“Come on, Johnny,” she pleaded. “Come on down below.”

“All right, so I’m loopy. But it’s still true. If I could shove either of those men into the drawing room ahead of me and threaten the two guards with his death if they didn’t drop their guns, I rather think they would. With two machine guns and all the men in there to help, I could do a lot on a night like this. I’m not crazy, Susan, just desperate, like I said.”

“You can hardly stand.” There was a note of desperation in her voice now. “That’s why you’re here. To hold me up. Carreras is out of the question. He’ll be on the bridge and that’ll be the most heavily guarded place on the ship, because it’s the most important place.” I winced and shrank back into a corner as a great blue-white jagged streak of forked lightning, almost directly ahead, flickered and stabbed through the black wall of cumulo-nimbus clouds and the driving rain, momentarily illuminating every detail of the Campari’s decks in its blinding glare. The curiously flat explosive clap of thunder was muffled, lost in the teeth of the gale.

“That helps,” I muttered. “Thunder, lightning, a tropical rainstorm, and moving into the heart of a hurricane. King Lear should have seen this little lot. He’d never have complained of his blasted heath again.”

“Macbeth,” she said. “That was Macbeth.”

“Oh hell,” I said. She was getting as nutty as I was. I took her arm, or she took mine, I forget which. “Come on. We’re too exposed here.”

A minute later we were down on “A” deck, crouched against a bulkhead. I said, “Finesse will get us nowhere. I’m going into the central passageway, straight into Cerdan’s cabin. I’ll stick my hand in my pocket, pretend I have a gun. Stay at the entrance to the passageway; warn me if anyone comes.”

“He’s not in,” she said. We were standing at the starboard forward end of the accommodation, just outside Cerdan’s sleeping cabin. “He’s not at home. There’s no light on.”

“The curtains will be drawn,” I said impatiently. “The ship’s fully darkened. I’ll bet Carreras hasn’t even got the navigation lights on.” we shrank against the bulkhead as another lightning flash reached down from the darkened clouds, seemed almost to dance on the tip of the Campari’s mast. “I won’t be long.”

“Wait!” she held me with both hands. “The curtains aren’t drawn. That flash — I could see everything inside the cabin.”

“You could see,“ for some reason I’d lowered my voice almost to a whisper. “Anyone inside?”

“I couldn’t see all the inside. It was just for a second.” I straightened, pressed my face hard against the window, and stared inside. The darkness in the cabin was absolute — absolute, that is, until another forked finger of lightning lit up the entire upper works of the Campari once more. Momentarily I saw my own hooded face and staring eyes reflected back at me in the glass, then exclaimed involuntarily, for I had seen something else again.

“What is it?” Susan demanded huskily. “What’s wrong?”

“This is wrong.” I fished out Marston’s torch, hooded it with my hand, and shone it downwards through the glass.

The bed was up against the bulkhead, almost exactly beneath the window. Cerdan was lying on the bed, clothed and awake, his eyes staring up as if hypnotised by the beam of the torch. Wide eyes, staring eyes. His white hair was not just where his white hair had been; it had slipped back, revealing his own hair beneath. Black hair, jet-black hair, with a startling streak of iron-grey almost exactly in the middle. Black hair with an iron-grey streak? where had I seen somebody with hair like that? When had I ever heard of somebody with hair like that? All of a sudden I knew it was “when,” not “where”; I knew the answer. I switched off the light.

“Cerdan!” There was shock and disbelief and utter lack of comprehension in Susan’s voice. “Cerdan! bound hand and foot and tied to his bed so that he can’t move an inch. Cerdan! but no, no!” She was ready to give up. “Oh, Johnny, what does it all mean?”

“I know what it all means.” No question now but that I knew what it all meant and wished to heaven I didn’t. I’d only thought I’d been afraid before, the time I’d only been guessing. But the time for guessing was past; oh, my god, it was past. I knew the truth now, and the truth was worse than I had ever dreamed. I fought down the rising panic and said steadily through dry lips, “Have you ever robbed a grave, Susan?”

“Have I ever…“ She broke off, and when her voice came again there were tears in it. “We’re both worn out, Johnny. Let’s get down below. I want to go back to the sick bay.”

“I have news for you, Susan. I’m not mad. But I’m not joking. And I hope to god that grave’s not empty.” I caught her arm to lead her away, and as I did the lightning flashed again and her eyes were wild and full of fear. I wondered what mine looked like to her.

What with the darkness, my bad leg, the intermittent lightning, the wild rearing, wave-top staggering and plunging of the Campari, and the need to use the greatest caution all the way, it took us a good fifteen minutes to reach number four hold, far back on the afterdeck and when we got there, pulled back the tarpaulin, loosened a couple of battens, and peered down into the near-stygian depths of the hold, I wasn’t at all sure that I was glad we had come. Along with several tools I’d filched an electric lantern from the bo’sun’s store on the way there, and though it didn’t give off much of a light, it gave off enough to let me see that the floor of the hold was a shambles. I’d secured for sea after leaving Carracio, but I hadn’t secured for a near-hurricane, for the excellent reason that whenever the weather was bad the Campari had invariably run in the other direction.

But now Carreras had taken us in the wrong direction and he either hadn’t bothered or forgotten to secure for the worsening weather conditions. Forgotten, almost certainly; for number four hold presented a threat, to say the least, to the lives of everybody aboard, Carreras and his men included. At least a dozen heavy crates, the weight of one or two of which could be measured in tons, had broken loose and were sliding and lurching across the floor of the hold with every corkscrewing pitch of the Campari, alternately crashing into the secured cargo aft or the bulkhead forward. My guess was that this wasn’t doing the forward bulkhead any good, and just let the motion of the Campari change from pitching to rolling, especially as we neared the centre of the hurricane, and the massive dead weights of those sliding crates would begin to assault the sides of the ship. Buckled plates, torn rivets, and a leak that couldn’t be repaired would be only a matter of time.

To make matters worse, Carreras’ men hadn’t bothered to remove the broken, splintered sides of the wooden crates in which they and the guns had been slung aboard; they, too, were sliding about the floor with every movement of the ship, being continually smashed and becoming progressively smaller in size as they were crushed between the sliding crates and bulkheads, pillars and fixed cargo. Not the least frightening part of it all was the din, the almost continuous goose-pimpling metallic screech as iron-banded cases slid over steel decks, a high-pitched grating scream that set your teeth on edge, a scream that invariably ended, predictably yet always unexpectedly, in a jarring crash that shook the entire hold as the crates brought up against something solid. And every sound in that echoing, reverberating, emptily cavernous hold was magnified ten times. All in all, the floor of that hold wasn’t the place I would have chosen for an afternoon nap.

I gave the electric lantern to Susan, after shining it on a vertical steel ladder tapering down into the depths of the hold.