‘A reasonable inference, especially when there’s no moss on it. As one might expect if it’s only been there a couple of months.’

Munro had heard enough now. He rose from his chair. ‘You come to my island and you accept my hospitality, Mister Grayling. Eat my supper, and you make these—what are they, accusations?—under my roof. If you have something to put to me, then you go ahead and put it. But you better be damn sure ye’re right.’

His face had twisted into an ugly scowl. The doctor was smiling faintly. My father, I knew, was feeling the air, deciding upon a course. No one spoke for a long time.

‘A remote place, Mister Munro. Perhaps you have different means of getting by. Something drifts your way, you put it to advantage. Doesn’t make you a wrecker of ships.’ He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t make you a murderer.’

‘Damn you, Mister Grayling! How do you dare utter that word in my home! Before my wife?’ He was shouting now, but my father’s voice remained quiet and still.

‘It is not an accusation, sir. I am aware you wrote to Sydney about the captain’s chest you found. But you must see that you have a problem. The government cutter that’s been lurking about—drunks, fools. They will not form a complete view of this. If they find that cabin, and to be fair there is every chance they’ll miss it, they will not ask questions. You’ll be in irons, Mister Munro. You and your good wife.’

Drunks. From where I sat, I could see his hands trembling in his lap.

Munro remained standing there, holding the back of his chair, face scarlet with fury.

‘Never, in all the years I have been here, have I refused a bed to passers-by. But you can leave. The moon is out, you will be fine to row back to your vessel and sleep there.’ He spat on his own floor. ‘Never darken my door again.’

His hands were on his hips, his face resolute. Louisa looked distressed. She had passed within hours from contemplating shooting us to sharing her home. Now she was back at a point approaching her starting position.

~

It was a long, slow process, getting my father into the jolly-boat. The goats had come down to the edge of the sand, where they stood bleating over our departure, a farewell that did not seem to imply judgment. The dog, thankfully, was elsewhere. I sat beside my father on the thwarts, absently rubbing sand from my bare toes with one finger. The doctor pushed us free, swung in with the water draining from him, and took up his rhythm with the oars. He watched me as he rowed, and he smiled slightly.

We could’ve done with that lemon juice, I thought.