‘Very well. I must apologise to the rest of you, as it appears that we have brought discord into your midst. We came here because we are seeking the perpetrators of an outrage, the sinking and pillaging of a trading vessel called the Howrah. My judgment about this matter has been clouded, influenced by assumptions of mine that need not concern you. It now appears that I have done you all a great disservice by believing that the wrongdoers were among you.’

Confusion marked the faces of the crowd.

‘It seems that we brought the responsible party here with us. Unknowingly. This man’—he gestured, accurately, towards the doctor—‘is the person we were seeking. He bought passage on our vessel, travelled with us, ate with us, and he’—my father turned to face me directly—‘he made pretences at friendship.’

I watched the reaction to my father’s words. We had brought danger into their small society, in gross betrayal of their hospitality. Two of the men had shuffled across the outer doorway, barring it. It was close in the room: it felt near to eruption. Heavy arms came in over the top of the table, hands scooping white meat from the crayfish.

The doctor’s smile had disappeared: in its place was a certain watchfulness.

‘There was a shooting,’ my father continued. ‘At Rodondo Island. I cannot identify the victim, but he was a man trying to escape the island and we were briefly at odds with the people ashore. There was an exchange of fire. I cannot prove it but I feel sure this man fired the shot that killed him.’

‘This is a calumny,’ muttered the doctor. Then louder: ‘The old fool is a drunkard!’

My father pressed on.

‘He pushed me overboard—’

‘You were drunk, again. You fell.’

‘There was a drowning off Hummock Island, the twin brother of the man you have just buried. Convict lad.’

Gideon was taking account of every man in the room. Slowly, slowly, his eyes passed from one to the next to the next. Counting, assessing. My father could not know this, of course.

‘Doctor Gideon was the only man on deck.’

‘This is a blind man,’ Gideon declared, his confidence unshaken, ‘who was sleeping off a bender below decks. No one believes you,’ he scoffed. He looked around at them all, not as an appeal but an expression of authority.

‘The convict who died last night did not suicide, as this man will have you believe,’ said my father. ‘He had been bludgeoned, and probably dragged to the point where he was strung up. The hanging was a deliberate gesture, a message of sorts. I do not know who it is that he wishes to target with it—perhaps me.’