g

Mud

Ben and Peter Willis were twin brothers. They had been brought up on the north Norfolk coast and knew those creeks and marshes like they knew the pores and creases of their own grimy skin – skin that seemed to hold the stain of that mud in its every crevice.

It felt to Ben that they were tied to one another by some invisible bond. He could not remember a time when they had been more than a dozen yards apart. Peter regularly used the word ‘we’ when another person would have used ‘I’. He would say ‘we’re hungry’ or ‘we’re tired’ and simply assume that Ben shared these feelings, which, to Ben’s annoyance, he invariably did.

Ben had never felt truly alone. He had never felt that he existed as a single entity, independent from his brother. It was as if it took two of them to make a whole, and, without Peter, he was incomplete: a half-thing.

He had never expressed these concerns to Peter; in fact this secrecy was a form of rebellion, as it had always been assumed that they would share everything. Ben concealed his feelings whenever possible and considered every hidden grievance a small victory over the tyranny of twinhood.

But far from freeing him from these thoughts of being forever bonded to his brother, Ben had become obsessed with the notion that they were two opposing parts of a single personality. He had come to believe that Peter was the corrupt, venal and irksome part of himself, the tainted part of his own soul.

This was not a view that many who knew the twins would have shared. For the truth was that both the brothers were rogues, and if anyone had bothered to try to differentiate the degree of their delinquency, they would certainly have said that it was Ben rather than Peter who seemed the one most lacking in any redeeming qualities. For Peter did at least have charm. Granted, it was a charm that was manufactured at will as a distraction from his true character, much as a stage magician distracts the observer from his sleight of hand, and consisted mainly of an incongruous, dimpled smile, more suited to a choirboy or a gilded cherub, and a disarming honesty about his dishonest ways. But it was a charm that Ben entirely lacked.

Ben saw Peter as the demon on his shoulder who led him reluctantly and unwittingly towards misdeeds and wrongdoings he would otherwise have shunned. He attributed to his brother an almost supernatural ability to tempt and persuade that served as an excuse for his own craven and weak-willed nature.

Every time he stole, or lied, or struck some poor unfortunate with a cudgel or threatened them with the blade of his knife, he let himself believe that he would never have done so without the malevolent influence of his twin. Broken bones or broken promises, it was never his fault.

Peter was fond of smiling his dimpled smile and saying, ‘I’m right here, brother. Don’t you worry.’ When they were small it had been a comfort. Peter had always been the braver, always fearless in his defence of his brother. Now it sounded like a threat, like a life sentence.

Ben and Peter had gone to sea together, sailing aboard the merchant ships that plied their trade between Norfolk and the Low Countries. It had been an escape from a dull and joyless life, but every time a storm engulfed them, Ben reminded himself that this too had been Peter’s idea and that left to his own devices he might never have left the relative safety of dry land.

But whatever the truth, the twins were mariners now, and in spite of the dangers the life seemed to suit them well enough. Sailors were not entirely bound – or at least did not feel entirely bound – by the same rules as those ashore. The brothers were quick to take advantage of all the ‘opportunities’ that a sailor’s life provided.

Back in their home port of Lynn once more, Ben resentfully told himself that the meeting they were about to have with local smugglers was, again, solely Peter’s notion – though Ben’s hunger for the promised cash had, if anything, been keener than his brother’s.

The smugglers thereabouts were as secretive and mysterious as masons, but the brothers had a contact – a childhood friend – who had acted as a go-between. The Willis twins had arranged with Tubbs, the quartermaster aboard their ship, to load a boat with some of the contents of the hold while the captain was ashore in Lynn, being dined by the mayor.

At the appointed hour the boat was duly loaded and Ben and Peter climbed stealthily aboard and began to row towards the shore. It was late afternoon; the sun was low in the western sky and the sea was as smooth and burnished as a silver platter; the noise of the oars and the call of distant curlew were all that broke the tranquillity of the scene.

This peacefulness was all external in Ben’s case, for he had a rising dread of meeting the smugglers; smugglers thought little of murder, especially when it came to boys like him and Peter.

