"Yes," Ramage said warily.

"From that Post Office packet?"

"From that former packet: she's prize to a French privateer."

The man's attitude changed immediately. "What are you doing?" he demanded brusquely.

"What business is it of yours, pray?" Ramage asked icily.

"I am the Post Office Agent here," the man announced pompously.

"Indeed? We've just come on shore to find you," Ramage said, his voice deliberately neutral.

With that the man flung open the door, kicked down the steps and scrambled down, introducing himself as Henry Chamberlain, adding, "I couldn't believe it when word came from the signal station that they'd sighted a Post Office packet coming in with a Tricolour flying. I've been waiting here hours," he complained pettishly.

Ramage looked up at the coachman, an unshaven and gaunt individual in a faded green livery who was leaning over as far as he dare, trying not to miss a word that was spoken. "Can we go to your office?"

Chamberlain gestured to the carriage door. "My house. It's not far."

As the carriage rattled away, Ramage introduced himself and Yorke and tried to remember the details he had read in the Royal Kalendar. Four or five packets had been listed for Lisbon, but all he could recall was that Chamberlain was paid £150 a year. After heading towards Belém along quiet streets the carriage finally stopped outside a small house set back from the road within a walled garden. The coachman jumped down, opened the gate and walked the horse through.

Chamberlain led them into the house, and after introducing them to his wife - a woman with a shrewish face and wearing a dress that would have been unfashionable even a decade earlier, and who treated them with what she probably thought was suitable condescension - took them to his study.

Once he had ushered them to comfortable chairs and sat down behind his desk, Chamberlain became the man of affairs. Although he looked unprepossessing, with small eyes set far apart and a receding chin, his manner was brisk. He picked up a pen and dipped it in an inkwell, and was clearly going to take notes of their conversation until Ramage motioned to him to put the pen down, remembering the eavesdropping coachman, and asked, "First, Mr Chamberlain, when does the next packet sail for England?"

"Why do you want to know? The exact time is secret, of course."

His tone was that of the squire questioning a couple of poachers, and Yorke looked at Ramage, who said, "I have to write an urgent dispatch which must go to the First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr Chamberlain. As soon as I've written it I intend placing it in your custody, and it will then be your responsibility to have it delivered safely."

"Oh by jingo, no!" Chamberlain exclaimed, putting his hands flat on the desk in front of him and pressing down, as though pushing away any responsibility. "Anything like that you'd better put on board a ship of war; I'm not responsible for the Navy's business."

Ramage was beginning to dislike the man: he was revealing all the brisk bumptiousness of a jack-in-office; the kind of man who could spend two hours talking a string of clichés, quoting whole paragraphs of regulations, and taking enormous delight in thwarting other people without once taking any responsibility.

"Mr Chamberlain, this is Post Office business," Ramage said quietly and patiently. "Before you decide what you will and won't do, wouldn't it be wiser to inquire why a naval officer and a shipowner land on the quay here from a French prize?"

"Very well," Chamberlain said grudgingly, "tell me."

He said nothing as Ramage briefly described the capture of the Lady Arabella and the offer he had made to Kerguelen. Ramage made no mention of Stevens' behaviour, nor of the information given him by Much. Originally he had intended to make a complete report to the Agent, but having met him he was less sure; his manner, the way he sat at his desk, the expression on his face implied automatic disbelief.

As he finished his account he suddenly noticed that Chamberlain's eyes were gleaming. The man was perhaps fifty years old and his thin face was a Gilray cartoon of someone who, bullied and nagged by his wife, in turn bullied and nagged any staff he might have.

Chamberlain smirked as he asked: "Well, Mr Ramage, how do you propose paying your - ah, debt - to this French scoundrel?"

"I hope the Post Office will provide the money."

"And if not?"

"We shall have to raise it privately, although I hope it won't come to that."

"Why not, pray?"

"Because for something like half what they would have to pay out to the commander for the loss, the Postmasters-General can get back a packet." He suddenly remembered the rot in the transom. Caveat Emptor!

"Do you and Mr Yorke fancy being hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn?" Chamberlain asked with a sneer.

"Not much."

"Well, if you give that French scoundrel so much as a penny, you'll be guilty of high treason."

Chamberlain had dealt his ace; his thin lips were pressed together in a chilly smile of triumph. Yorke glanced quickly at Ramage, who was rubbing the scar on his brow. There was no doubt Chamberlain was right; he could probably quote the regulation verbatim.

"Explain yourself, please," Ramage said with a calm he did not feel.

Chamberlain stood up and sauntered over to a row of shelves which lined one side of the room. He shuffled through some folders, took out several pages and brought them back to the desk, sorted through them until he had the one he wanted at the top, then looked up at Ramage as a judge might glare at a murderer before he pronounced the death sentence. "I won't bother to give you all the references, but this is a copy of a recent Act of Parliament. The part that concerns you declares it to be treason for any British subject to remit money to anyone owing obedience to the French Government."

He tapped the paper for emphasis as he added, "The phrase 'owing obedience' does not mean just being a French citizen. It includes paying money to someone here, for example, who is acting as agent for the French, even though he might be a Portuguese."

Ramage looked at Yorke, who said tactfully, "Perhaps Mr Chamberlain has some suggestion to make."

The Agent shook his head. "I can have nothing to do with it: as a servant of the King I can have no cognizance of treason," he said pompously, savouring every word.

Ramage flushed. "I suggest you choose your words more carefully."

"Don't threaten me," Chamberlain said loftily. "And I'd like to hear from the packet commander how much assistance he received from his passengers in trying to defend his ship against the privateer."

Yorke, seeing Ramage had gone white and was once again rubbing the scar over his brow, said quickly, "Mr Chamberlain, it would be unwise of you to assume that your attitude towards us - particularly towards Lieutenant Ramage - might not eventually be construed as something close to treason. We knew nothing of this new Act and you know nothing of how the packet was captured. In the meantime, it is only fair to warn you that as Agent for the Post Office you, of all people, should be careful with the word 'treason'."

"He means," Ramage said heavily, "that I have by no means told you the whole story."

"Why not? Why not, I say? I have every right to know!"

"Because I don't trust you," Ramage snapped. "My report is secret and for the First Lord's eyes only. He will pass on to Lord Auckland and the Cabinet what he sees fit. In the meantime I have told you all you need to know. Now, I must go and write my report. When does the next packet sail?"

"Tomorrow. It came in last night," Chamberlain said truculently. "What are you going to say?"

Ramage stared unbelievingly at the man. "I've just said my report is secret. Are you an Agent of the Post Office or the French Government?" he asked, making little effort to hide the contempt in his voice.