The Doctor shook his head. 'No. Mr Thurloe. He wanted to strike a bargain.'

Jamie sat up, interested. 'What kind of bargain?'

Chuckling, the Doctor began to pace the room. 'Well, he's worried about the future, you see.'

Jamie nodded. 'And he wants us to predict how things'll come out? Aye, well, that's easy enough.'

'No, no, no,' muttered the Doctor. 'He sees right through us, I'm sure. The point is, Cromwell might well believe that you're the McCrimmon of Culloden. And that could prove very useful to Mr Thurloe.'

Jamie frowned. 'How?'

'Well, I'll explain. But first we must find that book. Apart from everything else, we need to get our facts straight. Now, let me see, it's Christmas 1648. What happens next, I wonder?'

What happened next was that a key turned in the lock and a guard entered the room. He looked at the Doctor and Jamie and then stepped back, ushering in the slight, unprepossessmg figure of Richard Cromwell.

He blinked repeatedly as though the grey morning light disagreed with him, then turned and waved the guard out.

He stood in silence for a long moment and the Doctor decided to take the initiative.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said. 'Can we help you?'

Richard looked at him with real fear, his mouth trembling.

'My name is Richard Cromwell,' he said, glancing at Jamie out of the comer of his eye. 'And I shall die a hopeless failure in 1712.'

The Doctor fiddled with his hands.

'Oh dear,' he said.

Someone was crying, Polly could tell. In her mind's eye, she saw it as a little girl on a garden swing, fists screwed up close to her eyes, bawling her little heart out. Hot tears ran over her plump little cheeks and splashed on to her little summer dress.

Polly heard the poor thing sobbing and moved to help.

She opened her eyes and found that she was reaching out into empty s.p.a.ce.

Blinking, she began to reorientate herself and found that the sobbing was real. She turned over in bed. Frances was gone. But the sound of her crying was distinctly audible from downstairs.

Polly frowned concernedly and jumped out of bed.

Hastily, she put on her green dress, petticoats, and soft leather shoes. A little white mobcap had been laid out too and she swiftly clapped it on to her head and tucked her hair inside it.

Satisfied that she now looked every inch a Stuart girl, she moved to the door and tried to open it. It wouldn't budge.

Frowning, Polly tried again. This time she rammed her shoulder against the woodwork in case the door was jammed.

But it refused to open.

With a little huff of irritation, she began to hammer on the door with the heel of her palm. There was no response and she could still hear Frances's sobs coming through the floor below. There was another sound too, a sort of comforting cooing which Polly took to be Frances's mother. What on earth could have happened to make her so upset?

She raised her hand to bang again when there was a scrabbling sound in the lock and the door swung open.

Christopher Whyte was framed in the doorway, the key dangling from his gloved hand.

'A trifle more respectable than when last we met, eh Polly?' he said saucily.

Suddenly Polly didn't like his att.i.tude and regretted having given him permission to use her first name like that. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the key from him.

'Am I a prisoner?'

Whyte held up his hands. 'Nay, lady. It's for your own protection. An inn is no place for one such as yourself to sleep.

Your slumbers may have been... disturbed.'

Polly sighed. 'Are you going to take me to see my friends now?'

Whyte smiled happily. 'Yes. Yes, of course. We'll begin the ride at once. I have horses outside.'

Polly picked up her mud-splashed cloak and swung it over shoulders. 'Right. I'll just say goodbye to Frances and we can be on our way.'

Whyte shook his head and moved to bar the way down the stairs. 'No. They're isn't time.'

Polly looked at him oddly. 'It'll only take a minute. I think she's upset.'

'Yes. She is. There's been some bad news. A death in the family,' said Whyte quickly.

Polly's face fell. 'Oh, how awful. Who?'

Whyte looked momentarily flummoxed. 'It was her brother. Yes. Her brother, I'm afraid.'

Polly made a little sympathetic cluck and shook her head.

'Poor girl. And I suppose they all want to be left alone?'

Whyte nodded hastily. 'Aye. Now, the horses?'

He led her down a separate stairway that led directly to the back of the inn.

Two horses, puffing and stamping in the cold, were tethered to a wooden rail. Whyte jumped athletically on to one and helped Polly on to the other.

She sank back on to the saddle in silence.

Whyte looked at her oddly. 'Is all well, Polly?'

Polly nodded and smiled and urged him forward. She trotted behind him as they moved off and stared at his back, suddenly full of suspicions. Frances had told her about her brother. Dead the past four years.