Peter, by contrast, seemed to be positively enjoying himself, grinning from ear to grubby ear.

‘Here we are,’ he said, stopping rowing for a moment and letting the boat rock to and fro on the grey waters. He cupped his hands around his mouth and made a startling impression of an oyster catcher.

From out of the marshes came the sound of a curlew.

‘They’re here,’ Peter said, rowing once more, and he steered into a narrow creek, hidden from the sea by a mud bank. ‘Come on,’ he said, tying the boat to an ancient, lichen-encrusted stave and jumping on to the bank.

They covered the merchandise they carried in a rough blanket and pushed the boat into an even narrower channel so that it was entirely hidden from view.

Then Ben found himself, as usual, following Peter into the unknown – up a rough track towards a small tavern, whose flint walls faced out to the sea, bathed in the warm low sunlight. Black smoke coiled from massive chimneys.

Walking into the Black Horse was like walking into a cave, and it took Ben a while to see anything at all. Slowly, out of the gloom, a stone-flagged floor appeared, a low black-beamed ceiling, a dark wooden bar and a burly, grim-faced barman.

‘Gen’lemen?’ he asked, in a rasping voice that sounded like a threat.

‘We’re looking for Daniel Hide.’

‘Never heard of him,’ said the barman. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘If he comes by, tell him Peter Willis and his brother were here looking for him.’ He tapped Ben on the arm and they made to leave.

‘Hold your horses,’ said a voice from a room to their right.

Ben turned to see a man step out, ducking under the low doorway as he did so. The stranger took a deep breath, half closing his eyes, and then grabbed Peter by the throat.

‘Just the two of you?’ he asked quietly, looking at Ben. Peter choked and grimaced, turning beetroot.

‘Aye,’ said Ben.

‘You weren’t followed?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Aye,’ said Ben, looking at Peter, whose eyes were rolling back into his skull.

‘Good,’ said the smuggler, letting go of Peter. He staggered back, holding his neck and gasping like a cat with a fur ball. The smuggler whistled and five men appeared from the shadows.

‘Let’s see what you have then,’ he said, putting a battered hat on his head and walking towards the door. Ben cast a worried glance at Peter, who, to his amazement, was smiling.

‘Don’t worry, brother,’ he said with a cough. ‘I’m right here.’

They took the smugglers to the boat and Hide, their leader, carefully examined the merchandise, sampling the brandy and tobacco like a connoisseur. When he had satisfied himself of the quality and nodded his approval to his men, he turned to Ben and Peter.

‘That’s good stuff,’ he said.

‘Then we are in business?’ said Peter.

‘But here’s the thing,’ said the smuggler with a sigh. ‘What’s to stop my colleagues and I simply gutting you like a couple of herring and taking these here goods of yours?’

‘Because,’ said Peter coolly, ‘there wouldn’t be any more.’

‘So?’ said the smuggler. ‘We got lots of suppliers.’

‘Of gut-rot gin maybe,’ said Peter. ‘I can get you port wine. I can get you silk. I can get you opium.’

The smuggler grinned.

‘I like you,’ he said, nodding at Peter. ‘But I don’t like you,’ he said, turning to Ben. ‘Twins ain’t natural and there’s something about you . . .’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Peter. ‘The deal’s with both of us, so we’ll all have to learn to get along.’

There was a tense silence for a few minutes until Hide nodded again and gestured for his men to unload the boat. This was done with military efficiency. Another boat was brought round and within minutes the smugglers were set to leave.

Hide took a leather purse from his pocket, weighed it and tossed it to Peter, who opened it and looked inside with his usual dimpled grin.

‘There’s more where that came from, friend,’ said Hide.

‘Until next time, then,’ said Peter.

‘Aye,’ said Hide, stepping into the boat. ‘Don’t linger in these parts. The customs men are afoot and they are animals, believe me. One of their number was killed in the line of duty not two weeks ago. They are in a dark mood.’

He looked at Ben as the boat rowed away.

‘If you get caught, don’t mention that you ever saw us. If you do, I’ll have you gelded.’

