The Dream Seekers

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Father Beitz has a dream. Will it become a reality? Patricia Shaw returns to the austere and beautiful Northern Territory of the 1870s in The Dream Seekers, a vivid tale of conflict and passion. The perfect read for fans of Tricia McGill and Sarah Lark. 'Shaw gets it all right' - Publishers Weekly From his home in 1870s Hamburg, Father Beitz plans to pioneer an idyllic German community in faraway Australia, in a backwoods hamlet, barely settled, called Bundaberg. He soon finds other dreamers eager to join him, thrilled by the prospect of a sunny clime, cheap arable land, and their own Lutheran society. But when they arrive they find the land, bought for them by Father Beitz, is nothing but a jungle, and before long it seems the trials of their new home may force the community to disintegrate. As time passes, a combination of courage and determination carries the pioneers beyond their fears, but a new threat awaits. Only an elderly Aborigine mystic sees the evil that threatens them, but can he warn them in time? What readers are saying about The Dream Seekers : 'An emotionally uplifting read' 'This book is written with compassion, warmth and humour and indulges the reader in family affairs under the most dire circumstances ' 'Patricia Shaw weaves her magic with many personalities, the intricate reasons why people migrate to the unknown, and intrigue - yes there is also a murder...'

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

‘Murder!’

The night seemed to reverberate with menace. A cleric, shivering from the cold, stayed in the nightwatchman’s shed listening to the thump of boots on wet timbers as men ran past, their curiosity and anxiety causing them to call out through the fog as they neared the crowd milling about the dark, anonymous lane. It was almost as if they felt there was a crevasse ahead, a crevasse into which they might fall blindly if they didn’t keep calling, lowing, feeling their way, for no one was bothering to answer them. Let them come, find out for themselves, no raised voices down here, only whispers in the grey gloom, as if not to wake or offend the dead. The men, the onlookers, grouped and regrouped, shuffling, spitting, waiting, pipe-smoking, warm breath blowing on cold hands, caps low on creased foreheads, eyes flicking about nervously, suspiciously.

The same questions reissued as newcomers folded into the groups and others drifted silently away, nothing more to see.

‘A body! They found a body! Murdered. Down this here lane. In the old grain store.’

‘What body? What happened to him? Who is . . . was he?’

‘Got done in. Bashed something cruel. Throat slit too.’

‘Never! My mate seen him. Never got his throat cut. ’Twas whacks about the head done it. Smashed his face and all.’

‘Poor bloke, probably never knew what hit him. Where are you going?’

‘To have a look.’

‘No one goes down there now. The Inspector says keep out.’

‘Who was he? The one got murdered.’

‘I dunno. Not from round here. A sailor maybe.’

‘No. I heard he was an actor.’

‘Who says? An actor! Where’d you get that from? An actor! What next!’

‘It’s true. I heard them talking, the watchmen.’

‘Did they catch the villains?’

‘Not likely. Not round these parts. More footpads than true folk.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘A couple of whores looking for a snug corner. They fetched the watch. They fetched the Inspector and along comes a preacher.’

‘In the nick of time?’

‘Only if prayers for the dead work. The preacher, he knew the dead man. Identified him.’

‘That’d be a shock.’

‘Not to preachers. They get to see deaduns all the time. Nigh as many as soldiers.’

‘And if they went to war they’d have seen more than anyone.’

‘Ah, shut up, Bert. Go on home.’

‘He’s a turn, that Bert! What was a preacher doing hanging about the docks at this hour, anyway?’

‘Boarding the ship, Clovis. She sails tonight. He’s down there in the shed. Take your questions to him.’

That wasn’t an option. The yellow lantern over the tavern door beckoned fuzzily from the opposite direction.

They heard a light cart clatter away from the other end of the lane, the morgue collection cart they supposed, so the excitement was over.

The last of the heavy figures melted into the fog as Inspector Backhaus strode out of the lane with his watchmen, glad that that was over. He would be home by nine, in time for a hot supper with the family before the fire in the stove died. There’d be no more wood left. The wood carters had refused to deliver any more to his rooms until the bill was paid.

He gave a snort of anger, causing his two companions to smarten their steps, anxious to please lest he blame them for allowing yet another crime to be uncovered in his bailiwick. But what could they have done about this? Even the Inspector, seconded from the military to the Sector for the Protection of Citizens and Seafarers in the Vicinity of the Docks, as their new division was known, had admitted that the murder must have been committed elsewhere. The lantern search had not revealed any blood on the rotting floorboards, only drag marks in the dust.