The figure behind the door of Stanislaus's cabin stepped out into a beam of dusty dawn light and Ben let out a huge sigh of relief. It was Ashdown.

'Am I glad to see you!' chirped Ben.

But his relief was short-lived. Ashdown's pistols remained levelled at both him and Winter.

'What are you doing here?' barked Ashdown.

Winter put her hands on her hips and threw her head back defiantly.

'What do you think, you sot? We've come to find that blasted captain of yours and run the b.u.g.g.e.r through!'

Ben rolled his eyes. 'Look, mate. You've got to help us.

Stanislaus is bringing something back to London. A package from Holland.'

Ashdown nodded. 'Aye. And what's it to do with you?'

Ben indicated Winter. 'We reckon he's up to some mischief.'

Ashdown smiled grimly. 'He wouldn't be Captain Stanislaus if he weren't up to mischief.'

Ben held out his hands placatingly. 'This is different, mate. He could be up to something... treasonable.'

Ashdown frowned but his grip on the pistols didn't falter.

'Like what?'

Winter let her fat tongue protrude out over her lip. 'Well, mate,' she said slyly, 'that's what we're here to find out.'

Ben looked the sailor in the eye. 'Come on. You owe me one remember? If it wasn't for you I'd be safe in London.'

'In London, but hardly safe, Ben,' chuckled Ashdown. 'I found you slugged in the road if I remember aright.'

Ben grinned. 'So you did. But help us now, can't you? We must know what him and that G.o.dley fella are bringing back home.'

Ashdown sighed. 'I confess, some of us have been worried for a while. These constant trips to France.'

'France?' queried Ben.

Winter nodded. 'Aye. I've kept an eye on that. The Pole seems inordinately fond of the French these days.'

She looked towards Ashdown, her ruddy face creasing into a horrible smile. 'Now, lad, if you're loyal to the new order, you'll help us get to the root of all this.'

Ashdown grimaced bitterly. 'I remember a time when a man was loyal to no one but his King.'

Winter threw up her hands in agitation. 'Was that not what we fought for, oaf? Would you now restore Charles Stuart to his b.l.o.o.d.y throne? Nay, if we are good Englishmen... well, good English anyway, we must see this thing through, and bring to justice any enemy of Parliament!'

Ben nodded to himself, thinking that an orator like Winter wouldn't make a bad politician herself.

Ashdown lowered his pistols a little. 'I don't see what I can rightly do.'

Ben turned his hand palm upward, pleadingly. 'You can start by letting us get off this ship, Isaac. And then have a sniff about. Then, when we get back to London, we can compare notes.'

Ashdown thought for a long moment, looking first at Ben and then at the huge, bizarre figure of Sal Winter.

Finally he nodded. 'Very well. I have a few scores to settle with Stanislaus myself '

He stopped abruptly as Winter leapt forward and retrieved a small wood-and-iron chest from beneath the desk.

With a cry of triumph, she slammed it on to the desk, pulled a knife from her filthy velvet coat, and prised the lock open with the blade.

The lid sprang back and Winter rooted hastily about inside. 'Well, well,' she murmured in surprise. 'The old dog kept his word.'

So saying, she pulled a bundle of what looked like letters, tied with a mauve ribbon, from the box and stuffed them into her pocket.

'What are those?' asked Ben.

Winter winked and tapped the tip of her silver nose.

'Never you mind, Ben Jackson. Now, let's away to the Demeter Demeter. We sail with the tide!'

Ignoring Ashdown, she stomped out of the cabin.

Ben shrugged apologetically. 'See you in London,' he said and raced from the room.

Ashdown watched them go and then, with a huge sigh, began to tidy up the captain's cabin.

'Now, Mr Cromwell,' said the Doctor soothingly. 'You mustn't go around believing everything you read in books...'

Richard toyed miserably with the hem of his coat. 'Then it's not true?'

Jamie decided he had better say something, being the McCrimmon of Culloden and all.

'It's just a wee fancy,' he said. 'We bought it for a shilling in a bookshop in Edinburgh.'

Richard frowned. 'It says on the first page that it comes from London.' He looked up and to the side, as though summoning a spirit, and recited from memory: ' "Made and printed in England for the publishers B.T. Batsford Limited, London and... Malvern Wells by Unwin Brothers Limited, the Gresham Press, Woking, Surrey".'

The Doctor opened his mouth to interrupt but Richard continued. ' "First impression, October 1919. This impression, November 1920".'

Jamie sidled over to the Doctor and bent to whisper in his ears. 'We're in trouble, aren't we?'

The Doctor nodded. 'And it's true.'

'What is?'