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men on deck, including the captain, and it must have looked to them as if Beckwith had rescued me. The captain said as much, but Beckwith was an honest man, and he told the truth.” He turned back to meet Pitt’s eyes, the light behind him now. “But I can’t prove it. Beckwith died a few years after that, and the man up the mast hadn’t the faintest idea who else was there, let alone what happened.”
    “I see,” Pitt said quietly. Cornwallis was staring at him, and in the misery that was in his face Pitt glimpsed some perception of fear that he was trying to hold inside himself. He had lived a life of discipline against an element that gave no quarter, no mercy to man or ship. He had obeyed its rules and seen the deaths of those who had not, or whom misfortune had overtaken. He knew as few men can, who spend their lives in the safety of the land, the value of loyalty, honor and sheer, overwhelming physical courage, instant and absolute obedience, and total trust in those with whom you serve. The hierarchy within a ship was absolute. To have taken credit for another man’s act of courage was unforgivable.
    In what Pitt knew of Cornwallis, it was also unthinkable. He smiled at him, meeting his gaze frankly. “I’ll look into it. We need to know who is doing this, and most of all what he wants. Once there is a specific demand, then there’s a crime.”
    Cornwallis hesitated, still keeping his hand on the letter, asif already he feared the result of any action. Then suddenly he realized what he was doing. He thrust the paper at Pitt.
    Pitt took it and put it in his pocket without looking at it again.
    “I’ll be discreet,” he promised.
    “Yes,” Cornwallis said with an effort. “Yes, of course.”
    Pitt took his leave and went out of the room, along the corridor, downstairs and out onto the pavement. He had gone barely a dozen yards, his mind consumed with Cornwallis’s distress, when he was forcibly stopped by almost colliding with a man who moved across in front of him.
    “Mr. Pitt, sir …?” he said, looking up at him, but although his words were framed as a question, there was a certainty in his face.
    “Yes?” Pitt replied a trifle sharply. He did not like being accosted so physically, and he was too concerned about the ugliness of Cornwallis’s situation to wish interruption in his thought. He felt frustrated and helpless to protect a man he cared about from a danger he feared was very real.
    “My name is Lyndon Remus, from the
Times,”
the man said quickly, still standing directly in front of Pitt. He produced a card out of his inside coat pocket and held it out.
    Pitt ignored it. “What is it, Mr. Remus?”
    “What can you tell me about the dead man found in Bedford Square yesterday morning?”
    “Nothing, except what you already know,” Pitt replied.
    “Then you are baffled?” Remus concluded without hesitation.
    “That is not what I said!” Pitt was annoyed. The man presumed without justification, and Pitt hated trickery with words. “I said I can tell you nothing beyond what you know … that he is dead and where he was found.”
    “On the front doorstep of General Brandon Balantyne’s house,” Remus said. “Then there is something you know but cannot tell us. Is General Balantyne involved, or someone in his household?”
    Pitt realized, now with considerable anger, that he must be a good deal more careful how he phrased his replies.
    “Mr. Remus, a body was found in Bedford Square,” he said grimly. “We do not yet know who he was or how he died, except that it seems extremely unlikely it was an accident. Speculation would be irresponsible and might severely damage the reputation of an innocent person. When we know something for certain, the press will be told. Now, will you please get out of my way, sir, and allow me to go about my business!”
    Remus did not move. “Will you be investigating General Balantyne, Mr. Pitt?”
    He was caught. He could not say no without both