Hoare must calm the waters, he saw.
"Not yet, sir, I beg," he whispered. "First let me see what I can do."
He returned to the doorway, set the sentry gently to one side, and surveyed the noisy little mob. Seeing that Patterson and Delancey had returned and were hovering on the outskirts, he signaled them and instructed Delancey in his usual whisper to take himself to The Three Suns inn, where he was to have accommodation set aside that would be suitable to members of the ton. Patterson was to follow, escorting the friends and relations. When Delancey began to protest his ignominious assignment, Hoare faced him down.
"Now, sir! Go!"
Delancey went.
Thereupon Hoare put fingers to his mouth and produced a piercingly shrill whistle. It was the first really loud noise he had learned to emit, soon after being made mute, and invariably everyone within earshot of it froze in astonishment. So it was now. The hubbub ceased.
Hoare knew that the silence would be brief. Important persons like these would not be cowed by a mere noise-even a really loud one — for more than a few startled seconds. He used the time to pass his explanatory cards to the assemblage.
These were two middle-aged bucks dressed to the nines, whom he took to be the relatives of Harcourt and Buchanan and who appeared as interested in each other's attire as they were in the business that had brought them here; a purple man, portly as a pudding, who could only be the nabob Lord Many-mead; some family Mend; and a firm-looking man with the air of a former naval person, who was surely Dacres, brother of Captain Dacres, RN, of Guerriere.
Hoare cleared his throat-almost the only natural sound that the marksman in Eole had left to him.
"Ha-h'm. If I may have your attention, gentlemen: I understand that you are all come to Portsmouth in connection with the disappearance of Hebe's three midshipmen. I am the officer charged with obtaining their return, as safe and unharmed as circumstances permit."
The hubbub renewed itself. Hoare grasped only snatches of the visitors' remarks. They were all in the sharp-voiced tones of persons who were used to instant compliance with their slightest whims.
"… Outrageous… unconscionable negligence… Parliament
…"
"Mr. Patterson here will escort you all to The Three Sims, where most of you have undoubtedly put up. There are rooms there that are more suitable for our meeting than this one, and they offer a very fine port. Or brandy if you prefer spirits. I shall join you in a few minutes' time.
"Meanwhile, I take it that each of you received the same message. If you, sir, would be so kind as to leave your copy in my hands, I would be greatly obliged."
He looked pointedly at the man he presumed to be Dacres, since as a likely former naval person he would at least have obeyed orders from time to time in the past. Prom their looks, the others had probably never even heard an order since they were three, let alone obeyed one.
Dacres, if it were he, complied.
"It is like the others?" Hoare inquired.
"Identical, sir," was the answer.
"If you will permit me to lead the way, gentlemen," Patterson said, and started down the stairs, looking over his shoulder at them as he went. The move was almost fatal, for he saved himself from falling down the flight only by catching the upper newel post. He recovered his balance and his equanimity instantly, however, and the troop followed him like a brood of gorgeously feathered ducklings.
Left to himself, Hoare hastened to peruse the new ransom note.
He remembered quite vividly the note Captain Davison had received. This one was totally different. In the first place, it was written in a literate, even clerkly hand, almost a copperplate. Second, it employed a style that Dean Swift of Gulliver fame would have found difficult to equal.
The letter bore neither date nor — as was only natural under the circumstances-place of origin.
Sir (Hoare read):
The organization I have the honor to represent has taken your son, and two other young gentlemen of like lineage, into protective custody.
We are as aware as you must be yourself of the legislation which is about to be brought up in Parliament, namely a Home Rule Bill under the terms of which the oppressed people of Ireland will be granted home rule. To wit: self-government under the Crown; full independence, that is, with respect to all matters of faith and law, excepting only issues of foreign relations.
Knowing and respecting your prominence as a leader of your nation (although not of ours), and your reputation as a man of honor, we demand that you bring your influence to bear, indirectly as well as directly, to accomplish not only the passage of the Home Rule Bill but the Royal Assent to its being declared law, and the autonomous Commonwealth of Ireland brought into its long-awaited being.