As soon as the smugglers were out of earshot, Ben began cursing his brother. He shoved him angrily, but Peter laughed him off, which made Ben all the more furious.

‘Calm yourself,’ chuckled Peter. ‘They are all right.’

‘They are cut-throats!’ hissed Ben. ‘They’ll hang one day – and us alongside them if you’re not careful.’

‘What’s all this talk of hanging?’ said Peter. ‘No one’s going to hang. The brandy we gave ’em will end up in the cellars of the Justice of the Peace and the Member of Parliament and the Lord of the Manor. No one hangs smugglers round here, Benjy-boy. They might flog the odd one for appearances’ sake, but nothing more. You worry too much.’

‘You heard what he said about the customs men,’ said Ben.

‘He was just trying to scare us,’ said Peter with a dimpled grin. ‘And it looks like he’s succeeded. But don’t worry, brother of mine. I’m here. I’m always here.’ He held the purse in front of him and jingled the contents. ‘And we’ve just made a year’s wages, maybe two. It calls for a celebration.’

‘You ain’t thinking of going back to the Black Horse?’

‘Lord, no,’ said Peter. ‘We’ll go to the Fox and Hounds. It’s only up the lane a little. Come on, cheer up.’

Peter started to walk away and, after a moment’s hesitation, Ben followed him.

‘I just don’t like spending time with people like that,’ said Ben sulkily.

‘Like what?’ said Peter, kicking a small pebble into the creek they were walking beside. ‘You mean people like the ones who gave us all that money for the stuff we stole from the ship? No one made you come along, did they? No one made you take the money. You ain’t much different.’

Ben stopped in his tracks.

‘I think I am.’

‘You want to be better than them, I know,’ said Peter amiably. ‘You think yourself better than them – better than me – but from where I’m standing you’re still a rogue, ain’t you?’

Peter grinned at his brother.

‘The fact is you keep getting yourself into all kinds of mess, and I’m always there to help you. You’ve clearly forgotten that this venture was your idea in the first place.’

‘My idea?’ Ben shouted. ‘It never was.’ But he did have a vague recollection of talking to Tubbs, the quartermaster . . . No – it could not have been his notion. This was just another of Peter’s tricks he always employed to shift the blame.

‘Don’t worry, Benjy-boy,’ he said. ‘Peter’s here. I’m always here and always will be. That’s what brothers are for.’

Ben looked away, scowling into the setting sun.

‘But maybe we ought to turn over a new leaf, you and me?’ said Peter mischievously. ‘Maybe we ought to throw this money into the creek?’

Ben turned to face his brother, who was leaning out over a slimy mud bank, tossing the purse into the air. Peter smiled his wide smile, daring Ben to come and snatch it. However, one of the throws was somewhat misjudged and in his effort to catch the purse Peter went slithering down the bank and into the clinging slime of the marsh, instantly sinking to his waist.

Ben laughed as Peter cursed and yelled at him to help him out, enjoying the comic spectacle of his brother waist-deep in the grey ooze.

‘Stop laughing and help me out,’ shouted Peter as he flailed about, his coat sleeves flicking gobbets of mud as he did so.

‘Hush,’ said Ben. ‘You’ll have the locals on us.’

Ben did make a move in his direction, but it was hard not to slip himself, and seeing even in that dim light how swiftly Peter’s legs had sunk beneath the slime, he grew suddenly fearful and backed away. There was something about that mud and the thought of being sucked down into it that filled him with horror.

It was then Ben noticed the purse which Peter had dropped as he had fallen: the precious purse with all the takings. And it had landed on the firm earth of the track. Peter followed the course of Ben’s gaze and saw the workings of his mind as clear as if they were tattooed across his brother’s face.

‘Get me out of here,’ he hissed, the mud already up to his chest, a note of panic appearing in his voice for the first time. He reached out towards the bank, trying in vain to find some purchase in the surrounding sludge. ‘And you can have the lot. I swear – you can have all there is.’

But Peter said these words with little conviction and he saw the wry smile on Ben’s face as he picked up the money and put it in his pocket. Peter had naught to bargain with, as he no longer held the purse or had the means to take it back.

