Kitabı oku: «The Grave Tattoo», sayfa 2

2

Matthew Gresham gulped his last mouthful of coffee and dumped the mug in the sink. Members of staff were supposed to do their own washing up, but Matthew reckoned there had to be some advantages to rank so ever since his promotion to head teacher he’d left his dirty crockery for someone else to deal with. Besides, he had more important things to occupy him. So far nobody had commented on his presumptuousness, though he’d noticed disapproving glares from Marcia Porter more than once. But Marcia was a busted flush. When he’d leapfrogged her into the top job, she’d stopped trying to get the world to bend to her will. It was as if she’d thrown in the towel. She might not like what Matthew did, but she didn’t attempt to challenge him. Not like before, when they were theoretically equal except for her constant assertion of her seniority. These days, she gave him as wide a berth as was possible in a village school with a staff of five teachers and four teaching assistants.

Teaching assistants. That was a joke. Mothers with time on their hands and the misplaced notion that somehow, merely by giving birth, they had the inside track on how to educate kids. But they’d gone through the school system before SATs and the National Curriculum. They didn’t have a bloody clue about the pressures that real teachers like him had to live with on a daily basis. Matthew missed no opportunity to remind them of how much the world had changed. The main result was that, as with the rest of his staff, they spent as little time as possible slacking in the staffroom. That suited Matthew fine; his office was, to his way of thinking, barely adequate for his needs. He much preferred working in the staffroom, where he could brew himself a coffee whenever he felt like it.

He had to stoop to glance in the mirror above the sink which had been placed to suit the stature of female teachers rather than six-foot headmasters. Dark blue eyes stared back at him from olive skin a couple of shades darker than the local norm. The legacy of his Cornish grandfather, passed on to Matthew and Jane from their mother. He ran a hand through the dark mop of mutinous curls, inherited from the other side of the family. They looked glorious on his sister but simply made him feel like a poor man’s Harpo Marx. He smiled wryly, thinking of the lesson he was about to teach the top two classes. Genealogy and genetics, those twisted strands that wrapped around each other like the double helix of DNA, complete with the kinks that could have all kinds of unforeseen consequences. There was no doubting his relationship to his sister nor his parentage. Their father had the same corkscrew curls, as had his father before him.

The bell rang for afternoon classes and Matthew hurried out of the staffroom. As he approached the classroom, he heard a low murmur of conversation which stilled when the fifteen children saw him appear in the doorway. One of the benefits of small rural schools, Matthew thought. They still learned manners along with the National Curriculum. He didn’t envy the poor sods who had to teach the kids on the estate where Jane lived. ‘Good afternoon, children,’ he said, his long legs quickly covering the short distance to his desk.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Gresham,’ the class chorused raggedly.

He opened up his laptop and hit the key to take it out of slumber mode. Immediately the interactive whiteboard behind him showed a screen which read Family Trees. Matthew perched on the edge of his desk, from where he could easily reach the keyboard. ‘Today we’re beginning an important new project which will form part of the village Christmas celebrations. Now, one thing every one of us has is ancestors. Who can tell me what an ancestor is?’

A small boy with a thick mop of black hair and a face like a baby spider monkey shot a hand into the air. He bounced on his chair with eagerness.

‘Sam?’ Matthew said, trying not to sound weary. It was always Sam Clewlow.

‘It’s your family, sir. Not your family that’s alive now, but all the ones that came before. Like, your grandparents and their grandparents.’

‘That’s right. Our ancestors are the people who came before us. Who made us what we are. Every one of us is who we are and what we are because of the way our genes were combined down the ages. Now, does anyone know what a family tree is?’

Sam Clewlow’s hand rose again. The others looked on in indifference or satisfaction that Sam was doing all the work and saving them the bother. This time, he didn’t wait to be asked. ‘Sir, it’s like a map of your family history. It’s got everybody’s birthdays, and when they got married and who to, and when they had children and when they died and everything.’

‘You’ve got it, Sam. And what we’re going to do over the next few weeks is to try to map our own families. That’ll be easier for some of you than others–those of you whose families have lived locally for generations will be able to track them from parish records. It will be harder for those of you whose families are relative newcomers to the area. But one of the things we’ll be doing during this project is exploring the many different ways we can go about mapping our past. The thing about this project is that it’s one where you’ll have to work with the other members of your family, especially the older ones such as grandparents and great-aunts and–uncles.’ Again, Matthew felt grateful that he wasn’t stuck in some inner-city sink school. A project like this would be impossible to contemplate there, with its fragmented lives and alternative views of what constituted a family. But in Fellhead, either they’d lived in extended families for generations or else they were incomers from the sort of nice middle-class family where, even when they pretended to be New Age, marriage certificates were still the order of the day more often than not.

