On Parole in Lisbon

Thinking of the penniless captain's offer to pay him for his services, another thought struck Crozier and he rushed out after them. "Barrow, Chase, you were very kind to move those boxes for me, and very obliging to bring me such a charming guest. You are to see the captain here safely home, and then you are to proceed at once to the nearest tavern where you will both of you enjoy a drink." He handed the coin to Chase, hoping it would forestall any obligation the Frenchman might feel to pay the seamen. He smiled, acknowledged their thanks, said goodbye once more, and then rushed back into the house.

Saturday afternoon
Raoul stood at the gate into the courtyard of Mr Dawson's home and watched the two sailors turn out of the Rua Santa Maria into the Avenida, where they would no doubt lose no time in finding a bar to drink his health. Once inside the house he went quickly up to his room, put on the thicker, more respectable coat, and left. Mr Dawson was in the hall as he left, but said nothing. He still had four or more hours before he had to be within doors, although he hoped that he would be back well before dark. This he did have to do, and do quickly. His first stop was the shop where he had bought shirts, not new, but in good condition. With his bulkier purchases sent back to await his return at Mr Dawson's, he walked down the hill to pay the second of his intended visits.

Sunday
Raoul had woken up to the sound of church bells, from the nearest church to the cathedral on the hill everything seemed to be ringing. He lay still , listening, his eyes closed, aware of the bandage round his arm, and the slight tug of the stitches as he moved his arm. At some point he must have drifted back to sleep, because when he did open his eyes, the light had moved across to shine on the door-frame, golden yellow. He had gone out into that light, with his sketch book and the pencils that Dr Crozier had sent to him - a totally unexpected gift. He had accepted the accompanying invitation to dinner, and to pass the time decided to sketch people as they passed along the avenida in their best Sunday clothes. There was a stone block, part of the original arcading, and sitting on that, his sketch book on his knees, he tried to capture the air of sombre gaiety that he saw. Hardly any one paid any attention to him - another foreigner, treating the Portuguese as quaint and interesting objects for wonder and study.

The bright weather made him long to get out, to go for a ride or just for a long walk. He walked up to the castle, trusting that he would not be followed, that his message had reached whoever was responsible ... Eventually he decided he had had enough exercise, and settled down to sketch the view to the west, the mouth of the Tagus. At about 3 in the afternoon, as the bells rang for Nones, he folded and tied his sketchpad, put Dr Crozier's pencils away in their box, and returned to Dawson's to wash and change to be ready to go to dinner with the surgeon from the Terpsichore.

Monday
Raoul slept badly - perhaps because of the meal he had eaten - and woke heavy-headed, and uncomfortable. Too much food, possibly too much wine, and too much exercise, he thought. The cut on his left arm ached and itched. He knew when he woke that his dreams had been bad, troubled by a deep unhappiness and impending danger, and though he could remember none of the details after he had washed, shaved and dressed, that sense of dread remained. On the way down the stairs he caught his arm on the newel post, and the paint made his breath hiss. He would stay here today, he decided. There was, after all, nowhere to go, and here he could rest.

[From here.]

Stephen stood on Dawson's doorstep, the walls awash with the gold of a hot Monday afternoon, knocking sharply.

The sound of knocking broke into Raoul's dream, filling it with urgency and danger. As he woke, the sketch pad fell from his knee to join the pencils that had already fallen onto the paving of the courtyard. He was on his feet by the time that Dr Maturin was ushered in.

"Thank you, Mister Dawson," Stephen said softly, carefully polite. "Might I have a few moments alone with the Captain? I have some questions to ask him."

Raoul watched as Mr Dawson took his leave of the doctor. He bent to pick up his sketch pad, too quickly, as his sleep-flustered head swam slightly. He looked up to see Dr Maturin and flinched slightly, remembering too clearly their last conversation.

"Inside," Stephen said coldly, struggling to keep his fury under control. He should not be furious, he told himself - he should have expected des Sablières not to care if he lived or died. He should want the latter, in fact. He had played him, been so grateful, so concerned...

"Sir?" Raoul lowered his gaze from the cold stare to straighten the pages of the pad. "I... Yes, of course." He led the doctor to the door into the house, and into the sitting room they had talked in before, where the doctor had fallen asleep on the table... They had understood each other, he thought, that evening.

