A man came forward and pulled the head from the tail of the crayfish, then shook it so that the mustardy head-paste poured out of it onto the surface of the table. He slid his hand through the slime and stuffed it in his mouth. No one else had spoken up to this point, but now a man at the back of the crowd raised his voice.

‘What do you mean by that? Why would he target you?’ Grunts of agreement.

My father was undeterred: he could not see the murderous look that the doctor was now directing to him. ‘I investigated this man many years ago. I was a naval officer’—here the doctor rolled his eyes—‘and I investigated his role in the loss of the Sydney Cove at Preservation Island, and the subsequent walk across country to Sydney. It remains my view that he killed a number of persons, names unknown, during that journey.’

An awkward hush now descended. The doctor appeared to have no intention of replying. The onlookers were baffled, uncertain of their role in the stand-off.

‘I am asking you to take this man into custody,’ my father continued, ‘and to assist me in taking him aboard our vessel for transfer to Sydney.’

Again, the uncertainty. A different man spoke up now, old and stooped, his hair a shaggy white mat over his forehead.

‘I don’t know ’bout these dead men you speak of. You say this feller was involved in the loss of the Howrah?’ He looked about himself, and there was an admission of sorts in the way he did it. ‘It is possible that other parties…were responsible for that.’

The blood rushed to my head. I wanted the moment to pass, to have no role in it, but I could not let things stand. ‘The piano,’ I said. ‘It’s from the Howrah, isn’t it?’

They looked at each other. The crayfish was a ruin now, shards of brick-coloured debris in a slick of guts and scraps. They’d devoured pounds of meat, and a few of them were still picking at the entrails. I stole a glance at Gideon. He seemed relieved that the focus had shifted from him.

Smith spoke at last, as though he knew the stand-off now required his adjudication. ‘None o’ what happens here is your concern. Ye brought this man and his sins, an you cannot affix em to us. They’s yours.’

His confidence evaporated as the words left him. There was disharmony now; the air was thick with it.

‘Timing’s right,’ said someone. ‘Sydney Cove was me father’s time. If it were this un’—he indicated Gideon—‘he’s the right age. He’d be near as old as the blind fella.’

‘And it was me,’ said my father, ‘who organised the medical care of that broken nose. I can describe it to you perfectly. I wasn’t blind then.’

Dr Gideon stood.