Hoare and the Ffrog Prince

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"Someone has been here before us, I see."

The challenged party did his best to sound casual, but his voice quavered and his belly rumbled audibly as he and his second looked down at the figure sprawled in the moonlit snow. The body's caped boat-cloak spread wide to display a peculiar naval uniform. Its hat, a gold-braided tricorne, lay beside one outflung hand.

A stout, florid merchant of Portsmouth town, the challenged party had never been out before. Now, at sight of the sword blade protruding from the dead man's massive chest and the pool of frozen blood beneath its parted lips, he felt he would rather apologize, go home to bed, sleep till noon, and forget the whole thing.

With a cheerful squeak of wheels in the snow, a chaise approached up the hill from town. Three cloaked figures alighted. "What have you gotten up to now, Golightly?" asked the shortest one. His breath smoked in the frosty air.

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