‘To show you the kind of thing we’ll be doing, I’m going to show you my own family tree.’ He clicked the mouse button and his name came up on the screen. Underneath it was his date of birth. He clicked again and this time his name was linked to Diane Brotherton with an ‘equals’ sign. ‘Can you guess what that sign means? Jonathan?’ he asked a chunky red-haired boy, ignoring Sam’s eager hand.

Jonathan Bramley looked faintly startled. He frowned in concentration. ‘Dunno,’ he finally conceded.

Trying not to show his exasperation, Matthew said patiently, ‘It means “married to”. Mrs Gresham was Diane Brotherton until she married me.’ He clicked again and a vertical line appeared, connecting them to Gabriel Stephen Gresham.

‘That’s your baby,’ one of the girls piped up unprompted.

‘That’s right, Kylie.’ Matthew clicked again. Now little thumbnail pictures appeared beside each of the names. ‘We can even add photos. That way, we can see how family resemblances move between generations. Now, we can all start our family trees with what we know already.’ He tapped the keyboard and brought up another screen. This showed his parents and his sister, complete with photos, places of birth and occupations.

‘But we’re going to do more than that. We’re going to delve into the past and trace our family trees as far as we can.’ This time, the family tree he displayed included his grandparents–one grandfather an incomer, a refugee from the Cornish tin mines who had come to the Lakes to mine slate, the other a Cumberland shepherd–and his aunts, uncles and cousins.

‘And one of the things we are going to learn about is the way a community like ours has grown through the years. We’ll find all sorts of connections between families that you might not even have known about yourselves. You may even discover common ancestors, and you’ll start to get a sense of how people’s lives have changed over the centuries.’ Matthew’s gift for sharing his enthusiasm was working on the children now. They were hanging on his words.

‘We’re going to begin with your immediate family. Look at my family tree on the board so you know how to lay it out on the page. And tonight, when you go home, you can ask the rest of the family to help you fill in the gaps. As we continue, we’ll explore different ways of discovering more information about your history and your ancestors. Now, find a fresh page in your workbooks and make a start.’

Matthew waited till they had all got going, then he sat down behind the desk. He pulled a pile of maths workbooks towards him and started marking the children’s work. His absorption was disturbed by a muttering and sniggering that ran round the room. When he looked up, Sam Clewlow was flushed, his eyes bright with unshed tears. Jonathan Bramley looked gleeful.

‘What’s going on?’ Matthew demanded, getting to his feet. Nobody met his eye. ‘Jonathan? What’s going on?’

Jonathan’s mouth compressed in a tight line. He didn’t know it yet, but he would spend the rest of his life being caught out by his own stupidity and the concomitant inability to dissemble. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered eventually.

‘You can tell me now or you can stay after school and tell me then,’ Matthew said, his voice hard. He’d never understood the complaints of teachers who claimed they couldn’t control the kids. You just had to show them who was boss, and keep on showing them.

‘I just said…’ Jonathan’s voice trailed off as he looked around desperately for support that was not forthcoming.

‘You just said what?’

‘I said we all knew who Sam’s ancestor was,’ he mumbled.

‘I’m fascinated to hear it,’ Matthew said. ‘And who exactly did you have in mind?’

Jonathan’s ears were scarlet and his eyes were fixed on the floor. ‘The Monkey Man up on the moor,’ he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

‘You mean the body in the bog?’ Matthew guessed. The grisly discovery had been the talk of the village for the past few days.

Jonathan nodded and gulped. ‘It was just a joke, like.’

‘Jokes are meant to be funny,’ Matthew said repressively. ‘Insults aren’t a joke. And it’s not appropriate to make jokes about the dead. When that man was alive, he had friends and family who loved him, just like you. Imagine how you’d feel if someone you loved died and some thoughtless person made a joke about it.’

‘But, sir, there’s nobody alive to care about the Monkey Man,’ the irrepressible Kylie said.

