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far more than any damned fiction). There is a market, he fancies, for some kind of guidance for those embarking on life overseas. He must make a note of that, he thinks, and scrambles around for a clean sheet of paper. In any case, the prospect of dinner tonight is especially entertaining and, he is certain, there may even be pear pudding, for that costermonger had been right outside. Cook surely will have availed the household of fresh pears if it is possible, will she not – first of the season this early in July? Socotra, eh? Sounds fascinating. Murray hopes George will be able to tell him if the island is Arabian or African, for a start. An interesting conundrum given its position on the map between the two territories.
    Murray rings the bell and the butler appears almost instantly.
    ‘Bring me breakfast here, would you?’ he asks as he sinks into the high-backed, wooden chair at his desk and pulls a plush, yellow, velvet pillow into the crook of his back. The long windows behind him let in a flood of light – perfect for reading. Many of England’s greatest publishing success stories have started their journey at this desk, in this light.
    ‘Coffee, I think. And tell Jack I won’t need Belle saddled just yet.’
    And with the tiniest speck of sand loosing itself from Wellsted’s missive and falling onto the wide, dark boards that span the floor, John Murray begins to read.

Chapter Nine
    It is almost midday when Jessop and Jones spot the tents. Nothing moves out on the burning sands, even the scorpions have buried themselves. The first they know that there is any life at all is the eddy of dust that floats into the air as the men come out, tiny specks on the horizon standing at the fringe of the lush oasis, to watch the foreigners and their party arrive from well over a mile away. While Jones’ attention is immediately taken up by the Arabian horses tethered in a makeshift corral, Jessop considers the place itself extraordinary. Despite the heat and the difficulty of the journey, the doctor is glad to be here. As the senior officer, he took the decision simply to keep going because, with the instincts of a true traveller, this time when the men said they were close to reaching the destination he believed them.
    Now, he is ushered into the emir’s tent and makes his salaams as he has been shown in Bombay, in preparation for just this kind of occasion – an introduction to someone of some small power who might be of use on His Majesty’s business. Jessop gives the emir the payment that has been agreed and then entreats the ruler to allow him to help the children of the camp. The doctor can see the young ones are suffering from an eye infection. Thin and angular as baby storks, they tarry at the tent flaps, blinking through their swollen eyelids, batting off the flies, their feet bare and their arms like sticks. Fresh burn marks pock their little legs – the Omanis treat pain with pain and burn flesh to purify from disease; it is the best they can do.
    ‘I am a doctor,’ he explains. ‘Let me try my white man’s medicine. I will do my best.’
    ‘Bitsalam yadak,’ the emir replies graciously, which Jessop takes to mean, ‘May God keep your hands safe.’ A good sign, surely.
    In another tent, Jessop inspects the eleven children who seem even more like fragile, strange, featherless birds now they are grouped together. When he asks questions, the women tending them shy away, but one of the men becomes a go-between, attempting the translation. In the main this is achieved by the means of hand movements as much as the Englishman’s sparse Arabic vocabulary, which is hindered further by his accent. The upshot is, Jessop concludes, that the infection has been spread by the kohl used on the youngsters’ eyelids. Kohl is widely believed to be medicinal in Arabia and is used to keep the eyes moist, but often people do not wash it between applications. When one of children got a windblown infection, it spread