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“That is most unlikely,” Joshua said.

“If it were me, and I wanted to assassinate the king,” Frederick said, with a faint slur in his voice, “I would walk into the throne room, take out a pistol, and get the job done.”

Joshua and Oates-Plagitt looked at him.

“The captain is a nobleman. He could have requested an audience with His Majesty. Why the hell not? Why all the subterfuge?”

“If the captain didn’t want to personally kill the king,” Joshua said, working it out in his head, “an assassin could have boarded that boat in order to reach London.”

“I don’t like it,” Oates-Plagitt said. “Coordination of both allied and enemy forces, short window of time in which to execute the switch, not to mention the close proximity to one’s superior officers, makes for too many moving parts. Not how I would have done it.”

“You!” Frederick said with a bark of laughter. “I’d hope you never get it in your head to become an assassin, because no one under God himself would be safe.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the butler said primly. He looked to Joshua. “I don’t wish to shock you, Major, but I am convinced that Mr. Cassio will be a hard nut to crack. One doesn’t attempt assassination without having the wherewithal to deny the crime.”

“I think that violence is the answer—in short, threaten to skewer him with your sword,” Frederick told Joshua. “Oates-Plagitt has a less bloody idea. Not entirely legitimate, nor—ahem—noble.”

Their butler met Joshua’s eyes with unrepentant calm. “Rather than threaten him, we arrest him. If Mr. Cassio is innocent, he will be released from the Tower in due time. If he is not, imprisonment will ensure that he remains in this country until he can be further questioned.”

A crossroads lay before Joshua, but he had no doubts about his response.

He nodded.

Michael Cassio was a short man wearing a plain, black suit that showed no signs of wear, but certainly couldn’t be described as being of good quality. Upon greeting him, Joshua immediately realized that he was not French: his scouse accent suggested that he grew up in Liverpool.

He ushered them into his living room without any signs of concern at their unexpected arrival. The room was furnished with drab, serviceable pieces. The only indications of the occupant’s personality were a portrait of a sailing ship hung over the mantelpiece and a double-framed brass sextant on a side table.

“Nice lodgings,” Frederick said, glancing around. “Shipshape, wouldn’t you say?”

Oates-Plagitt strolled over to the table and picked up the sextant. “A beautiful instrument. A silvered scale, signed by Edward Troughton.”

“That is very delicate,” Cassio said sharply. “I treasure it as a gift from Captain Sir Tyron.”

Oates-Plagitt put the piece down with a click.

“Won’t you please be seated?” Cassio asked, leading them to the other side of the room.

Joshua and Oates-Plagitt took the chairs, leaving Frederick and Cassio to share the couch.

“You must be wondering why we have paid you this visit,” Joshua said to Cassio.

“I haven’t had many lords under my roof,” Cassio acknowledged. “I must suppose that you are here with regard to my imprisoned master, Captain Sir Tyron.”

“There’s a matter of some letters that we think you could help us understand,” Frederick said.

Joshua was watching carefully, but Cassio didn’t show the faintest reaction. “Letters, my lord?”

“Letters you wrote,” Frederick confirmed. “On behalf of the captain. You don’t mind if I drink, do you? I brought my own refreshments.” He pulled out his flask, took a sip, and tucked it away again.

“I transcribe the captain’s missives on a regular basis.” Cassio folded his hands in his lap.

Joshua noticed that the man’s nails had been polished. That was hardly the sign of a traitor, though unusual for a Liverpool lad.

“Did you add to those missives?” Frederick asked. “That’s the question.” He took out his flask again. “Can I offer anyone a drink? This investigation business is taxing.”

“You see,” Oates-Plagitt intervened, “the letters you forwarded to England, Mr. Cassio, show evidence of being altered in order to transmit treasonable messages.”

“Altered? The letters I transcribed?” Cassio’s brow drew together. “I should note that I did not forward them myself. The quartermaster was responsible for collecting the captain’s letters and posting them when possible. The captain maintains a very large correspondence, and bundles of letters often accumulated between postings.”