Matthew groaned inwardly. It was going to be one of those conversations, he knew it. He believed in his job, but sometimes he wished he hadn’t done quite such a good job of helping them develop enquiring minds. ‘Why do you call him the Monkey Man?’ he asked.

‘Coz that’s what they look like,’ a boy piped up. ‘There was a programme on the telly about that one they found down in Cheshire. He looked like an ape.’

‘So that’s why we call him the Monkey Man,’ another chipped in.

Sam Clewlow snorted. ‘That’s stupid,’ he said.

‘Why is it stupid, Sam?’ Matthew asked.

‘Because the man they found in the peat in Cheshire died back in the Stone Age. That’s why he looks the way he does. But the one on the fell isn’t that old. So he doesn’t look like a monkey, he looks like us,’ Sam said firmly.

Snorts of derision met his words. ‘He don’t look like me,’ Jonathan blurted out. ‘Our Jason said he looked like an old leather bag with a face. And he should know, he plays darts with Paul Lister that found the body.’ Jonathan leaned back in his seat, his earlier humiliation forgotten as he basked in their attention.

‘So maybe he is one of our ancestors,’ Sam chipped in.

‘Yeah,’ Kylie said enthusiastically. ‘Maybe he got murdered and buried on the fell.’

‘That’s right. Coz how else would he have ended up in the peat?’ another said.

‘He might simply have had an accident when he was out on the hill,’ Matthew said, trying to dampen down their ghoulish enthusiasm. ‘He might have gone out to tend his sheep, taken a tumble and died out on the fell.’

‘But then somebody would have gone looking for him and they’d have found his body,’ Sam pointed out reasonably. ‘The only way he could have ended up under the peat is if somebody buried him there because they didn’t want anybody to know what had happened to him. I think Kylie’s right. I think somebody murdered him.’

‘Well, until the scientists have done their tests, we won’t know anything for sure,’ Matthew said firmly.

‘It’ll be like Silent Witness,’ Kylie said. ‘The doctor will figure out how he died and then the police will have to find out what happened.’

Matthew couldn’t help grinning. ‘I don’t think it’ll be quite like that, Kylie. From what I hear, if the body in the bog was murdered, his killer will be long dead too. But until we have some facts, I suggest we all get back to what we do know about.’ He held up a hand to silence their chatter. ‘And who knows? Maybe one of you will discover an ancestor who went missing at the right time.’

Sam Clewlow gazed at him, open-mouthed. ‘That would be fantastic,’ he breathed.

I was engaged in my poetical labours upon the long Poem on my own life, pondering how best I might find apt illustration of those matters I hold dear when I saw a figure at the gate. At first glance, I took him to be one of those travelling or wandering men who from time to time arrive at our door in search of sustenance. My sister is accustomed to provide them with food & drink, before setting them on their way. On occasion, she has gleaned tales from them which have provided me with matter fit to be translated into poems & so I do not discourage her in this small charity. The man at the gate seemed to be one such, with travel-stained, clothes & a large-brimmed hat to shelter him from sun & rain alike. I was about to direct him to the kitchen door when he spoke. To my astonishment, he greeted me by my Christian name, addressing me with some warmth & familiarity. ‘William, I see you are hard at it. I was told, you had become the Poet of the, Age & now I see it for myself.’ I still had no notion of who the man was, but he opened the gate without further ado & walked across the garden towards me. His bow-legged gait had a nautical flavour to it, & as he drew closer an impossible suspicion grew large in my mind.

3

By three thirty, the Viking had almost returned to its default state of vacant tranquillity. A couple of the rear booths were still occupied by pairs of men talking business over their espressos. They’d already paid their bills; the staff were invisible to them now. Jane loaded the washer with the last of the glasses then hitched herself on to a stool at the end of the bar to give her aching feet some relief. Harry emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of leftover sandwiches.

Jane reached for a sandwich as Harry pulled up a stool and sat down beside her. ‘Where did you put the paper?’ she asked.

‘I’ll get it.’ Harry jumped off his stool and went behind the bar. He pulled the paper out from one of the shelves and handed it over.

Jane went straight to the story she’d not had time to read properly before the lunchtime rush.

RIDDLE OF BODY IN LAKELAND BOG

The body of a man found in a peat bog in the Lake District may be hundreds of years old, police said yesterday.

At first, it was thought the remains might have lain undiscovered for thousands of years, like Stone Age corpses recovered from similar sites.

