Seagrave nodded, but without much enthusiasm or attention; his mind, I judged, was decidedly elsewhere. His straight naval figure had lost a good deal of its confidence in the ordeal of the past few days; he was as a sapped trunk, that must soon fall to the axe.

“Then your wife has come to cheer your solitude?” I enquired. “She has borne you the news of Charles and Edward herself?”

“I heard of the boys' misadventure in a note despatched from the Dolphin,” he replied curtly. “No one but Captain Austen has deigned to enter this cell.”

“Captain Austen,” said Mr. Hill delicately, “and … Mrs. Carruthers, I believe?”

Tom Seagrave did not immediately reply. His dark eyes blazed an instant in his haggard face, and then he turned towards the wall of his cell with an abrupt expression of impatience.

“She means to marry Sir Francis Farnham, Frank,” he burst out. “And yet, she cannot lave him!”

“Why not?” my brother enquired in a hardened tone. “Farnham is rich — he is powerful — and his affections have endured these twenty years at least.”

“Sir Francis is not unhandsome, however incongenial his manners,” I added. “Why should Mrs. Carruthers remain a widow, when she might be a baronet's wife?”

“Any woman might do murder I reckon, to secure herself a similar position,” Mr. Hill observed.

If Seagrave found the surgeon's words disturbing, he did not betray the slightest sensibility. Perhaps he'd become inured to shock. “I cannot believe her capable of a loveless union,” he said. “She is too perfect a creature to act upon interest.”

I glanced at Frank. How likely was Seagrave to credit the truth of our suspicions regarding Mrs. Carruthers? Farnham he might hate as a rival — Farnham he could believe capable of the basest infamy — but it might be as well to say nothing of the role Mrs. Carruthers had played, in luring Chessyre to his death.

“Did you meet with Farnham in Bugle Street on Wednesday night?” asked my brother wearily.

Seagrave's eyebrow rose. “I was denied the pleasure,” he answered. “I will admit, now, that I went to Bugle Street — but I found no one at home. Mrs. Carruthers, I was told, had gone out to the theatre. I could not believe it — I thought it a subterfuge to put me off. But apparently she had indeed gone into Society, despite her mourning.” His eyes moved absently over my face. “I had thought her more wretched at Simon's loss.”

“She professes a good deal of unhappiness,” I said carefully. “Indeed, she exhibits anger. She told us that she could not meet with you, Captain Seagrave, for fear of the reproaches she might rain upon your head. And yet we find her here this morning …”

“It is the first glimpse of her I have had since that dreadful day in January, when I engaged the Manon” he said heavily. “I bade Chessyre break the news of young Simon's loss when he achieved Southampton, as I could not be first myself; and how Phoebe took it I know not — for I was prevented exchanging so much as a word with my lieutenant, on account of his charges. God!” He struck a blow to his forehead, as though to blot out all that had been, and all that might be. “If only man were capable of knowing all, and ordering his days, so that a world of trouble might be prevented!”

“Then he should be as his Maker, and our world be Heaven upon Earth,” I observed quietly. “Have you loved Mrs. Carruthers long?”

Tom Seagrave stared. “Loved her? Would you fall into the same error as my wife, Miss Austen? Do not be such a fool!”

“But, Tom—” spluttered Frank.

“I esteemed Phoebe Carruthers as the wife of a good friend — a man I regarded almost as a brother; I attempted to improve her situation in what manner I could, when Hugh was killed at Trafalgar. In Simon I cherished the father reborn in the son — and felt as cruel an anguish at the boy's death as I should feel for the loss of my own. But love, for Phoebe?” He shook his head.

I looked at Frank. My brother was gaping.

“Remorse has driven me like a madman,” Seagrave told us. “A thousand times I have consulted my conscience — I have wondered, and blamed myself for failing to place poor Simon in a position of safety. I had not realised the boy was aloft — he should have been with the other Young Gentlemen, carrying powder to the guns. When I saw his body dashed upon the deck, I felt myself a murderer.”

It was as though he had read his wife's thoughts for weeks past, and found no argument to refute them.

“I dreaded the admission of my guilt to Phoebe — she who has borne so much. When I returned to Portsmouth, I learned that she was thrown into deepest mourning. I rode immediately over to Southampton, but she would not receive me. I tried once more, a few days later, and still she would not consent. And so I began to write— letter after useless letter, all of them returned. I begged her forgiveness. I called myself a murderer. I told her that if I could hurl myself into death in Simon's place, I should have done so in a thrice. But she never read my words.” He looked down at his clenched hands. “No one was more surprised than I when she entered my prison this morning.”

Mr. Hill stirred beside me. “And why do you think she came, sir?”

Seagrave glanced up. “She said that the gossip of the naval set would have it that we were lovers. She told me that the suggestion had pained her deeply, as it must affect my wife. Her marriage to Sir Francis, she believes, may put a stop to such outrage.”

I coloured. If Phoebe Carruthers had reason to fear the gossip of Southampton, then I was certainly the cause. I had thrown the implication in her face in East Street, only yesterday.

But surely, I argued, whatever the woman said was lies! We knew that she had acted as Sir Francis's lure. She merely attempted to throw Tom Seagrave off the scent, as she had attempted to persuade ourselves of her disinterested good.

“No reproach did she utter, for Simon's death,” said Seagrave wonderingly. “No mention of the lad was suffered to pass her lips. The lady is remarkable in her self-command.”

“Why did you seek her in Bugle Street on Wednesday night, if you knew that all entreaty — all explanation — must be in vain?” enquired Frank.

Seagrave started as though slapped by a cold sea wave. “I went in search of my wife, Austen. Surely that has always been obvious?”

“Your wife?” I repeated. “What has Mrs. Seagrave to do with Bugle Street?”

“It is she whom I have endeavoured to protect,” Seagrave returned. “On Wednesday she was so unfortunate as to discover in my desk drawer the packet of letters I had written to Phoebe Carruthers — all returned. She suspected the worst of our acquaintance.”

“And so you thought that Louisa was determined to confront Mrs. Carruthers?”

Seagrave hesitated, as though uncertain how much to reveal. “My wife has been exceedingly unwell for some time. Her aunt — a Lady Templeton — has lately attempted to revive her connexion with Louisa, and unsettled her nerves decidedly. Lady Templeton descended upon Portsmouth on the Wednesday morning, and having denied her visit that day, Louisa declared that she would pay her aunt a call after dinner. She walked over to Lady Templeton's inn about six o'clock, and when she had not returned by nine, I was naturally anxious. I sent a servant to enquire after my wife, and learned she had quitted the place — in Lady Templeton's carriage — some two hours earlier.”

“You thought your wife fled to Southampton?”

“I did. I saddled one of the inn's horses and rode over directly to Bugle Street, convinced that Louisa intended a scene before Mrs. Carruthers. I may say that I lathered my mount unforgivably, and arrived at half-past ten.”

“And found no one at home,” I said thoughtfully. “And Mrs. Seagrave?”

“—Was nowhere in the vicinity. I concluded that Louisa had driven out in a wholly different direction, and at that hour was probably returned to our lodgings in Lombard Street, only to find me gone. I rode home again, at a somewhat more measured pace, and achieved my bed at half-past one.”