On Parole in Lisbon

It was quite plausible that a British official would respond to French instead of Portuguese, particularly if he were educated, but who would he have run in the first place? "Then why did he run, if he was only doing his job? Why did he not demand that I lowered my pistol? He was inexperienced in tailing someone, certainly... A robber, possibly." It was not a robber, Stephen's instincts screamed, but there was too much to think about, and nothing he could do now. "Come, I will escort you back to your lodgings."

Raoul shrugged. "Perhaps he did not believe that you would, or not know that you were ... an honest man. I might have been meeting someone much less safe than you. That is why we have curfew, after all, so that we do not get up to mischief in the dark." He turned to walk back down to the lighted street, and said: "You are still not recovered, I think. Mr Dawson will make you a drink, and we can talk... I left a note at the Headquarters asking if you would come to see me. I did not expect it to be so soon, though."

Compose yourself, Maturin, for God's love. "You wished to speak to me?" Stephen frowned. "Did something happen in the hospital?" His eyes widened. "Is Captain Padstowe all right?"

"Captain Padstowe is well, and sitting up, where he can look out of the window. We spoke together, and I left him with the books." Raoul smiled briefly. "I do not know if he will read them, but at least we tried. There must be something there he will enjoy." He drew a deep breath. "I have to talk, but not here."

Stephen closed his eyes. "It is serious then. Well, I must take you to your lodgings in any case. And your men? Are they all well?"

Raoul blinked. "I think so. But you may have ... They are well. Corbeille says to tell you that he has almost no discomfort, and takes exercise regularly, so he has practically back to normal. Aucoin has no problems - no headache or other consequences of his... of the blow. Thierry - Thierry is much better. He sleeps a lot, but when he wakes he ..." He swallowed. "His mind is clear, at last. We spoke."

He did not want to do this - more because of the effect it would have on Dr Maturin's opinion. They said confession was good for the soul, but to confess that you had not told the truth, when you had said was so terrible... He had wanted time to prepare, but this was probably better - he had done enough thinking on the cliff road from Belem.

"That is excellent news about Corbeille - I am delighted to hear it." It was not entirely a lie; Stephen knew that if he could feel anything other than a creeping, growing sense of horror and failure, or the pain in his head, he would feel glad about the trooper's recovery. "And about Thierry also; lucidity is never a bad sign. There was no infection in the arm? I am so heartily sorry for not having gone to see them myself."

"They are receiving excellent attention - Mr Whiting has been to see Corbeille, even in the prison." Raoul was almost too wrapped in his own concerns, but there was something in the doctor's voice that worried him. He started to reach out a helping hand, but stopped. He could not now call on that time, not until he had made his confession.

"He is a good man, and a very capable one; I have every confidence." Stephen deliberately blinked again, trying to clear his vision. "How far is it to Mister Dawson's now?"

Lisbon was confusing, Raoul knew, and knew also that the doctor claimed to be easily lost in towns, but the note in the doctor's voice worried him. He pointed ahead to where the street they were on crossed a broader avenue. "Just across there," he said. "You will recognise where you are, once we reach the avenue." And he would be happier once he was back in Dawson's house - the thought of the man who had been trailing him had him looking round frequently.

"Yes, I... I think I remember now. Of course, yes, I know where we are." And he knew the way to the British headquarters from here; should he ride to Belem, or attempt to find another of the informers? If they were a volunteer, would he be able to manage them? He would not, he concluded - he could barely walk straight - hear what des Sablières had to say, back to Belem to check on Padstowe, then more codes, perhaps. Or an hour's sleep. He could not take laudanum, for he would sleep too long and too deep, but considering that scene in Carneiro's house would he be able to sleep without it? He had not been so affected by the bodies of the Frenchmen - what did that say about him? Was it because he was responsible? Or was it because no one would find them until the morning, the blood cooling during the night, coagulating on the floor and the walls-

Raoul did reach out this time, as Dr Maturin swayed as he walked, almost knocking into him. They stopped, with Dawson's house only a few yards away, with Raoul unwilling to offer more assistance.

