“Aye, many a man saved during that squabble with the French by a sharp cleaver and a steady hand,” Melville chortled. “My vessel saw its own share of action.”
“This Harrison, your ship's doctor, what is it he knows?” Keaton asked, circling back.
“Why don't you ask him yourself, Your Grace?” Melville said. “There he is now. Harrison! Over here, man!”
Keaton sat back, waiting.
“Sirs, what can I get for you this evening?” came a weathered and gruff voice.
“Information, Harrison,” Keaton indicated beside him, “please join us.”
He heard a chair scrape back against the floor, then the creak of it accepting a man's weight.
“I seek the fate of Elias Roseton. Or his whereabouts if he is still alive,” Keaton began.
“Ah, Lord Roseton. Well, that's been a mystery for long enough, Your Grace. And not many except me have much to say about it.”
Keaton furrowed his brows. “And why is that?”
“Because, the whispers at the time were that he'd fallen afoul of Major Billy Glasgow, the notorious highwayman. I spoke to him in the map room the night he went missing. I know the shipping lanes from Zanzibar, and he was looking for information. We arranged to meet the next night—he was due to sail on the morning tide after that. He never appeared.”
“And do you believe this highwayman was responsible?” Keaton questioned.
“I do not, Your Grace,” Harrison declared with absolute surety.
“How can you be so sure?” Thorne pressed.
“Because by that point, Billy Glasgow was dead,” Harrison said, “but precious few believe that particular rumor, which I know to be fact.”
“How do you know?” Keaton asked, leaning in the direction of Harrison's voice.
Harrison was silent for a long moment. “Now, as to that. A man shouldn't speak of such things with strangers. No offence meant, Your Grace. Bad luck.”
“I am prepared to pay for the information.”
“I don't think Mr. Harrison is concerned about dubloons, are you, Harrison?” Melville said.
There was a tone of knowledge in Harrison's voice.
“Don't need gold, Captain. You know that better than any,” Harrison nodded.
“I do indeed. You and I have squirreled away enough after our days as privateers for the Crown.”
Keaton frowned, feeling as though he were party to a conversation being held in code.
“Your Grace,” Melville began, pitching his voice a note or two higher, “perhaps Mr. Harrison would be willing to overcome hissuperstition with your word that what he has to say will not go beyond this table. Your word as agentleman.”
“You have it, Harrison,” Keaton said automatically. “My word as Duke of Westvale. Upon my honor—and as for Thorne, he is in my employ. He is bound by my word.”
Keaton heard Harrison swallow and then the sound of a glass being gently set back on the table.
“Very well. I know he did not fall foul of Major Billy Glasgow because that gentleman is at this table.Iam him.”
Keaton laughed after a moment of stunned silence. Harrison joined in, and someone, presumably the jocular Melville, slapped the tabletop.
“You said he was dead?” Keaton questioned.
“I laid the highwayman to rest when I agreed to sail with Sir Fletcher once more, as we did during the war. But, I was curious as to who might be hiding their deeds under Major Billy's cloak. So, when Lord Roseton did not appear as agreed, I decided to retrace his steps, assuming he was going from here to his house that night. All I found was the wreck of a carriage.”
