“That is very singular,” I admitted.

“Chessyre had several days' sailing time to consider of his story, before appearing off Spithead in the captured prize. He might have walked the Manon's deck with any number of devils, Jane; he might have been tortured in his mind up to the very moment of going over the side with Seagrave's letters, and only cast his lot for murder as he gained the Admiral's ship to convey his intelligence.”

“He took a formidable risk. What if the British seamen under his command denied the charge against their captain?”

“They probably knew nothing of Chessyre's intent while yet in Portsmouth; they should have been sent out to regain the Stella once the prize was secured. Chessyre seized his moment, convinced that he should be safe.”

“—Acting solely from revenge?”

“And from interest, Jane. A healthy and hopeful self-interest. Eustace Chessyre thought to be made master on the strength of this action — and if Seagrave were removed from the Stella, why should not Chessyre command her? A temporary appointment, perhaps, but one that might satisfy so embittered a man. Never mind that masters and commanders are never posted into anything higher than a sloop: Chessyre was in the grip of delusion.”

“He should better have thrust the dirk into Seagrave's heart,” I observed, “and assumed command of the Stella while yet on the high seas.”

Frank was silent an instant in consideration. Then, with his eyes fixed upon the rain-splashed paving-stones at our feet, he said, “It is one thing to strike down an enemy in the heat of battle; it is quite another to kill a man in cold blood with whom one has sailed year after year. If pressed, I should say that Eustace Chessyre is not above plotting what is devious; he may calculate, and lie, and attempt to turn misfortune to every advantage — but I do not think he would do murder outright.”

“How kind you are!” I cried. “How judicious! The court-martial had better employ your powers of pleading on behalf of your fellow man, Fly. To say that the Lieutenant preferred Seagrave to die at the hangman's hands, rather than his own, is so much flummery. I wonder your man can live with himself!”

“He certainly does not live in comfort,” my brother said. “I have been long enough at war to recognise the stench of fear; it dogs the gundeck before every engagement, it sleeps in the hammocks of unsound men. Chessyre's room was rank with it, Jane. The man is awash in terror, and sinking fast.”

I halted on the street and stared at Frank. “And what do you believe him to fear? Discovery in deceit?”

“I cannot say. Something more powerful than myself, or all the threats I might bring to bear. But in parting with the fellow, I urged him to consider his course — to judge if it were sound — and pressed my direction into his hand. We might yet hope for a visit from the Lieutenant, and a reversion of events, before Thursday morning.”

We walked on, each of us silent, until achieving the turning for Queen Anne Street. There my footsteps slowed, and I gazed down the broad sweep of the High to the huddle of buildings that fronted the Quay. One of these — a squat, square stone structure of ancient date, with a peaked brick roof and windows barred with iron — was Wool House.

“What we require,” I told my brother, “is an impartial witness to the French captain's death.”

“That is exactly what we shall never have,” Fly retorted.

“Do not be so certain, my dear,” I replied. “Never is an unconscionable period.”

24 February 1807, cont.

WOOL HOUSE DATES, I AM TOLD, FROM THE FOURTEENTH century, when Southampton was a far smaller port than it now appears, and the town's habitation was contained entirely between the Water Gate and the Bar. It was built during a period of warfare and constant strife; a period, too, of thriving commerce, when the wool from England's great herds travelled across the sea to weavers in Flanders, and thence to the princes of Florence. Wool House once formed the hub of this trade — a meeting place for the Wool Merchants Guild. They were warm men, quite plump in the pocket, and if indeed it was they who soldered bars to the building's window frames, we may comprehend the value of their fears.

In the interval of five hundred years that stretches between those times and ours, the incidence of warfare borne in ships across the Channel has hardly diminished; but the wool trade has found other weavers to surfeit, other backs to clothe, and fewer pockets to line with guineas. Wool House itself has served many uses: as a customs house, as the offices of the local constabulary, and most recently, as a gaol for prisoners of war. The bars once intended to keep miscreants out, now serve to hold them within.

I turned into French Street, as though merely another lady intent upon securing seats in a box at the pretty little theatre that stood some distance beyond; and lingered before the double black doors that fronted the Water Gate Quay. Two Marines in scarlet dress stood to either side of the arched portal; one was rigid with his sense of duty, but the other allowed his gaze to stray insolently over my form. Without even a second perusal, he dismissed me as unworthy of his attention.

“Pray tell me, sir,” I said in an accent sharpened by suppressed indignation, “whether Mr. Hill, the surgeon, is within Wool House? I have undertaken to assist him in his ministrations to the French.”

The Marine's gaze returned to my countenance with an expression of slow amusement, but his companion — somewhat senior in rank, from his appearance — relaxed his stance and bowed.

“You will find the surgeon within, ma'am — but allow me to urge you to reconsider. Wool House is not a suitable place for a lady.”

He possessed a kindly visage, and his glance was direct; it held neither presumption nor arrogance, but merely the most active concern. I managed a smile.

“May I enquire as to your name?”

“Major Morrissey, ma'am.”

“I am Miss Austen, Major,” I told him, “the sister of Captain Austen of the Royal Navy — and I fully under stand the dangers to which I expose myself. But were my brother laid low on enemy shores, I should wish him to be equally served by the hand of some French lady.”

“Step lively, Stubbs,” the Major urged his subordinate, “and shift the door for the Captain's sister!”

A heavy block was moved — an iron ring turned — a bolt thrown back — and the massive oak doors suffered to swing slowly inwards, while my two protectors lowered the muzzles of their guns to prevent the sudden escape of anyone within. I hesitated an instant on the threshold, my eyes overcome by the blackness of the interior, then took a few steps forward.

“Knock three times on the oak when you wish to be let out,” Major Morrissey urged, “and mind you don't exhaust yourself, ma'am. Recollect that in their right senses, these fellows would as soon blow your good brother to pieces as take a cup of gruel from yourself.”

With a screech of protest as painful as a sinner's wail, the heavy doors swung closed.

I was conscious of an awkward silence, as of conversation abruptly cut off, and then a resurgent murmur of male conversation, and a guttural bark of laughter. The dimness within was not so heavy as I had at first supposed; there were, after all, several barred windows punctuating the massive stone walls, and through the bleary panes of glass a little light must penetrate. Two or three candles burned in niches high above the prisoners. But the room was darkest at my feet, where so many men lay side by side. It was as though the shadows emanated from the sick themselves, to hover like a gathering of souls in the rafters above.