‘I hadn’t met him, this doctor…I knew you would encounter the man eventually, somewhere. I did not know he would board in Sydney.’

My father’s face declared his rejection of this.

‘Please, Mister Grayling.’ The Bengali appeared to be wrestling inside himself.

‘You know that he put my father, Prasad, to a long and painful death, alone in the forest. And having cleared the way for himself, having murdered my only protector, he desecrated my body, purely because he could.’ He looked at my father, whose face had altered. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? In fairness, you were documenting the miracle of three survivors appearing out of the bush. You were not asked to investigate the violation of a young boy.’

He looked at his hands. ‘I have searched for him. I have done many other things, of course, but always that. And I have never had a clear notion of what I would do if I found him. I assumed I was not a murderer, but I felt every inclination a murderer would feel. I would see him die in my dreams, in pain that I inflicted. I would hear his last words, begging a forgiveness I would deny him. When I heard that he’d escaped Sydney under an assumed name—his names are all assumed—and that he must have perished at sea when the boat foundered in a storm… Well. Only a fool would believe it.’

‘Why?’ asked Smith. ‘Seems reasonable to me.’

Srinivas sighed. ‘This much I understand: you do not look outside for him. You look inside. He nestles himself among people, people in need. Attunes himself to what it is that they seek, and then offers it. To my father and me, to the survivors of the Sydney

Cove, he offered salvation. You would have to ask yourselves’—he looked at me now—‘what need he had sensed in you.’

With great effort my father waved this away. ‘You laid a trap for him,’ he said, ‘and you baited it with us. You couldn’t find the man, so you conspired to have him come to you. Convinced me I should go looking for him: an invitation. Here is your old enemy Grayling. Come and find him.’

To my horror, Srinivas did not demur.

‘Well.’ My father paused to collect himself. ‘He found Eliza too.’

Still the Bengali held his tongue.

‘Do you know—’ My father stood. He swatted the air with his hands until they found the edge of the table and he could steady himself. ‘Do you know that he seduced Eliza, that he dishonoured my daughter while he fed my, my…need, and stupefied me? Do you know’—he was weeping now, broken and raw—‘how it feels, sir, to have failed your child so profoundly?’