Ramage's Prize by Dudley Pope Read Free Book Online Page B

of pen and paper will write a score of letters and the commander will start complaining about the bulk …
    Still, Lord Auckland in a letter sent by the
Hydra—
instinctively he tapped the paperweight holding it down—had written reassuringly. It was not normally Lombard Street’s policy to get involved with other Government departments—they were usually so lamentably disorganized—but from what he could see (reading between the lines, anyway) the Cabinet had decided that action over the heavy loss of packets was now up to the Admiralty. He was pleased and flattered to note that Lombard Street had seen (at last) that Jamaica was the real centre of the Foreign Mails on this side of the Atlantic, despite the claims of that damned agent in New York. Obviously the Admiralty agreed, but anyway Lord Auckland assured him that Sir Pilcher Skinner had been given orders to put one of his best officers in charge of a complete investigation.
    Smith moved a paperweight half an inch to stop a particularly thin sheet from flapping too irritatingly in the breeze. Well, Sir Pilcher was a meticulous man, and the Deputy Postmaster knew he could rely on his choice of officer. There were two 74-gun ships in the harbour, each commanded by a senior captain. Presumably one of them would be given the job, and there were plenty of frigates. For the first time in weeks, Smith began to nourish a hope that his orderly world would return …
    Smith took out his watch. He’d wait another hour before leaving for lunch, although for all the good he was doing sitting here he might just as well have accepted Mrs Warner’s invitation to her picnic. He admitted she frightened him a little. Although she was quite one of the most comely widows in Kingston, her constant invitations were embarrassing: people gossiped and chattered and all took it for granted that even a well-chaperoned young widow had only marriage in mind if she entertained a bachelor to dinner more than a couple of times in the year.
    Someone was knocking at the open door, and he glanced up to see a young naval officer standing there. Ah, news from Sir Pilcher! That was the advantage of being a commander-in-chief; you had plenty of young fellows to run errands for you.
    â€œMr Smith?”
    The Postmaster nodded.
    â€œMy name is Ramage. Sir Pilcher sent me.”
    Again the Postmaster nodded affably, waiting for him to deliver the letter, or whatever it was from the Admiral.
    â€œAbout the packets,” the Lieutenant said, coming right into the room.
    This was rather irregular: Sir Pilcher was not the man to send verbal messages.
    â€œWhat about the packets, pray?”
    â€œSir Pilcher said you could tell me about them. You have a letter from him, I believe?”
    â€œNo. At least, telling me what?”
    â€œThat I would be calling on you.”
    â€œWait a moment.”
    Smith waved Ramage to a chair and bellowed: “Dent! Come here, Dent!”
    A moment later an elderly clerk appeared at the door.
    â€œAre there any letters for me?”
    â€œOnly this one, sir,” Dent said, holding it up nervously.
    â€œGive it to me! When did it arrive?”
    â€œA couple of hours ago, sir; came by messenger.”
    â€œThen why the devil—oh, go away!”
    Smith looked across at Ramage. “I’m sorry. It’s from Sir Pilcher—give me a moment to read it.”
    He looked at the right-hand corner of the table for a paperknife, extricated it from under a pile, and opened the letter with the precision of a surgeon. He read it twice, folded it again and reached out, his hand hovering between the labels
“Outward packets—lost”
and
“Inward packets—lost.”
Finally he tucked it temporarily under
“Lord Auckland,”
mentally noting that he would write a fresh label later.
    He thought for a moment, and then looked up at the Lieutenant. He’s only a youngster, he thought crossly; obviously