The streets and seaports were full of crippled and tattered remnants of war, rejected by a life which had all but destroyed them. Bethune was sometimes surprised that he could still be sensitive about such matters. Perhaps he had inherited that trait, too, from Sparrow's youthful captain.

He heard voices in the adjoining room, where his clerk held unwanted visitors at bay. He looked at the clock again. Too early for a glass.

Bethune did not drink heavily or overeat; he had seen too many of his contemporaries deteriorate because they did not heed such things. He took exercise when he could, a luxury after a ship's restricted quarters, and he enjoyed the company of women, as much as they enjoyed his. But he was discreet, or tried to be, and he told himself it was for the sake of his wife and his two young children.

His servant was standing in the doorway.

Bethune sighed. "What is it, Tolan?"

"Captain McCleod is here to see you, sir."

Bethune looked away. "Ask him to come in."

What had made him so nervous? Guilt? Thinking perhaps of Bolitho's mistress, who had faced the scandal and had triumphed?

The tall captain entered the room. He had an impassive, melancholy face; Bethune could not imagine him at sea, fighting a gale or the enemy.

"More despatches?"

The captain shook his head. Even that seemed mournful. "From Portsmouth, sir. By telegraph, just received." He glanced at the ceiling as if to see through it to the device which could link the Admiralty building to the south coast more swiftly than any courier, faster than any horse, provided the weather was perfect, as it was today.

Bethune opened it, and then hesitated. It was round, schoolboy writing, but afterwards he thought it was as though each word had been written in fire. Or blood.