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cabins, children’s voices mainly. And then a movement caught my eye above the hanging lamp, two small faces peering down at us from the skylight. As soon as they realised I had seen them they vanished and in their place was a young man’s face, dark, intense, the eyes slightly protuberant and a thin spoilt mouth, the dull gold sleeve of his blouson flattened against the glass. He was looking down at Iris Sunderby, a strange glint in his eyes. Was it lust? Hatred perhaps? I couldn’t be sure. All I knew for certain was that the sight of her sitting there, her head bent over her papers, had sparked off some violent emotion.
    He must have sensed I was watching him for he suddenly turned his head and looked straight at me. I could see his eyes more clearly then, very dark and full of malevolence. Or so it seemed at the time. But it was such a fleeting glimpse, then it was gone and I thought he smiled at me. A second later I was staring up at an empty rectangle of blue sky. ‘Tourists,’ Wellington said. ‘They get all over the place.’
    I glanced quickly across at Iris Sunderby, wondering whether she had seen him and what her reaction had been, but her head was now turned towards Victor Wellington as he described more fully the Andros frigate; dimensions, masts, rigging, all the construction details so dear to a curator contemplating a prize exhibit.
    I don’t remember much of what he said, for the face in the skylight had made an extraordinary impression on me. It sounds ridiculous as I write, about it now, just the glimpse of a face through a ship’s skylight, but I knew then, in that instant, there was something between them, something that linked him to Iris Sunderby in a way that was both personal and frightening. It was such a startling impression to form in the photo-flash moment of his staring down at her. But there it is. That face conveyed something, the very intent, very concentrated expression of it sending a chill through me that even now I cannot entirely explain.
    â€˜If the expedition – your expedition – were successful and you found the remains of the Andros in the ice, with Peter Kettil here to advise you on its preservation …’ That mention of my name jerked my mind back from its wild imaginings. It was the first indication I had of the real purpose of my presence here at this gathering.
    â€˜Are you suggesting I advise them – out there?’ My voice sounded small and uncertain.
    Victor Wellington’s sharp little eyes fastened on me. ‘Of course. It’s essential to have an expert on the spot to assess what is necessary for preservation of the ship’s timbers so that it can be flown out, together with the appropriate technicians. Then, when the salvage boys have cut a way out for her, the hull can be towed north into warmer seas without fear of it disintegrating.’
    â€˜But –’ I hesitated. The possibility of my being a member of the expedition hadn’t occurred to me.
    He smiled. ‘Why do you think I asked you to attend this meeting?’
    â€˜But I’m not qualified,’ I said. ‘Timber preservation, yes – but sailing in the Antarctic …’
    â€˜You know about ships. You’ve sailed, and you have a boat of your own.’
    â€˜I had. But on the Norfolk coast. You’re talking about the Antarctic.’
    â€˜Nelson,’ the Admiral cut in. ‘Burnham Thorpe. He was brought up on the edge of the saltings there. And the north of Norfolk is sometimes referred to as the Arctic – Shore. It’s cold and it breeds a certain type of man. You’ll fit. Won’t he, Mrs Sunderby?’
    I turned my head to find her looking at me very intently. Clearly she hadn’t been ready to make a decision there and then. But suddenly she smiled. ‘Yes, of course. The Admiral’s right.’ And she added, ‘If we do find the ship, we’ll certainly need the