But initial forensic examination indicates that the body is far more recent. Detective Chief Inspector Ewan Rigston said, ‘We believe the body has been in the ground for a very long time, perhaps hundreds of years. But we don’t think it’s anything like as old as some of the remains unearthed in other places.

‘We will know more after the forensic specialists have done their work.’

When asked how the man had died, DCI Rigston said it was too early to tell.

The body was discovered by a local shepherd searching for a lost sheep. Police believe the heavy summer rain had eroded banking within the ancient peat deposits at Carts Moss near the village of Fellhead.

Paul Lister, 37, of Coniston Cottages, Fellhead, spoke last night of his gruesome discovery. ‘I was following my dog over Carts Moss, looking for a stray lamb. I slipped on the wet grass and fell down into one of the channels between the peat hags.

‘My hand slipped on something and I looked down. At first, I couldn’t figure out what I was looking at. I thought it was a cow hide or something. Then I realised it had a human face.

‘I couldn’t believe it. It was like something out of a horror movie.’

While he was waiting for the police to arrive, Mr Lister had the chance to look more closely at his grim find. ‘He had black hair, and it looked like he had black tattoos on his arms and his body. But I don’t know if that was just the effect of being in the peat for so long.’

Forensic anthropologist Dr River Wilde from the University of Northern England has been called in to work with local scientific experts in a bid to unlock the mystery of the body in the bog. DCI Rigston said, ‘Until Dr Wilde has completed her investigations, there is nothing more we can say.’

Jane almost choked on her sandwich. ‘Look at that, Harry,’ she said when she had recovered herself. She pointed to the penultimate paragraph.

Before Harry could respond, a hand landed on each of their shoulders. A shaved head insinuated itself between theirs. ‘What’s so fascinating?’ a familiar voice asked.

Jane swivelled round to kiss Dan Seabourne’s smooth cheek. ‘Dan! What a lovely surprise. Harry didn’t say you were coming.’

‘Harry didn’t know,’ Harry said, a trace of acid in his tone.

‘My three o’clock cancelled on me, so I thought I’d sneak away and pick you up,’ Dan said, ruffling his lover’s hair.

‘Checking up on Harry and the new Italian chef, more like,’ Jane teased. ‘I knew we’d never get rid of you once you’d seen Giaco in his chef’s whites.’

Dan pretended to clutch his heart in shock. ‘So insightful,’ he sighed. Then he reached round her and grabbed a stool. ‘Jane, I haven’t seen you in a week. Are you hiding from me?’

Jane groaned. ‘It’s the book. I’m supposed to have it finished by the end of the year and right now I think the only way I’m going to manage it is if Mephistopheles walks through the door with an offer I can’t refuse. When I signed the contract, I thought it would be a piece of piss to turn my thesis into a book.’ She snorted derisively. ‘How wrong can one woman be?’

‘Maybe you should get out of town for a while, get your head down and get it finished,’ Dan said. ‘I could cover your teaching for you.’

Jane grinned. She and Dan were both sailors in the same boat; post-doctoral researchers, scrabbling for any teaching that might lead to the elusive grail of a permanent lecturing job, desperate to make an impression on their professor and to make ends meet. They should have been rivals, but a friendship dating back to undergraduate days forestalled that. ‘And pick up my wages too? Nice try, Dan,’ she teased, digging him in the ribs with her elbow. ‘You have no scruples, you know that? You should be getting off your arse and writing a book of your own.’

Dan spread his hands, feigning innocence. ‘Hey, I’m just trying to help here. You could benefit from less distraction, right?’

Harry pulled the paper towards him. ‘From the looks of this, Fellhead’s got distractions of its own.’ He pointed to the article, passing it over to Dan. ‘Death stalks the fells.’

Harry and Jane carried on eating while Dan read the piece. ‘Well, at least you wouldn’t have to worry about a mad axeman on the loose,’ he said. ‘If this is a murder victim, his killer will have been in the ground almost as long.’

‘Never mind murder,’ Jane said, pointing to the penultimate paragraph. ‘I’m more interested in his tattoos.’

‘His tattoos?’ Dan asked.

‘Black tattoos. What does that say to you?’

Dan shrugged. ‘Apart from David Beckham, nothing at all.’

‘Eighteenth century, sailors, South Sea islands. Lots of them got native tattoos when they went there. Like Fletcher Christian.’

Dan grinned. ‘Your favourite rural legend.’