They’d all stood and stared then, at the narrow gloomy streets and the rabbit warren of tenements, some five storeys high, that crouched above them, the haunt of felons, muggers and smugglers alike. Home too of the destitute and degenerate, all of them a danger to legitimate citizenry, including the inmates of inns and lodging houses waiting nervously for the call to board their ships. It was as if this sweep of humanity had come to a dead end here, by the deep swell of the harbour, and had simply sunk in, allowing only the fortunate few to escape.

Backhaus snarled at them: ‘Someone must have brought him here! If you’d kept your eyes open you’d have seen someone acting suspiciously. Or don’t you think humping a dead body around looks suspicious?’

They knew better than to point out that these cobbled lanes and underpasses leading to the wharves were a maze. Shadowy locales even in daylight. They couldn’t patrol them all, all the time. Watchman Fritz had told the Inspector that a month ago, and had been sacked on the spot. Backhaus was a hard man. When poor Bruno Fischer was attacked by muggers who took his lantern, he’d had no sympathy for him either. The way the Inspector had carried on you’d have thought Bruno himself had committed a crime.

‘Losing a lantern,’ the Inspector had said, ‘is akin to a soldier losing his weapon.’

The watchmen hadn’t known what to make of that. Bewildered, they had discussed this revelation. Was it a crime for a soldier to lose his musket? They hadn’t known that. Damn harsh, they thought. Anyone could lose a gun, misplace it, have it stolen, especially in what they imagined would be the chaos of war. But a lantern akin to a gun? The cosh maybe. Their only weapon.

No doubt this inspector was a bit mad. Nasty-tempered too. Best to keep on his good side. They almost sniggered, just then, when he slipped on the wet, warped timbers, but saved himself from falling on his arse by a flip worthy of an acrobat, so that his left hand took the weight and restored balance. His right hand couldn’t have helped. It hung near to useless, the result of sabre slashes, wounds, they’d heard, that cut deeper than the flesh. Wounds that had severed him from the military and dumped him on the wharves, a sour, embittered man.

They were not to know that their boss had been promoted in the field only days before he was wounded, but the promotion had not appeared on his discharge papers. No matter his protests that he was in fact no longer a junior officer but an officer second class and therefore entitled to a pension, his cause was lost.

Backhaus himself hated this job but he dared not quit, with no other employment on offer. He couldn’t support his family on the pittance he was paid, far less, he’d soon discovered, than the amount quoted to him by the clerk at the port offices. All he had, in fact, was a fine-sounding title for a role that equated with head watchman, and a bundle of debts, so he retaliated by bullying his men to give the impression of iron discipline; and by falsifying records.

Kristian Backhaus didn’t care how many people were robbed, murdered or press-ganged in his sector, as long as his records showed that under his direction the crime rate was decreasing. On paper it was doing just that, at a very satisfactory pace, enough for him to be noticed by his superiors and mentioned for, perhaps, more senior responsibilities.

He stopped to light a cheroot. ‘Where’s this fellow?’

‘The preacher, sir? He’s up there in the shed. He wants to get going. Got to get aboard his ship.’

‘He’ll go when I say he can and not before. Bring him over to my office.

‘Office,’ he muttered to himself. ‘More like a cell than an office.’ He’d been spared a cold, dank room at the rear of the Customs House, large enough for his desk, a few chairs by the door and a honeycomb of shelving behind him containing district maps, some so old they pre-dated the Great Fire. The musty smell that exuded from the place was so overpowering that Backhaus was occasionally tempted to arrange an ‘accidental’ fire of his own.

He hurried across the road and on down the long flight of stone steps to this office, to settle himself at his desk before the fellow was delivered to him. This preacher. This interfering fool who’d come barging into the grain store at the behest of those screeching whores who had found the body, and then identified it. Damned bad luck that was. Requiring paperwork. If this preacher had kept out, the body in the morgue could have been just a number, forgotten. Nothing to do with his sector. Now, though . . . it was more complicated. That corpse, brought in from God knows where, didn’t belong in these records at all. It could have been overlooked, should have been overlooked . . .

He was busy with quill and ink when the preacher edged in the door, dragging a bulging valise.

