“Tell me, Señor Pareja.” Bolitho dropped his eyes. To show extra confidence might be taken by Pareja as uncertainty in his own ability. He continued, “Do you know of any reason why the captain came so far to the south?”

Pareja pouted. “There was some talk. But in the haste of departure I did not take so much notice. My wife needed to leave Spain. Since the alliance with France things have become very bad at home. I hoped to take her to my estate in Minorca. It is not vast, but . . .”

Meheux asked, “Tell us about the talk?”

“Easy, Mr Meheux.” Bolitho shot him a warning glance. “He has his troubles too, eh?” He turned and asked easily, “You were saying something, señor?”

Pareja spread his plump hands. “I heard one of the officers, alas now dead, saying that they were to meet with some vessel. To allow a passenger to be transferred. Something of that nature.”

Bolitho tried to hide his sudden interest. “You speak good English. A great help.”

Pareja smiled modestly. “My wife speaks it well. And I have done much business with London.” He faltered. “In happier days.”

Bolitho made himself sit very still, conscious of Meheux’s impatience, of the ship’s sluggish movement beneath him.

He asked calmly, “Do you remember where this meeting was to take place?”

“I think not.” He screwed up his face so that he looked like a plump child playing make-believe in an old wig.

Bolitho pushed the chart gently towards him. “Look at this. The names along that coastline.” He watched intently as Pareja’s eyes moved emptily over the well-worn chart.

“No.”

Meheux moved away, biting his lip. “Blast him!”

Bolitho turned in his chair to mask his disappointment. “If you remember anything, Señor Pareja, be so good as to tell one of my men.”

Pareja bowed gravely and made as if to leave. Then he halted, one hand raised as if demanding silence. He said excitedly, “But the officer did say something more.” Again the quaint frown. “That . . . that it felt strange to do business with the French again.” He peered at Bolitho’s grim features and added, “But that is all. I am sorry.”

“Mr Meheux. Are there any Frenchmen aboard?” He held his breath.

Before the lieutenant could reply Pareja said quickly, “But yes. There is such a man. He is called Witrand and came aboard so late at Malaga that he had no cabin.” He looked startled. “Yet he was allowed to share these quarters with the captain? Very strange.”

Bolitho stood up slowly, his mind hardly daring to hold any hope. And yet it was just possible. Someone important enough to share with the captain might well be able to arrange an unorthodox transfer at sea. It would only mean a few days more aboard for the rest of the passengers, and power, like wealth, was very insistent. This man Witrand could be a smuggler or a high-born criminal on the run. A traitor or a merchant trying to outwit his competitors. But he might have information, anything which could throw some light on events in these waters.