“You went up the gangway to beg assistance.”

“The waist of the ship was a chaos of men,” LaForge said faintly. “I turned and glanced up at the quarterdeck, where the Captain already lay dead. It was then that I saw him.”

“Seagrave?” I whispered.

“The British captain was being set upon, by our second lieutenant, Favrol; the two were fighting du corps a corps.”

“So the ship had not yet struck.”

The surgeon shook his head.

“Seagrave was alone?”

“For all the good his support did him — he ought to have been. But no, mademoiselle, the Captain had an officer at his back. I did not, at the time, observe the rank — but I recognised him later. He was master of the ship that carried me prisoner into this British port.”

“Lieutenant Chessyre,” I breathed.

“Very well. I observed him, bent over le capitaine Porthiault, while Seagrave and Favrol were at each other's throat; he knelt there a moment — his arm rose — and when he stood, Porthiault's sword was in his hand.”

“What of the colours?”

LaForge shook his head. “At such a time — who can say when the Manon struck? All was confusion. But know this, mademoiselle,” — his voice became almost indistinct—“when the officer rose from Porthiault's side, the dirk was in my captain's breast. I would swear on my mother's grave that it was not there before.”

My breath came in with a hiss. LaForge's eyes widened in alarm; he raised a feverish hand to his lips.

“Mademoiselle — do not betray us both. More than one man's life may hang upon your discretion.”

His fingers dropped heavily to his side.

“But why thrust a blade into the breast of a dead man?” I murmured, with a swift glance around the shadowy chamber.

“Must I always translate for you, mademoiselle? The word is not why, but who. Who among all the men of the British Navy would wish your Seagrave to hang? For that was certainly Chessyre's object. He did not strike for vengeance against the French, but from motives none may penetrate. This was no act of war, Miss Austen. Your Seagrave was betrayed from within.”

Chapter 7

Messenger to Portsmouth

24 February 1807, cont.

I RACED HOME THROUGH THE DARKENING STREETS, intent upon finding Frank and relating all that LaForge had told me. I must have looked a trifle mad among the sedate ladies and aging sailors that made their careful way along the High; in the darkness and stench of Wool House I had become like one of Mrs. Radcliffe's desperate heroines, with Etienne LaForge my cryptic prisoner of the keep. I do not think that I would have accorded the Frenchman's words the same horrific weight, had he not presented a failing aspect. There is something chilling about the word betrayal when uttered by a sinking man, particularly against the backdrop of ancient stone walls. LaForge had chosen his moment — and his auditor — well.

My brother was established with Mary before the fire in Mrs. Davies's sitting-room; at the sight of my flushed face and heaving breast, he rose at once in alarm.

“Jane! You are unwell!”

“Nothing I regard. A trifle fagged from haste.”

“But where have you been, my dear?” Mary enquired.

“At Wool House. Tending the French prisoners laid low with gaol fever.”

“Gaol fever!” Frank's countenance darkened. “Have you lost your reason, Jane? To expose yourself to such a scourge, when Mary's health — and the health of our child — is certainly at stake? I forbid you to go so close to my wife as twenty yards, madam, until we may be certain that you have not contracted the disease! No, nor so close as fifty yards to our mother, given her delicate state of health! I am in half a mind to procure you a room at the Dolphin until we may be sure that you are clear!”

“Banish her to London; Fly, and permit me to serve as chaperone,” said my dear friend Martha Lloyd as she sailed into the room. “I might recommend any number of places in Town, and Jane and I could enjoy the Season at a safe distance from little Mary — provided, of course, that gaol fever does not carry Jane off. But I confess to a sanguine temper on that head. I have little fear of seeing any of us come out in spots. It has always been a man's complaint.”

I embraced Martha with joy, and enquired as to the safety and comfort of her descent upon the south; declared her in excellent looks after her visit to her sister— a compliment she turned aside with asperity — and took her bonnet into my own hands for safekeeping.

But the niceties of welcome had eluded my brother. Frank took one furious stride across Mrs. Davies's small parlour and turned in frustration at the far wall. He appeared to be itching to draw someone's cork; his hands were clenching and unclenching in a fine demonstration of the pugilist's art. I was not to be forgiven my improbable charity. In such a mood, he was unlikely to credit anything I might say.

“Oh, my dearest,” Mary cried, “do not be thinking of sending Jane away! I confess that I cannot do without her!”

Her plump hands were pressed against her mouth; she stared at Frank in dismay. I do not think she had ever witnessed a display of her husband's temper; but I have an idea it is very well known among Frank's colleagues in the Navy. He did not survive the mutinies at Spithead in '97, nor yet a gruelling chase across the Atlantic and back again in pursuit of the French, without driving his men and himself to the point of collapse.

“Damned foolish!” he returned, with fine disregard for our landlady's peace. “And why? Because Celia Braggen — that lantern-jawed, jumped-up busybody whose husband is the worst sort of scrub — required it!”

“Jane only went to that dreadful place to spare me the trouble, Frank,” Mary stammered. “I thought it very kind in her to oblige Mrs. Braggen, and save me from giving offence!”

“I shall call upon that Harpy in the morning, and offer my opinion of her presumption,” he muttered.

“Then pray let us dine on the strength of your conviction, Frank — it does not do to meet a Harpy on an empty stomach.” Martha's attention was given entirely to drawing off her gloves. “Jane may sit at the farthest remove from Mary and the fire both, as punishment, and your mother have her meal on a tray. They do not offer much in the way of sustenance, in your southern coaching inns; and the smell of that joint makes me ready to weep with vexation.”

“Frank,” I interjected, “however angry you may be, I must have a word with you at once. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

My brother's brows were lowered over his frigid grey eyes. He glanced at Mary; she threw me a frightened look, but gathered up her sewing without a word. Martha placed a hand at her elbow, and was just saying comfortably as the door clicked behind them, “I hear that the talk in Southampton is all of short sleeves for the summer—” when I sank down into a chair.

Frank listened this time without interruption. I told him of Etienne LaForge, and the scene the French surgeon had witnessed on the Manon's quarterdeck; I told him of the blood from the head wound, and the lack of same from Porthiault's chest. I told him, moreover, of LaForge's final charge: This was no act of war. … Your Seagrave was betrayed from within; and then I waited for some reaction from my hot-headed brother.

He was silent for the length of several heartbeats. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stood before the fire, his gaze fixed unseeing on the print of Weymouth that hung over Mrs. Davies's mantel.

“This French dog — this surgeon—would have it that Chessyre deliberately made Tom look a murderer. To what purpose, Jane?”

“I cannot say.”