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cheerfully and, if Major Guthrie had heard him say that, he’d suffer for it big time later on.
    Guiltily, I remembered my other crisis. The one that didn’t involve the world’s most famous writer going up in flames.
    â€˜Miss Sykes, report.’
    â€˜Oh, hello Max.’
    As always, she sounded delighted to hear from me. I wasn’t fooled for an instant. Who did she think invented that voice?
    â€˜Report.’
    â€˜Well, there’s good and there’s bad. The original passenger has turned up and is accusing the professor of stealing his berth. He’s quite indignant about it, actually. The captain and his first mate aren’t actually on the ship at the moment. Popular opinion has it they’re out rogering as many barmaids as they can find in preparation for the long voyage ahead, but the rest of the crew are accusing the professor of trying to stow away. Which I gather is quite a serious crime, although since he’s been marching around the deck talking to all the sailors, demanding to know how everything works, and showing them new knots he’s invented, there hasn’t been a lot of stowing going on. I can’t honestly see how they’ll make the charge stick. Can I just ask – what’s keelhauling?’
    Without thinking, I said, ‘A vicious form of maritime punishment mentioned as early as 800 BC, involving dragging the offender under the keel of a boat. Survival is rare – death being due either to drowning, or having clothes, skin, arms, legs et cetera, ripped off by the barnacles growing on the ship’s bottom. Please use every effort to ensure that does not happen to the professor.’ I played out possible scenarios in my head. ‘Or Dr Dowson, either.’
    â€˜I’ll do my best,’ she said, cheerfully, ‘but I’m just a girl. No one’s taking any notice of me.’
    â€˜You underestimate your abilities, Miss Sykes.’
    â€˜True. And the second mate appears to be extremely fond of the miracle fluid known as rum. I’m sure I can persuade him to let us all go. Everyone’s quaffing away, including the real passenger for the New World – and a right miserable bugger he looks. I can feel the War of Independence coming on just by looking at him.’
    She broke off and I heard an unearthly cry.
    â€˜What the hell?’
    â€˜Just a couple of passing seagulls who just popped in, had a quick quaff and are now unable to get airborne again. How are things with you?’
    â€˜Absolutely fine,’ I said, through gritted teeth.
    â€˜Oh dear. Never mind.’
    Long experience enabled me to identify the exact moment Dr Bairstow and his party assumed their seats in the gallery. The faint commotion caused by him staring at people long enough for them to move up and make room for him was lost in the general hubbub around me, but I knew he was there.
    I ground my teeth, ignored his penetrating stare and turned back to the stage.
    The play was resuming. Scenes came and went. I can only assume that players set fire to themselves all the time, because no one seemed in the slightest bit perturbed. Actors swirled around the stage. Hamlet went not so quietly mad. Glittering costumes mingled with glittering words. The smoke from braziers and a hundred pipes made my eyes sting. I shifted from foot to foot, half discomfort, half anxiety. What was happening? Why hadn’t Markham returned? Were they still under the stage? How badly was Shakespeare injured? Was Markham being held responsible? Right now, not ten feet away, Shakespeare could be breathing his last.
    I broke my self-imposed rule.
    â€˜Markham. Talk to me. Are you being cut into tiny pieces?’
    â€˜No, I’m having a beer.’
    Of course he bloody was. Any concern I might have felt took wings and flew away.
    â€˜What about Shakespeare? He’s on again in Act Three.’
    â€˜He’s not going to make it.’
    â€˜He