‘Such a notorious place,’ he replied, fascinated; and he asked me the very questions that had occurred to me when Srinivas first outlaid his request. To my surprise, I found myself providing versions of the same justifications I had scoffed at only days before. No, there was no news of survivors, only flotsam. Yes, it was possible that there had been a sinister cause for the wreck. Did we have a notion as to who was behind the crime? No theory that was solid enough to advance at this stage. Again, I thrilled at being apprised of such serious matters, of answering the questions of the uninformed. The government cutter was inadequate to the task, I told them; besides, it would be instantly detected by the perpetrators—being flagged and loaded with soldiers—where a small private vessel would not. The two of them took all of this in with small mutterings of concern, but they did not offer any opinions.

In an effort to steer the conversation away from myself I asked the doctor about his circumstances.

‘Oh, I am like all the others,’ he laughed gently. ‘A speculator, I suppose. I came from London two years ago, to take up a small grant. Very small,’ he laughed again. ‘Running away from sadness, a betrothal that was not all it promised to be.’ His face fell: he did not want to go into details, despite Beckwith’s urgings, because it would do no good now, and he had no wish to speak ill of his former fiancée. I thought that a fair position; not that I felt the need to say so.

Within a short period, he had established himself as a practitioner in Sydney. He had just published a book, the first of its kind, he believed, about the dietary benefits of fishes and seaweeds. It was the invertebrates that really fascinated him, he said. He wanted to visit the islands in Bass’s Strait to collect specimens and to try eating any creatures he could find, measuring the state of his own health as he did so. The Plinian Society and the Dublin Herbarium had been notified of his work, he said, and were eagerly awaiting his specimens.

As he spoke with such enthusiasm, I studied his hands. They darted about then rested briefly on the table: strong, as I’d first noticed, the backs of them spotted slightly, rivered with veins and evenly tanned by the sun.

‘You do your own fieldwork, Doctor Gideon?’ I inquired, and he must have traced my line of reasoning. He answered with a smile, ‘Yes, I do. I like very much to walk on the coast.’

He had been to Hobart before, had lived there briefly while he assessed which of the two towns might afford him the better opportunity to practise and study. The cutter that took him across had declined his requests to see the notorious Furneaux Islands, and had sailed through, leaving his curiosity unquenched.