I would have run like the wind at this point. Or, if not at this point, then definitely at the point where the ancient, wrinkled, prune-like nanna rose from her bath chair and metamorphosed right there and then into a terrible wolf. And it was a proper full-scale animatronicstyle metamorphosis at that, with pruney skin shredding and big wolfy bits bursting out all over the place.

I would have run, I really would. But I did not. I could not. I was all weighed down by that special last supper, which was clearly designed for such effect. So I sort of staggered to my feet and lurched forwards like some B-movie zombie. The werewolf monster was clawing through blankets and old-lady trappings, its jaws all salivaed, its growlings most awful to hear.

And although I could not move too fast upon my wobbling legs, I was still able to lash out with justified and considerable fury and I managed to welt the fellow with the fine moustaches a blistering blow to the hooter, which sent him sprawling over the monster that was scrabbling up to eat me.

Which did not give me very much time, but gave me just enough. There was one of those things that I have never really understood rising from the deck near at hand. One of those things that look a bit like a grossly oversized ear trumpet and are constructed of polished-up brass on period liners like this. And although I did not know just what I might be getting into, anything was preferable to being eaten alive by a monstrous wolf, so I flung myself into this polished brass item and fell into darkness below.

The next thing I knew a couple of stoker-type sailors were yanking me into the light and telling me that I should not have been in there because that was a very dangerous place to be. And I was thanking them very much for this, but emphasising the fact that there were many more dangerous things in this world, when a lot of growling and clawing and scrabbling announced the imminent arrival of wolfish wickedness.

‘I would run if I were you,’ I told the stoker-types. ‘It is what I intend to do and you would both do well to emulate my example.’ Which was quite nicely put, although I think they failed to grasp the full import of its meaning.

I ran at a belly-sagging stagger as fast as I possibly could.

Behind me I heard growls and screams but I just lumbered on. Through a hatchway I went, but there was no lock, nor nothing to bar it behind me. And on and on I went, down a narrow corridor, until I reached a door with a sign that said CARGO HOLD.

Behind me rose growls and horrible sounds, and so I entered the cargo hold.

It was dimly lit and there were many steamer trunks and packing cases and crates of stuff and this, that and the other. I edged this way, that and the other trying to shrink through confined spaces and do my best to make myself invisible. But I was aware of one thing and that one thing was how members of the dog family are so noted for their sense of smell. And the way I smelled, I knew I must be leaving a trail that a half-nosed pup could follow.

But I kept right on squeezing and held my breath as I heard the door to the cargo hold smash and the growlings grow louder and louder.

‘What would Hugo do?’ I wondered to myself. ‘Perhaps he would cast a mystic lightning bolt or simply pull a derringer from his shirt cuff and dispatch the beast in an instant. And then probably have some tailor in Knightsbridge run up a nice wolf-skin jacket for him from the pelt.

I heard the beast do sniffings, then heard it growl once more. And I fumbled along, as quietly as I could in the dim light, hoping desperately that some solution to my dire predicament would hastily reveal itself.

And then something nearly took off my hand.

And I say nearly because I felt it coming at me rather than saw it and I tore back my hand in a rush.

I had got myself a bit wedged against something that looked like a mighty steel coffin. It was all metal plates and rivets and seemed the sort of thing that would be likely to house something really dangerous.

And on this occasion first impressions were not incorrect, because as my hand had brushed past a little barred air-hole kind of arrangement in the bolted lid, whatever lurked within had gone for it.

I flapped my hand. I was trembling now and I had had enough of this business. I stared down at the metal coffin affair and read the label that was pasted upon it:

PROPERTY OF BARON VON BACON.

DO NOT FEED.

DO NOT TOUCH.

AND CERTAINLY DO NOT OPEN.

Baron von Bacon, I knew that name. Creator of the Hell Hound with the human brain that had feasted on dead bodies back at Mons. Was the evil baron aboard this ship? It seemed that if he was not, then his Hell Hound was.

And now there was growling in stereo, Hell Hound to the left of me, werewolf to the right, here I was, stuck in the middle with… just me.

And then an idea dawned that was little less than inspired. Had I had longer to weigh up the disastrous potential attendant to the execution of this idea, I might well have thought twice about translating thought into action. But I was still young and foolish in my way and it did seem such a good idea at the time.

And so I dragged open the bolts on the steely coffin, swung wide the steely lid and cried, ‘Kill, boy! British soldier dressed as a dog! Kill, boy! Good boy! Kill!’

Well, there was always the chance that it understood English and I must say that considering the speed with which it left its metallic prison, it was certainly eager for freedom.

I now did duckings of my head as the fiends fell to hideous conflict.

The Hellish Hound and the Werewolf Monster tore at each other in fury. From what I could see of the maelstrom of violence, they appeared to be quite evenly matched.

I had never been a betting man. It was just one of those things that never had come into my life. And anyway I was too young to enter a bookies and really did not understand quite what went on within them. But if I had had to place a bet upon which monster was going to survive the fur-flying holocaust, I would have been really hard put to it to choose.

So I just slunk away, white-faced and trembling, and left them to sort it out for themselves. And I was halfway back along that narrow corridor when they came bucketing after me, bloody claws and teeth a-snapping and a-tearing. And I found some vigour in my legs now and so I took to my heels.

I made it up to a deck that I had not visited before. Perhaps it was one of those decks frequented by the lower classes, who like to dance jigs upon them, or sing Irish songs about sorrow and spuds. Or sorrow for lack of such spuds. But whatever the case, it was presently deserted and I burst onto it followed by two flailing monsters.

I tried hard to run, but tripped on my face and prepared to meet my maker. Howls and horror, growls and screams and moans and so much more.

Then nothing.

Then a kind of double splash.

And I raised my eyes and crawled to the side and peered down into the water. But the moonlight shone serenely upon the mirrored surface and all was once more calm and peaceful, pale and tranquil.

‘Well,’ I said, rising and dusting down my dining duds, ‘I think that went rather well. We can chalk that one up as a success, I think.’

Which of course was not the thing to say, because whenever you do get a bit smug and make a remark like that, something will always pop up, spoil the moment and smack you back down to the ground.

This of course was just such an occasion, and the voice that I heard chilled my heart.

‘You have murdered my sister,’ cried Esmerelle, and then she was upon me. She hauled me to my feet and swung me around and as I stared into her beautiful face it transformed right there before my very eyes.