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St Albans Island was approximately sixteen miles long and eight miles at its widest point. All along its northern shoreline though, were the dreaded mud flats. Vast silt depositories from the Thames estuary, which stretched all of twenty miles, extending out to sea and stretching the islands geography.
The island itself though, was dominated by three hills, known as The Sisters, the largest of which was Beacon Hill upon which sat the ruins of a Norman watch tower. The only settlement of any size was the village of Welles, which was nestled in the arms of Beacon Hill where they met the sea at the southern most point of the island; here the islands only natural harbour contained the thirty or so fishing boats which held the island as home.
Welles had a small Anglican church, two inns and a chandler. Apart from the fishing families there were also several sheep farmers, a boat yard, and few other artisans servicing the islands population.
There was also a large proportion of smugglers who had begun to take advantage of the war against Napoleon to smuggle all manner of things into Britain from the European mainland. At first this had been tolerated, but as the war had dragged on, Britain’s economy had begun to show signs of strain, and when the price of gold had risen, the smugglers had turned their attention to the lucrative metal.
Because of the weight, they could only smuggle small amounts, but the profit made it to great a temptation to resist, and in their small fast boats, they ran the dangerous tides, out running the Royal Navy as best they could.
All along the southern coast of Britain fishermen had begun to supplement their income by this means, until finally London had had enough. Agents were sent out to the various ports and harbours, and Admiralty house had sent Morgan de Hogue, former second Lieutenant of HMS Vanguard and now an agent for Naval Intelligence, under the auspices of Sir Joseph Blaine to St Albans Island where one such gang was said to be feeding London’s criminal greed for gold.

“I sent word for Doctor Farrell.” Bailey broke the silence as he struggled to his feet. “He should be here tomorrow, and with some luck, he might be able to help us determine who… or what, killed the girl.”
De Hogue nodded.
“Are you off to bed then?”
“Yes. I’ve had enough for one day. You can sleep here if you like?”
De Hogue shook his head.
“Thank you Mister Bailey, but I had better get back and write this up in my report to London.”
Bailey nodded, and turned to leave.
“Let yourself out when you go then” he smiled and left the room.


The next morning, Bailey was awoken by a hammering on his door. He opened one crusty eye and peered at the window to see the figure of a young man, his hands cupping his head, peering through the glass at him.
“Mr Bailey Sir!” he shouted.
“Gods teeth!” Bailey grumbled angrily, “What is it now!?”
There were voices at the door, an excited babble inside the house, and he rose in his linen and reached for the chamber pot.
In the hall, de Hogue, was standing talking to a small group of people. From the look of his hair and clothes, he appeared to have slept in front of the fire, and upon seeing Bailey he motioned the men outside to be quiet.
“Here is Mr Bailey. Now tell him.”
Bailey shook his head at the men who all began to talk at once.
“One at the time, God rot your eyes!” he shouted.
Two of the men fell silent letting the third, their captain, Fred Hampton, one of the more prominent local fishermen, speak.
“We’ve found a man Sor”
“A man?” Bailey looked up in alarm. Not another one! “Where you say?”
“An officer like, out in the sea, he’s back at the house Sor.”
“You mean he’s alive?”
“Well, Sor, he’s not quite right in the head so to speak, but he’s still breathing air”
De Hogue returned, pulling on his coat. “Let’s go and see him then!” He looked down at Bailey, still in his night gown and smiled. “Perhaps you should change first eh?”