'Perhaps - who knows?' the policeman said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The whole thing is a puzzle.'

'What was stolen from the lieutenant's room?'

'Nothing as far as we know, but —'

'There you are!' Ramage interrupted crossly. 'Nothing has been stolen; all that seems to have happened is my foreman and the landlord's daughter had an assignation in the lieutenant's room. For that I am locked up!'

'I was going to say that the lieutenant was carrying a satchel full of letters and dispatches from Admiral Bruix's headquarters to the Ministry of Marine. Until the lieutenant arrives in Paris we do not know if any of those letters and dispatches were stolen.'

'Why on earth should anyone want to steal a few letters?'

'They are State secrets!'

'In that case,' Ramage pointed out sourly, 'why would anyone steal just one or two? Why not the whole satchel?'

'Be patient,' the policeman said. 'As soon as the inquiries are complete . . .' He left the sentence unfinished and went to the door. 'If you want anything better than prison fare, you can send out to the hotel. You pay for it, of course.'

Ramage found the rest of Sunday the longest day he had ever experienced, but Monday was far worse. The walls of the cell were so thick that apart from a few street noises coming through the tiny window and an occasional sound from inside the building which managed to penetrate the thick wooden door, he might have been sitting on a raft in the middle of the Western Ocean: his sense of isolation was almost overwhelming.

He could do nothing about trying to escape until Wednesday . . . He found himself looking forward to the arrival of the turnkey who brought his meals from the hotel, even though the man was a sullen brute who took an obvious delight in slamming the tray down on the floor so hard that soup slopped over the edge of the bowl and meat slid off the plate on to the dusty flagstones.

The turnkey was his only visitor on Monday, and he spent most of the day wondering what has happened to Louis and Stafford and speculating whether, if he could not escape, he would eventually be given a trial or simply marched out and executed. The inquiries in Boulogne ruled out any chance of his being released. In an otherwise uncertain world, that much was sure enough.

Even as he sat on the wooden cot he imagined a gendarme visiting various offices in Boulogne - no doubt he had been given a list - and systematically asking if they had had any discussions with an Italian named Gianfranco di Stefano, shipbuilder. One after another the officials would say no ... and, with the last office visited, and the last official questioned, the man would return to Amiens and report.

By then the lieutenant would be back after delivering his satchel to the Ministry in Paris. All the seals would have been examined closely. Had Stafford been a little careless this time, a little too confident? Ramage cursed himself for not examining the seal after the dispatch had been done up again. Would it stand comparison with a new seal? Had the wax sagged slightly? Not obvious if you compared it with another one that had not been opened and re-sealed?

They had thought of a clerk - or even the Minister - picking up the dispatch and breaking the seal: unless there was something radically wrong about the impression, it would not arouse suspicion. He had not thought - though perhaps he was being unfair to Stafford, who was a shrewd enough fellow - in terms of the seal being closely compared with others.

The net was gradually tightening; there was no escaping that fact. Evidence would soon be on its way to Amiens from Boulogne that would show that Signor di Stefano was not the man he claimed to be. That evidence would be damning enough, and anyway the police officer would soon hear from Paris. If the report from the Ministry of Marine said that the seal of the dispatch from Admiral Bruix had been tampered with, then Signor di Stefano had an appointment with the Widow across the place without delay. If they found nothing wrong with the seal there might be a respite.

He shivered as he thought that his life might depend on a piece of wax; on whether or not suspicious men in Paris could detect that a wax seal had been opened and stuck down again. His life was balanced, not on a knife edge but on a piece of sealing-wax,

The landlord of the Hotel de la Poste had obviously made up his mind that Signor di Stefano would not be a guest at his establishment again: he was charging exactly double the normal price for each meal, and insisting on a large deposit against the bowl, plate, mug, and tray. Some of the meat was so tough that Ramage had difficulty in tearing it apart with his fingers and, even worse, the tray was too flimsy to use as a weapon.

By two o'clock in the afternoon of Tuesday, Ramage was counting the hours to Wednesday morning, when he could begin to watch for an opportunity to escape. Then the door of the cell swung open unexpectedly. A gendarme walked in with a pistol, motioning Ramage to stand in a corner. A moment later two more gendarmes came in and one of them tossed a pair of irons on the floor by Ramage's feet. 'Put them on your wrists,' he ordered.

As soon as Ramage had fitted them, the man slid a padlock through the slot and locked it. He gave Ramage a push towards the door. 'Come this way.'

Ramage, expecting another interrogation by the police officer, was startled to find himself escorted into a large room in the centre of which was a long table. Three men sat at the table, one in the middle of the far side and one at each end. Halfway between the door and the table was a chair, and the escorts marched him up to it.

The man sitting at the end of the table on Ramage's right was the gaunt police officer, now freshly shaven, with his uniform newly pressed and his cocked hat resting on the table in front of him, as though it was a symbol of authority.

Sitting at the middle of the table was a plump, sharp-eyed man who was not in uniform. His hair was iron-grey and he was watching every move that Ramage made. The third man wore a uniform Ramage did not recognize, but he had similar gaunt features to the police officer at the other end of the table: their eyes were sunken and they reminded Ramage of the paintings he had seen of the Inquisition at work: ruthless men, burning with zeal but cold and detached, who put no value on human life as they sought out heretics with the tenacity of sharks round a piece of bloody meat.

The police officer turned towards Ramage and said: 'This is a tribunal set up under the relevant section of the military code. Sit down and -J

'What am I –‘

‘- sit down and remain silent while the preliminaries are completed.'

Ramage sat down and tried to compose himself: he was an Italian shipbuilder, unwashed and unshaven but on his dignity. He would keep up the pretence for as long as possible, and after that remain silent. Well, perhaps not silent; he would be able to give them a few jabs with his tongue. It was the only satisfaction he was likely to get since they had the guillotine to ensure the last laugh.

'Gianfranco di Stefano?'

Ramage glanced up: it was the man in the centre of the table who had spoken. Now was as good a time as any to start prodding. ‘Yes, but you have the advantage of me.' It did not translate well into French and he suddenly remembered that it was an English phrase. Anyone who spoke English well enough would be suspicious at hearing it said in French by an alleged Italian. The Frenchman smiled; an amiable smile, but also the smile of a man who knew he had all the advantages.

'Signor di Stefano, this tribunal has assembled by the order of the Military Governor of the district of Amiens, and I am appointed its judge. Citoyen Houdan -' he gestured to the police officer, 'is the prosecutor and Citoyen Garlin will present your defence.' Both men nodded at Ramage; cold and distant nods, the kind of nods a farmer gives when selecting particular animals to go to the slaughterhouse.