Page 83 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Unsure what else to do, she accepted it.
François gave his name to the officer and told him where he was staying. Hearing the name Roskilly—a prominent local family—the officer decided not to detain François but to release him on his own recognizance until he heard back from Norman Cross. LaRoche then followed Laura outside. She looked for Eseld but did not see her, so she started toward the millinery shop.
LaRoche called after her. “You have something of mine, and I’ll have it back.”
She turned to him. “If the flask means so much to you, take it.” She tossed it to him, or rather, at him, and walked briskly on. She vaguely heard the unscrewing of the cap but soon moved out of earshot.
She had almost reached the milliner’s door when a rough hand grasped her arm and whirled her about.
Outrage and offense shot through her. “Unhand me.”
Seeing François’s murderous look, fear overcame her anger.
“My letter is not in here. That means either you or Carnell have it, and I want it back.”
She didn’t have it, but she didn’t want him to go after Alex either. Seeing her waver, he jerked the reticule from her wrist, which went flying to the ground, its contents spilling out.
“Stop that!” Laura cried.
He knelt and pawed through the contents—a small comb, handkerchief, and a few hairpins—grumbling under his breath as he did so.
Footsteps crossed the street toward them. A man’s voice called, “Everything all right, miss?”
She turned and looked, relief filling her. Two militia officers crossed the street toward them, one short and one tall.
Before she could speak, LaRoche said, “Miss Callaway dropped her purse. I simply stopped to help her.”
She shook her head. “That is not true.”
The shorter officer speared LaRoche with a probing look. “Yer accent. Yer a Frenchie, if I don’t miss my guess.”
His voice sounded familiar. Were these the same officers who had come to the house looking for Alexander?
LaRoche lifted his chin. “I am here legally, as are many of my countrymen who fled France during the revolution.”
“Let us see yer passport.”
He extended both hands. “I’m a shipwreck victim. I have lost everything.”
The officers looked at her. “That true, Miss Callaway?”
Laura could not deny it. “Yes, from theKittiwake.”
The shorter officer turned to his comrade. “You have that list from the Transport Office?”
His partner pulled a paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“What’d you say yer name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“François LaRoche,” Laura said helpfully.
The officer read from his list. “F. LaRoche. Dark hair, blue eyes. Thirty years of age. Scar on left cheek.”
His partner drew his gun.
“I have the right to be here,” François insisted. “Ask Philippe d’Auvergne. He’ll vouch for me. I work for him.”