Upon proclamation of this new state of affairs on the steps of Dublin Castle (or another venue of equal or greater prominence), your son will be returned, unharmed, to the arms of his loving family. Failing such proclamation within the next forty-five days, you will never again see your son alive.
We anticipate an early and mutually satisfactory resolution of this affair, and wish you well.
For the Committee for Home Rule in Erin,
Brian Boru
Erin go Bragh!!
Unlike the other demand, this document rang true. How had it reached its recipients so quickly? The nearest relative must have been in Bath, the others in London or on their estates. The Committee for Home Rule in Erin must have had a member waiting near every one of them ready to deliver the messages, all of them at once.
Hoare was now ready to stake his career-such as it was-that the earlier demand was spurious. It might be the product of a conspirator in search of a few pounds on the side; Hoare would not put such a step past the kind of two-faced Paddy who would be a companion of "Brian Boru" on the Committee for Home Rule in Erin.
He was tempted to appeal to Admiral Hardcastle for a full-dress search party. He resisted the temptation. Where would he have them look? "Somewhere within a two-day journey by guarded coach or wagon" left an area of suspicion that was far too large to manage.
Moreover, as likely as not, someone on the admiral's staff would be working secretly for the Irishmen and blow the gaff. Finally, and selfishly, another man would lead the rescue expedition, were it to be formed under Admiral Hardcastle's auspices. The admiral might have some respect for Hoare but not enough respect to put him, a voiceless man, in command of what would have to be a regiment. The credit would not accrue to Bartholomew Hoare.
No, he must find a way of narrowing the area of search before he unleashed the resources at the admiral's disposal-or devised another, less cumbersome means of rescuing the missing mids. Which reminded him; the earlier ransom note still existed, and there was a chance-however faint-that its writer could be found. If so, he might be a lead to the Committee.
He must settle that matter once and for all. As soon as he had appeased the band of notables who would be awaiting him, teeth gnashing, at The Three Suns, he must call on Jom York.
Jom York generally occupied an upper room of The Bunch of Grapes, the favorite haunt in Portsmouth of the more successful folk who lived on the other side of the law. In its peaceful, more or less tidy pub-he bar, one might find a middleaged highwayman, an upstairs man of standing, and an experienced bawd gathered round the same table doing business, or simply exchanging priceless gossip. Mr. Greenleaf, the proprietor, welcomed very few members of the "bowmon cheat"-the honest citizens of this world; Hoare was one of them.
York was king of the mudlarks, those myriad children of both sexes who gained a precarious though slimy living by screening likely parts of Portsmouth harbor's tidal mud. Their findings ranged from beef bones (which were sold for soup) to dead dogs and rats (which, rumor claimed, went to the same destination) to bits of ironmongery, an occasional coin or other valuable, and, once in a while, human corpses in various states of disrepair.
York was also an old friend of Hoare's and an occasional ally, the same as the more upright members of the smuggling community on England's southern coast. As long as such gentry did not imperil the safety of the realm, Hoare reasoned, they had a right to earn a more or less respectable living without his interference.
Hoare's purpose tonight was to find out which of Jom York's minions had delivered the note to Millar, the coxswain. York would know, he was sure, but what he, Hoare, could expect from the knowledge remained uncertain.
York promised to grill his minions-in-chief and assured Hoare that he would have the mudlark in question brought before Hoare within twenty-four hours.
"Now, Mr. 'Oare," he said ingratiatingly, "I 'ave summat I fink will be of int'rest to ye. Wait a bit, if ye will, an' 'ave a spot of Blue Ruin while ye waits."
He wiped off the glass Hoare had been using, filled it brim full with a dreadful gin, and waddled back in to the dank darkness of his den. Before Hoare had summoned the courage to take more than another ceremonial sip of the biting stuff, York returned, breathing heavily and bearing an object wrapped in a reeking piece of filthy cloth.
" 'Ere ye be, yer worship," he said. He unwrapped the thing and let it drop on the rough deal table between them.
"Wot d'ye fink of that, now?" he wheezed proudly.
Hoare recognized it instantly. Encased in stinking mud it might be, but it was unmistakably a midshipman's dirk.
"A brush, if you should happen to have one by," he whispered.