As he walked, he ran through various scenarios in his mind—deciding what questions were safe to ask and evaluating which would best lead the junior clerks into revealing what he needed to know.
He needed to know if Decker was expected back in the near future. Although Robert hadn’t sailed into this harbor in years—hadn’t crossed Decker’s bow in even more years—Decker would nevertheless recognize The Trident on sight.
But Robert didn’t want to walk in and simply ask when Decker was due back. What excuse could he give for such an interest? He certainly didn’t want to claim he was a friend asking after the old man—the clerks would immediately demand his name, and giving a false name would alert Decker when he eventually heard about it, and that might jeopardize the mission further along its evolution...
Too complicated.
Robert frowned. He needed a reason to call at the office, some subject that would allow him to get chatting with the clerks, something simple and obvious—so obvious the clerks wouldn’t question it or his interest...
Hopkins—or rather, his sister.
Robert halted as he recalled that little complication Sampson had warned him of; in the aftermath of learning about Lashoria’s murder, he’d forgotten all about the Hopkins woman.
He grimaced and resumed walking. He should have asked Babington about her; he might have met her socially, might have known where Robert could find her. However, in pursuing his current tack, perhaps the unknown but inquisitive lady might prove useful. If she’d been asking Sampson about her brother...surely her first port of call would have been the squadron’s office on shore—namely, the Office of the Naval Attaché.
A minute of deliberation served to convince him that in Hopkins’s sister, he’d found the perfect excuse with which to engage the naval office clerks.
A smile on his lips, he stepped onto the quay. Two paces on and he turned in through the open door of the Office of the Naval Attaché.
He’d been into such offices the world over; they were all very similar. The staff was drawn from the Admiralty and often had never served on any vessel; one glance confirmed that all three clerks working behind the long counter were most likely of that ilk. Certainly, none of them showed any sign of recognizing him as he approached the counter and they glanced, briefly, his way.
One clerk rose from his desk and came to the counter.
With an easy smile, Robert leaned against it. There was no other outsider presently vying for the clerks’ attention—no one else there to hear their exchange.
Exuding an air of relaxed camaraderie, Robert met the clerk’s eyes. “I’ve just sailed in on The Filmore.” That was the name The Trident was presently carrying. When the clerk’s gaze went to the large window overlooking the harbor, Robert smoothly continued, “She’s moored out in the estuary—we’re only here for a day or so. But my family asked me to check on behalf of friends of theirs—the Hopkinses. About a lady of that family who’s apparently come out here to ask after her brother...a lieutenant, I think?”
Understanding dawned on the clerk’s face. “Oh, you mean Miss Hopkins.”
“So she made it this far?”
The clerk nodded. “She came in...must have been about two weeks ago now.” He met Robert’s gaze. “Rather pushy, she was, wanting to know why her brother Lieutenant Hopkins had been ashore and away from his ship when he went absent without leave. But, of course, we couldn’t tell her anything.”
Robert softly laughed. “Of course, you couldn’t.” His expression grew commiserating. “Although I expect she didn’t take that too well.”
The clerk snorted. “Got rather hoity, but”—he shrugged—“nothing we could do for her.” He glanced at one of the other clerks and grinned. “Edgar told her she had to ask at the Admiralty for information like that. That went down even better.”
One of the clerks still seated at his desk—presumably Edgar—threw a long-suffering look over his shoulder. “At least that got her to go away.”
Robert settled more comfortably, leaning his forearms on the counter. “I know of the family—I’m surprised she didn’t demand to see the attaché, or even the admiral.”
“She did ask to see Muldoon—the attaché,” the clerk at the counter replied, “but he was out. And Decker—vice-admiral in command of the squadron—won’t be back in harbor until at least the end of next week.”
“I think she’s still hanging around—Miss Hopkins.” Edgar glanced around. “I’ve seen her here and there around Water Street. Perhaps she’s waiting for Decker to get back so she can demand her answers from him?”
The other two clerks laughed. Robert understood why—the notion of a lady demanding answers from Decker was unquestionably amusing—but he contented himself with an understanding smile.
“Sadly,” he said, as the laughter faded, “I won’t be here to witness that. We’ll be upping anchor soon and heading on.” He pushed away from the counter. “But I was badgered to check that the lady had reached here safely. As long as I can report she did, my job is done.”
He raised a finger in salute to the clerks; they grinned and nodded back, and he turned to leave—but then stopped and swung back. “Oh—one other thing. Our crew picked up some scuttlebutt on the docks—something about them needing to be careful because there were slave traders operating in the settlement, picking off navvies...” He pulled a face. “Seemed far-fetched to me—slavers inside the settlement, taking navvies—but I thought I’d ask. Any of you heard anything along those lines?”
The three clerks looked at each other, then all three looked at him and shook their heads.
“Haven’t heard a whisper of anything like that,” the one at the counter said.
From their expressions, Robert suspected that was the truth; none showed even a hint of unease.
