On Parole in Lisbon

Stephen took out a notebook and pencil. "Please begin with where and when you first met them, and their names, ranks and descriptions."

Raoul looked down at his hands. "Captain Delaporte. He was perhaps not a real Captain, but captain of the vessel. I do not know his baptismal name - there was no formal introduction. I met them on the steps of the church of Santa Ana*. They had been inside and... " Raoul blinked and rubbed at one eye, still sticky with sleep. "The other two were lieutenants Joubert and Garnier - Jacques Garnier and Hercule Joubert." He paused looking back up at Maturin. "Why do you need their descriptions, doctor?"

*[OOC: Or some such name]

"So that if I see them I will recognise them for who they are, Capitaine," Stephen said carefully as he scribbled the names down. "Please to continue."

Raoul looked at the doctor, then shrugged. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I have sketches of them, that will be better than any description. My sketchbook is in my room." This felt serious enough that he asked: "I have your permission?"

"You do," Stephen said tonelessly, filled with a great hatred and distaste for this... interrogation. He prayed des Sablières was not overly involved, had not reneged on his promise, had not compromised himself, or...

Odd, Raoul thought as he went back up to his room. The Naval Office in Lisbon would have all that information, and probably sketches, done from life. His had been done from memory, but were pretty good, if he said so himself. So Dr Maturin could not call on the Naval Parole Officer.

In his room, he picked the sketchbook up and flicked through it. Anyone interested in the architectural styles of Lisbon would be delighted, but it was all innocent - a page torn out had been nothing more than a picture of Maturin at Belem with Corbeille, which ought not to have been compromising, but he had destroyed it anyway.

He splashed water on his face - he needed his wits - and took the book downstairs and passed it to the doctor. "They are three pages back from the end. I did them after the first meeting."

Stephen recognised none of the faces, but he studied them closely, committing them to memory. "How many times have you met these men?"

"Twice, sir. Once the day I first came here, outside the church as I said. We spoke, I tried to convince them I was indeed a soldier in Napoleon Bonaparte's army, not a royalist. They invited me for dinner at a restaurant that did not mind French patrons, but I did not go. The next day I told you about them."

"I met them again yesterday, after returning from Belem. I went to dinner with them in the restaurant they favoured."

"Of what did you speak? Relate to me as much of the conversation as you are able." The early morning light was perfect; Stephen shifted in his seat to find a better angle by which to read des Sablières' eyes.

"We talked about the waiter, who spoke French, and how many restaurants did not like French custom, and would pretend that they did not speak the language. And how that lead to the occasional unpleasant confrontation." He thought for a moment. "Of course. We then spoke of our eagerness to leave Lisbon and return to fight for France. They are still waiting their exchange," he said, "and I implied mine was also on its way - it seemed less suspicious - less likely to give rise to other questions." He looked for some reassurance from Maturin.

Des Sablières was not lying, but... "Is there something you are not telling me, Capitaine? I am wondering why, after this evening of pleasantries, one of these men wrote down your address on the back of the restaurant bill and had you followed."

"Had me followed? Did they?" Raoul shook his head. "I had told them where I was living, but..." His eyes narrowed. "The man who was following me? Last night... The man you challenged?" If Captain Delaporte, or Garnier, had become suspicious, they might have followed him. But would they have persisted after he had called at the Army Headquarters. Surely they would have assumed that he had revealed all, and started making arrangements to leave immediately. Why follow him after that? To see if he contacted anyone else?

"How do you know he had the paper?" he asked. "Dear God, was he there when you left? What happened?"

"He was. Please to answer my question, Capitaine."

"Why they should have me followed?" Raoul stared at Maturin. "Are you sure it was them? I do not know of any reason why they should - unless they were still uncertain of me. But they did not seem so last evening." He swallowed, and said: "If they did have me followed, they will not trust me at all - I went from the restaurant to the British Army Headquarters. But what happened after you left here? Who was following me?"

"That is what I am trying to discover, Captiaine - why would they have you followed? The man who followed you, and who on my leaving this place followed me, did not match any of these sketches, but he told me that he worked for the navy parole board, and had been told to discover the contacts of your three officers. I was alerted to the possibility that there may have been elements of untruth in his story when he tried to kill me."