Stephen pulled the door firmly shut behind him. "I have just gone to see Lieutenant Scott of the naval parole board. He told me that three French officers absconded last night. I wondered if you would care to venture a guess as to their names."

Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. They had got away, and it was known and there was no further need for his silence. "Captain Delaporte and lieutenants Joubert and Garnier," he said quietly. "They have gone then."

Stephen stared at des Sablières, feeling more wounded than he cared to admit. "How much do you know?"

Raoul's eyes flickered away from the accusation. "Please, sit down," he said. It would be discourteous of him to sit before his guest, but he really did not want to stand for this discussion.

"I would rather stand," Stephen bit out - he had grown used to the dull ache in his leg.

Raoul moved to the table and laid the sketch pad on it, standing with one hand - the right one - resting on the back of the chair. "Very well," he said. "I knew - I thought that they intended to escape. I did not know when, or how..." He met the doctor's eyes. "Nor would I have told you if I had."

"Even when you knew that it was putting our lives in danger?" Stephen breathed out, forcing himself to remain impersonal. "How much, exactly, did you know?"

Raoul closed his eyes, briefly. "I was a fool. I heard what Joubert said, and turned them down - not that it was an offer - and ... I never even thought of it again, until you came here demanding that I tell you what I knew. But I could not tell you anything - surely you can see that!"

Stephen snarled, staring fiercely at des Sablières. "You could not tell me anything when a man tried to kill me? And would have tried to kill you? I was trying to protect you, Captain, and you repaid me in lies. Now you will tell me what you know before we both end up dead - who else was in the restaurant? Did they talk to anyone else?"

"Not until now - not until I knew they had gone. And..." Raoul gripped the chair back. "I am not your ally, Dr Maturin. I am French. My first duty ..." He stopped and said: "I did not see them speak to anyone at the restaurant. Other than the waiter, who spoke French. Only..."

Stephen almost took a step back in his anger and his hurt. "Then next time, I will not expend the energy. Do you have any idea what you have become involved in? You have made us both targets for... What did the waiter look like?"

"Why should anyone want to kill me now? Or you? The only thing I knew was that they intended to break their parole and leave... And now they are gone, you say." Raoul stared down at his hand on the chair, then looked back up at Stephen. "The waiter?" He brought the man's face to his mind. "Middle-aged, about your height, but getting fat. A thin face, however, broader across the eyes, and a sharp nose and small chin. Balding. I would swear they said nothing to him - other than to order food. They spoke in French." He breathed in, and tried to remember. "They left before me. I stayed to write a message - the one I left at your Headquarters. I did not watch them go, but... The Captain may have spoken to someone. I am not certain, nor did I see him clearly. I thought... I thought he was paying for the meal."

"I suspect they were being helped by an underground ring - Portuguese smugglers who will help to spirit away prisoners on merchant ships, for the right price. But I also suspect these officers were carrying information for a French spy in contact with this underground ring. If they had you followed and saw you deliver something to the British Headquarters, it is not too much to assume that they think you were informing on them." He felt weary all of a sudden, ans shifted his weight from one foot to the other to restore his balance. "The spy is dead, but they still have reason to kill you, especially if you can describe some of the members of their ring."

It was too much, and Raoul shook his head. "I - Please sit down. I ... " His head still ached, a dull muzziness that seemed to create dark shadows behind his eyes. "I know nothing about Portuguese smugglers." He blinked, and added, softly: "That is the truth, Dr Maturin. They may think I have informed against them, or that I am in truth an agent for the British. But I know nothing except..." Except for the man who had attacked him, of course. He tried to think. French spies, Portuguese smugglers.

Stephen sighed, and finally sat down. "I visited the restaurant after I went to Scott - the place was completely deserted." He reached under his wig and scratched his head. "You knew nothing about these smugglers, or the spy and his messages?"

Raoul shook his head, and carefully pulled out the chair and sat on it. "That is where it was arranged then. I did not even know that. All that happened was... " He rubbed at his temple. "I went there with them just the once. I was - thinking about what Thierry had told me, but they insisted. We talked about going home, and Joubert said if I was keen to get back to the fight... Garnier shut him up and I said I would pay no heed. Though it was obvious what he meant." He looked up. "The spy is dead, you say."

"It seems so - I have several contacts in the city." Stephen glared at des Sablières in a way that indicated that was all the information on the subject that would be forthcoming.