"So sorry," said Stephen, not noticing des Sablières' reticence. "A slight headache - I am quite well now. My apologies." He looked up, and recognised the house. "We are here, so; you wished to talk to me?"

They passed through the courtyard into the house, with Raoul noticing with a dull concern that the clock in the hall showed 10 minutes after the hour - a technical breach of his parole. He would not even be able to make the point that he was with a British agent during that time. He opened the door to the parlour and asked the doctor, as Dawson appeared from the back of the house, "Would you like coffee? Or some port. I am sure ... " In the light, he was shocked by the doctor's appearance, pale, his face clenched with pain or some strong emotion. If he could, he would postpone what he had to say.

"Something to drink, port, yes, please-" Something in him told him that port would be too sweet for his stomach. "No, water, if you please. Some water would be nonpareil..." He looked up. "Mister Dawson, good evening to you. I apologise that I call so late - how near is it to your curfew, Capitaine? Are you allowed guests after that time?"

"It does not matter," said Raoul, glancing at Mr Dawson. "Water for Dr Maturin, and - and coffee for me, if you would not mind." He stood back to allow the doctor to enter and sit down. In a quieter voice he said: "I am sure he will report that I came back accompanied by you. I do not think there is a rule against visitors, but I will not worry about it. I..."

"You..." Stephen began slowly, collapsing into a chair. "You will worry about something else, however." He looked concerned. "It is now quite a time after- after sunset - are you sure that we are not late?"

Raoul waved a hand in what was intended to be a nonchalant manner. "I was a few minutes over - but I am sure you will not report me for it. Or if you do... And you are right, of course. I will now worry more about you. A headache? A bad one, I think. Is there nothing you can ..."

He turned away as Dawson came in with water in a jug, and a small pot of coffee, cups and glasses. The man looked curiously at the two of them but did not linger. Raoul followed him and closed the door, before returning to pour a glass of water and put it before Maturin.

"I am sorry. If there is a question, you were with me; all will be well..." Stephen focussed on the glass of water, but did not pick it up. "A headache, but nothing more; no need to worry at all: a superficial sequela." He looked up at des Sablières. "You wished to talk to me, Capitaine, and about something serious, it seems. Are you in any trouble? Can I help you at all?"

"Thank you." Raoul watched the doctor, trying to decide. "It is ... I am not in any difficulties that need to be helped, or in trouble in that sense. I am troubled, but I do not need to add to your concerns tonight. It will wait."

He hesitated for a moment, but it was his business - the man had been following him, not Dr Maturin - and he asked: "Who do you think was following me? I ... I do not know if he was there before I went to the Headquarters or after. It was not until I left the main avenue that I saw him."

"You were probably right; a robber, or an official from headquarters checking that you were remaining within the limits of your parole. He might have come from Headquarters - following someone unnoticed down a busy street is easy even for a novice - it is far more difficult in a deserted alleyway. He could have started trailing you at any time."

Stephen leant against the back of the chair, closing his eyes. "If you went out of your way to the Headquarters so close to the temporal limit of your parole to leave a note for me, I will assume that what you have to say is important, and possibly what is troubling you?"

Raoul studied the coffee pot, the small jug of cream, the sugar bowl, all silver. A pattern of twisted vines on the pot, and grapes on the lid. "It is important to me, but not I think to you - at least, not in any official sense. And I was only late because I delayed writing it and delivering it. And then decided that if I left it until tomorrow, it would not be written at all."

"Nonetheless," said Stephen, opening his eyes and blinking in the light. "It troubles you. If I would be able to put your mind at ease in any way, please allow me to. You have concerned yourself enough with me."

Raoul stared at his hands. He had left the note, because there were implications, but he did not see how the doctor could put his mind at ease. He swallowed. "It might have some implications for you. I do not know. It - it concerns Sergeant Brissac."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph." Stephen pulled his wig off and raked his fingers through his hair. "Go on."