‘Sir. I have told you all I know. I am deeply saddened by the death of that poor gentleman, but I must be on my way.’ He clung to the valise as if it were an anchor, needed to steady him.

Backhaus waved the watchmen out and concentrated on the citizen. He was tall, about twenty-five years of age, with the spoiled white hands befitting his calling . . . fine features except for the sharpness of the nose. His hair and moustache, both in need of a decent cut, were reddish-brown. He was almost handsome, one might say, the Inspector mused, were it not for the weakness betrayed by his manner, since the fellow spoke with a cavernous, dirge-like voice and kept his eyes cast down. His calling again, the Inspector presumed, noting the bowed head and the knee ready to bend in supplication. But what could you expect? The strong went into the military; the weak yielded to the Church.

He was cleanly dressed, though, in the accepted black hat and cassock and good buckled shoes, a size or more too big. Probably hand-me-downs.

‘Name?’ barked Backhaus, and the preacher jumped.

‘Pastor Friedrich Ritter.’

‘You may be seated. Occupation?’

‘Sir, as you may note, I am a priest.’

‘Denomination?’

‘Lutheran. I have recently been ordained, having completed my studies at St John’s Seminary here in Hamburg.’

‘Yes. Yes. The name of the deceased?’ Inspector Backhaus was taking notes on a sheet of paper that, for now, was lodged within an open journal. Too soon to commit them irreparably to the journal itself.

‘Otto Haupt.’

‘His occupation?’

‘I do believe he was a person of the stage.’

‘What? A mummer? A juggler? What?’

‘A Thespian, I believe. I did not know him very well.’

The priest glanced about him in desperation, as if hoping for rescue, but the Inspector continued.

‘I’m surprised you knew him at all. How did your paths cross?’

Ritter sighed. ‘I was staying at a lodging house in Canal Street, an unpleasant place but all I could afford. I wanted to stay close to the wharves because my ship was due to sail, but they kept delaying departure for reasons best known to the Captain, though of no relevance here. I took my meals at a tavern further down Canal Street, and there I met Mr Haupt. He seemed a cut above the characters who inhabit the tavern so I was glad of his company . . . if only for safety’s sake. Dear God, here I am thinking of myself, and poor Mr Haupt . . .’

‘You were saying?’

‘We had a good talk over supper, but when it came time to pay, I discovered that Mr Haupt had no money.’

It was the Inspector’s turn to sigh.

‘So I had to pay for both of us. As it turned out, Mr Haupt had fallen on bad times. He was hoping to work his passage on a ship to London, where, he said, there are opportunities aplenty for stage people.’

‘Did he come from around here?’

‘No. He did not. I’m sure of that. I’m very nervous, sir, what with this terrible murder and the necessity for me to get to my ship. He may have said where he came from, I simply can’t recall.’

‘Where was he lodging?’

‘He had no lodgings. He asked me for money but I could give him none. I saw him again the next day, and, taking pity on him, invited him to my room to share some bread and sausage and a warming glass of wine. It is a sad reflection of the times that Otto Haupt repaid me by stealing my cloak. It was a sturdy cloak too, excellent cloth, given to me as a farewell gift . . .’

‘Probably what got him killed.’ The Inspector shrugged. ‘So your Mr Haupt was just a plain thief. Probably not an actor either. A villain preying on your naïveté. You should be more careful. Don’t be so trusting in the future.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but I really must take my leave. My ship is sailing for Australia. The fare is costly. I must board or I shall never—’

‘What did you say? Where are you going?’

‘Australia, sir. Aboard Clovis . . . she’s a fine ship, a three-master. She will be getting under way soon.’

The Inspector’s thin moustache twitched as if a fly had tried to settle under his nose, and his stern face gave way to a smile.

‘Australia? My dear fellow. Why didn’t you say so? You can’t afford to miss that ship. Good God, no. You’re voyaging to the other side of the world!’

He jumped up, and dashed about his desk to assist the gentle priest on his way. Rang the brass bell that hung outside his door. Clang. Clang. Clang. Which brought one of his watchmen running.

‘Here! Take the Father to his ship. See that he gets safely on board. Carry that valise for him. I do apologise for having delayed you, Father. I pray you have a safe and pleasant voyage. Farewell to you now.’

