It was true that Templeton had witnessed the Americans letting go the anchor to deliver Andromeda to the guns of the Odin, but that had been a somewhat circumstantial occurrence, Drinkwater concluded. Moreover, in the aftermath of that event, Templeton had been singularly unhelpful in identifying the culprits. Only their own hiding on the knightheads where Huke had discovered them had revealed who they were.
It was clear they knew very little of what was going on, and had acted according to Malaburn's instructions, as well they might, for he had spirited them out of prison and seemed set fair to get them aboard homeward-bound American ships!
Malaburn himself had taken pains to keep out of trouble during that first action. Drinkwater had no doubt now that Malaburn had been below throughout the event with the dual objective of avoiding the Danish fire and compressing the cable when sufficient had run out. Why his absence at his battle station had not been reported, Drinkwater would never know, but some dilatoriness on the part of, say, the twelve-year-old Mr Fisher, would seem to provide an answer.
It was not difficult in a man-of-war for a seaman of experience, as Malaburn clearly was, to avoid Templeton, who was himself penned up with the officers. Templeton had given no hint of any foreknowledge of an acquaintanceship with one of the crew, but God knew what anxieties, hopes and fears had made Templeton act the way he did. Templeton's presence may have given the American agent a great deal of anxiety, but Malaburn could not expect events to fall out too pat. He had had the greatest run of luck in collecting his chain-gang from Dartmoor and shipping it so neatly to Scotland to be pressed promptly by the assiduous Huke!
Moreover, Drinkwater remembered angrily, Malaburn had so nearly been successful.
He had not arrested Templeton immediately, but waited until Andromeda anchored at the Nore, observing his clerk for any clues of apprehension. On their arrival he had instructed Templeton to accompany him to London, implying his service aboard the frigate was at an end. With the crippled Odin sent up the Medway to the dockyard, Drinkwater made out a written order to Frey to turn the prize over to the master-shipwright and join him. Leaving Birkbeck in charge of Andromeda, Drinkwater had prepared to post to London, intending to take Frey and Templeton. There was nothing remarkable in the arrangement.
Frey had joined Drinkwater as he emerged from the fine red-brick residence of the Dockyard Commissioner where he had been finalizing details for the reception of the two ships. A post-chaise awaited the three men.
'Ah, Frey, you are on time.'
'Good afternoon, sir. It's damnably cold.'
They shook hands and Drinkwater turned to Templeton. 'I appear to have left my gloves, would you mind ...?'
'Of course.' Templeton had returned towards the house.
'Frey,' Drinkwater had said in a low and urgent voice, 'I want you to accompany me to London. I've made the necessary arrangements for the Odin.'
'Is it the Kestrel, sir?' Frey had asked anxiously. As the senior surviving officer of the cutter, Frey was naturally concerned with their justification for handing over the little ship. He feared a court-martial.
'No, no. Listen ...' but Templeton was already returning, holding Drinkwater's full-dress white gloves.
'Just do exactly what I say!' he had hissed vehemently, then swung round to Templeton. 'Ah, Templeton, obliged, thank you.'
'You had dropped them in the hall.'
Drinkwater had grunted. Now they were ashore again Templeton had resumed his old familiarity. It bespoke his confidence. Drinkwater clambered aboard and was followed by the others. A moment later the chaise swung through the Lion Gate and on towards Rochester and London.
Drinkwater had waited until it was almost dark before he struck. He affected to doze, killing off all chance of conversation as the chaise lurched along, passing through a succession of villages. Frey, though consumed with curiosity, obediently held his tongue.
Templeton had stared out over the snow-covered countryside. Surreptitiously watching him, Drinkwater sought to read the man, but Templeton remained inscrutable, unsuspecting. As a grey twilight spread over the land and the chaise rocked on towards Blackheath, Drinkwater stirred from his mock stupor. He could no longer endure the sharp angularities of the pistol in the small of his back and drew it with slow deliberation.
Templeton, himself half asleep by then, was unaware of anything amiss until Drinkwater, having given Frey's foot a sharp kick, pulled the hammer back to full cock with a loud click.
'Mr Templeton,' Drinkwater said, 'consider yourself under arrest.'
'What the devil...?' Templeton made to move, but Frey seized his arm and held it while the clerk ceased struggling and subsided. Drinkwater watched Templeton's eyes close in resignation and saw his Adam's apple bob nervously above his stock.
'You deceived me, Mr Templeton,' Drinkwater said, 'you were in contact with Malaburn, were you not? You informed him of the purpose and whereabouts of Bardolini, and you are an accessory to the man's murder. You told Malaburn of the purpose of our voyage, you were aware that the package of papers was removed from my office and secreted at my house ...
'Well, have you nothing to say?'
Templeton shook his head. His mouth had gone dry and he could not speak.
'Is this how you served Lord Dungarth? Leaking secrets to the enemy? Is that how Dungarth was blown up and lost his leg? Did you betray him to the French?'
'No! No, never!'
'So when did you start this?'
'I...' Templeton licked his lips, 'I never betrayed Lord Dungarth. I never trafficked with the French.'
'Only with the Americans, eh? Is that right?'
Templeton said nothing.
'Your silence is eloquent, Templeton, and enough to condemn you.'
'Sir ... Captain Drinkwater, I know you for a man of sensibility, my intention was not murder, I meant only…'
'Meant only what?'
Templeton's features worked distressfully in the gloom. He breathed heavily and wiped the back of a hand across his mouth.
'Sir ... sir, I beg you ... my mother ...'
He had looked desperately at Frey and then lapsed into a sobbing quiescence from which Drinkwater had been unable to rouse him. In the end he had abandoned the attempt.
'I am taking you to my house,' he had said. You will be held there for the time being.'
'Is that a good idea, sir?' Frey had asked, speaking for the first time, his face bleak with suppressed emotion.
Drinkwater had nodded. 'For the time being, yes. You will look after him until after I decided what is to be done.'
Night had fallen when they crossed the Thames. The light of a young moon and the gleam of the lamps mounted on the parapet of London Bridge to illuminate the carriageway shone on the white expanse of the frozen river.
'Stap me,' Frey had said, breaking the dolorous silence, 'I wish I'd my paint-box!'
On arrival at the house in Lord North Street they had hustled Templeton quickly inside and upstairs to the bedroom which Bardolini had once used.
'Leave us a moment,' Drinkwater had said to Frey, after he had dismissed the impassive Williams, and Frey, with a glance at the trembling Templeton, had done as he was bid.