laboriously pieced together with sealing wax. I took it from Frank and frowned over the scrawl of smeared blue ink.
“When will you heroes learn to command a legible fist?”
“When we are afforded a desk that does not heave and roll with every swell.”
I glanced up. “You believe this to have been written at sea?”
“Method, Jane!” he declared patiently. “Observe the heading.”
“His Majesty s Prize Manon, in the Bay of Biscay, 13 January 1807,” I murmured.” 'His Majesty's Prize'— this was written after the French ship had struck! I suppose it is in Chessyre's hand?”
Frank shrugged. “I suspect as much. I found it discarded among some other papers in his room. Give it here, and I shall attempt to read it aloud. It is a monkey's tangle; I am in some hopes you may make sense of it.”
I have done all that was required, and congratulate myself that I shall not disgrace you. It is the sole aspect of the affair I may regard without distaste, for the perfidy—
I write to inform you of the recent action between His Majesty's frigate Stella Maris, commanded by Captain Thomas Seagrave, and the French vessel Manon, off Corunna on the eleventh of this month—a date that shall live forever in my mind as the death of Honour—
I have the honour to inform you that the paltry sum, the benefices you pledged, are as nothing when measured against the diminution of Self I have been required to endure, and that if we cannot come to a more precise understanding, as to the value of a man's Honour, however sacrificed and besmirched—
There was no signature affixed, and no direction.
“A letter from one unknown to another,” I murmured, “and certainly unsent. He never intended it should be read.”
“No.”
“But this is vital, Frank! It assures us that Chessyre worked against his captain at the behest of another. Taken in company with the French surgeon's history, it smacks strongly of a plot. There cannot be two opinions on that point!”
“It was not a letter for Admiral Hastings to read, that much is certain. Though the author mentions the engagement, his thread descends swiftly into recrimination.”
I handed the piecemeal sheet carefully to my brother. “I must confess that I feel pity for the man. He is so divided in his soul! The writing smacks of torment. It is all pride and impudence, contempt and self-loathing. His conscience is uneasy. He has done that with which he cannot be reconciled; and he would blame the hand that moved him.”
“Save your pity for Tom Seagrave,” Frank told me brusquely. “Chessyre suffers from shame and pride, certainly—but he is perverse in his desire to bargain with his mover. Having sacrificed his Honour, as he puts it, he is ready to profit from the loss.”
“A man who fears the future may bargain with the very Devil.” I looked at my brother thoughtfully. “And you did say that he seemed mortally afraid. Do you think that he sent some version of this letter?”
“Not from the Manon, certainly, though this was written at sea. He was bound for port himself, and must arrive before any missive he could have pressed upon a homebound ship. I wonder that he wrote it at all.”
“Perhaps he merely attempted to order his thoughts.”
“A draft, you mean? Of a letter he later posted from Portsmouth? It is possible, I suppose.”
“His employer—if such we may call him—may have demanded the most immediate intelligence of Chessyre's deed.”
“I comprehend, now, why he said so little during our interview yesterday. He could not speak for himself; he moved under the prohibition of silence. His honour, we must assume, extends so far as the protection of his conspirator.”
“Then why did he call upon you here, Frank? It cannot have been with a view to reiterating his refusal.”
Frank glanced at me swiftly. “You think the man experienced a change of sentiment?”
“Why else consult with a superior he had spurned but a few hours before?”
“Remember that Chessyre is a mercenary creature. He may have thought to put a price on Thursday's testimony.”
“So much coin for Seagrave's guilt—for he must already have been well paid for the construction of the evidence—and so much more, for a subsequent avowal of Seagrave's innocence?”
“It might assuage his conscience, at the same moment it lined his purse.”
“And he could not hope for advancement in his naval career, did he recant of his charge,” I added thoughtfully. “Even did Chessyre profess himself confused— mistaken—unwitting in his accusation—he must be regarded as highly unsteady by