'There are one or two things about Stokes, sir. He's been selling liquor to his servant. Brandy and gin. The servant has been buying it for a crowd of drinkers on the lowerdeck. He's tried to borrow money from Orsini and Kenton, against IOUs. Fortunately neither of them have any left.'

Aitken nodded in agreement. 'I'd heard about Kenton, but not Orsini. The liquor is a bad business: we'll be finding seamen drunk on duty in a day or so. Even the best men don't seem able to control themselves while there's another tot left in a bottle.'

Ramage listened to the two men and considered what they had reported. He guessed that both men had deliberated for several hours before saying anything and, but for the ludicrous service half an hour ago, might well have tried to deal with the chaplain in their own manner. 'Pass the word for the wretched fellow - and stay here: I'll need witnesses for what I may have to do.'

Stokes arrived still wearing his surplice but almost glassy-eyed: he had obviously been drinking again, but he was nervous, his tongue wetting his protruding teeth like a scullery maid washing a draining board.

Ramage remained sitting beside his desk, the chair sideways so that his right arm rested on the polished top. He inspected Stokes once again, the eyes, the face, the grubby surplice - and the hands, clasped in front of him like an unctuous prelate or a nervous beggar. He thought for a moment of the Chaplain General interviewing Stokes. It must have been a rare event; clerics had never pounded on his door. The Horse Guards was a more popular port of call; for a cleric the mess of a fashionable regiment seemed to Ramage infinitely preferable to the gunroom or wardroom of a ship of war. The only advantage of serving in one of the King's ships was that it took a man out of the country. Ramage suddenly stared at Stokes. If he was wrong, the Chaplain General's protest to the First Lord would be vociferous, querulous and acidulous. The First Lord would be his usual cryptic self: he would simply order a court martial to be held on Captain the Lord Ramage.

'Ah, Mr Stokes, when you were last here, you said you had never before been in one of the King's ships.'

'That is correct, sir.'

'But the sea is not unfamiliar to you?'

'Oh yes, indeed, sir; I'm a complete stranger to the sea.'

'To the North Sea?' Ramage asked casually. 'To the Irish Sea? To the Marshalsea?'

The knuckles of Stokes's clasped hands turned white; the man shut his eyes and began to sway, but he was forgetting the height of the beams, and when he raised his head he immediately cracked his brow. His body jerked as though someone had hit him with a cudgel and slowly, like a sack of grain emptying, he subsided to the deck in a faint.

None of the three men moved, but Southwick gave one of his disapproving sniffs. 'The Marshalsea - aye, he looks the sort of fellow that's cruised in that jail more than once!'

'Did he escape or was he released?' Aitken mused. 'Or has he been there before and knew his creditors were about to send him back?'

'He's bolting from his creditors,' Ramage said. 'He's been there before and wasn't risking another visit. Probably so much in debt he knew that once inside he'd never get out again.'

The Marshalsea Prison was unlike the Bridewell. Thieves, rogues, murderers and vagabonds sentenced by the courts were sent to the Bridewell. But the Marshalsea was reserved for debtors. A creditor could apply for a court order which, if granted, locked a debtor in the Marshalsea and kept him there until the debt was paid.

'It's the drink,' Aitken said, his voice sombre. 'I'm sure his thirst overtook his pocket. But how did he persuade the Admiralty? Is his warrant forged?'

'No, I'm sure it's genuine enough, though I haven't inspected it,' Ramage said. 'I'm equally sure he's not a clerk in holy orders - he seemed to be conducting the service as if by rote, and we know about his sermons - ah, he's recovering: now he can tell us himself!'

Slowly Stokes sat up, a puzzled expression on his face. His head was obviously spinning from the fall; Ramage had the impression it was spinning the other way from the drink.

'I must have fainted,' he mumbled. 'It's the rolling.'

'I should stay there,' Ramage said. 'Not so far to fall. Now, you were going to tell us about your cruise in the Marshalsea.'

'I don't know what you mean, sir. This is an insult to a man of the cloth - I shall protest to the Chaplain General!'

'We shall not be seeing England again for half a year or more, so your complaint will have to wait. In the meantime, tell me how you obtained a warrant.'

Stokes swallowed and his tongue slid from side to side over the front of his teeth, but his lips were too dry and they stuck on them, giving him a curious, rabbit-like appearance which contrasted with the ferret-like shape of the face.

Ramage said softly: 'Stokes, at the moment you are trying to decide whether to attempt to brazen it out, or admit to what amounts to fraud. There are no courts and judges where we are going. I am the judge and jury. I can tell you now that I do not think you are a clerk in holy orders, despite your warrant, and I shall not let you minister to the ship's company.'

'You could get yourself into a lot of trouble, Mr high and mighty Lord Ramage,' Stokes said viciously.

'Oh yes,' Ramage said, hoping to draw out the man even more, 'I could face a court martial; I could be dismissed the service.'

'That's right; the famous Lord Ramage court-martialled for ill-treating his chaplain. What a scandal that would cause. Be the death of your father, the shame of it.'

'How much did you owe?' Southwick suddenly asked.

'Owe who?' Stokes said sharply.

Ramage said: 'Stokes, you are not a clerk in holy orders; you do not even have the education necessary for a sexton, so let us agree on that. I am not really interested in your debts or why you bolted. I'm concerned only with that warrant. You are not entitled to it, but somehow you got it.'

'Ah, frightens you, doesn't it? You daren't touch me while I have the warrant. That proves the Admiralty believe me.'

'It's issued by the Navy Office, not the Admiralty, and it certainly does not prove the Navy Board believe you. Describe the Chaplain General,' Ramage said suddenly.

The question took Stokes completely unawares. 'Well, he's - he's rather like me. No, perhaps taller. A very nice man; sympathetic, and concerned that the Navy has only the best men as chaplains ...'

'What does he look like?' Ramage persisted. 'Bald, white hair, grey, black, fifty years old or eighty? Does he walk with a limp? Deep voice or shrill?' He had seen him once at Lord Spencer's, and like many such clerics who owed their position to patronage, the Chaplain General was portly and pink, but his nose was an object few would forget: it was purple, bulbous and almost incredibly long, like an elephant's trunk. Also the voice emerging from the bulky cleric was little more than a squeak; not a voice to fill a modest drawing room, let alone a vast cathedral.

Stokes shrugged his shoulders. As the fainting fit receded in his memory and the word 'warrant' obviously took on the role of a talisman, his cunning was returning and with it a shoddy bravado. 'Can't remember; I only saw him for a moment or two.'

'If you saw the Chaplain General only once and at a distance there are things about him you would remember.'

'Well, I don't, and that's that.'

'Get up,' Ramage said, the quietness of his voice making both Southwick and Aitken prepare to move swiftly. Stokes, too, realized that there was a change of mood in the cabin. 'Take off that surplice.'

'Whoa, my Lord!' Stokes protested, 'you can't give orders like that to a man of the cloth!'

'I know, but you are a vagabond, not a man of the cloth, and I'm not having vagabonds walking about this ship disguised as men of God. Take it off or the Marine sentry will strip you bare.'