‘Get me out, you bastard! Now!’ he spat. ‘Or so help me . . .’

‘Or so help you what?’ said Ben, his voice not quite as bold as his words and his hands suddenly sweating. ‘Strikes me you ain’t in no position to bargain.’

‘I’ll kill you!’ he snarled, his face already purple with rage. ‘I’ll kill you stone dead!’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ben, turning up the collar of his coat against the chill breeze that now blew across the marshes.

‘So you’d see me die, would you?’ said Peter, slapping his hands down on the surface of the mud and splashing his face. ‘And you all high and mighty about them smugglers. Ain’t this murder, then?’

‘I ain’t laid a finger on you,’ said Ben coldly. ‘I ain’t touched you.’

Peter took a deep breath and grinned his dimpled grin.

‘Come on, Ben,’ he said. ‘We’re brothers, ain’t we? More than brothers – we’re twins. We’re like two parts of the one thing, Ben. And you’ve got to admit: I’ve always been there when you needed me. I’ve always been there and I always will be.’

Ben seemed hardly to be listening. He was looking around for something, and then strode down the track and returned a few seconds later with a long pole.

‘That’s it, Ben,’ said Peter with relief. ‘That’s using the old thinking tackle.’

Ben eased the pole towards his brother, passing it through his hands inch by inch until it was just in front of Peter’s grinning face, and then he jerked it forwards, hitting him sharply in the nose and stunning him.

Blood began to drip immediately from Peter’s nose. Ben hit him again. With mud in his face and the blow from the pole, Peter could barely focus on his brother and was still trying to make sense of the vague shapes in front of him when the end of the pole was thrust into his chest and Ben began to push with all his strength, shoving Peter away from the bank and further into the mud.

Peter tried to wrest the pole from Ben’s grip, but to no avail. His arms were heavy with the weight of the wet mud, his hands slippery. He was exhausted. Finished.

‘Well then,’ said Peter bitterly, spitting blood, the mud rising up his chin. ‘If I’m to die here, I’ll take you with me.’

‘And how do you plan to do that?’ said Ben, shoving the pole hard into his breastbone.

‘You remember those customs men?’ he hissed. ‘They’ll be looking to avenge their murdered comrade. How’s it going to lie for you when they catch you with all that money out here in the marshes?’

Ben stared at him.

‘You said the smugglers were only trying to scare us,’ said Ben. ‘And anyway – how would they find me?’

‘Help!’ Peter suddenly yelled. ‘Smugglers! Help!’

Ben hit his brother’s shouting face with the end of the pole and pressed down with all his might until the mud was sucked into Peter’s gaping mouth and his cries turned to muddy gurgles. His wide eyes bulged brightly in his filthy face, twitching with fury and fear. One more shove and Peter would slide even deeper into the sludge, swallowed up by the marsh with a hungry slurp, until no ripple or bubble remained to show he had ever been there.

But to Ben’s horror lantern lights began to appear, bobbing about on the far horizon like fireflies. He was panic-struck. He had heard those smuggler-hunters sometimes had dogs with them and maybe they were even on horseback – and they would certainly know the marshes better than he would.

He threw down the pole and ran, cursing Peter all the while. He ran without daring to turn round and saw that he was heading back towards the Black Horse tavern. Then he noticed an upturned boat near the path and, lifting one side up, he dived underneath.

Ben lay there, listening to the sound of his own heart beating. He listened for Peter’s shouting voice but there was only silence. And then, suddenly, he heard footsteps, and through the narrow gap between the side of the boat and the earth he saw booted feet. It was the customs men.

He heard their muttering, grumbling voices as they walked past, but there was no mention of Peter, only of a wasted hunt, of tired legs and a thirst for the ale they were intending to drink.

