“Glowering” would probably be the most apt term to describe the expression on his face. As he came down the companionway and passed Miss Beresford he made a heroic effort to twist his features into the semblance of a smile and managed to hold it for all of two seconds until he had passed her by, then got back to his glowering again. For a man who is dressed in gleaming whites from top to toe to give the impression of a black approaching thundercloud is no small feat, but Captain Bullen managed it without any trouble. He was a big man, six feet two and very heavily built, with sandy hair and eyebrows, a smooth red face that no amount of sun could ever tan, and a clear blue eye that- no amount of whisky could ever dim. He looked at the quayside, the hold, and then at me, all with the same impartial disfavour. “Well, Mister,” he said heavily. “How’s it going? Miss Beresford giving you a hand, eh?” When he was in a bad mood, it was invariably “Mister”; in a neutral mood, it was “First”; and when in a good temper — which, to be fair, was most of the time it was always “Johnny-me-boy.” But today it was “Mister.”

I took my guard accordingly and ignored the implied reproof of time-wasting. He would be gruffly apologetic the next day. He always was. “Not too bad, sir. Bit slow on the dockside.” I nodded to where a group of men, some bearded, all wearing denim trousers and vaguely military-looking shirts, were struggling to attach chain slings to a crate that must have been at least eighteen feet in length by six square. “I don’t think the Carracio stevedores are accustomed to handling such heavy lifts.”

He took a good look. “They couldn’t handle a damned wheelbarrow,” he snapped eventually. “Never seen such fumble-handed incompetence in my blasted life. First time in this stinking flea-ridden hellhole — Carracio was actually one of the cleanest and most picturesquely beautiful ports in the Caribbean and I hope to heaven it’s the last. Can you manage it by six, Mister?”