“I do not know any Henderson, sir. In Spain or anywhere else.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You’ll swear to it?”

“On my life.”

For three, four seconds more, the master’s single eye continued to search Lacroix’s face. Then the grip softened and broke. The blood crept back into Lacroix’s fingers. The master let out a long sigh.

“Well, he knew you. And seemed most anxious to renew the acquaintance.”

“John,” said Emily, “what is going on? Why does he call you Lacroix?”

“Oh ho,” said the master softly.

“I will take you back to the ward,” said Lacroix.

“Why? I do not wish to go back to the ward.”

“I need to speak with Captain Browne. It would be best if—”

“Best if I do not hear your business? No, John. No. I have respected your privacy. I have not pried. But if there are things to be said now, if there are truths to come out, then I wish to hear them. We have come too far for it to be otherwise.”

“Emily . . . ”

“If you take me back to the ward it will be the last you see of me. Do you understand? If you will not trust me then I cannot trust you. We will have nothing.”

It was the master who spoke first. He had been looking at Emily; now he looked at Lacroix. “I’d say you were run to ground,” he said.

“I am what?”

“We can talk over there,” said the master. “The lady . . . ”

“My name is Emily Frend.”

“Miss Frend may sit between us and hear what there is to hear. Though I should warn her my part of the story has nothing pleasant in it.”

They moved to the wall, to the window, a chair facing the window. Lacroix lowered Emily on to the seat, then he and the master took their places either side of her at the chair’s wings. In the gallery a pair of old men, turtles stripped of their shells, made their way, arm in arm, towards the stairs. The master glanced at them, then turned back to Lacroix.