I stood alone, holding the taffrail in the chill wind, the racing slate-grey sky suggesting no relief from it nor from the storm-whipped sea. Many days had passed since we sailed from the Thames down into the North Sea before turning west along the English Channel and out into the Atlantic, making for Lisbon to take on provisions and an additional cargo of wine destined for Fort Charles in Port Royal.
Three days before we left, we learnt the maid’s body had been found in the canal in St James’s Park. Tom Monkton had come to us with the news. She had been strangled. The search for further victims proved fruitless, thank Jesu. Raphael would cross himself now, experiencing such gratitude. I sighed, though I could not hear myself above the wind. There seemed nothing to be done then, other tha
