Connolly threw the plumbed line and began to call the fathoms. He was watching the line, looking up occasionally at me to see if I was watching him. We had curled around the top end of the island, and a sandy beach faced us as we nosed in. Behind us were the rocky shores of the other island, Passage. The space between the two was less than half a mile.

The soundings held at five fathoms, even as we inched in towards a solitary boulder that loomed off the beach. The shallow sand formed a spit out to the rock, the vegetation narrowing to a peak that followed the sand. A large gull stood defiant on the boulder’s crown.

Argyle called the anchor as we came to a halt. The chain rattled out then pulled taut. A light surf swept the beach to our left.

Argyle called Connolly over and told him he wanted the doctor to bring medical supplies and the fowling piece. I asked the master what had agitated him.

‘Smoke,’ he replied levelly. ‘More often distress than greeting. Best be sure.’

Again we launched the jolly-boat, leaving Connolly standing watch on the Moonbird, and my father below decks. The crossing this time was only sixty yards or so. The doctor rowed it, his back to the island, facing me. He smiled easily as he pulled the oars: either he knew there was danger and welcomed it or he was blissfully unaware. The master had the gun across his knees, his face set in stone.

We stepped ashore and Argyle stopped to listen. Not a sound, only the usual background of birds. The wind blew across the island towards us, bringing the smoke from the house, wreathing low with the gusts.

‘Hello?’ A cheerful holler from the doctor.

No response.

Argyle held up a hand for us to stop, turned his back and loaded the gun, keeping the muzzle low for the time being. With an eyebrow he motioned for us to continue.

This house was rougher, smaller. No garden, just a pen without livestock. No dogs. Two small boats turned over in the scrub, some fishing gear and a try pot. Along with twine from old hide bundles, they were the only evidence of work. Everything dry, bleached.

Argyle stood back from the door, the gun ready. The doctor opened it and went through. Not knowing what else to do, I followed close behind.

Inside was a cramped room with a table against one wall and boxes and sacks piled about. The daylight struggled in here but no lantern was lit. Evidence of lives like Munro’s but with less order. The smell was of old food, smoke and bodies.

Warm bodies.