Padstowe's Lodgings

"Why the Beau?" He knew of Jack's nicknames, of course, most of them very complimentary, and he knew that some of the sailors had a few choice ones for himself, but he wondered if Wellesley knew of this nickname, and what he thought of it. Had his officers known him in Ireland? He couldn't imagine Wellesley liked that very much.

Padstowe blinked. It was fairly obvious to him why.

"Because he is," he said simply. "Well, at least he fits the description. He always dresses elegantly and to his advantage, shaves twice a day, isn't at all bad-looking and is rather successful with the ladies; that is when he thinks to try. Most of the time he is too busy to be deviant, but even so he has his admirers."

Of both sexes, Padstowe thought as he remembered the unwelcome personage of Lord Pumphrey.

Rather successful with the ladies - he was almost amused. "Ah. I see, I see." He rubbed at his own chin self-consciously, raspy with five days' growth.

Padstowe did not look his best either - he looked exhausted, and horribly pale, and Stephen cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. "Jon-" He stopped, biting his tongue. Now that they were back in Lisbon, and all the talk between them had been so professional, with little hint of the feeling of friendship that had been present even before they entered Obidos, Stephen did not know whether Padstowe would appreciate being called by his first name by him. He felt a sense of something that could almost be called loss. "Wellesley does not need this by dawn. We can finish it tomorrow, or Hogan can try his hand. You have done enough."

Padstowe frowned a little at Maturin's "Ah." Well, he did not know if that despcription of his C-in-C were entirely true, but having seen him at a couple of balls he thought... The part about his always dressing elegant certainly was, though, and that was enough to earn the name of 'Beau'.

He rather sensed that stephen was deliberately providing him with a way out, though truthfully nothing they had uncovered so far would effect the march the day after tomorrow. He felt inclined take the offer.

"Perhaps you are right," he said grudgingly, wiping off the pen. "It is late. And i do confess that I feel the need for my bed. What time shall I be seeing you tomorrow, Stephen?"

Stephen smiled warmly. "I do not know what time I will wake, and as the instigator of this trip I feel I must report in - I haven't even seen Hogan yet. And I must mix you up a physic. If you would not mind another late night, perhaps the same time tomorrow? What time is it now?"

Padstowe reached for his watch from the beside table and flicked up the lid.

"A quarter to midnight."

"Well, a little earlier than this, but if you have plans for dinner it will need to be after that. I need to the bells to tell the time, so would a quarter past ten suit? I do not know at what time soldiers dine - would that be too early? Too late?"

"Usually we dine at seven or eight, but it can drag on quite a while if- if we get chatting."

He decided to leave out the 'if there's enough wine'.

"I think a quarter past ten should be best, should I receive an invitation, which I doubt I shall. I do not have many acquaintances in Lisbon, and most will possibly be too occupied to throw much of a dinner. I shall send word if I am, though."

"Good - a quarter past ten then." Stephen stood, and pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers. "This is my address - it is near to the cathedral, yes?"

"Yes."

Padstowe committed the address to memory and then handed it back to the doctor.

"I shall see you then. I hope you shall have a decent rest tonight, Stephen," Padstowe gave a small smile. "I believe you have earned it."

Stephen returned the smile. "You too, to both. I doubt I will have any trouble with insomnia tonight. I apologise again for disturbing your bath." He picked up his own folder and his crutch and went to the door, opening it. He turned his head. "Thank you, Jonathan." He closed the door behind him.

Padstowe turned from the door, running a hand through his still-damp hair. It had certainly been long evening, and now that he had nothing else to concentrate on he was feeling very disgruntled that he had not changed, or dried off fully. He felt the bathwater - cold now of course. The senhora would probably be up to get it soon, once she had seen the visitor out of the house, and he set about clearing up the papers, bundling them together and placing them back beneath the floorboard.

He then picked up his towel to continue drying off his hair. He was determined that he would sleep well tonight.

After bidding farewell to Padstowe's landlady (who insisted on giving him a handful of tea-leaves, when she could not persuade him to drink a cup before he left), Stephen slowly made his way through the dark streets of Lisbon. He doubted he would meet with much trouble - he looked far too poor to rob - but he worried for his papers, and about the possibility of meeting a drunken gang of soldiers. It was not without relief that he found his lodgings, though they were forbiddingly dark.

He knocked for several minutes before a candle was lit and the door was opened to him by a man in his late sixties, a nightshirt and nightcap. Of course there was no bleeding chance of a bath - your things are upstairs - I might be able to spare a bowl of water, you ungrateful swine. Stephen ignored him, and tramped up the stairs, taking a wicked pleasure at how long the ascent took him, the landlord swearing behind him.

Stephen's room was long and dark, with a desk and a low bed in it - he lit two of the candles, and asked the man for hot water. He sullenly brought up a bowl of cold water, and then stopped, staring, in the doorway as he saw Stephen emptying the pockets of his dirty, torn, bloodied trousers; heavy gold coins bouncing on the blanket. "Ex- excuse me, senhor - here is your cold water, the rest is heating."

"Good, good," Stephen murmured, not really listening. His uniform coat had arrived and been sent on, as had his sword. It was shockingly old-fashioned, straight, thin and light, with a crossguard, as though it had been discovered in the attic or above the mantelpiece in the house of a very absent-minded don, struck by poverty but clutching to his centuries-old nobility. As per his instructions, the blade had been darkened in a furnace to imitate the effect of tarnish, but it was solid. It had been a cheap thing to buy originally, and the modifications were small, but delicate. The cunningly designed hilt, with its concealed spring in those endearing quillons, turned a cheap weapon into a murderous instrument of deadly precision, if one had the bravery and self-disregard to properly utilise it. Stephen had both.

Two bowls of hot water were brought up, with towels, his landlord apologising profusely for the lack of a proper bath. He would shave in the morning, but it was heavenly to strip and wash - he had not since before he killed Prideaux. He had plenty of bruises, but he ignored them, and Padstowe really had done an admirable job on his leg. Dressed in a nightshirt, he fell into bed, luxuriating, his laudanum bottle lying disregarded on the desk - he was too tired to need it.

He could not sleep.

He lay in the bed, the candles extinguished. He had been angry with Padre Miguel, for trying to comfort him during his confession, for being a human being with fears and loyalties, instead of the impartial divine agent the sacrament called for. The apothecary, Rosa - he had only tried to help him. But in his worry for Jonathan he had pushed him aside with an arrogant civility that disgusted him.

His eyes grew hot. He drained the bottle.