Free Hoare and the Portsmouth Atrocities by Wilder Perkins

quarterdeck long enough to quiz Mr. Kingsley. He had nothing good to say about his late captain. Arthur Gladden had been by no means the only officer to suffer from Adam Hay’s intemperate tongue. A few days before, Kingsley himself had withstood a half-hour diatribe on his slipshod work aboard and his whoremasterly work ashore. But unlike Arthur Gladden, Kingsley had kept tongue and temper in hand and had escaped undamaged except in his pride.
    â€œHe could say what he pleased about me performance as one of his officers,” said Kingsley, “but he had no business criticizin’ me as a man of parts. Me parts are me own business, damn him,” he said. He sounded, Hoare thought, a trifle smug.
    Hoare already knew this swarthy, saturnine officer by reputation. He had hired a little sailing shallop that he kept in the same slip where Hoare kept Insupportable. Kingsley was known to be a “man of parts” indeed, a ready and randy man with busy privates. He apparently cared nothing for a female’s age or her looks as long as she was usable. Many hearts would weep for Peregrine Kingsley when Vantage sailed. There was a rumor that one heart in particular, one that should have been devoted to its owner’s husband, was heavily smitten. However, the woman’s name had not reached Hoare.
    Mr. Kingsley had witnessed Arthur Gladden’s flight from the cabin and had been one of the fascinated crowd that invaded it when word of the murder spread. That was all he knew, he said. Now, would the gentlemen mind if he deputized an intelligent midshipman to act as messenger for them? Things were a trifle busy aboard Vantage, as they may have noticed, and he had ten green gun crews to whip into shape.
    The cabin reeked of stale shellfish and old tobacco smoke. Andrew Watt, captain’s clerk, was already there, leafing anxiously through the papers littering his late master’s table.
    â€œA file is missing,” he said accusingly as the visitors entered.
    â€œWhat sort of file?” Hoare asked.
    â€œThe file of Captain Hay’s personal correspondence. There were several letters in it: one from Mrs. Hay ashore, several from tradesmen, and one which I could place in no category. The writing appeared to be that of a woman—self-taught, perhaps.”
    â€œYou are a student of handwriting, Mr. Watt?” Hoare whispered.
    â€œAny man of my trade must attune himself to various scripts, sir,” the clerk said. “But I confess I have made a somewhat deeper study of the writing art than most of my associates.”
    â€œInteresting,” murmured Hoare soundlessly.
    Mr. Watt’s eyes dropped to his hands.
    â€œYes?” Hoare whispered.
    â€œI did not read them, of course, except that … The one from Captain Hay’s wife. I assure you that under ordinary circumstances I would not have dreamed of reading it. I may not be a gentleman, but I try to behave as if I were. It was the enclosure with her letter which caused me to depart from propriety. Frankly, gentlemen, I am no longer ashamed that I did so.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIn my service to Captain Hay, Mr. Hoare, I have occasionally dealt with highly confidential matters—matters so confidential, in fact, that they were recorded in ciphers. Captain Hay entrusted their decipherment to me. The enclosure with Mrs. Hay’s letter to her husband was such a ciphered message. I could tell at a glance that it was not enciphered in any way familiar to me. Its presence, and that alone, led me to read Mrs. Hay’s letter.
    â€œIt was no more than a note. As far as I recall, it read in part as follows:
    â€œâ€˜I found this in his uniform pocket last night. I know the sort of thing it is, and I do not believe he should be in possession of such a thing. But perhaps you gave it to him in connection with Vantage. ’
    â€œThere was more, but nothing of a nature that would bear on this unhappy