‘I just do it for fun,’ I said modestly. ‘My heroine’s adventures are too improbable for publication.’

Rosanna’s adventures weren’t much more improbable than those of most romance heroines, including Louisa’s, but they had got a little out of hand in recent years. It was Schmidt’s fault; he egged me on. Nothing was too improbable for him so long as there were lots of sword fights and ripped bodices and heaving breasts.

Louisa dropped the subject of my manuscript with a thud and started to tell Schmidt the plot of her forthcoming book. She hadn’t written it yet, so she didn’t have a manuscript (see Twain, above, number three).

I excused myself, leaving Schmidt listening with prurient fascination to Louisa’s description of her heroine’s struggles with the lustful priest of Amon. I had some hope of waylaying John before the afternoon tour left. Instead I was waylaid, by Mr Hamid the purser. I thought he was looking rather grave, and when he drew me aside I expected . . . well, I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t what I heard.

‘You remember young Ali, your room steward, Dr Bliss?’

‘Of course I remember him. He wasn’t on duty this morning . . . Oh, good heavens. Don’t tell me he’s jumped ship, or whatever you call it?’

‘That was what we believed, when he did not report for duty this morning. It would not have surprised me; if he was responsible for the accident of the flowerpot, his guilty conscience and fear of punishment might have driven him into flight.’

That would have been bad enough, but I could tell by Hamid’s frown that it was even worse. I didn’t say anything. I suppose I had a premonition of what was coming.

‘He fell, or jumped, overboard, sometime during the night,’ Hamid said slowly. ‘The body was found a few hours ago.’

Chapter Five

I

I MUST HAVE looked as sick as I felt. Hamid took my arm and led me to a chair.

‘You must not blame yourself, Dr Bliss.’

‘I don’t.’ One of my less convincing lies, that one. It didn’t even convince me.

‘It was an unfortunate accident,’ Hamid said gently. ‘He must have tried to swim to shore and been seized by a cramp or something of the sort.’

The others were gathering for the afternoon tour. John was among them – with Mary, as usual, by his side.

‘Tell them to wait for me,’ I said, rising. ‘I won’t be long.’

All I could see as I ran up the stairs was that kid’s face – wet with tears as he protested his innocence, wreathed in smiles as he assured me of his appreciation for my kindness. Kindness! It couldn’t have been an accident. Either he had been bribed to drop the flowerpot and later repented, or he had seen the person responsible. They had disposed of him as coolly and callously as if he had been a mosquito.