They must have walked past the creek where Peter had fallen in. They could hardly have missed him, despite the failing light. Ben was forced to come to the conclusion that Peter had slipped beneath the surface of the mud, and he felt a feeling of glorious release, as if a great weight had been taken from his back.

g

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Satisfied that the customs men had moved on, Ben scrabbled out from beneath the boat. He would need to row back to the ship before night fell so blackly that he would lose all sense of direction. He ran full tilt, running to escape the oncoming night, not giving the merest glance to the creek where his brother lay consumed by mud.

g

When Ben got back to the ship, the quartermaster pulled him aside.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he said, grabbing Ben by the throat, checking to see that no one else was around. A nearby lantern gave the scene an eerie glow in the surrounding darkness. ‘The captain’ll be back soon. Where’s my money?’

‘I haven’t got your money! The smugglers double-crossed us. It was all I could do to get out of there with my life. Look at me,’ he said, pointing to the mud stains that covered his clothes.

Tubbs used his free hand to search Ben’s pockets and it did not take him long to find the purse. He let Ben go and tipped the purse into his open palm. But instead of coins, grey mud poured from it. The quartermaster shook the sludge from his hand and grabbed Ben again, who stared at the purse in bafflement.

‘What’s this?’ snarled Tubbs. ‘Are you out to cheat me, boy? And where’s that brother of yours?’

‘Customs men got him,’ said Ben, recovering his wits. ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I only just got away myself. Peter wasn’t so lucky.’

‘And how am I going to explain that to the captain?’ he said.

Ben had already given this a little thought.

‘Just say he got homesick,’ he said. ‘Say he means to stay with his old friends and give up the seafaring life.’

The quartermaster froze, thinking for a moment or two. There was something about Ben that made him nervous. He didn’t trust him or his brother.

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ said Tubbs, prodding Ben in the chest, ‘but no one makes a fool out of me. You and your brother owe me, and one way or another you’d better pay up or so help me you’ll wish the customs men had got you as well.’

The quartermaster stomped away, leaving Ben staring at the empty purse he had tossed to the floor. He did not understand. Peter must have tricked him – but how? He had heard it jangle. The captain, having just returned to the ship a little worse for drink, suddenly grabbed him by the arm.

‘Look at you, you filthy oaf,’ he said. ‘Which one of you is it anyway?’

‘Peter, sir,’ said Ben. ‘I mean, Ben, sir.’

‘Are you trying to be clever, boy?’ said the captain.

‘No, sir,’ said Ben.

Ben went below. Peter’s hammock was empty. Ben climbed into his, taking a knife with him just in case. He tried to stay awake but exhaustion got the better of him and he fell asleep, waking what seemed like minutes later (but was in fact hours), panicked and confused.

There was something wrong with his hammock. At first he thought that he was lying in his own blood, but he soon realised that it was not blood at all. His hammock was filled with mud – wet, stinking marsh mud.

Ben climbed out of the hammock and went up on deck as dawn broke over the cold North Sea, staggering out into the half-light, nauseous and dazed. Bemused faces stared back at him. The captain strode over, looking him up and down as if he could not quite believe his eyes as mud dripped from Ben’s clothes.

‘Get that mud cleaned off and swab the deck,’ he said. ‘And do a good job or I’ll throw you and your brother overboard.’

‘Did the quartermaster not tell you, then, sir?’ said Ben.

The captain had already started to walk away and now turned back to face him.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Your little nonsense about your brother running off home. He did mention it, yes.’

‘But, sir,’ said Ben, ‘I swear –’

‘You’d swear just about anything with the right encouragement, I dare say,’ said the captain, spitting on the deck at Ben’s feet. ‘But whatever joke you’re having with Tubbs, don’t play the same trick on me, for I saw your brother with my own eyes not five minutes ago.’

With that, the captain turned on his heels and strode off, leaving Ben staring after him, a cold hand grabbing his heart and squeezing tight. Peter had escaped somehow. He had escaped the marsh and the customs men – though God alone knew how – and had returned to the ship with revenge in his blood. It must have been him that put the mud in Ben’s hammock. One thing was for certain: he could not sit and wait for the marlinspike that would no doubt be harpooning his gullet that day or the next.

Ben searched the ship for his brother, his mind buzzing like a beehive. How had Peter dragged himself out of the creek? He must have found a boat and stolen it and made his way back to the ship. And now Peter was going to kill him as soon as he got the chance, Ben was sure of it.