"Tried to kill you? How... Did you kill him?" If Delaporte and his men had left already, then he would be free to talk, but escapes surely took time to arrange... Joubert had suggested it as something to think about, not as a something requiring an instant decision. If they had doubts about him sufficient to pay someone to follow him, they would be certain now that he was a British agent. Which was a terrible thought, in so many entwined ways. He was not going to act like one, at least: if Maturin trusted him to keep his secrets, he could also be trusted to keep his suspicions about the French to himself.

"Stop trying to change the subject," Stephen said, his torn hand beginning to shake. With every new question, Stephen grew more sure that the French captain was hiding something from him, and as much as he tried to trust the man his belief was beginning to slip away. Had he known? Had he offered to accompany him to Headquarters in order to make sure he was eliminated if the other man had not managed it? Was it all some elaborate... The thought was unbearable. He forced himself to slow down, not to make assumptions - it was quite likely that the man would have tried nothing if Stephen had not realised he was being followed.

"I do not know," Raoul said. "Unless it is that they did not trust me - that they thought I was a British agent. And I am not." He found himself unable to meet Dr Maturin's gaze, and looked instead at his hand, now with a fresh bandage. He bit his lip and raised his eyes again.

"Capitaine," Stephen swallowed, des Sablières' eyes meeting his. "Please do not lie to me. If you knew anything that might help me to understand this, would you tell me?"

Raoul met the doctor's gaze with difficulty, but it had to be done. He had said as much as he could without betraying the actual content of that brief exchange. If he lied, and Maturin found out, he would have forfeited even those brief moments of understanding and something that might become friendship. If he told the truth, he had betrayed his own compatriots to retain the friendship of a enemy. It would have to be a lie, then.

"I do not understand it myself," he said. "We had a casual conversation over dinner - nothing to warrant them sending a man to follow me, let alone one who is prepared to kill."

It was an answer, but not an answer to the question he had asked. Stephen looked away sadly. He so wanted to trust des Sablières - had felt the relief of such a burden when he felt that he could, and now there was this seed of doubt that chilled him. He spoke quietly. "Be careful when walking about the city. I broke his clavicle, but I did not manage to kill him. He kept knives hidden up his sleeves. A little taller than yourself, tanned, probably Portuguese."

Cold inside, Raoul listened to the quiet voice warn him to take care. But the description of the man made him exclaim: "But what has such a man to do with French officers? They would not ..."

He stopped, realizing that they would - they would need Portuguese help to escape from the city, probably someone to provide a vessel that would not immediately be missed, and papers in case they were stopped. He breathed in slowly and said: "With a broken clavicle, he may not trouble you again, but if he has friends ... Take care yourself, Dr Maturin. Will he have known who you are - your name, or anything? He may send someone - an accomplice - here..." But to Dawson, the doctor was just that, someone who was involved with the hospital at Belem where Raoul's men had been treated. Would asking him to conceal the doctor's identity be more risky than not. The servants... He stared at Maturin, unable to put his fear into words.

"No name," Stephen said, shaking his head. "He guessed I was with the English, and it would have been foolish to deny it - he might have heard us speaking. He will be able to recognise me, and describe me, I am sure. Apart from anything else, I have this-" he held up his hand - "and another along my side - cuts or scars are the easiest thing to identify one by."

He looked up, and saw the look on des Sablières' face, and softened slightly. "If he had wanted to kill you, he would have had opportunity to come into the house during the night. He might yet make an attempt in the streets - walk only in daylight, and only in busy streets, where there are at least a few other people."

Raoul shrugged, his eyes still troubled. "I am not worried about that. He did not try before, why should he now? But if he finds out who you are..." His mouth twisted. "I shall not linger out after dark, and will go only where other people are. Will you do the same?"

The coldness settled over Stephen's features again. Des Sablières was hiding information that would allow him to understand this mess, and then was showing concern for his safety. He could not trust it, and it felt like a prodigious loss. "I have much to do today, Capitaine. If you can tell me nothing to help me, I should be on my way."