He resisted their attempt. He knew that wonder was gone from the world. He wished only to be left alone, not caring about the squalor created by his bodily existence in his cramped quarters. When his self-appointed servant, Chesterfield, began fussing round him, picking up dirty clothes, covering his chamber pot with a rag before taking it away, he asked the old man why he performed these tasks, ‘when nothing signifies and it matters not at all to me that I should wear foul underwear or that my pot should overflow’.

Chesterfield stood his ground as best he could on the tilting ship and replied, ‘it matters to me, Sir. I am a servant. While I am bound to this condition, I can only strive to do my duty as a servant in a way that will bring me no shame.’

‘Shame?’

‘Yes. You will say that it is a strong word to use, but it is the right word. For if we fail in the tasks appointed to us, what is there for us but that?’

Ross, who was lying on his bunk and suffering all the spinal discomfort of one who has lain there far too long, looked up at Chesterfield in surprise. He had had no stomach for any conversation with the old man, but now he had made an observation which Ross judged to be astute. He knew that he himself was mired in shame – for all that he had neglected, for his abject failure in love and for his wicked moment of physical cruelty – but he was not ready to speak about it, most particularly not to one so far beneath him in the terrible hierarchy of the world. Chesterfield, however, was not done with the subject. While busying himself examining the food stains on one of Ross’s cast-off shirts, he went on to say, ‘Now you, Sir, I deduce from the contents of your oak chest that you are a doctor. Is that the case?’

‘Yes. It is the case. But you will swear, please, not to put this information about the ship.’

‘I swear I will not put it about, Sir, but I only ask you, as a medical man, who has sworn an oath to do no harm, do you not, in your profession, wish to serve your patients as best you can?’

Ross looked down at his hands. He had wished it. He had sincerely wished it. He had striven to deepen his medical knowledge as the years passed. The notion that he had been able to relieve suffering had given him godlike satisfaction. And then …

After the fateful day in Mrs Morrissey’s tea room when Jane Adeane had mocked him and refused him, that wish had gradually grown feeble and he had begun to let slip away from him his dedication to his profession. Hurt beyond endurance, he had no longer cared in the same way about trying to heal the sick and infirm. But it was not his fault; it was Jane’s fault. She had rendered him indifferent towards those he should have helped. And in the end she had cancelled out his sworn promise to do no harm. She had tortured him to the point where he wished to kill her.