But however hard he searched he saw no sign of his brother. Perhaps the captain – who everyone knew was fond of a drink – was mistaken. He hoped so. Ben swabbed the deck as he was told, looking about him for any sign of Peter as the ship set sail for Holland.

There was no sign of Peter on deck, below or above it. Then Ben noticed that there were footprints striding right across the deck he had just worked hard to clean.

How could it be? How, when they were now miles from the coast, could someone leave a trail of mud like this?

‘I thought I told you to get this clean,’ said the captain, walking past.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Ben. Peter was trying to scare him. He was on the ship; Ben could sense him. Somehow he had got himself out of that bog and back on board.

Ben spent the rest of the morning looking over his shoulder, twitching and starting at every splash and rope creak. At last he glimpsed the familiar figure of his brother walking towards the stern of the ship. He ran to confront him, tripping over a pail of water and barging past two of his crewmates, who cursed him as he stood looking at empty space, his brother having seemingly vanished into thin air.

This was repeated throughout the rest of the day. Ben caught a flash of Peter climbing down into the hold, but when he got there the hold was empty. He saw him standing among a group of sailors, but when the men parted to return to work, Peter was gone.

‘Come on,’ said the captain, slapping him on the arm and making him jump. ‘Do some work! Get up and have a look at the main topsail. Shadbolt thought he saw a tear.’

Ben set about climbing the rigging.

He reached the main topsail yard: the great horizontal beam across the mainmast from which hung the topsail. He always loved being high among the sails and, now, even the fear of Peter started to dissipate. He felt like a bird up there, the white sails puffed out and billowing like clouds all around him. Then he turned to see a familiar figure standing along the yard.

‘Peter . . . I just meant to teach you a lesson,’ said Ben, his speech prepared. ‘I was never going to really . . .’ His voice tailed off as he looked at his brother.

Peter was smiling at him. He was still covered from head to foot in foul-smelling mud, which trickled in slow gobbets down his face and dripped from his sodden clothes. Ben watched, horror-struck, as mud dribbled into his brother’s eyes and he did not blink.

‘For God’s sake, Peter,’ said Ben. ‘You look . . .’

‘Don’t worry,’ gurgled Peter. ‘I’m here, brother. I’ll always be here.’ His mouth widened into a dimpled grin and mud oozed horribly between his teeth and down over his chin. He opened his mouth further and the mud flooded out, pouring down his chest in an unending, glutinous stream.

Ben let go of the ropes to shield his face as Peter lurched towards him, and he fell backwards through the air, the scream dying in his throat as his head struck the deck with a sickening crack that stopped the whole ship’s crew like a musket firing.

A fall from the rigging was not unheard of, but unusual on such a calm and gentle day. And though the broken face was hard to bear, many mariners had seen worse in their time. No, what drew puzzled and nervous glances from the onlookers was the fact that they were certain they had seen only one sailor fall, and yet here were the twins lying dead, lying on their sides, their knees bent to their chests as if still in the womb. Stranger still, a great swathe of foul-smelling mud covered the bodies, mingling with the crimson blood that seeped across the deck.

*

‘What a horrible way to die,’ said Cathy when Thackeray had finished.

‘Which?’ he said with a grin. ‘In a muddy creek or falling from a ship’s mast?’

‘Either,’ said Cathy. ‘Have you ever killed a man, Thackeray?’

‘Cathy!’ I hissed. ‘What sort of question is that to ask a person?’

But I was not concerned for the impropriety of the question, but by the dread of what answer might be forthcoming. To my horror, though not my surprise, Thackeray nodded slowly.

‘I have killed,’ he said. ‘But I take no pride in it. I was on a Navy ship and those I killed, I killed in battle. And war makes murderers of us all.’

Cathy stared, wide-eyed.

‘Did you shoot them, sir?’ she said. ‘Or run them through with your sword?’

‘You’re a bloodthirsty maid, aren’t you?’ he answered with a chuckle. ‘That’s too much story-reading for you. It puts dark thoughts in your head.’

