Jackson suddenly nudged him and Ramage saw a peasant and his donkey coming up the steep track towards them. The donkey, laden, with brushwood, almost hid its owner, who was getting a lift to windward by holding on to the animal's tail. As he passed, he eyed the two men with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

Ramage said a polite good morning and received a grunt in reply. He realized he was still holding his jacket and waistcoat over his arm and his black leather boots were covered in thick dust. He waited until the donkey had towed its owner round the bend in the track, then knelt down to brush his boots with the inside of the waistcoat. Thorns had scratched the leather and sea water had dried to leave salt encrusted in the cracks and round the welts. He rubbed harder and then gave up: only a brush and polish would do much good. He tied the stock and put on the waistcoat and jacket.

He was thankful a seaman's dress was almost universal: Jackson, apart from his light brown hair, would pass for a sailor of almost any nationality from one of the ships in the bay.

'Suits you, sir,' Jackson said with a grin: it was the first time he had seen Ramage out of uniform.

'I feel like a Florentine dancing master.'

They began to walk down the steep track to the town, stepping on stones and exposed pieces of bare rock worn smooth by scores of years' use by donkeys and human beings.

'Hmm, you could find this village in the dark just by following your nose,' grumbled Jackson, sniffing the air which was becoming overladen with the stench of refuse and sewage rotting in the hot sun.

And Ramage, alone with his thoughts, thought to himself, we are looking for a doctor, but we might end up needing an undertaker.

AN UNSHAVEN, shifty-looking manservant ushered Ramage into a long, high-ceilinged drawing-room sparsely furnished in the usual middle-class Italian style - a couple of over-elaborate gilded armchairs, a Murano glass chandelier almost opaque with dust hanging from the ceiling and sprouting stubs of candles, a chest of dark wood with the inevitable coat of arms carved on the front covered with peeling paint and gilt, and a long, sad-looking couch covered with silk, the woodwork crudely lacquered.

The two small, high windows facing south had glass in them, but little light penetrated the layer of grime and fly spots. Just why did the sofa look sad?

'The doctor will be down in a little moment,' said the servant and went out, closing the door.

The man had not seemed suspicious; nor the peasant who had directed them to where 'II Dottore' lived, at the Casa del Leone, the House of the Lion, which was just below the Fortress and almost completely overshadowed by it.

Ramage, who had left Jackson outside on guard, waited for more than ten minutes before the small door opened at the far end of the room and a tubby little man in spectacles trotted in. He wore a velada, the long coat with tails which, gathered at the waist, spread out behind like a fan and gave him the air of a self-important pigeon. Nevertheless, his manner was deferential.

'It is indeed an honour to receive a visit from Il Conte,' he said, rubbing his hands as though washing them.

Ramage, when asked his name by the manservant had merely said 'Conte Brrrra', deliberately slurring the name: it was too risky either to use a real name, or invent one. He went through the ritual of introducing himself, again slurring the name, knowing the little doctor would never dare risk a snub by asking him to repeat it.

'How can I assist your Grace?' asked the doctor.

'A small matter - of no vast importance,' said Ramage, playing on the man's vanity, 'and one for which it grieves me to bother you; but one of my suite has been hurt in an accident: some damage to the shoulder ... I would wish that...'

'Of course, of course, your Grace.'

The little man was perhaps a little suspicious: he was still rubbing his hands, but at the same time studying Ramage warily over the top of his spectacles. Was it the accent?

'... Where is the patient, your Grace?'

'Not far from here.'

'On the road to Orbetello?'

'Yes, on the road to Orbetello.'

‘Your Grace ... your Grace will forgive the question - your Grace is a foreigner?'

So it was the accent. 'No, but I have lived abroad since childhood.'

Ramage saw the doctor was covertly eyeing his boots: but they would reveal nothing because, though scratched and torn, they were obviously of good quality. The little man inspected the coat and waistcoat. Again, excellent quality, with the finest embroidery and gold buttons — thanks to Pisano.

‘Would your Grace bring the patient here, please?' he asked finally.

'Unfortunately that is not possible: I am afraid to move her.'

'A lady? But a shoulder injury - there would be no risk if she came in your Grace's carriage.'

'That is the difficulty: all three of my carriages are damaged - hence the injury to this lady,' said Ramage, surprised at how easily the lies came but annoyed he'd forgotten to make up a convincing story. 'And as for moving her - I would not like to take the responsibility: she is ...’ He hesitated deliberately, careful to put the emphasis in such a way that the doctor's curiosity would be aroused,'... she is someone very dear to me, you understand.'

Clearly the doctor did not: Ramage hoped he would imagine they were an eloping couple, but instead the little man seemed to have made up his mind about something.

'Your carriages, your Grace: where did the accident occur?'

'About two miles outside the town: a wheel came off the first coach and the other two ran into it. A wretched business.'

The doctor looked down at his hands and then brought them together, so the fingertips touched. He glanced up over the top of his spectacles again, and said cautiously, as if unsure of Ramage's reaction to what he was about to say:

'Your Grace will probably understand my reluctance to rush to your assistance when I tell you the road from Orbetello cannot be used by carriages: it is simply a track. Therefore I have difficulty in understanding how the accident occurred...'

He obviously had more to say and Ramage waited.

'However, we have just received reports that a British warship is in these waters: indeed, just before dawn today it sent boats into Port’ Ercole, stormed the batteries, and captured several ships at anchor there. Your Grace speaks perfect Italian, but he does pronounce one or two words with just a hint - no more, I assure you - of an English accent....'

A cutting-out expedition just before dawn! Hell, he must have missed seeing the damned frigate by only a few hours. Had she been sent to meet him at the rendezvous? Hardly - there would not have been time.

 So the doctor was suspicious - but not unfriendly. Well, here goes, he thought.

 'Do you mean to say those impudent English have dared attack Port' Ercole?'

'Why yes,' exclaimed the doctor, obviously taken aback. 'From under the guns of the fortresses they towed out two French ships, and burnt others, in spite of the fact that we are neutral in this present unhappy conflict, even if we cannot stop the French coming and going as they please. But the British...'

 'They are scoundrels! Do you think their ships will come here?'

 'Oh no,' exclaimed the doctor, puzzled by Ramage's atti­tude. 'No, no — you have seen the fortress: how it guards the port. Those guns - my God, the last time the garrison fired them they broke all the glass in my windows! They are big guns: no ship could survive. And French artillerymen have taken them over.'

 Ramage stopped himself glancing up, but remembered noticing the glass had not been cleaned for months: yet they faced the muzzles of the guns on the seaward side of the for­tress. So much for the amount of firing practice the gunners were allowed.