Sinclair stared back at him, his face expressionless. ‘You’ll get your chance to speak,’ was all he said in the end before shutting the door behind him.
∞∞∞
Present day
Christian Stanhope stared unseeing into his morning coffee. As he mulled over them, the events of the night before began to seem more and more like some kind of fanciful dream. Why the devil had he agreed to allow a clergyman, a curate and a chit of a girl to help him locate a killer? In what world could that ever end in anything less than a bloody disaster?
If he had any sense at all, he would advise Nicholas Sinclair of exactly what had transpired, and beg him to forbid the three amateur detectives from involving themselves further.
What a deuced mess. He should never have attended the Duke of Blackmore’s ball. Oh he’d been well aware that the invitation had been sent in error, but it had seemed like a good way to inform Nicholas Sinclair that he was back in England. He chuckled darkly. At least it had seemed so at the time, reasoning that in a room full of people, his grace was less likely to draw his cork on sight.
He had no idea how he was going to finally convince the Duke that he really was no murderer. But more than that, he’d hoped to enlist Sinclair’s help in locating the true culprit. And so far, all he had to go on was a bill of sale dated the 3rdFebruary 1799.
It stood to reason that Barnet must have observed Witherspoon doing something forbidden, which got the Third Lieutenant killed. That something could only have been the theft of an item from the Maltese treasure chests - something small and easy to hide.
Whatever it was, Witherspoon couldn’t risk stashing it somewhere aboard theSensibleas he might never have chance to retrieve it. And hiding it on his person would have been suicide. So his only alternative was to swallow it.
It had to have been a gem. One valuable enough to fetch plenty of coin, but not easily traced.
Since he’d been back in England, Christian had visited every jewellery shop in London that he knew had been in business back in the late 1700s, searching for one who had sold something small and valuable in 1798 or 1799. Naturally, since selling small, valuable items was a jeweller’s business, there were an abundance of transactions. But Stanhope was specifically looking for an item with no previous history. Which was more of a rarity than one might think since it usually indicated a stolen item, and no jeweller is likely to admit to selling on pilfered goods.
Eventually, he visited a jewellery shop in Belgravia who had sold a particularly fine ruby to one Lady Winthrope. The jeweller in question stated that this particular ruby had been offered for sale by a military man who claimed the gem had been a gift from Egypt.
Whilst always on the lookout for obvious signs that a stone had been thieved, the jeweller was also an astute businessman who knew he couldn’t afford to look such a gift horse in the mouth. Consequently, he agreed to find a buyer as long as he received a twenty percent cut. And that, as far as he was concerned, was that.
When Christian had questioned whether he could remember what the seller had looked like, the jeweller had scoffed that it had been sixteen years ago.
However, as the Earl was leaving, the man stopped him just as he was about to walk through the door. ‘There was one thing,’ he mused, his brow creasing as he endeavoured to remember. ‘The fellow had a scar over his right eye. Not very big but it sliced right through his eyebrow. Didn’t do anything for his looks, especially as I recall him being a bit Friday faced, even without the disfigurement. Looked like he hadn’t had it that long. It was still red and angry, like it had gone bad at some point.’
Christian took a sip of his coffee. Witherspoon hadn’t had a scar when last he saw the bastard, but if he’d come by it before leaving the navy, Nicholas Sinclair would likely know about it. And mayhap it would finally tip the scales in his favour.
∞∞∞
2ndJuly 1798
‘Stanhope… Stanhope…Stanhope! Initially, Christian thought he was hearing things, but eventually he realised the insistent voice was actually somebody speaking to him. Blinking, the Second Lieutenant lifted his head and stared groggily through the bars into the darkness. As far as he could tell, it was the middle of the night. Definitely past midnight–he could remember hearing the bells signalling the watch before he finally fell into a fitful sleep.
Groaning, Stanhope rolled over and climbed to his feet.
‘We’re nearing Crete,’ the disembodied voice hissed. ‘Can you swim, Sir?’ Christian frowned, trying to make sense of the question and the voice, and grunted in frustration. ‘Wither’s means to see you hang,’ whoever it was pressed urgently. ‘He’s promised Fletcher a reward once we put ashore if he backs his story. Your only hope is to swim for it, but even if you can’t, I’d say drowning’s a better way to go than swinging from the bleeding yardarm while the bastards are aiming kicks at your feet.’
‘Who are you?’ questioned Christian, peering into the shadows. He could see the outline of a figure but couldn’t place the voice.
‘Best you don’t know, Sir. I’m goin’ to unlock both these doors, but then you’re on your own. I ain’t risking being cropped alongside you.’ The figure stepped up to the bars, his cap pulled low over his head, shielding his face. Swiftly, he unlocked the door, then with a whispered, ‘God speed, Sir,’ he was gone.
For a few seconds Stanhope stood rooted to the spot. The bastard who’d killed Barnet was Witherspoon. The snake had undoubtedly pilfered something valuable from the Maltese treasure. Likely, it was Barnet who caught him at it.
The second lieutenant placed his hand on the bars and pushed. The door opened with a squeal. He made to step through before hesitating. If he fled now, he’d never get to prove his innocence, but then he knew more than one dead man who’d gone to the gallows swearing they weren’t guilty. Cursing under his breath, he tiptoed towards the outer door, expecting it to be thrust open at any second.
The room was almost pitch black, the only light guiding him coming from beneath the door. Pausing on the threshold, he waited for his heart rate to stabilise, then pulled it open slightly, enough to peep through into the small square room on the other side. The weak light came from the top of a short set of stairs. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the brig and crept towards the steps. He knew they lead aft, behind the main mast. If he was careful, he’d be able to slip overboard without anyone the wiser.
Heart in his mouth, Christian carefully placed his foot on the first stair, then the next. It took him nearly five minutes to climb the ten steps, and by the time he got to the top, the sweat was dripping into his eyes causing them to sting painfully. The cold of the brig was in complete contrast to the stifling heat up top. He could feel the ship was moving but sluggishly. As he reached the top step, he cautiously poked his head out of the hatch turning a full circle. He could hear voices but see no one. There was no sign of the French frigate. Likely she’d been despatched under a prize crew to Admiral St. Vincent in Spain.
He could see the dark shape which he assumed was the Island of Crete in the distance. And it was a bloody distance. It was certainly a good thing he could swim, else he’d stand no chance at all. Warily, Stanhope stepped out onto the deck. He couldn’t afford to dither too long, or the distance would cease be even remotely swimmable. He gave a dark inward chuckle. He would almost certainly be jumping to his death. But his anonymous rescuer was right. Better the fishes had him on his terms rather than the bloody Navy’s.
Crouching down to minimise the possibility of discovery, Stanhope crept to the starboard side of the ship, rising to his feet only as he reached the railing.
‘I never thought you a damn coward, Stanhope.’