He grinned and waved the matter aside. “That’s what I thought—that it was a tall tale told to frighten gullible crewmen passing through.”
With a last general smile, he walked out of the office, leaving the clerks relaxed and settling back to their work with no inkling they’d just been interrogated.
Robert halted on the wharf, glanced swiftly around, then with rapid strides, got off the quay and into the relative anonymity of the warren of streets behind it. Once he was clear of the immediate area and pacing steadily back to the inn, he allowed himself a satisfied smile.
He’d learned all he’d expected to and a little more. The lady he needed to locate and send packing—persuade to return to London—went by the name of Miss Hopkins. He needed to find her and dispatch her home. In particular, he needed to ensure she left before Decker returned to port, especially if she truly had it in mind to question Decker directly.
But Decker’s projected return also meant that he and his crew had only another week to complete their mission. When he’d sailed up the estuary, he’d assumed a handful of days would suffice, and indeed, a handful more might. But they needed to leave before Decker returned and got a glimpse of the ship anchored farther down the estuary.
No matter how little credence he placed in the idea of Decker being involved, he had to assume the admiral—or someone on his immediate staff—was connected with the scheme, and act accordingly.
As he walked, he thought over his plans. Having a deadline imposed, even if it was one that seemed easy enough to meet, focused the mind in a powerful way.
Clearly, the official channels in general knew nothing about the slave traders’ activities. If the clerks hadn’t heard even a whisper—and Robert felt certain they hadn’t been lying—then the slavers and their associates were, indeed, being very clever in ensuring their operation ran beneath official notice.
Robert knew what it took to accomplish that; the knowledge left him with a healthy respect for the intelligence and forethought of those behind the scheme.
H
e needed to get this mission done. He needed to prioritize.
His men were on Undoto’s track. They were better suited to merging anonymously into the populace than he was.
While they were hunting down Undoto and setting up to watch for the slavers, he should take care of the other issue that had forced its way onto his plate.
He needed to find Miss Hopkins and send her, if not home, then out of his area of operation.
* * *
The following day, Robert returned to the inn at midday; after spending the rest of the previous day and all of the morning in and around Water Street, slouching on corners and keeping his eyes peeled for the elusive Miss Hopkins, all to no avail, he was in no good mood.
He knew her older brothers. He was fairly certain Miss Hopkins was younger than David and Henry; he was fairly good with faces and believed he would recognize her if he saw her. But although he’d wasted hours watching the emporia the European ladies in the settlement patronized, he hadn’t seen any woman who might conceivably be her.
Frustration rode him as he stalked into the inn. He’d expected to stumble upon his quarry reasonably easily; there was precious little entertainment for ladies in the settlement, and as she hadn’t attended Undoto’s last service, presumably she’d given up on that, so where the devil was she?
Even more exercising was the thought of what she might be doing.
Dropping onto the bench at the corner table in the tiny taproom, the table he and his men had made theirs, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Lowering his hands, he found a smile for the landlady as she placed a mug of ale before him without him having to ask. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “Will you be wanting a piece of pie, sir? We’ve some beef stew from yesterday, too.”
After ordering a serving of today’s beef pie—most likely goat, he knew—Robert took a long draft of the ale.
He put the mug down and stared into the dark liquid. Perhaps he hadn’t sighted Miss Hopkins because she’d given up and was already on her way back to England?
The thought lifted his mood, but he couldn’t just hope—he would have to confirm that the wretched woman had actually boarded a ship and sailed away.
He was wondering how to make such inquiries when Benson, Coleman, Fuller, and Harris walked in. They saw him and hurried over. Their expressions—eager and enthusiastic—made Robert’s pulse kick.
Yesterday, the four had been as frustrated as he, having got nowhere in their efforts to locate the priest’s house.
“Finally ran the beggar to earth.” Coleman dropped onto the bench to Robert’s left.
Robert glanced at the other three as they settled on the benches; he signaled to the landlady to bring mugs of ale for them all.
“His house isn’t in the slums,” Harris said. “We started too far along that way.”
They all fell silent while the landlady distributed mugs of ale, and Robert suggested they all place their orders for food. Once that was done and the landlady had retreated, he said, “Tell me.”
The other three looked at Benson, who was the oldest of the group. He swallowed a mouthful of ale, then said, “The priest’s house is on that road he walks down to get to the church, most of the way up the first long slope. It’s a detached wooden house in good repair, and the area’s neat and respectable. The nearest slum lies more than half a mile farther along the road—you have to go over the first crest and down, into a little valley on the flank of the hill.”
“That’s where we started,” Fuller said. “Over the hill closer to the slum. And, o’ course, people that way didn’t know precisely where he lived, just that it wasn’t near them.”
“This morning,” Benson said, “we came back much closer to the church and started asking our questions, and that’s when we struck gold. We watched the house for most of the morning—in shifts, so to speak—but all we saw was women going in and out, along with an old man and five children. And himself, of course. But there was no sign of any men who might be part of a slaving gang.”
