7 June; Partners in crime

Not for the first time, Chevenier found himself wishing he spoke English. All he was getting was the tone of the conversation, and he did not like it at all.

"Do feel free to translate any time now," he told Bright, irritated. Blasted deserters made him nervous as it was, and the entire situation felt decidedly off.

"She's sayin' some nonsense 'bout not tellin' no secrets, sir," Bright answered. "But it's blarney. This'n here ain't her husband. No sorta marryin' kind, him. Dunno what she's on 'bout, really. We're just wantin' to know what she's had to do with them grasshoppers gettin' free."

The turncoat seemed to have acquired quite a skill with the French language. It was probably inevitable when one was surrounded with it day after day. Even these few days in the French camp had seen an improvement of Jenny's ability to speak and understand. But she was still not able to follow everything that the turncoat said. She did manage to latch onto a few important words though.

"Husband - not my husband," she told the officer. "My love. I'm sorry, I don't speak French well. But only me - not him - assisted. I'm sorry, please." She began to cry.

Feeling rather out of his depth, Chevenier looked between Jenny and Bright. And sighed again.

"There, there," he said uncomfortably to Jenny, handing her his hankerchief. "Calm down and tell me what's happened. Then we'll hear your..." here he glanced at Bright once more "husband has to say, and what this soldier has to say. Alright?"

Although, it occurred to him that he would be much better served by having an officer who spoke English with him if he could find one.

And here was one. Captain Dubreuil, insufferable as he was, had been to school in England.

"What now, Chevenier? Breaking girls' hearts again?" He clucked his tongue and spoke in English to Jenny. "Don't waste your tears, my dear. He has a wife. But I do not!"

"What can I say, Dubreuil? I'm just more charming than you are." Chevenier responded with a grin and a wink. He was relieved with the man's arrival - it would certainly be a help.

"She's claiming that she helped the Englishmen escape," he explained. "Though, when I came up, she was upset, shouting that her young man," here he gestured towards Sykes, "was not a spy. I have yet to get the whole story."

Dubreuil looked surprised at this news. He turned to the British pair. "Were you both involved in helping the riflemen escape?"

Sykes bristled; just what they needed, another bloody officer. "No."

Jenny looked lovingly at the redcoat and then spoke to the French officer. "No, I helped them completely alone. He is innocent." She managed to effect an air of heroic martyrdom.

Dubreuil translated for Chevenier and added, "I don't think either of them is quite telling the truth."

"No," Chevenier responded wryly, "I'd imagine not."

The sullen looks on the faces of both men did not match up well with the picture Miss Ross was doing her best to paint for them. However, the question still remained of what any of them had been doing. Chevenier had the distinct feeling that it was not something good.

"You, soldat" he said, addressing Bright, "what do you know of these two?"

"Wait," Dubreuil said, ignoring the soldier. "There was that young lad that the prisoners took with them a little ways, wasn't there? Some of the men found him later, knocked on the head. If this pair were involved, he might know something about it."

"He may well," Chevenier agreed, nodding. "Do you have any idea where we might find him?"

Dubreuil looked at him in surprise. "No. How would I know?"

Despite having been asked a question, Bright found himself unable to reply immediately. Damned officers. Or maybe here was his opportunity.

"I don't know the skirt, sir," he interjected. "Except she was fair friendly wi' a couple of them greenjackets, when they was given to us for mindin'."

The captain looked with some surprise at the soldier who had spoken. He was English as well, from the sound of it. "And what about that fellow?" he asked, looking at the redcoat. He spoke in French for Chevenier's benefit.

"He's heard summat 'bout this'n bein' involved, sir," Bright replied with a glance at Sykes. "Bit of talk 'mongst his mates, like."

Dubreuil frowned in confusion but did not comment upon the reply. "Where are you taking them now? And who's your commanding officer?"

Jenny interrupted again, addressing herself to the first officer. "Please, Monsieur Chevenier. I do not like him," looking at Bright, "and I am afraid. I do not understand. Help me. I talk with you."

Chevenier certainly did not blame the woman for disliking Bright. There was something very unsettling about the man, and Chevenier did not trust him in the least. However, the entire situation was still far too unclear to just let any of it go.

He suppressed another sigh, and silently cursed Leveque. Clearly, this was his fault for getting them involved with the Englishwomen in the first place.

"Why don't you explain to us what happened, Madame," Chevenier asked Jenny, hoping to calm her somewhat. "Tell us about the night the Riflemen escaped, and then about the argument with this soldier here. Then we'll see what happens. Alright?"

She looked from one officer to the other. "I speak English and he speak for me?" She switched languages and addressed Dubreuil. "I had dinner with Monsieur Chevenier and the other officers, and then... I went and told the riflemen how to escape. And I distracted the guards."

Oh please. This was much too easy and too complicated at the same time. Damned girl, Bright thought acidly. Clearly he'd picked the wrong one. Of course, if she could stick to one damned story for longer than a minute...

Chevenier frowned as Dubreuil relayed the girl's explanation. She seemed earnest enough, but the story did not seem right to him.

"How did you distract the guard?" He asked. "For that matter, how did you get there to do so? I'm fairly certain you and your companion were escorted back to the other women."

She spoke in French once again, knowing that it would irritate Sykes.

"I visited the surgeon," she reminded the officer. He must have blocked the unpleasant incident from his mind. "And then, I depart. And the guards - I am beautiful. They are..." She made a show of looking at the sky as if thinking desperately. "They are Kerjean and... Pelletier." She was fairly certain that Kerjean would not have been guarding the riflemen late that night, as he had been on duty all through the evening. And she knew very well that Pelletier was the servant who had cooked their meal. "It's true, it's true! Not him!" she added, looking at her beloved Sykes.

Ah, yes. He had forgotten that she had gone to the surgeon, though he had been under the impression that she had actually been ill. Chevenier made a mental note to ask Pelletier and this Kerjean what had happened.

"They brought you to the riflemen?" he asked doubtfully. It did not seem likely that Pelletier would have helped with such a scheme - knowingly or not. He was increasingly convinced of her "husband's" guilt, over that of the young woman herself. The whole story came across far too much like a desperate attempt to hide something.

"Yes. Or, no. I don't remember," she replied, looking flustered.