Chapter 17: 4th Class

August 1803

Arriving in Portsmouth, Thomas did not head for the Naval Academy, but rather took a room in a respectable inn. This was Saturday after all, and he would not have to report at the Academy until Sunday evening. This would leave him all of Sunday for sleeping in, having a fine breakfast, and then head for the Sea Rover. Frolicking in the bathing pond with nubile girls had quite stoked his desires, and he was looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with the Sea Rover’s lovely lodgers. Reporting at the Academy on Sunday evening would also preclude any curiosity of his fellow cadets regarding his disappearance.

After a supper of shepherd’s pie, washed down with a pint of small ale, Thomas retired to his room. It was on the west side of the tavern building, and the small window let in the beams of the evening sun, allowing Thomas to continue reading in one of the books he had spirited out of his grandfather’s study. Needless to say, it was not a book the curate Caplan would have approved, and perhaps not even the kind Mister Wiseman, but for a fourteen-year-old boy, it was a treasure trove of ribald writing.

The Sunday also went much like Thomas had planned. After sleeping in quite late, he enjoyed a hearty breakfast in the common room, after which he strolled along the southern quays, studying the shipping at anchor in the harbour and in the Spithead roadstead. He could tell that the Channel Fleet was already assembled in force, with at least twelve sail of the line, including the huge Ville de Paris first-rate, Sir William Cornwallis’s flagship.

Back home in Guildford, all the news arrived belatedly and one could easily forget that the newly formed United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland was at war again with the French Republic. Yet here, the urgency of the situation was much clearer. Those ships were what stood between England and the French Grande Armee.

With his breakfast settled, Thomas headed for the Sea Rover, where he was received with obvious pleasure. There were changes, however. Mistress Caroline had decided to retire from the club, selling it to the new Mistress, Maybelle, who now operated it. Rather than seeing patrons herself, Maybelle had hired another young woman with the chosen name of Denise, who spoke with a pronounced French accent and claimed to be the granddaughter of a minor French noble.

Although retired from the hands-on aspects of her profession, Maybelle dragged Thomas upstairs for a ‘farewell gallop’, as she laughingly called it. The pace was indeed taxing, even for a youngster, and he emerged from Maybelle’s boudoir three hours later with a limp and a happy smile on his lips, much to the amusement of Isabeau, Ginger and Chastity, whilst the new woman, Denise, regarded him with indifference.

Two hours later, after a cat lick wash in his room at the inn, Thomas reported back at the Academy. Mister Peabody was on duty to receive the returning scholars.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” he exclaimed seeing a tired Thomas. “You walked here from Guildford?”

“No, Sir, just a little tired from the farewell.”

“Well, find your new cabin and settle in. After supper, you and I, with Mister Carlson, will meet to organise some urgent measures. No 6th class prefect has been appointed yet.”

“Mister Carlson is the head boy, Sir?”

“Yes. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, has Mister Carlson. You’ll have to assist him this year.”

“Aye-aye, Sir. Where should I report after supper?”

Peabody grinned. “At my rooms. You know the Crown & Thistle?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“We’ll go there right after supper. Don’t worry about leaving the dockyard; you’ll be with me.”

“Aye-aye, Sir. By your leave, Sir?”

“Yes, get ready!”

The second-year cabins were very similar to the first-year ones, but on the first storey, and they had larger windows. Thomas found most of his fellow scholars already there, and the noise of seventeen youngsters spinning yarns about their daring exploits over the summer assaulted his ears. He was able to find his cabin, close to the door, straighten his cot and unload his possessions before anybody noticed him. Jeremy Martins was the first to see him and gave him a mock salute.

“Hail to you, oh august prefect!” he intoned.

“Be greeted, trusted minion of mine,” Thomas gave back before hugging his mate. “It’s good to see you again, Jerry!”

“And you, Thomas. How was your summer? Everybody here has had dalliances with dozens of fair maidens if you believe them.”

“My summer was bad,” Thomas answered soberly. “My grandfather died on the day of my arrival.”

“The old captain? I’m ever so sorry, Mate. He must’ve been a good one.”

“Yes, he was, Jerry. I’m mostly over it, but the first two weeks were dismal.”

“What’s that? The old captain died? We’re all sorry, Thomas,” Robert said earnestly, having overheard Thomas’s words.

“Yes. I was holding his hand, and one moment he was clutching it, and the next moment he was gone.”

“I’m sure he’d held out only to see you once more, Mate. The man doted on you.”

“Yes, and I’m glad that I arrived in time. Well, enough of sad stories. Who’s missing?”

“Well, Perkins is gone and Whalley, too. There’s seventeen left of us. No great losses there.”

Thomas nodded his agreement. “How true. Listen, Robert, can you see to it that everybody heeds the light-out tonight? Peabody wants me and Carlson to make some plans after supper and I might be back too late.”

“Sure, Mate. What plans?”

“I haven’t a clue. I wasn’t invited last year.”

“Oxfoam’s dismissal?” Robert suggested hopefully.

“I have no hope. The man is the most senior instructor.”

“Of course. Maybe Peabody needs partners for a Rubber of Whist.”

“Then he’d take Watson,” Thomas argued. There were soft laughs around. Watson was their resident wonder boy. Surprisingly, he was well liked, too, since he never flaunted his prowess, and was always ready to help the others. If Bayly had his way, Watson would be class prefect, Thomas was sure.

After supper with his mates during which he told them a little of his summer, Thomas found Carlson and together, they saw Mister Peabody. The three of them then headed out of the Navy Yard and towards the Crown & Thistle. The landlord led them to a backroom where they found a Navy commander.