Robert’s orders had been to find some suitable spot to mount surveillance and to leave two men on watch. The fact all four had returned meant... “I take it there’s no suitable place to use as a hide?”
“Well, there is, and there ain’t,” Benson said. “We thought as how midday was the best time to come back and ask as to what you wanted us to do.”
The landlady approached with a tray piled with five plates loaded with sections of pie, and they fell silent.
Once she’d handed around the plates and departed, and the men had taken their first bites, Benson resumed, “Like we said, this is no slum area. It’s a quiet neighborhood. The houses are well kept, and ordinary folk live in them. A few are from one or other of the local tribes—shopkeepers, warehouse managers, that sort of thing. Most are Europeans of the same ilk, and some are of mixed blood. While one of us watched the priest’s house, the others asked around, and we found an old woman has a house across the street and four doors down—and she has a nice big front room to let. We could watch from there—the window looks to have a good line of sight to the priest’s door—and staying in the street will give us reason to be out and about in the area. No one glances twice at someone who’s staying in the neighborhood.”
Robert nodded. “Good work.” It had been too much to hope that Undoto’s house might prove also to be the slavers’ lair. Robert pushed away his empty plate and reached for his ale. “Given the location of Undoto’s house, combined with what you’ve seen of the occupants, it seems certain the slavers’ lair will be somewhere else. So yes, we’ll rent that room and keep watch from there.”
“We thought,” Harris said, “that three of us can hunker in there and one stay here in case you need to send for us, but we can rotate whoever stays here, and that way the locals will see all our faces and grow used to us being around.”
Robert nodded again and reached for the pouch tucked into his belt. He counted out coins—more than enough for renting a room—and pushed them across the table to Benson. “Take the room. Get anything else you need to make yourselves comfortable. We’ll start our watch this evening. When you have everything in place, one of you come back and fetch me. I expect to go out again, but I’ll be back before sunset.”
“Aye.” Benson nodded. “We’ll do that.”
The four had cleaned their plates. They drained their mugs, then with nods to him, rose and clattered upstairs to fetch their bags.
Robert remained where he was, thinking and weighing his possible actions. After his men had left, he rose and went up to his room. From his bag, he pulled out paper, a tightly capped bottle of ink, and a pen, then sat at the serviceable desk. He laid out his supplies, then settled to write a letter to London, reporting on what he’d already learned.
No point in taking the risk of something happening and London not hearing about what he’d already discovered.
He understood Melville’s need to know if Holbrook was innocent, and from all the evidence, that was indeed the case. However, as Robert stressed, there was no way of knowing if someone else in Holbrook’s inner circle was involved. Consequently, he advised against anyone trusting the governor’s office with any potentially sensitive information.
He related what he knew of Lady Holbrook’s departure and confirmed that Babington could be relied upon, both for further information and also for support as required as the mission progressed. He wrote of Lashoria’s death at the hands—or, at the very least, the orders—of the slave trader known as Kale, and included all he’d gleaned about how the slave traders operated, explaining that a lair within the settlement was used as a staging point before those kidnapped were taken to the slavers’ camp somewhere in the surrounding jungles. He detailed the location of Undoto’s house, and his plans for watching and picking up the trail of the slavers.
After some d
eliberation, he resigned himself to mentioning Miss Hopkins and her campaign to locate her missing brother, but he assured Melville—and therefore Wolverstone—that he would have her on a ship back to England as soon as he could locate her.
He didn’t add that locating her was proving far more difficult than he’d foreseen. Again, the hope that she’d already departed floated tantalizingly across his mind.
Satisfied that he’d adequately conveyed his progress to that point, he sealed the letter, wrote Melville’s direction on the front—and then realized that posting such a missive wasn’t going to be a matter of simply walking into the post office on the quay, handing over the letter, and paying the price.
The post office stood high on the list of places he shouldn’t risk entering—there was far too much chance of some other potential customer walking in and recognizing him.
And he couldn’t send one of his men, either. An ordinary sailor—an ordinary person of any sort—posting a letter to the First Lord of the Admiralty would inevitably raise eyebrows and draw attention. And sending the letter to Wolverstone House wasn’t going to work, either.
“Damn!” He stared at the letter—his carefully scripted missive. He could leave it with his crew on The Trident—a fail-safe of sorts—but he would much rather have the information on its way to London by some other, relatively anonymous route. What if Decker returned early and impounded The Trident?
Babington? Not a good idea; his mail would go via the company’s mailbag, and any attempt to send a letter separately would be noted. And the idea of some Macauley and Babington clerk in London sorting through the mail and finding a letter addressed to the First Lord...definitely not a good idea.
He could send the letter via Declan, but he didn’t know if his brother and Edwina had intended to remain in town, and if they hadn’t?
Robert tapped a fingernail on the desk’s scarred surface. There had to be a way to send the letter straight to where he wanted it to go...
Frustration bloomed. He was almost at the point of destroying the letter when his other source of frustration crossed his mind.