The dawn was grey above a grey sea, and the wind blew cold from France, rustling the grey-brown thatch of the Kingsgate roofs and causing the farm servants to pull their smocks tight over toiling shoulders. Blackwell was already in his house when Smith arrived. The maid looked tired as she opened the door to him.
“Please come in, sir. The master is expecting you.” The maid gave her ubiquitous curtsey as she ushered him inside.
The front room was as Smith remembered, with the long table in the centre, the display cabinet on the left, and the chest of drawers against the opposite wall.
“Brandy, Mr Smith? Port? Or do you prefer rum, as a seafaring man?” Captain Blackwell seemed friendly, almost genial, as he gestured to the array of decanters on top of the cabinet.
Smith chose brandy and