‘But it’s just so exciting.’

‘It may seem so,’ he said a little sadly.

I listened to this conversation with mounting anxiety. I had been given strict instructions to let no one in, and now I discovered I had let a self-confessed killer – Navy man or not – into our house. Even when our father did return, what guarantee was there that he would be equal to the task of dealing with Thackeray?

‘You say “was on a Navy ship”, Mr Thackeray,’ I said. ‘Do you serve no longer? And why then do you still wear the uniform?’

‘I sail aboard a different ship now, Ethan,’ he answered. ‘I serve a different captain.’

‘You are a deserter, then?’ I said coldly. ‘Is that why you are so mysterious?’

‘No, Ethan,’ said Thackeray. ‘I’m no deserter. And I will thank you not to accuse me twice.’

‘I thought you said it wasn’t polite to pry into Mr Thackeray’s business, Ethan,’ said Cathy.

‘No harm done, miss,’ he said with what would have passed for a warm smile in a less frigid countenance. ‘I’m a stranger in your house. Ethan has every right to be suspicious.’

‘Yet still you do not answer, I notice,’ I said. ‘Why is it then that you wear the uniform of the Royal Navy?’

Thackeray took a deep breath and sighed loudly as if running out of patience with a bothersome infant.

‘I was little more than a boy when I enlisted as a midshipman,’ he said. ‘And little more than a boy when I went into battle.’

‘It must have been horrible,’ said Cathy. ‘Were you very frightened?’

‘I’m not ashamed to say I was, Miss Cathy,’ he replied. ‘There are no fearless men in a battle. Only a liar would say different. I have seen seasoned men – fighting men – vomit with fear as the enemy sailed into range and the cannons boomed. I have seen men – good men – reduced to bloody meat.’

Once again Thackeray seemed lost in his memories. Or at least he affected the air of a man lost in memories. I was deeply mistrustful of all he said and did and I noted that none of his words went in any way to explain why it was he still wore a Navy uniform, or indeed what manner of sailor he now was.

‘Ah, look,’ said Cathy, clumsily endeavouring to change the subject. ‘The wind seems to be dying.’

‘Aye,’ said Thackeray, glancing at the window and then at me. ‘I do believe the storm is dropping off a little. Perhaps I may take my leave of you, then.’

‘No,’ said Cathy to my utter consternation. ‘It is still raining and it is still frightful. We wouldn’t hear of it, would we, Ethan?’

Thackeray smiled at me in a most disturbing way.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’

‘And since you’re staying, Thackeray,’ said Cathy, ‘you can tell us another story.’

‘And what would you like a story about, Miss Cathy?’ he said.

‘Pirates!’ she answered without hesitation. ‘Have you ever met a pirate on your travels?’

‘Hush now, Cathy,’ I said, blushing at her foolishness. ‘How could he? The days of pirates are long gone.’

‘Well now,’ said Thackeray with an annoyingly patronising tone. ‘There’ll always be pirates, Ethan, as long as there are ships on the sea.’

‘I suppose you are right,’ I said. ‘But I meant the real age of pirates, sir – the age of Rackham, Kidd and Blackbeard.’

Thackeray smiled and his gold tooth winked.

‘You’re familiar with your pirates, then?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Cathy. ‘A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates is a special favourite of ours.’

‘You know the book, sir?’ I asked.

‘Captain Johnson’s book? Aye, I know it. A right scholarly account it is too, they say. But it is incomplete.’

‘Incomplete?’ I said.

‘Well, it must be, must it not?’ he said. ‘For there is no mention, I think I am correct in saying, of Captain Reeve.’

Cathy and I exchanged a puzzled glance.

‘Who is Captain Reeve?’ asked Cathy. ‘Was he a pirate?’

‘Only the most fearsome pirate that ever sailed Neptune’s oceans,’ said Thackeray. ‘As a matter of fact I have a tale that concerns that very person. Would you like to hear it?’

‘I am sure we would,’ said Cathy, and I nodded my agreement.

‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll begin . . .’