Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Except that your message was intercepted,” suggested Frank, “and instead of a British ship, you were collected by the Manon”

“Indeed. You know it all. I was seized by Porthiault himself and locked into a cabin, without so much as a word to the Manon's crew. I feared the worst — my plot exposed, my uncle's name besmirched, his fortune confiscated, and my aunt degraded. My trial and execution would prove a sensation; but of that I thought nothing. I believe my most bitter sensation was one of regret. I had intended to avenge the death of Genevieve — and I had failed.”

“And then Seagrave attacked,” my brother said.

“—Barely six hours after I was pulled off Corunna! One of the first British balls destroyed the wall of the cabin in which I was held; I freed myself from my bonds, dashed out onto the deck, and was handed a weapon as a matter of course by the frenzied crew. I used it to despatch Captain Porthiault; he was the only man on board ship who knew the truth of my crimes. Then I descended to the cockpit hold, and made myself useful in attending to the wounded who collected there, for the Manon had sailed without a surgeon.”

LaForge set down his teacup with an air of finality.

“I believe we understand the rest,” said Mr. Hill.

Jeb Hawkins stood and extended his hand. “I should like the honour of shaking yours, mon-sewer, as a cool-headed cove and no mistake.”

The Frenchman smiled faintly, and grasped the Bosun's Mate's paw.

“But, Monsieur LaForge,” I attempted, “would you suggest that the Admiralty intended for Captain Seagrave to take you off Corunna? And that the interception of your communications by Captain Porthiault was merely a dreadful mistake — the engagement of the Manon an extraordinary piece of luck on your part — and the whole episode of Chessyre's treachery a matter of happenstance, rather than design?”

The Frenchman studied my face. “That is how it appears, mademoiselle, does it not?”

“Did the Admiralty possess any intelligence of your seizure?” I persisted. “Could they have known, at the event, that you were taken by the French?”

“I must think it unlikely.”

“You made no attempt, while a prisoner at Wool House, to reveal your identity to the authorities — beyond this vague plea for sanctuary on British shores.”

“I feared a spy in the Admiralty,” LaForge said quietly. “Few persons were aware of my existence or plans. It was possible, I thought, that my friend at the Sorbonne had been betrayed — that he had broken under the methods of Napoleon's police — but it was equally possible that an English traitor had exposed me. Silence, and caution, appeared the only guarantors of safety. But when I heard of Miss Austen's anxiety for Seagrave — of the court-martial and its terreurs — I saw an opportunity to bargain. That much I might do.”.

A silence fell — a silence heavy with indecision and doubt

“We must regard the sealed orders as entirely above-board,” Frank said abruptly. “Sir Francis Farnham should be unlikely to risk the life of an agent — particularly one bearing such vital information — merely to despatch a jealous rival. I cannot believe that even so arrogant a man would place his affairs before those of King and Country.”

“Nor can I,” agreed Mr. Hill.

“Unless,” countered LaForge delicately, “Sir Francis betrayed the Grown long ago. He is perfectly positioned, is he not, to play havoc with the Emperor's enemies?”

Frank's eyes widened; the idea of such perfidy — such conscious working at deceit — was utterly new and repugnant to him; he must recoil, he must refuse the knowledge. I thought fleetingly of my cynical friend, Lord Harold Trowbridge; not for him the innocence of a post captain. He should have weighed and considered the Baronet's guilt long before.

“We cannot determine whether Sir Francis is capable of both murder and high treason on the evidence of this man alone,” said Mr. Hill, as though privy to my inmost thoughts. “What remains for us is to guard his life and the secrets he holds. Where, if I may ask, are your uncle's documents now, Monsieur LaForge?”

“Where they have been for the past six weeks,” he calmly replied. “In the hollow interior of my walking-stick. Do you have it still?”

Without a word, Mr. Hill rose and went to a cupboard near the hearth at the rear of the room. He withdrew a slender parcel wrapped in white cloth, and unwrapped it reverently.

“The catch is designed to open at my hand,” observed LaForge, turning the stick dexterously in his elegant fingers. “I do not believe the Marines of Wool House have even considered of it. There!”

The silver knob fell off into his palm, and a tight roll of yellowed papers slid from the tube. “If you will guarantee me safe passage to London, I shall carry the papers there myself.”

“London!” said Frank, with an eye for Mr. Hill. “That is bearing the viper straight to Sir Francis's breast.”

“Sir Francis is as yet in Southampton,” returned Mr. Hill pointedly. “But I cannot be easy in Monsieur LaForge's safety. Sir Francis will know, even now, of the fire on the prison hulk; he shall enquire, and he is not a fool, as to the fate of LaForge.”

“Perhaps it would be better for us all if LaForge had died,” I said slowly. “Then the eyes of enquiry should turn elsewhere, and leave us all in peace.”

Mr. Hill stared at me in surprise and consternation. Then he seized my meaning, and his looks altered.

“A fortunate death?”

“With a certificate affirming the hour and cause, penned by a reputable surgeon.”

“—One who had seen the patient often in his care,” Frank said quickly, “and must be trusted to know the man and his condition. It is imperative the news of the Frenchman's death be published at once.”

Etienne LaForge thrust himself to his feet, his headless stick held before him like a sword. His face had drained of colour.

With a sudden movement, Jeb Hawkins placed himself between the Frenchman and my brother; in his hand was the seaman's knife he had used to cut my dreadful knot

There'll be no murder done tonight, gentlemen,” he said warningly, “unless it's your blood I shed in defence of a brave man.”

Frank gaped — Mr. Hill nearly choked — but I burst out in shaky laughter.

“Not murder, Mr. Hawkins — only its parody,” I told him. “We mean to hide our friend in the surest way we know, by declaring him dead, and smuggling him out of the city.”

The Bosun's Mate went still. He considered my words an instant then let out a low, admiring whistle. “The lads at the dockyard allus said as the Cap'n was a rare fighting gentleman, miss — but you're no dithering ninny, neither.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Hawkins. Will you put up your knife, and fetch a hackney chaise? My brother, I am certain, will bear the charge.”

Sunday,

1 March 1807,

cont.

THE BOSUN'S MATE HAD ONLY TO COMPREHEND WHAT was wanted, to devise a suitable plan.

“Yon Frenchman is not fit to take the mail to London,” he decided. “He's as weak as a newborn lamb, and that's a fact. And though he speaks the King's English to admiration, he's not without the sound of foreign parts; there'd be those as were curious how a Frenchie came to travel our roads as free as a lord.”

“A private hack might answer,” said Frank impatiently.

“—but for the powers of Sir Francis,” persisted Jeb Hawkins. “That roguish gentleman has only to learn of the Captain's hiring a conveyance at the Dolphin, to have the chaise followed and waylaid on the road.”