"Aye."
"Mutton chop is prime—c'n find yer one f'r sixpence?"
"Not today, thank 'ee," Kydd said. He had felt his dwindling stock of coins before he entered and mutton was not within reach.
He blessed the fact that, while he was known to the commanderin-chief and other potentates of Guernsey, the common people would not recognise the shabby figure keeping to himself in the street as a naval commander so he could pass about freely in the town. But he had found not the slightest lead to help in his investigations, and time had passed. He had to face it. Renzi had been right. The trail had gone cold, his chances of discovering, let alone proving, the deed now vanishingly remote. It was time to call a stop. He would give it just a few more days, to the point at which his means of sustenance came to an end. Then—then he would go home.
Having made this resolution, he felt more at ease with himself, and in a fit of bravado tipped the waiter a whole penny, then marched out into the street. The autumn sun was hard and bright, and on a whim he headed to the harbour where ships were working cargo, seamen out on the ran-tan, and the rich aroma of sea-salt and tarry ropes pervaded all.
On the broad quay he stopped to watch a handsome barque discharging wine; her yardarm and stay tackles worked in harmony to sway up the cargo from her bowels to a growing pyramid on the wharf. No Customs reckoning here: the great barrels would be rolled directly into the mouths of the warehouses, probably for trans-shipping later by another hull to a British port, given that she flew the American flag, a neutral.
A young man stopped his empty man-hauled cart and waved to him. Kydd stepped across and instantly recognised the face. "Mr Calloway!" he said, in astonishment. "What are ye doing?"
Calloway doffed his battered cap respectfully, an unexpectedly touching gesture in the surroundings, and said shyly, "Mr Standish had his own young gennelmen he wanted t' place on th' quarterdeck an' offered t' me as whether I'd be turned afore the mast or be put ashore, sir."
It was a mean act, but in the usual course of events when a captain left his command the midshipmen and "followers" would go with him, allowing the new captain to install his own. And Calloway had chosen the honourable but costly move of retaining his nominal rank instead of reverting to seaman and staying aboard. Midshipmen were not entitled to half-pay and thus he had rendered himself essentially destitute.
"An' so ye should have done, Mr Calloway," Kydd said warmly. The thought of others who had served him so well now under an alien command wrenched at him. "Er, can I ask how ye fare now?"
"Why, sir, on Mondays an' Wednesdays I'm t' be ballast heaver. Tuesdays an' Thursdays I'm cart trundler to Mr Duval, the boatbuilder."
Kydd hesitated, then said stoutly, "Y' has m' word on it, Luke, in m' next ship I'll expect ye there on th' quarterdeck with me. Won't be s' long, an' m' name'll be cleared, you'll see."
"Aye aye, Mr Kydd," Calloway said quietly.
"An' where c'n I find ye?"
"Ask at th' Bethel, sir. They'll find me when y' has need o' me."
A floating church in harbour, the Bethel was a refuge for seamen seeking relief from the sometimes riotous behaviour of sailors raising a wind in port.
"I'd—I'd like t' invite ye t' sup wi' me a while, but—"
"I thank ye, Mr Kydd, but I must be about m' duties," Calloway said, with the barest glance at Kydd's ragged appearance. "Good fortune t' ye, sir."
Renzi had not found the work onerous and, in fact, it was not without interest: d'Auvergne seemed to have a wide circle of royalist acquaintances and was in receipt of considerable sums from charitable institutions in England to distribute to the needy. Some of the royalists apparently had pressing personal problems that d'Auvergne was taking care of privately. Several came while Renzi was working with him. At their suspicious looks he would leave the room quietly; such behaviour from proud ex-noblemen was understandable.
Renzi finished what he was working on and handed it to d'Auvergne, who glanced through it and said, with a smile, "I do fear, Mr Renzi, that we are not making full use of your talents." He slapped down the papers with satisfaction. "Tonight you shall come to dinner, be it only a family affair, and then I will learn more of your philosophies."
Renzi was much impressed by the mansion just a mile out of St Helier, set in a vast ornamental garden with interiors of a splendid, if individual magnificence. D'Auvergne had humorously named the house "Bagatelle" and proudly showed him the sights inside: scientific specimens, works of art of considerable value with "relics of injured royalty," which included objets de toilette from the apartment of Marie Antoinette smuggled out at the height of the Revolution's horrors.