Seagrave seized his moment. He brought the Stella across the Manon's bows; his boarding party, with their pikes and axes, fell upon the French crew; and within moments, the poop, quarterdeck, waist of the ship — all were overrun — and the colours struck.

“You will not find great willingness to fight among the French sailors at present,” LaForge observed, when Jean-Philippe had fallen silent “We preserve too well the tragedy of Trafalgar. It is accepted truth that British guns will always prevail. We prefer to run rather than engage; then we might save our ships as well as our lives.”

“But the Manon did not run. And how many men were lost?” I enquired, my eyes trained upon the foolscap.

Jean-Philippe did not reply. I glanced over at the French surgeon.

“Thirty-four were killed outright Eighty-seven were wounded,” LaForge said.

“Seamen? Or officers?”

“We lost only one officer — le capitaine, Porthiault. The rest — our lieutenants and midshipmen — are housed in Portsmouth and Southampton, if they have not already been exchanged.”

“Your captain! That must have been a great loss.”

LaForge's head moved restlessly against the stone wall. “I tended his body myself.”

“He was killed in battle?”

“But of course.” He turned to stare at me. “You thought it possible he died of fright at the sight of the Royal Navy? It is hardly singular for a captain to be killed, when he is exposed to the enemy guns. Officers maintain a position on the quarterdeck, you understand, in the path of every well-aimed ball.”

“If you tended his body, Monsieur LaForge — you must have seen the nature of Porthiault's wound?”

“I begin to suspect that you have a taste for the macabre, Miss Austen.” The dark eyes — so deep a brown that in the flickering candlelight, they appeared almost the colour of claret — held my own. “You spend your liberty in the stench and squalor of Wool House, ministering to the sick; and you are morbidly concerned with the history of a man's last agony. You interest me very much. What can have excited your curiosity?”

I had no desire to inform the Manon's crew that a British captain was charged with the murder of their captain. If they were at all akin to British seamen, I might very well have a riot on my hands.

“It is only that my brother is a post captain, I said lamely, “and I suffer considerable anxiety on his behalf.”

“He is presently at sea?”

“No — but he is likely soon to be.”

LaForge stared at me quizzically, unconvinced.

“And… and we possess a considerable acquaintance among the officers of the Stella Maris. The action has been of no little significance in Portsmouth.”

“I see. You wish to carry all the smallest details of the noble Porthiault's end to your next card party. I am afraid that I cannot increase your delight, Miss Austen. I was below decks, throughout the action.”

“You saw nothing?” I murmured in disappointment.

“The surgeon's place in battle is always the cockpit deck,” LaForge said by way of reply. “I was entirely taken up with amputation, you understand — two men had suffered crushed feet, from the dismounting of the guns, and there were arms and legs torn away. I did not emerge on deck until I had dressed the last wound.”.

How unfortunate, that the most articulate and sound observer of the naval battle should be below decks throughout the action! I stared at Etienne LaForge with consternation; and at that moment a timid hand brushed my elbow. Jean-Philippe.

“Ma lettre?” he enquired. “C'est finie?”

“Mais oui,” I replied, and folded it swiftly. “Did any of the Manon's crew observe how your captain died, Monsieur LaForge?”

“You are very interested in a fellow who was no better than a fool, and who is now feeding sharks off Corunna, Miss Austen.”

His voice — formerly so weak and gentle in its expression — fell like a lash upon my ears. I looked up, and dripped hot tallow across my fingertips.

“I listen to the talk of the Marines outside, from time to time,” he said slowly, his half-lidded eyes never leaving my face. “They say that the captain of the Stella Marts has been charged with murder. I thought I imagined their words — in the rages of fever, you understand, much may be distorted — but now I am no longer certain. Is that man accused of the death of Porthiault?”

I nodded. “Captain Seagrave is charged with having killed Captain Porthiault after the Manon struck. He is to go before a court-martial on Thursday. The outcome is … uncertain.”

LaForge pursed his lips. “A pity. Seagrave is a gallant fellow — a Heart of Oak, as you English say. Clever in his tactics and fearless in their execution — he fought like a tiger, as though all the hounds of hell were at his back. Are you in love with him?”

I gasped incredulously. “You mistake me, sir! Captain Seagrave has long been a married man!”

LaForge lifted his shoulders dismissively. “There must be some reason you concern yourself.”

“The Captain is my brother's fellow officer. I am acquainted with his wife.”

“Ah.” The surgeon's voice was now faintly mocking. “The bosom friend of the wife. I understand. But you do not believe this Seagrave killed le capitaine. And neither do I, Miss Austen.”

I studied the amusement at his mouth, the strong chin, and knew that the man was sporting with me. He was, after all, the French ship's surgeon; if any had examined Porthiault's body before it was sent over the side, it should be LaForge.

“How do they say that Porthiault died?” he asked.

“That is a point under dispute. Captain Seagrave would have it the man was already dead when the colours were struck. Others insist that Porthiault died by Seagrave's hand, after the Marion's surrender. Seagrave's dirk was buried in Porthiault's heart, but Seagrave will have it that he never touched the man! It is a difficult tale to credit—”

With effort, LaForge leaned towards me. He spoke very low. “Porthiault did not die from the knife to his heart. He died from the wound to his head.”

“His head?” I repeated. “But the dirk—”

“A small hole at the base of the skull,” the surgeon continued, “oozing blood as the chest wound could not The chest wound was given after death. I tell you, I examined the body before it was delivered into the sea.”

“A musket shot, then? Fired during the battle?”

There was a glint of something in LaForge's narrowed gaze. Then his shoulders lifted again in that most Gallic of gestures. “There is nothing very wonderful in this. Your own Nelson — the Hero of Trafalgar-died in much the same way.”

It was true. A French marksman had aimed for the jewelled star pinned at the Admiral's breast, and wounded him mortally.

“Seagrave said the Frenchman lay as though dead when discovered on the quarterdeck. He thought the man had been stunned by a falling spar. Why, then, thrust a dirk into his heart?” I mused.

“For vengeance? Or … the desire to make it appear as such? This Seagrave was not alone,????”

“He was not. His first lieutenant stood with him.”

The man held my gaze. Despite the fever, despite his weakness and the lazy arrangement of his limbs, Etienne LaForge was taut as a bowstring. He knew the end to which I must be brought; but he preferred that I reach it under my own power.

“You saw him!” I declared. “You saw Eustace Chessyre near Seagrave on the quarterdeck. You were not below throughout the battle, as you claim.”

“I do not know the man's name.” He glanced over my shoulder warily and lowered his voice to the faintest of murmurs. “There was a great deal of sea in the cockpit deck, you understand. The pumps could not keep up with it. Those British guns — how they love to kiss the waterline! I was forced to pile my patients at the foot of the gangway, and to plead for help in shifting them; otherwise, I feared they should drown. And I am not in the habit of saving a life, to lose it to the sea.”