“This is the Reverend Doctor Claudius,” said Marsden. “Newly arrived from Newgate. His services have been lent to us by the courtesy of the Secretary of State for Home Affairs. Temporarily, at least.”
Claudius looked round at them all with a varying expression which would offer an interesting study in psychology. He had bold black eyes, yet they were cunning and sly. There was fear in his pudgy face, yet there was defiance as well, and, besides, most interesting of all, there was curiosity, irrepressible even in the shadow of death. But Marsden wasted no time.
“Claudius, you’ve been brought here to execute a forgery, if you can.”
The pudgy face showed a sudden flash of understanding, and then instantly settled into an immobility which called forth Hornblower’s admiration.
“Both politeness and convention,” said Claudius, “suggest that you address me as ‘Doctor’. I have not yet been unfrocked, and I am still a Doctor of Divinity.”
“Rubbish, Claudius,” said Marsden.
“I shouldn’t have expected politeness from underlings.”
Claudius’ voice was an unpleasant one, harsh and grating, which might explain the ill success of his quest for a bishopric. But on the other hand Claudius had taken the offensive in this very first exchange — that letter from Bonaparte which Dorsey held recommended an unexpected counter-attack vigorously carried out even with an inferior force. But here in the Admiralty the enemy was commanded by a master of tactics.
“Very well, Doctor,” said Marsden. “The dignity of a Doctor of Divinity demands all the respect we can accord it. Mr Dorsey, hand that document to the Doctor with the compliments of Their Lordships of the Admiralty, and ask the Doctor if as a result of his vast experience he thinks himself capable of making anything similar.”
Claudius took the thing in his manacled hands, and his black eyebrows came together as he studied it.
“Of French origin. That is plain. Apart from the language it is in the standard handwriting in use by French clerks. I had plenty of examples pass through my hands during the late peace.”
“And the signature?”
“An interesting piece of work. Written with a turkey quill, I should say. It would call for at least an hour’s practice before I could reproduce it. Now these seals —”
“I made moulds,” said Dorsey.
“I could see that. But they have been lifted from the paper with reasonable care. I must congratulate you on your acquirement of a difficult art. Now —”
Claudius looked up from the paper and swept his audience with a searching glance.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have much more to say on this subject. But before I do so I need some assurance that my services will not go without recompense.”
“You are having that already,” said Marsden. “Your trial has been postponed for a week.”
“A week? I used to preach sermons on how speedily time passes from Sunday to Sunday. No, gentlemen. I need my life. I have a mortal objection to hanging, and that is not spoken in jest.”
The situation was tense with drama. Hornblower looked round at the four faces — Marsden displaying the faintest possible hint of cynical amusement, Barrow a little taken aback, Dorsey displaying the proper indifference of a subordinate, and Claudius looking warily from one to another, like a condemned criminal in the Roman arena watching the lions close in on him. Barrow spoke first, addressing Marsden.
“I’ll call in the guard, sir, shall I? We don’t need him.”
There was yet no slackening in the tension.
“Call in the guard!” said Claudius; there was a clank of iron as he waved his manacled hands. “Take me away, and hang me tomorrow! Tomorrow? A week hence? If it is coming, the sooner the better. You gentlemen may never know the truth of that statement. I still have charity enough to hope that you never will. But true it is. Hang me tomorrow.”
Hornblower found it hard to decide whether Claudius was gambling or not, staking a week of life which might well be dear to him against the possibility of pardon. But in either case he could not help feeling a guilty twinge of admiration for the ugly little man, alone and helpless, fighting his last battle and refusing to lapse into a mere plea for mercy — especially when that, addressed to Marsden, would have been the least effective plea of all. Then Marsden spoke.
“You will not hang,” he said.
Ever since Claudius had been brought in the sky had been darkening. After a few days of sunny summer weather the inevitable thunderstorm of the Thames valley was building up and there was a low rumble of thunder following Marsden’s words. Hornblower was reminded of the thunder in the
Claudius darted a piercing glance at Marsden.
“Then we are agreed and I shall give you all the benefit of my experience,” he said.
Hornblower felt another spurt of admiration; the little man had been content with the four simple words spoken by Marsden — he had not gone through any ceremony of exacting a formal promise; as a gentleman he had instantly accepted a gentleman’s word. He may even have been encouraged by the peal of confirmatory thunder.
“Very well,” said Marsden, and Claudius plunged into his subject. Only a slight gulping and hesitation as he began betrayed the agonizing strain he had been through.
“It is necessary first,” he said, “to point out that ambition may outreach itself. It is quite impossible to forge a long document in the handwriting of another and to achieve deception. I take it you have in mind a letter and not a mere few words? Then it would be better to make no attempt at exact reproduction. On the other hand carelessness would easily be fatal. This script, as I said, is the standard script used by French clerks — I fancy it is the one which used to be taught in Jesuit schools. There are French refugees in plenty. Have one of those write your letter.”
