The knock on the door was gentle but at the wrong time: Gilbert had taken away the dirty dishes only half an hour ago, and was not due to bring the first course of the next meal - Ramage took out his watch - for another four hours.

Gilbert slipped in and gave a dismissive wave with his hand as he shut the door and saw the look of alarm on their faces.

'The cook and gardener are back, milord. You would not have heard the horse's hooves because of course they came to the servants' entrance.'

Sarah sat down again, realizing that the sudden tension made her feel faint and that Gilbert would be quick to notice if she went white.

Ramage raised his eyebrows, not wanting to betray impatience by asking a question, but he noticed a curious tension in the Frenchman.

'You understand the word "brig", milord?'

'In English? Yes, it is a type of warship.'

'Ah, so they did get it right,' he said. 'Now, the news of the Count is bad, but no worse than we expected: he has been sentenced to transportation to Cayenne: he and fifty-three other déportés are being held in the Château and will sail in a frigate which is being prepared. The ship sails in about a week, the gardener believes: some of her guns, powder and shot are being unloaded to make room for prisoners.'

'What is the name of the frigate?' Ramage asked.

'L'Espoir, so the gardener understands. She was pointed out to him. Boats are taking out provisions, and it was said that carpenters are building special cells. Not to imprison the déportés all the time; only when they are punished.'

Ramage noticed that 'when': Gilbert knew enough of the Republican way to know that no monarchist would reach Cayenne without being punished for something, however minor; an important part of being a staunch Republican was to show that one was a staunch anti-Royalist, and the most effective methods were to betray someone (an easy way of settling monetary debts in the early days of the Revolution was to accuse your creditor of being a secret Royalist: the guillotine quickly closed that account) and to cheer lustily every time the guillotine blade crashed down. A woman had become famous in Paris because she sat quietly knitting beside the guillotine day after day - in three minutes it could dispatch a victim from him standing to his head rolling into a basket.

'We ought to find out exactly when L'Espoir intendsto sail,' Ramage said.

'You hope we can make an attempt to rescue the Count?' Gilbert asked hopefully.

Ramage shook his head. 'You, Edouard, the gardener and me to capture a frigate? Four against at least a hundred, and the garrison of the Château as well if you tried it in Brest?'

Gilbert nodded. 'I grasp at straws, milord.'

'It's all we have to grasp,' Ramage said. 'I had in mind only that if we can escape to England before L'Espoir sails, perhaps I might be able to warn the Admiralty so that a watch is kept for her. But Gilbert, you mentioned a brig. What brig?'

'Ah yes, that was just some gossip the gardener's wife heard. Not the gardener,' Gilbert said tactfully, as though not wanting to cast any doubt on the intelligence of womanhood in Sarah's hearing, 'he was at the meat market, and she heard about this at the fish market.'

Gilbert was a splendid fellow, Ramage told himself, and his only fault is that for him the shortest distance between two points is a well embroidered story. His listeners needed patience, and it was a defect in Ramage's own character, he admitted, that he had been born with little or none.

'Yes, the gardener's wife - her name is Estelle, by the way - overheard two fishmongers discussing a brig which had arrived in Le Goulet the evening before, escorted by a French corvette.'

'Why "escorted"?' Ramage asked.

'Oh, because the brig is English, milord, and with the war now resumed one would expect an escort, no?'

Ramage nodded and managed to avoid looking across at Sarah: he knew she would be hard put to avoid laughing as she saw him struggling not to snap at Gilbert, swiftly drawing the story from him like a fishmonger filleting fish.

'Anyway, this brig has a name like Murex. It seems a strange name, but Estelle was sure because one fishmonger spelled it to the other.'

'Yes, it would be Murex,' Ramage said, and remembered another 10-gun brig of the same class, the Triton, also named after a seashell (not the sea god, as many thought). She had been his second command, and she had stayed afloat during a hurricane in the West Indies but, dismasted, then drifted on to the island of Culebra. By now there would be very little of her skeleton left: the teredo worm would have devoured her timbers and coral would be growing on any ironwork while gaudy tropical fish swam through whatever was left of the skeleton.

'Were many killed and wounded when the Murex was captured?' Sarah asked.

'Killed and wounded, milady?' a puzzled Gilbert asked. 'I don't think anyone was hurt. The captain and the officers, perhaps, but I doubt it.'

Ramage had a curious feeling that he was dreaming the whole conversation: that he was dreaming about a fairy tale entitled 'The Two Fishmongers'. The time had come to be firm with Gilbert.

'Start at the beginning and tell us what Estelle overheard in the fish market. Now, she is in the fish market and she hears two fishmongers talking.'

'Well, she was to buy salt cod. There was plenty of that. Then she wanted some halibut - but she could find none. What, she asked herself, could replace the missing halibut? Bear in mind she would be cooking it: the first cook, Mirabelle, refuses to cook fish: she says that a woman with her delicate pastry should not be asked to meddle with scaly reptiles - that's what Mirabelle calls them, milord, "reptiles".'

'The fishmongers,' Ramage said patiently.

'Ah yes, Estelle was discussing with them what to buy in place of the halibut. She had the sauce in mind, you understand. Well, the second fishmonger joined the discussion, and while Estelle was thinking, asked the first fishmonger if he had heard about the English brig arriving.

'The first fishmonger had not, and the second - his name is Henri, a Gascon, and he has trouble making people believe his stories: not for nothing do we have the word "gasconade".'

'And then...' Ramage prompted.

'Henri then told how this brig had been sighted in the Chenal du Four by the lookouts now stationed on Pointe St Mathieu. Then they noticed the strange business about her flag.'

Once more Gilbert came to a stop, like a murex (or a winkle, Ramage thought sourly) retreating into its shell after every few inches of progress. Dutifully Ramage encouraged him out again. 'What about the flag, Gilbert?'

'She was flying a white flag above the English colours. Had she been captured? the sentries asked themselves. But why a white flag - one would have expected a Tricolore over the English.

'Anyway, they passed a message round to the Château and a corvette which was anchored close by was sent out to investigate. She returned with the English brig following, only now the white flag had been replaced by the Tricolore.

'If you want my opinion, milord' - he paused politely until Ramage nodded - 'the brig had already surrendered, but the corvette met her before she started coming into Le Goulet and put men on board and claimed to have captured her. That way they get a reward.'

They must be optimists, Ramage thought. The British Admiralty courts were notoriously fussy and the agents corrupt when awarding prize money, and he doubted if Bonaparte's Navy even bothered with prize courts. The corvette had been sent out to check up on a vessel already flying a white flag which traditionally meant surrender or truce. He raised his eyebrows in another variation of prodding Gilbert to continue.

'This English brig now flying the Tricolore over the English colours, and with her guns still - how do you say, withdrawn, not in place for firing...'