"Yes," she said. "It does. And it means that the vessel is being fitted out for the slave trade in an English port, by English seamen, with English money. Which has been a felony these six years. Transportation for fourteen. For every man who has a hand in it." She paused. "Including the owners."
Jory had not thought of that. He looked at her, and she looked back, and he understood that she had thought of it before she had finished reading the slate.
"I signed the charter," she said quietly. "In March. My husband's nephew brought it to me with a great many other papers, and I was still in black and did not like to look at them, and I signed them all. I have been sorry about that since August. I am going to be a great deal sorrier now, I think."
"Then why tell me, my lady?"
"Because you have told me." She reached out and took the slate and turned it face down on the table, and held it there under her hand. "Mr. Brannock. Will you say this to anyone else? To a magistrate? To the customs?"
He thought about the yard, and the rope's end, and the captain's pale eyes. He thought about the gentlemen in the taproom saying *the deaf one, never mind him*. He thought about what a magistrate would make of an ostler who said he had read a captain's lips at fifteen paces in the dusk.
"They will not believe me," he said.
"That is not what I asked."
Loveday leaned harder against his side. He looked down at her red head, and then at the slate under the lady's hand.
"Yes," he said. "I will say it."
She nodded once, as though that had been settled between them like a bargain at a fair. Then she stood up, and drew her cloak about her again, though the kitchen was warm.
"Tomorrow, then," she said. "Thank you, Mr. Brannock. Mrs. Keverne—good night."