‘What are you two on about?’ Harry asked.

‘What do you know about the mutiny on the Bounty?’ Jane said.

Harry shrugged. ‘Mel Gibson. Very cute in those tight trousers.’

Jane groaned. ‘Good to see you were paying attention.’

‘Hey, I’m only joking. I’m not just a bimbo, Jane,’ Harry protested. ‘I remember the bit where Mel stages the mutiny and casts the evil Captain Bligh adrift in an open boat then sets sail for Tahiti.’

‘Very good, Harry. Except it wasn’t actually Mel Gibson, it was Fletcher Christian who led the mutiny. And what I’m interested in isn’t the mutiny as such, it’s the aftermath. After Bligh made his epic voyage to safety and finally got back to London, the navy was alerted to look out for the mutineers and to bring them back to London for court martial. Years later, a group of them were found on Tahiti and shipped back. But the fate of Fletcher and the other hard-core mutineers remained a mystery for a long time. They actually ended up on Pitcairn Island with some of the native women and men and settled down there.’

Harry nodded. ‘Pitcairn…They had that child sex scandal a couple of years ago, didn’t they?’

‘Right. Featuring direct descendants of some of the mutineers. But that wasn’t the first trouble in Paradise,’ Jane said. ‘Basically, there weren’t enough women to go round. The official version is that the mutineers had a falling-out with the natives and there was a massacre. Supposedly Fletcher Christian was the first white man killed. End of story.’

‘But…? I mean, there has to be a but, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t be getting excited about some dead body with a bunch of black tatts,’ Harry said.

‘This is Jane’s fantasy bit,’ Dan chipped in.

Jane looked faintly uncomfortable. ‘There’s always been a rumour in the Lake District that Fletcher Christian didn’t die on Pitcairn. That the massacre was just a cover-up. Somehow he managed to flee the island and make his way back to England, where he lived out the rest of his days hidden from justice by his family and friends. It was a pretty risky enterprise for everyone concerned. If Fletcher had been betrayed or discovered, he would definitely have been hanged for leading the mutiny. And so would anyone who had knowingly had contact with him without handing him over to the authorities.’

Harry’s expression shifted through surprise to incredulity. ‘You’re kidding, right? I mean, this is just gossip?’

‘Like I said, it’s Jane’s favourite rural legend,’ Dan said, lighting a cigarette.

Jane shook her head, her long curls catching the light. ‘It’s not just gossip. John Barrow’s book raises the question as far back as 1831.’

‘As conspiracy theories go, you have to admit it’s a goodie,’ Dan said. ‘Mr Christian staged a massacre and sailed off into the sunset. Oh no, wait a minute. How did he get away, Jane? They burned the ship, didn’t they?’

Jane leaned on the bar. ‘They did. But the Bounty had two ship’s jolly boats on board and they’ve never been satisfactorily accounted for. Also, there’s the matter of the missing log.’ She grinned. ‘That’s where you’re supposed to say, “What missing log?”’

Dan inclined his head and held up his hands in mock astonishment. ‘What missing log?’

‘Fletcher Christian was an officer of the watch. He was accustomed to keeping a log. It would have been second nature to him.’

‘Makes sense,’ Harry said.

‘It would be extraordinary if there was no record kept of how they settled Pitcairn. There was no shortage of paper and pens. They were still using them years later in the school they set up for their kids. But the only documentary account ever seen was written by one of the other mutineers, Edward Young. And it doesn’t start until after the massacre, which implies someone else was keeping notes until that point. Who else but Fletcher? If he’d died, it stands to reason that the journal would have survived him. But if he took to the sea…’ Jane’s voice trailed off.

‘He’d have taken it with him, right?’ Harry concluded. She could see he was interested too, in spite of his perpetual assumption of cool. ‘OK, I’ll grant you that that’s suggestive, if nothing else. But, as you say yourself, it’s all circumstantial.’

‘Not quite all of it. Let me tell you about Peter Heywood. He was one of the mutineers who came back. But unlike most of the others who were court-martialled, his family had the cash and connections to secure their blue-eyed boy a pardon. Instead of being hanged, he went on to have a glittering naval career. But the really interesting thing about Peter Heywood is that he was a distant cousin of Fletcher Christian. He grew up on the Isle of Man, where Fletcher spent a fair bit of his own youth. So, as well as sailing with him, Heywood was personally connected to Fletcher. He knew him well,’ Jane said. ‘And in 1809 or thereabouts, Peter Heywood saw Fletcher Christian in Plymouth.’

