Page 82 of A Castaway in Cornwall
“May I see the officer in charge?” Laura asked him.
“Certainly. Right this way, miss.”
He held the door for her.
François followed her inside.
Surprised, Laura hissed under her breath, “Are you sure you want to be here?”
Looking bored, the man at the desk asked, “Yes, what is it?”
Laura glanced at his nameplate. “Officer Prisk, I am here to turn in something I found washed ashore on Polzeath Beach after the wreck of theKittiwake.”
“Oh? Have you reported it to the ship’s agent, Mr. Hicks?”
“No. I came right to you.” She loosened her reticule and drew out the flask. The silver gleamed in the desk’s lamplight.
She risked a glance at François and saw that he stared at it with palpable longing.
“Miss, we deal primarily with significant shipments of taxable goods, tea, brandy, and the like. This flask is not—”
“It’s mine,” François spoke up. “I lost it in the wreck. I am one of the survivors.”
“Is that so?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “A Frenchman, are you?”
“Yes. But I am here legally.”
“Really?” The officer turned to Laura. “Do you know this man, miss?”
“I have met him, but I cannot vouch for his character.”
François gestured toward the flask. “I lost it in the shipwreck. I only want it back. I would be happy to offer a modest reward for its return....”
Laura said to the officer, “You might wish to examine its contents before you decide.”
“Is that right?”
François’s eyes hardened. “I repeat, it is mine. The flask and its contents.”
The officer began unscrewing the cap. Beside her, LaRoche tensed.
Officer Prisk extracted the rolled bank note as Alexander haddone and studied it. “Know what’s interesting?” He leaned back in his chair. “A report circulated recently among the militia, customs, and excise offices. A report about prisoners of war escaping from Norman Cross and a theft of bank notes. Bank notes drawn on Mortlock’s Cambridge bank very much like this one.” He looked up at François. “And you say this is yours?”
François hesitated, seeing the trap and sidestepping. “I know nothing of a theft. That was payment for services I rendered to the superintendent. Write to him if you don’t believe me.”
“I shall.”
“In the meantime,” LaRoche continued, “if you are looking for an escaped prisoner of war, you need look no further than the man lodging in this woman’s house, Captain Carnell—though he has been using the name Lucas to avoid detection.”
The officer waved his hand. “That is a job for the militia. Where is this French captain now?”
“I don’t know,” Laura said. “He left Fern Haven this morning.”
“Hm. Well, I had better lock up this bank note for the time being. I’ll write to the Norman Cross superintendent for confirmation. In the meantime, I’d like your name, sir. And your papers.”
LaRoche’s eyes glinted. “I want my papers as well. That is what should have been in the flask. I lost them in the wreck.”
The customs officer held out the empty flask to Laura. “You ought to have some reward for turning in the bank note.”