“Have a seat, young gentlemen. We have important matters to discuss. Firstly, let me introduce Commander Fitzmoran, the Navy Yard Provost Marshal. Sir, these are Mister Samuel Carlson, the head boy, and Mister Thomas Grey, the 4th class prefect.”

“I am pleased to meet you young gentlemen. Before I continue, let us order drink.” At his sign, the landlord approached the table and took the orders. Once he was gone, Fitzmoran began.

“Gentlemen, I am investigating the slaying of Mister Aloysius Oxfoam.” Two mouths were hanging open already. “Mister Oxfoam, a master at the Royal Naval Academy since its inception, was found bleeding and unconscious in his sitting room on the third storey. Regrettably, he passed away a few hours later without having regained his senses. That was two days ago when fifteen young scholars had already returned from their summer leave.”

“Sir, I hope that you are not insinuating that one of the scholars is responsible for his death!” Carlson spoke up, but Fitzmoran waved that away.

“I am quite aware that in addition to the scholars, seven instructors were also present, and aye, the headmaster, too. It is also telling that his set of keys to the building is missing from his possessions.”

“Sir, if I may, how was he injured?” Thomas spoke up.

“Why is that of interest to you?”

“Sir, nobody at the Academy is wearing arms. If Mister Oxfoam was stabbed or — unlikely — shot, that would indicate a planned killing by somebody outside the Academy.”

“That is good thinking, Mister ... Grey? Mister Oxfoam was bludgeoned. Mister Peabody here suspects that a belaying pin was the weapon, and the surgeon at the infirmary is of the same opinion, not that I put much store in his gobbledygook.”

“That would also argue for a premeditated attack, Sir,” Carlson offered. “Mister Oxfoam taught fencing and dance. He probably never touched a belaying pin in his life, and none would be in his possession.”

Fitzmoran and Peabody looked at each other with grins.

“You turn out smart young men, Lucas,” the former chuckled. “Again, a good thought. As a matter of fact, his manservant cannot recall a belaying pin in Mister Oxfoam’s rooms. Be that as it may, we shall have to search the cabins and sea chests of the scholars for the murder weapon. I expect you young gentlemen to submit to those searches without ado. In return, I assure you that otherwisely compromising possessions in your sea chests will not be brought to the attention of the headmaster.”

Thomas nodded. “Sir, I shall submit myself and my sea chest to such a search without reservations. I shall also use what authority I have to convince my fellow cadets to follow my example.”

Carlson nodded to that. “I can promise the same, Sirs.”

“Splendid! The search will be conducted tonight to avoid a disruption of tomorrow’s timetables. Have any of you young gentlemen more enlightened suggestions?”

Fitzmoran’s voice was a little mocking, but he also acknowledged their contributions so far. Thomas looked at Carlson first, and when he saw no sign of an idea in his features, he spoke up.

“Sirs, with respect, Mister Oxfoam was not a respected master.” Grim nods were exchanged between the two officers. “Was there perhaps a former scholar who held a violent dislike for him? Perhaps somebody who failed at the Academy and made Mister Oxfoam responsible? Also, and I ask for pardon here, had he possibly enemies in his private life?”

“You mean due to amorous activities, Mister Grey? I do not think so. Between us: Mister Oxfoam visited a discreet establishment for such matters, once a week come rain or shine,” Peabody answered. “The Jewel Box, I think it is called.”

“Perhaps, he quarrelled there with another man. Over a woman?” Fitzmoran queried. “It is a possibility. Thank you, young Mister Grey. Well, let us drink up and get those searches going!”

Back at the Academy, they waited until half past nine, and when all the cadets had returned, Carlson and Thomas spoke to the class mates and convinced them of the necessity for the searches. Not an hour later, the fruitless search for a bloody belaying pin ended without results.

Of course, in the excitement, it became impossible to enforce the lights-out command, and seventeen very tired second-year scholars had to be herded to the mess hall for breakfast.

The teaching year was started with a very solemn memorial service for Mister Oxfoam, and the instructors watched the youngsters with eagle eyes lest anyone showed undue amusement. Mister Bayly then spoke mostly to the new scholars, extolling the chances offered at the Academy and the superior education they would receive. Those boys were wide-eyed novices, and their freshly appointed prefect was simply the oldest of them at over fifteen years, and not by any means knowledgeable of naval matters, nor overly bright.

After the opening address, the 4th class had their first lesson in Spherical Trigonometry, taught by the headmaster himself. Next came Geography, held by a guest instructor. Mister Warren was a friend of Mister Bayly and a teacher at the University of Edinburgh, but currently visiting Portsmouth. Mister Warren inundated them with facts at a pace that was impossible to follow. Gathering his courage, Thomas approached the man during a short break.

“Sir, I’m the class prefect, Thomas Grey.”

“Yes, Mister Grey, what is it?” came the curt reply.

“Sir, with respect, we’ve not had any teaching in Geography thus far. We try our best with the books in the library, but those are quite old, too.”

“So you want me to start at the beginning?”

“If it pleases you, Sir. We are eager to learn, but we have not the foundation to understand you, Sir.”

“Oh, dear! This is worse than I feared.”

Their next Geography class was still challenging, but with some effort, Thomas could keep pace with the instructor’s presentation. Warren proved to be a demanding but gifted teacher over the first few days, and not set in his ways. It was a stroke of luck for them that he was amenable to reason, too.

The killing of Oxfoam was still unsolved by the end of the week, and when Thomas visited the Sea Rover on the next Sunday — it was Miss Isabeau’s turn to tutor him — he queried cautiously whether she knew any of the girls in the Jewel Box. She did, and promised to ask her if Mister Oxfoam had encountered a quarrel in the establishment.