'How obligin' of him,' Drinkwater muttered, knowing that in the past he had once crossed the Second Secretary and done himself no favour thereby. 'You had better pour us both a glass, Templeton.'
Drinkwater rose, aware that he had still not thoroughly read the dispatch from Helgoland. He moved towards the little half-moon table where the clerk poured the rich madeira. He caught sight of himself reflected in the glass doors of the cabinet. The bottle-green coat did not suit him, and was at odd variance with his old-fashioned queue with its clump of black ribbon nestling at the nape of his neck. He looked a damn fool!
Templeton handed him die glass. 'What are we to do, Templeton?' he asked. 'D'you have any bright ideas? If they want for money, we've no means of raisin' revenue, and if they want value for what little they allow us, how in heaven's name do we give it to 'em?'
He was half-hearted in his complaint, but Templeton did not seem to notice. The truth was, the intelligence reports processed by the two of them contained little of significance now that the naval war on the coast of Europe was reduced to the tedious matter of blockade. There were the lists of Yankee ships slipping in and out of French ports, but as many were doing the same in Spain and the British were purchasing the supplies they brought to keep Wellington's Anglo-Portuguese army in the field. As for the matter of their own funds, Drinkwater had learned that Dungarth had himself underwritten most of the department's expenses, squandering his modest inheritance to the distress of his Irish tenants. His own finances would not extend so far.
In so far as the Secret Department had achieved anything recently, Drinkwater could recollect only his pressing the Board to increase the strength of the blockade on the eastern coast of the United States. He had written an appreciation of the matter born out of his own experience of Yankee privateers rather than the coded missives of spies.
'We appear to be redundant, Mr Templeton,' he said with an air of finality.
'I fear that may well be the case, Captain Drinkwater,' Templeton said, sipping his wine unhappily.
You will retain a position within the Admiralty, surely.'
'Oh, I daresay, sir, but not one of such gravity, sir, not one with such, er, such opportunities.'
The emphasis on the last word reminded Drinkwater of the vital perquisites of office among these black-garbed jobbers. There were expenses to be written off, bribes to be paid and spies to be funded. Everything was reduced to money and everyone had their price, women as well as men.
He thought of Moira's 'Madame de Santon, or some such'. Drinkwater knew her better as Hortense Santhonax, née Montholon. Dungarth's key had revealed his secret dossier on Hortense and the small pension she received to keep open communications with the Emperor Napoleon's former Foreign Minister, Talleyrand. He concentrated on the present. There was Liepmann in Hamburg, Van Ouden in Flushing and Vlieghere at Antwerp.
'Well, Templeton, what have we received recently? There was the letter from Carlscrona reporting eleven of the line in ordinary ...'
'From the Master of the Lady Erskine, sir.'
'Quite so ...'
'And the message from Antwerp about the current state of new building there, four ships and a frigate. A routine report, to be sure, but one which demonstrates the continuing ability and determination of the French and their allies to build men o' war.'
'Yes, and the encrypted dispatch from Helgoland spoke of arms being stored at Hamburg. There does not seem much of significance in that.'
'No, no,' Templeton agreed quickly, 'Hamburg is a French fortress. Cavalry remounts, recruits, stores and so forth are all assembled there. The French Army Corps in North Germany draw their reinforcements from the Hamburg depot'
'And yet Liepmann thought it worth letting them know in Helgoland,' Drinkwater reflected, adding, 'Liepmann is in our pay, not that of the Foreign Office.'
'You have great faith in Herr Liepmann, sir,' said Templeton obliquely, knowing that Drinkwater had once met the Jewish merchant.
'It would not surprise me if these arms are locked away in one of our Hebrew friend's warehouses, Templeton. If so, he has probably learned of their purpose. Don't you think it odd they may be secured in a warehouse, rather than in the possession of the French military authorities?'
'That is mere conjecture,' Templeton said dismissively.
'True.' Drinkwater was content to leave the matter there. He knew Templeton set great store by the intelligence from Antwerp. It was a regular dispatch, a long message in the cipher it was Templeton's peculiar skill to disentangle and he had a proprietorial air towards it.
But Templeton had become wary of his new master. The ageing post captain with his outmoded queue, lopsided shoulders and thin sword scar down his left cheek was a contrast after the huge, dropsical bulk of the one-legged Lord Dungarth. But, Templeton had come to learn, both had an uncanny knack of nosing out the obscure from the obfusc. The talent made Templeton nervous.
'Your meaning is unclear, sir,' Templeton prompted.
'Mmm? You mean the significance of my conjecture is unclear?' Drinkwater asked wryly.
'Exactly so.'
'Well, you are right. It is only conjecture, but Liepmann finds it necessary to tell us a quantity of arms has arrived at Hamburg. There is nothing unusual in that, we conclude, except that Herr Liepmann knows of it. Now I'll warrant that there is nothin' significant in replacement equipment arriving in Hamburg in the normal run of things, eh? Nor would one expect Liepmann to know of it. But Liepmann does know, and considers it worth lettin' us know.'
'But if the fact was of real significance then surely he would have amplified the matter. The message is in cipher. If these arms, whatever they consist of, are in his own warehouses, he would have given us more details. I don't see it signifies anything.'
'You have a point, Templeton. Perhaps my assumption was foolish. But suppose they are in the custody of a friend, an associate. Liepmann perhaps smells a rat. He sends us the information thinking it may be a piece of a larger puzzle.'
'Well, it isn't.'
'You are not convinced.' Drinkwater's tone was flat, a statement, not a question. He shrugged, drained his glass and sighed. 'So be it. Come, it is gettin' late. It is time you went home.'
Templeton put his empty glass down on the half-moon table. 'Good-night, sir,' he said, but he seemed reluctant to leave.
'Good-night.' Drinkwater turned to his desk, gathering the scattered papers, waiting for Templeton to go. When the clerk had finally gone, he locked them away. He turned then to the shutters and opened them. Throughout his interview with Templeton he had been aware of their faint but persistent rattle.
He peered again through the window. For a moment, the full moon appeared from behind flying cloud and he thought of the strong spring tides its influence would produce and the ferocious seas which would be running in the Channel.
'God help sailors on a night like this,' he muttered to himself in a pious incantation. The brilliant moonlight and a clatter below briefly attracted his attention. He caught a glimpse of a horseman turning in off the street and entering through Nash's screen wall, his mount striking sparks off the wet cobbles. Messengers were something of a rarity nowadays, he reflected, so sophisticated had the semaphore telegraph system become. It was capable of transmitting news with great speed from the standard on the Admiralty roof, along half a dozen arteries to the great seaports of Britain, even to such exposed outposts as Yarmouth Road, on the coast of East Anglia. He wondered idly where the rider's dispatches originated, then dismissed the thought and closed the shutters.
Drinkwater succumbed to the temptation to pour another glass and sat again, turning his chair so that it faced the dying fire. He was in no mood to return to a house empty of all except its staff. Bending, he stoked the fire into a final flaring, listening awhile to the boom of the gale across the massed chimney pots on the roof above while the tiny flames licked round the glowing coals, then subsided into a dull, ruby coruscation.