brawn. "Was there a ship's master in the inn two nights ago, or three?"

"I don't think so, sir. Pa! Mr. Hoare wants to know 'as there been a ship's master in the inn these past two nights?"

"Nay, lass, no master, not last night," came the answer from the kitchen.

Hoare departed at a near-run for the Bunch of Grapes. If he failed there, he was left with inquiring at a few down-at-heel shebeens where no self-respecting ship's master would have set foot-and he had no time, no time.

Mr. Greenleaf of the Bunch had just opened his doors and was sweeping out last night's trash. Yes, he remembered seeing Mr. Tregallen; he knew him well. He had sat at that table in the back, and another man had joined him. Hoare's heart lifted; the tangle was about to come unraveled after all, and nearly an hour remained before flood tide.

Mr. Greenleaf could say for certain that Tregallen's companion was tall, but he had been that moithered; a tussle had come up among some of the other patrons, and by the time he had taken care of the matter the stranger had gone.

Mr. Tregallen had paid the reckoning for himself and his friend and left. It was then that the inn's own horse and chaise, which Mr. Greenleaf had rented out to another patron, had disappeared, leaving both the patron and Mr. Greenleaf bereft. In fact, were it not for a friend of Greenleaf s boy, it would have been the last of his horse and chaise because yesterday morning the friend came to tell the boy he had glimpsed the equipage standing just off the Sally Port, unattended and all bespraggled with blood.

Hoare's heart sank again. Yes, Tregallen had met a friend, but who had he been? He started out the inn door and nearly collided with a barefoot girl-child who ran athwart his hawse in hot pursuit of a kitten.

"You, Jenny!" came a woman's voice from within. "You coom back 'ere, or I'll tell yer da and 'e'll wup yer little arse off!"

Within seconds the child trotted back again, triumphantly lugging her kitten. "You tell me da, an' I'll cut yer into pieces when I grow up, that I will!" she shrilled. Child and pet vanished into the darkness of the inn.

For what seemed like an eternity Hoare stood transfixed, the chance words ringing through his head. The tangle in his mind was suddenly gone-cut into pieces.

He returned to the Hard on the run. The gig he had used before was at leisure, but another officer was approaching, looking eager. Hoare pulled out the boatswain's pipe he used in emergencies and, nearly breathless, blew the "Still." Instinct stopped the other officer in his tracks; by mere feet Hoare got to the gig first and boarded it, disregarding the other's outraged howl. "Severn again, lads! And pull for all you're worth!" he croaked. His throat exploded in agony, and he collapsed, coughing, in the stern sheets while the oarsmen bent to their work as if rowing for the Head of the Fleet prize.

As Hoare came up to Severn, all hands and the cook were heaving the capstan round to the squeal of a fiddle. Her main topsail and headsails were already beginning to draw, her boarding ladder hauled in. Hoare wasted no time trying to hail for it to be put overside again but gave a huge leap. Catching the chain-plates of her starboard main shrouds, he pulled himself aboard, shredding the knees of his breeches on the channel as he went and leaving two red-stained patches of white nankeen behind. Captain Drysdale and his first lieutenant stared down from the frigate's quarterdeck.

"Damn you, sir!" Barnard exploded, "keep your damned blood off my bloody deck! What is it now?"

"'Vast weighing!" Hoare croaked. "I've found your master's killer, and he's aboard Severn!"

With this, his damned throat gave out, and he bent over, supporting himself with his hands on his knees and coughing, coughing.

"Explain yourself, sir," the captain said.

"Grimes, sir," Hoare coughed. "Your surgeon."

"What about him?"

"The master was blackmail-cough-blackmailing him. Grimes cut his throat, took the body inland, and left it-cough-to a local doctor to anatomize. To cut into pieces."

Spoken more or less out loud, here on Severn's quarterdeck, Hoare's words sounded fantastic.

"You have some explaining to do, Mr. Hoare," the captain said. "Mr. McTavish!"

"Sah!"

"Take a man, put the surgeon under arrest, and deliver him to my cabin."

"Sah!"

"Come below, if you please, Mr. Hoare, and let us get to the bottom of this once for all. Pray accompany us, Mr. Barnard."

"Signal from Admiralty House, sir," Blenkiron said, taking his eye from a telescope. "Reads: 'Why are you still at anchor?' "

"Make 'Submit explanation forthcoming directly,' " sighed Captain Drysdale. "Belay getting under way, Mr. Barnard. I see we must make our excuses to Admiral Hardcastle."

"Ava-a-ast heaving!" Barnard bellowed. Here was one more reason to envy the other officer; he could bellow.

Below, the captain seated himself at his desk. He looked at Hoare. "Now, sir, kindly justify your accusation."

By now Hoare had recovered from his coughing fit. There was no time to explain, no time. Yet, he thought wildly, Captain Drysdale, unwitting, might have a simple, clinching piece of evidence in his possession. He would chance it.

"I can do so immediately, sir," he croaked, "and explain in detail later, if you but have a sample of Mr. Grimes's handwriting."

"I do not, but my clerk will. Morse!"

A door to one side opened, and a pallid man appeared. "Sir?"

"A sample of Mr. Grimes's handwriting, if you please. One of his sick-and-injured reports will do."

There were sounds of struggle outside. The pallid man was replaced by Mr. Grimes, flanked by two marine guards. From the surgeon's appearance he had, Hoare saw, not come along willingly.

"I demand to know, sir… " Grimes began.

"Silence, you," said McTavish.

"Mr. Hoare here bears an accusation against you, Mr. Grimes," the captain said, "of murder. What have you to say?"

"Absurd. The man's mad. Or drunk."

The pallid Morse returned with a paper in hand. "Mr. Grimes's report, sir," he said. "Casualties resulting from our encounter with Corse."

"Pray give it to Mr. Hoare here."

Hoare took the paper eagerly. He reached into his pocket for the message Dr. Dunworthy had given him.

"By your leave, sir." Hoare placed the two papers on Captain Drysdale's desk. Good fortune stared back at him. "Kindly look here, sir, at these two words." He placed one finger on each of the papers.

Grimes wrenched himself from his guards' grip and stood erect, or rather attempted to do so. His head struck the frigate's overhead a stunning blow, and he collapsed to the deck as if poleaxed. The surgeon might have been at sea for some time, Hoare thought, but not during his formative years. He had not learned to keep his head down when below-decks, come what may.

"Pick him up and sit him down, McTavish," the captain said. "I won't have him bleeding all over my Turkey carpet." He returned to the papers at which Hoare still pointed. " 'I've a corpus for you,'" he read from one, " 'if you come to the place marked on the map. Bring the usual.' "