The launch was idling at the pier, held there almost bodily by our friend the carpet-seller’s son-in-law. The child in his arms seemed remarkably pleased to see us, considering the fright we’d caused it, and the man himself was nearly in tears again by the time we’d been pulled on board the boat and out of his grasp. We waved patiently as the boat pulled away, then turned to deliver our apologies to our huffy companions.

Thomas Goodheart was there, and his mother. Both watched us from behind dark glasses, their faces in the shade of their topees. I gave a surreptitious glance at his hands as I sat, but they were no more red than the rest of him; certainly they bore no signs of rope-burn.

Mrs Goodheart spoke first. “My, you two look like you’ve been in a riot. What on earth have you been up to?”

I looked down at my filthy skirt and torn blouse, glanced sideways at the state of Holmes’ pale suit, and looked up with a rueful smile. “Being a tourist in places such as this, it’s an arduous business, isn’t it?”

Chapter Six

Aden’s gulf opened into the Arabian Sea, and for days, the watery expanse in all directions was broken only by the passing of the occasional ship and the island of Socotra, well to the south two days out of Aden. The life of our floating village went on, the aristocrats of the high decks intruded on regularly by voices rising from the lower, now that the heat had driven the population out-of-doors at all hours, with dancing on the decks long into the night, under the glare of arc lights. For some days, the taps had run with phosphorescence, adding an exotic touch to one’s toilette, bathing in cool blue flame. Holmes befriended a lascar in the depths, I approached the final scenes of The Mahabharata, Sunny received three marriage proposals, and her brother remained as he had been before, supercilious and aloof as he read his Marxist tracts. Certainly he gave no sign of having tried and failed to murder us in the Aden bazaar. He did not even make reference to his drunken indiscretions on the night of the fancy-dress ball, except once when he approached me to beg my pardon if he had said anything he shouldn’t while in his cups. Something about the apology made me suspect that it was delivered at his mother’s command, but I told him merely that he had done nothing to offend, and that I was sorry champagne gave him a head-ache.