"Oh, I chose the coward's way out. Rang the bell for a maid, sent her for Alexis, and told her that unless she gave this tradesman's son his congé, I'd have to meet him at dawn and kill him, except that I had a strict rule against duelling with tradesmen's sons."

"And that did it?"

"As far as this dandified soldier was concerned, yes: he retreated with a red face. Alexis then nearly fought a duel with me!"

"What on earth for?"

"Oh, she felt sorry for the fellow (after I'd got rid of him) and said there was no need to throw 'trade' in his face just because his father owned half a dozen mills in Lancashire and recently bought a title."

"She had a point," Ramage said sympathetically.

"You're as bad as she is," Yorke complained. "I'm the innocent party carrying out his sister's orders, and the damned soldier wants to spit me on the end of an épée or put a pistol ball in my gizzard. All because my sister gets too flirtatious and -"

"- and what?" Alexis said from the door.

"I was telling Nicholas about that wretched soldier who thought I'd locked you up and wanted me to get up at dawn and clang swords or pop pistols with him."

"Oh yes, you really did behave disgracefully towards that poor fellow," she said.

Yorke looked at Ramage and sighed. "Don't encourage her," he said, "otherwise she'll expect me to send him a case of claret with an apologetic note."

She had changed into a close-fitting wine-red dress, so close-fitting that Ramage found himself wondering how she had got into it. Her hair was now swept up in a style which emphasized her profile, and she looked every inch the calm hostess: not a hint of a stifled sob, her eyes clear.

Ramage suddenly realized that she was watching his eyes.

"A good maid is worth a queen's ransom," she said and smiled. "Dinner is being served in five minutes."

In his cabin on board the Calypso, Ramage was sleepy from too large a dinner but otherwise clear-headed because he had refused all wine and the Yorkes had not pressed him. He waited for Bowen to make himself comfortable in the armchair; both Aitken and Southwick sat on the settee.

Bowen had only just returned from the Jason: he had not waited to change his spray-spattered breeches, although his dry boots showed he had paused to get out of ones which had been sodden by the water in the bottom of the boat.

"You mentioned a written report, sir," Bowen began tentatively. "At least, I thought at first that you did. I now realize that I was completely mistaken: that all you really wanted was a verbal report on any conversation I might have with Captain Shirley."

Ramage sat back and considered carefully what Bowen had just said. He had told Bowen to go over and examine Captain Shirley, and return to write a very detailed report on the man's condition which he should sign, with one of the Calypso's officers witnessing his signature. Name, date and location. Now, Bowen is saying, in a roundabout way, that he did not hear him refer to a written report. Something has happened, or Bowen has discovered something (or not discovered it) that he does not want to put into writing and he is trying to avoid involving Aitken and Southwick in anything that can later be construed as conspiracy.

"Yes, indeed, you were mistaken," Ramage said. "Well, now we're all together can I offer any of you gentlemen a drink?"

They all shook their heads. "I was offered enough on board the Jason to have floated her out of a drydock," Bowen said. "Those gunroom officers . . ." He shook his head at the memory. "The third lieutenant stuck his head in a bucket of sea water before going on watch."

"To make his hair curl, or does he find it puts him in the right mood for handling the ship?" Southwick inquired.

"To sober himself up enough to walk comparatively straight. It's not a bucket but a tub: they have one outside the gunroom door. One day someone is going to be so tipsy he falls in and drowns, unless the Marine sentry fishes him out."

"Come now, Mr Bowen," Ramage said, assuming a suitably formal manner. "Tell us about your visit to the Jason. It must make a pleasant change for you to visit another of the King's ships. I trust you were also able to deal with any medical matters arising since the death of the Jason's surgeon."

"Yes, indeed, sir. Nothing like a dead surgeon for increasing the sick list. There's not a man in that ship, from the captain downwards, who hasn't got an ache or pain somewhere since the day they buried the surgeon. That is why I've been such a long time," he explained to Ramage. "I've treated more men on board the Jason in an hour than I've had sick in the Calypso in six months."

Southwick sniffed and brushed his hands together in a dismissive movement. "That's easily explained," he said. "Our chaps are scared stiff of you. Belly? Here, take this soap pill. Chest? Here, take this soap pill. Head? Ah yes, a soap pill is a sovereign remedy for afflictions of the head. You work miracles, you scoundrel. No matter what any of our fellows may contract, there's nothing that doesn't vanish the moment the sufferer thinks about one of your 'sovereign remedies'."

Bowen looked carefully at the master. "Tell me, old friend, for how long have you been suffering with this acute pain in the back that almost cripples you on a cold, damp day? And those rheumy eyes - shouldn't you be thinking of retiring? Perhaps we could get you a berth somewhere as 'mine host' - the landlord in a comfortable old hostelry with a blazing log fire, a lad to help roll the casks off the brewer's dray when it calls once a month (and lift the kegs of brandy from the smugglers' horses, too), and all you need to do is give a sharp tap to start the bung ..."

Southwick grinned, admitting that Bowen had won this round in the continual teasing between the two of them.

"We were talking about the Jason," Ramage said, "but somehow we became involved in finding Mr Southwick's bung-starter ..."

"Ah yes. Well, sir, I went on board the Jason, as you know, and Captain Shirley was expecting me. He was wearing that black coat but was otherwise quite normal. He invited me down to his cabin and offered me rum, gin or wine: he made rather a point that those were the only choices. But I am afraid that was the only example of slightly strange behaviour, and even that is not very strange if he does not have much choice of drink in his locker."

"So what did you talk about?" Ramage asked.

Bowen laughed quietly, as though enjoying a private joke. "Well, he told me about the surgeon dying, and how good a man he was, then described the size of his sick list and asked if I would examine some of the men. I agreed because it seemed it might give me a good chance of questioning them about other matters of more immediate interest to us. Then, very tactfully (by his standards, but rather like a particularly clumsy bull trying to cross a flower garden undetected), he started to ask me about you, sir."

"Me?" Ramage exclaimed. "What on earth did he want to know about me?"

"He asked in a very roundabout way with about thirty very carefully phrased questions, but there was no doubt what he was asking."

"Bowen, stop grinning like a parson who has just received ten times as much as he expected from Queen Anne's Bounty!"

The more he thought about it, the funnier it seemed to Bowen. "The trouble was, sir, I didn't know what answer to give. It all depended on one's point of view."

"Oh do stop guffawing like a schoolboy. What was Captain Shirley trying to find out?"

"If you were mad, sir."

Ramage joined in the laughter. "What point of view did you put forward, eh?"

"I avoided committing myself," Bowen said.