Hoare and the Passed Master

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"Halloooo!"

The call did not come from the cart halted on the moonlit bridge just ahead of Bartholomew Hoare, but from beneath the bridge. There was a swinging golden light down there, a swinging golden light as if from a lantern. Hoare drew rein to listen. The call came again.

Hoare had been looking forward to his own bed in his quarters at the Swallowed Anchor in Portsmouth, but a consuming curiosity had always been his bane.

Below, a bulky figure held a lantern in one hand while holding up a naked body with the other by a sling passed below its armpits. The body's gray-white head hung at an unnatural angle, the huge wound in its throat grinning like an extra mouth.

"Who is he?" Hoare whispered. He had lost the use of his vocal cords ten years ago and had whispered ever since.

"Haven't the remotest idea, my good man." The fat man lugged the corpse up the slope below. "What difference does it make?"

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