The Old Vengeful

was wrecked off the French coast after she'd been damaged in a fight with a French frigate named the Fortune. They both went down, actually— the Vengeful captured the Fortune, but the French ship herself was lost off Portsmouth when the prize crew were bringing her in.' She gestured helplessly.

'But that was all back in 1812.'

'You never went to France with your father?'

'No.' She could never remember going anywhere with Father, let alone France. 'No.'

He thought for a moment. 'Did the Vengeful—Number Seven

— have anything interesting on board?'

'Interesting?' It was a stupid question. 'She was just an ordinary frigate coming home for a refit. Or maybe to be broken up—she was in a rotten state even before the fight with the Fortune . . . What do you mean 'interesting'?'

Elizabeth heard herself slur the word, and shook her head.

'Interesting?' she repeated.

'I mean treasure, or something like that, Elizabeth.'

'Treasure?' Another stupid question. 'Good heavens, no!

She'd been on convoy duty for months and months, escorting supply ships for Wellington backwards and forwards, and backwards and forwards . . . Nothing at all interesting happened to her until she was coming home that last time, and met the Fortune—the French ship. She was so dull before that, that Father had to put in pages and pages about frigates, and how they were built, and so on, and so forth . . .'

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She nodded. 'I typed out his books—and cooked his bloody meals, and cleaned his bloody house, and washed —' What was she saying!— 'I mean ... I know all that because I did his typing for him.'

He was staring at her, maybe with surprise, maybe with embarrassment, maybe with pity. But it didn't really matter much now, because she was obviously useless to him as a source of information if that was what he wanted.

'So, you see, it really doesn't make any sense at all—twice over, it doesn't.' She wanted to go on talking now that she'd started, even though she had nothing to give him. 'A man ...

a man like that, wanting to know about Number Seven—the seventh Vengeful, I mean ... or any of the other ones, come to that. . . It's just naval history, you see, that's all... And if it wasn't... I mean, if it was something to do with Father in France . . . then I'd be the last person to ask.'

'But your burglar didn't know that,' said Paul.

'No, I suppose not.' Elizabeth conceded the point miserably.

'So you don't know what he was after?' He sounded disappointed too.

'I know he wasn't after my money—the money in the house—

because he said so.' The misery deepened; in another moment her eyes would be swimming. 'I've got rather a lot of it, Father left a whole box full of it. It's in Father's Vengeful box.'

'His what?'

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'His Vengeful box. It was the surgeon's box, for his instruments, with his name on the top picked out on a brass plate—he kept his money in it... they gave it to him.'

'Gave it to whom?' He frowned at her. 'Whose name?'

'The surgeon's name—the ship's surgeon—Williard—no, William Willard Pike—' Elizabeth corrected herself'—he kept his scalpels, and his forceps, and saws and things in it—

at least, that's what Father thought.' Something seemed to be confusing him. 'They gave it to him.'

'Who gave it to whom?'

Now she was confused too. 'What?'

'The surgeon kept his instruments in it.' He scratched his head. 'But your father also kept his money in it. Did the surgeon give it to your father? Not that it matters—'

'Of course not!' How could he be so obtuse? 'The surgeon's patients gave it to him—it says so on the inside of the lid.

Father kept his money in it—my money now.' She caught herself slurring her words again. 'I mean, it's just an old box

—an old mahogany box with brass hinges and the inscription plates on it, that's all.'

'I see.' He nodded. 'And the surgeon gave it to him.'

'No! I told you—'

He lifted his hand. 'It really doesn't matter—'

'No! Father's crew gave it to him—the survivors in 1942.

They found it in an antique shop in Portsmouth, somewhere . . . not with the instruments in it, of course—it dummy3

was empty, but it just had room for a few bottles of very old wine—or port, or brandy, or something. It was their present to him—a sort of keepsake, the box was, after they'd drunk the brandy—you see?' she looked at him