The burly watchman whisked the preacher away into the darkness, and the Inspector waited patiently in the rectangle of light to make certain Ritter was indeed safely on his way to the Antipodes without knowing, or remembering, that it was usual for people, witnesses, to sign their statements. Then, well satisfied, Backhaus stepped back inside. No crime had been committed in his district as far as he was concerned, beyond the dumping of a corpse. There was no place in his records for this incident. The dead man was a common thief of no fixed address, identified by a fellow en route to the ends of the earth. A simple matter to forget them both.

He took his greatcoat from its hook, wondering why anyone would chance the great oceans to travel to a foreign continent like Australia. No matter. That was their problem. Things were hard enough here without venturing past the boundaries of civilisation. He tore up the notes he’d been taking. Time to go home.

The eyes that gazed into the small mirror were grey-green, with flecks of gold, but dark-rimmed and steady. They were not the eyes of a weak man; they were too cold, too self-assured. They glinted into a grin as he swayed with the roll of the ship then plunged the few steps across the tiny cabin so that he could attach the mirror to a nail on the wall. Now he had to bend to see into it, but it would do. He addressed the face that confronted him.

‘Well now, Pastor Ritter, here we are! Not much of a cabin, not even a porthole, but at least we’ve got it to ourselves. Fancy you travelling second class. The churches have got more money than the king. The least they could have done was send their apostle off in some comfort. But then I suppose comfort’s for the bishops, and you’re only small fry. Too mesmerised by their holinesses to kick up a fuss. It’s a wonder you don’t go in for flagellation as well. Or do you?

‘Anyway, we got on board all right. No trouble at all. Easy as pie. So we might as well unpack.’

He dumped the valise on the narrow bunk and undid the straps to open it, lifting out a cloak that had been stuffed on top.

‘I was freezing but I couldn’t wear it,’ he laughed, ‘and I wasn’t about to leave it behind. It is a fine cloak. A gift, you said. And stolen from you by that felon Haupt. A terrible man, desperately in need of God’s forgiveness. But don’t feel bad, Friedrich. You tried. You fed him. You prayed with him. You did your best. Only you should never have turned your back on him. Bad mistake. You just weren’t up to the challenge, even though you’d spent years studying, to prepare you for the world.’

He turned to peer into the mirror again. ‘Are you listening, Freddy? You don’t mind me calling you Freddy, do you? “Pastor” seems too stilted now. You see, you have no real experience of the world. God knows how you would have fared in the Antipodes. Probably got eaten by a tiger in the first week. Or dumped into the sea by another Otto Haupt. You’re altogether too trusting. And too enthusiastic as a brand-new, paid-up member of the Lutheran clergy. Bursting with goodness and light, believing everything you’re told.

‘And then you run into Otto. We’ll call him that, though it’s not his real name, nor his stage name.’

He began rifling through the valise, tossing out items of clothing.

‘But some of what he said was true. He was an actor, a Thespian, and a damned good one too, though those clods of theatre managers couldn’t tell the good from the bad. And true, he had fallen on hard times. He was in desperate straits. Desperate because he had escaped from your disgusting Hamburg prison . . . a small matter of robbery under arms . . . but that is of no relevance to us. He was trying to get to England, but you were so keen to tell him all about the new world that you were off to, that so many of our people were migrating to, that you talked him into it. You really did. Made it sound like the Garden of Eden.’

He threw aside slippers with socks tucked into them, and neat folds of cravats, shirts and underdrawers, and picked up some books to find a large cloth bag hidden underneath.

‘Ah! What have we here?’ As he untied the drawstring on the bag, his monologue continued.

‘So. Otto thought, why not get the hell away altogether? Excuse my language. We’ll have to watch that, won’t we? But poor Otto didn’t have the money for a feed, let alone a ticket to the other end of the world, the shiny new world you were bragging about. And the more he thought about it, the more he knew this was his destiny. You can understand that, can’t you, Friedrich? You practically showed him the way. You put temptation before him. And right outside your door in that dark alleyway was the fishmonger’s barrow, left there until the early morn, just perfect for that swift run down to the grain store. Actually, that was where Otto had been sleeping nights because he couldn’t afford lodgings.’

The bag contained two cheap leather pocketbooks. The first held only papers and the second letters and documents, but in the bottom of the bag was a purse.

‘Hello! By the weight, I think we’ve struck gold. Ah, yes . . .’ He counted the coins on to the bare straw mattress.