Harry frowned. ‘But Plymouth was a naval base, wasn’t it? Surely he’d have had to have been insane to walk around Plymouth in broad daylight? Here’s the most notorious mutineer in the history of the British navy. I mean, even somebody like me with no interest in history has heard of him. And according to you, here’s a man who went to extraordinary lengths to stay out of harm’s way after the mutiny, a man who’d be a cert for the hangman’s rope if he’d ever been caught. And yet here he is taking an afternoon stroll in a city that’s awash with naval officers and ratings. And who does he bump into but his old mucker Peter Heywood.’ Harry spread his hands in the manner of a man making an unanswerable case. ‘And even supposing it did happen, if Heywood and Christian were as close as you say, why would he admit to having seen Christian? It makes no sense.’

‘He didn’t admit it, Harry. Not publicly anyway. It never came out until after his death. And I can speculate,’ Jane said, her voice mild. ‘What if he’d arranged to meet Heywood then, at the last minute, Heywood couldn’t disentangle himself from one of his colleagues? And when Fletcher saw Heywood wasn’t alone, he took to his heels.’

Harry shook his head. ‘But why would Fletcher Christian leave Pitcairn in the first place? He was safe there, surely? Why throw that away?’

‘I’m not so sure that he felt safe,’ Jane said. ‘It’s clear there were deep divisions between the mutineers themselves as well as the problems with the native men. There’s also some evidence that the other mutineers resented his authority as the only officer left among them. And he was a decent man, remember? Maybe he wanted to make his peace, like the Ancient Mariner. Maybe he wanted to explain why he’d been driven to mutiny in the first place,’ Jane argued. ‘Only, when he got back, he discovered that Bligh had not only survived, he’d become a hero thanks to his amazing navigation of the Pacific. Not to mention the fact that he’d had plenty of time to get his version of the mutiny out there. Whatever Fletcher’s motives were for inciting the crew against Bligh, it was too late for him to make his case.’

‘But what case could he have made?’ Harry asked. ‘Mutiny’s mutiny, isn’t it?’

‘There was one defence to mutiny that Christian could have relied on,’ Dan said.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Suddenly you’re the expert on naval law?’

‘No, but I do know something about the history of gay oppression, sweetheart,’ Dan said. ‘What if Christian alleged sodomy against Bligh? That was a hanging offence back then, wasn’t it? If he could demonstrate that Bligh had forced him to have sex against his will, wouldn’t that have mitigated the mutiny?’ He paused, his brows furrowed, teeth gnawing his lower lip. ‘Of course, he would have needed a third-party witness to make it stand up. Back then, because it was such an easy allegation to make and so hard to substantiate, the courts martial insisted on more than one man’s word against another. And Christian must have known that.’

‘Maybe there was a witness,’ Jane said slowly. ‘And maybe part of the reason Fletcher led the mutiny was to protect the witness…’ her voice trailed off and she stared dreamily across the empty bar.

‘What do you mean?’ Harry was still intrigued.

Jane held up a finger, giving herself a pause to consider her position. ‘Let’s go back to Peter Heywood,’ she said, her eyes focused inward as she searched through the knowledge she’d amassed over years of fascination. ‘Fletcher had sailed previously with Bligh and it’s on record that he was the captain’s favourite. Same story during the Bounty’s voyage as far as Tahiti. Then Fletcher spends six months ashore, takes himself a native concubine…’

‘Concubine, I love that word,’ Dan said, rolling it on his tongue.

‘Anyway,’ Jane said forcefully, ‘when the ship leaves Tahiti, Fletcher doesn’t want to go back to being Bligh’s…’

‘Catamite. That’s the word you’re looking for. Another lovely one,’ Dan interrupted.

‘Whatever. And Bligh starts treating him like shit. And Fletcher’s decision has also put him on the horns of a dilemma. He feels he owes a duty of care to young Peter Heywood, his kinsman. Because it was also well documented that Heywood was Bligh’s second-favourite after Fletcher. So Fletcher wants to protect Heywood, but not at the expense of submitting again to Bligh.’

‘And so he leads a mutiny, knowing he faces certain death if he’s ever caught? All to protect the honour of Peter Heywood?’ Harry sounded dubious.