contents before you decide.”
“Is that right?”
François’s eyes hardened. “I repeat, it is mine. The flask and its contents.”
The officer began unscrewing the cap. Beside her, LaRoche tensed.
Officer Prisk extracted the rolled bank note as Alexander had done and studied it. “Know what’s interesting?” He leaned back in his chair. “A report circulated recently among the militia, customs, and excise offices. A report about prisoners of war escaping from Norman Cross and a theft of bank notes. Bank notes drawn on Mortlock’s Cambridge bank very much like this one.” He looked up at François. “And you say this is yours?”
François hesitated, seeing the trap and sidestepping. “I know nothing of a theft. That was payment for services I rendered to the superintendent. Write to him if you don’t believe me.”
“I shall.”
“In the meantime,” LaRoche continued, “if you are looking for an escaped prisoner of war, you need look no further than the man lodging in this woman’s house, Captain Carnell—though he has been using the name Lucas to avoid detection.”
The officer waved his hand. “That is a job for the militia. Where is this French captain now?”
“I don’t know,” Laura said. “He left Fern Haven this morning.”
“Hm. Well, I had better lock up this bank note for the time being. I’ll write to the Norman Cross superintendent for confirmation. In the meantime, I’d like your name, sir. And your papers.”
LaRoche’s eyes glinted. “I want my papers as well. That is what should have been in the flask. I lost them in the wreck.”
The customs officer held out the empty flask to Laura. “You ought to have some reward for turning in the bank note.”
Unsure what else to do, she accepted it.
François gave his name to the officer and told him where he was staying. Hearing the name Roskilly—a prominent local family—the officer decided not to detain François but to release him on his own recognizance until he heard back from Norman Cross. LaRoche then followed Laura outside. She looked for Eseld but did not see her, so she started toward the millinery shop.
LaRoche called after her. “You have something of mine, and I’ll have it back.”
She turned to him. “If the flask means so much to you, take it.” She tossed it to him, or rather, at him, and walked briskly on. She vaguely heard the unscrewing of the cap but soon moved out of earshot.
She had almost reached the milliner’s door when a rough hand grasped her arm and whirled her about.
Outrage and offense shot through her. “Unhand me.”
Seeing François’s murderous look, fear overcame her anger.
“My letter is not in here. That means either you or Carnell have it, and I want it back.”
She didn’t have it, but she didn’t want him to go after Alex either. Seeing her waver, he jerked the reticule from her wrist, which went flying to the ground, its contents spilling out.
“Stop that!” Laura cried.
He knelt and pawed through the contents—a small comb, handkerchief, and a few hairpins—grumbling under his breath as he did so.
Footsteps crossed the street toward them. A man’s voice called, “Everything all right, miss?”
She turned and looked, relief filling her. Two militia officers crossed the street toward them, one short and one tall.
Before she could speak, LaRoche said, “Miss Callaway dropped her purse. I simply stopped to help her.”
She shook her head. “That is not true.”
The shorter officer speared LaRoche with a probing look. “Yer accent. Yer a Frenchie, if I don’t miss my guess.”
His voice sounded familiar. Were these the same officers who had come to the house looking for Alexander?
LaRoche lifted his chin. “I am here legally, as are many of my countrymen who fled France during the revolution.”
“Let us see yer passport.”
He extended both hands. “I’m a shipwreck victim. I have lost everything.”
The officers looked at her. “That true, Miss Callaway?”
Laura could not deny it. “Yes, from the Kittiwake.”
The shorter officer turned to his comrade. “You have that list from the Transport Office?”
His partner pulled a paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“What’d you say yer name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“François LaRoche,” Laura said helpfully.
The officer read from his list. “F. LaRoche. Dark hair, blue eyes. Thirty years of age. Scar on left cheek.”
His partner drew his gun.
“I have the right to be here,” François insisted. “Ask Philippe d’Auvergne. He’ll vouch for me. I work for him.”
“Don’t know him. Sounds like another frog to me.”
François scowled. “He’s a British officer stationed on Jersey.”
“Come with us, and we’ll investigate yer claim.”
François threw up his hands in protest. “What about Carnell? He