He also carried with him the ‘ransom’ letter from Rajah Leon. He had read it so many times that the paper was cracked and faded. But no money had been sent. Valentine Ross had convinced himself that its writer was a blackmailer and a liar. Indeed, he was disposed to believe that almost everybody in the world was set upon a pathway of lies. People thought only of their own pleasures and satisfactions and were empty of compassion.

After the great ship had ploughed the furrows of Biscay and the wind had subsided, Ross was surprised to be woken on a dark dawn by a man bringing him fresh water in a tin jug, a sliver of soap and a frayed grey towel. The person was elderly and stooped – perhaps from a life spent ‘’tween decks’, but with a face oddly etched with mirth and a voice of surprising gentleness. He announced himself as servant to the ‘naval officer-type class of passenger’, in other words to those lodged on the upper berthing deck. He apologised to Ross ‘for having neglected my duties to you, Sir, on account of being stricken with the emetics’.

Ross regarded him from the safety of his bunk, unwilling to engage in any discourse and sternly disliking the idea that he was to be burdened with a servant, who might disturb his solitude at inappropriate moments, upon some irritating whim of the ship’s timetable and its infernal ringing of bells. He therefore said nothing. The servant appeared untroubled by this. He poured the water into a canvas bowl, set on a gimbal, to try to keep the liquid from splashing out, side to side, with the roll of the ship, and announced, ‘my name is Chesterfield and it is often remarked that I share a designation with a piece of furniture. You are quite free to comment in your fashion upon this, but I must tell you that I am unmoved by it. For a “Chesterfield” is a comfortable thing, bringing respite to the body, and what is a servant, Sir, but a useful object, upon which people may depend? I think my name is very fitting.’

Ross felt too tired and irritable to make any observation upon this. After a moment, he said: ‘I do not need a servant. I can fetch my own fresh water. I wish to be left entirely alone.’

Chesterfield turned, wiping his eyes with the ragged towel, quite as if he was overcome by tears at being told that he was unnecessary. Then without saying another word, but with the shadow of a smile on his amused countenance, he placed the soap and towel beside the water bowl and went out. When he had gone, Ross sighed, closed his eyes and returned to sleep.

After just a few days at sea, Ross understood that the voyage had put him into a state of limbo. The ship made its difficult way through the Atlantic. But, for him, there was no feeling of being carried onwards, but only of being in some waiting room where the wind howled so loudly in the walls that he was becoming deaf. In this place, the present had no structure or purpose. His mind was drenched perpetually in memories of the past.