‘We’ve got sixty marks here, Freddy and you claiming to be a poor man.’ Could only spare Otto a feed! Shame on you. But now a question comes to mind. Where the hell . . . I mean, where on God’s earth is this place you speak of? Across an ocean somewhere. But which ocean? And how long does it take to get to your dream land?’

There was a tap on the door, and he opened it to find two seamen with a wooden trunk.

‘Yours, Pastor Ritter?’

‘Indeed it is. Yes. There’s the name on it, plain to see. Just push it in here.’ He smiled broadly, a practised winning smile that caused his eyes to twinkle.

‘Thank you, gentlemen, thank you kindly. By the way, Australia. What port do we land at?’

‘Town of Maryborough, Father.’

‘And how long will the voyage take?’

The older seaman elected to be spokesman. ‘Now let’s see. Clovis, she’s a fast ship. She ought to make it, all being well, in three months, give or take a week or so. Yes, about that. February it’ll be, Father.’

He closed the door behind them. ‘Did you hear that?’ he hissed. ‘Are they mad? Am I on a ship of fools? Racing about the seas for months on end. That can’t be right. And what’s in this chest? What does a preacher need with a trunkful of clothes?’

But there wasn’t much in the way of clothes, except for nightshirts and caps. It was mainly books . . . bibles, and tomes on spiritual guidance, Lutheran prayer books and hymn books and theological essays . . . packed and pushed in among household goods: bed linen, cutlery, plates, small lamps, kitchen pans and even a decorated china pot. He grinned and set this last on the floor.

‘You’re travelling like a young bride, Freddy, but at least some of this stuff will make us comfortable. The bed linen for a start. I haven’t seen clean sheets for an age.’

Still searching, he came up with some beautifully embroidered altar cloths, carefully packed with priestly vestments.

‘I’ll have to try them on. I think I like the white best. But we’ll do that another time. I’d better repack this lot carefully; one always has to look after the costumes. But Jesus, Freddy! They could at least have given you some altar wine to take along.’

He closed the trunk and left it by the wall to act as a table, then he kicked at it.

‘Christ! Months in this rocking box. A man could go stark staring mad stuck on this ship for that long. Clipper ships are supposed to be fast. Just our luck to be aboard the slowest of the bunch, with crazed sailors boasting of its speed.’

He heard the muffled notes of a foghorn and the sharp ring of ship’s bells, and slumped on to the bunk with a groan. ‘We’re still sailing down river, we’ve hardly moved an inch if we’re to measure this voyage in terms of time. Months! Maybe we should jump ship at the first port. I ought to get up top and find out what’s happening. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’

Carefully dressed again, with the cloak now folded regally about him, he rummaged about until he found the round velour hat – black, of course – that signified a man of God, then he stood at the door, in the wings you could say, preparing himself for the stage. He bowed his head, clasped his hands together, bent at the knees and stood with his toes turned in a little, as if he were pigeon-toed. His voice he lowered to a more genteel pitch, the accent more polished, and he added a singsong whine, as if from the pulpit.

‘Good evening, madam, sir. How do you do? Ah, bless you, kind sir. A fine night indeed. A favourable wind, would you say?’

He rehearsed the lines over and over until he was satisfied, then he put on the black hat, pulling it down to meet his eyebrows for a serious and sanctimonious demeanour, and ventured forth, a shy, humble pastor greatly in need of advice from seasoned travellers.

When he returned to his cabin he was flustered. ‘We’re not stopping anywhere. Not until we reach the Canary Islands. And do you know where they are? Off the coast of Africa. Africa! What sort of a crazy expedition is this? We have to pass a dozen ports to get right down there. French ports, Spanish ports, where I could have slipped ashore and disappeared into the night. But word is there’s no stopping. Not even to restock the larders. There are a lot of people on board this ship, I can tell you that for a fact, so I hope there’s enough food to go round.

‘I got out there in time for dinner, which they serve in one long refectory, catch as catch can, with kids scrambling all over the place and their fathers shoving to get their greedy hands on every platter as it comes out of the kitchen and the women bustling around trying to make sense of it all. A real bunfight it was. But wait. Guess who got pride of place? Me! Yours truly. See . . . God favours the meek after all. Because I did loiter in the accepted holy manner. But then again, I think it was my priestly garb that did the trick.

‘Room was made for the pastor. And how they all fussed! I haven’t had such a nice time since my old man fell off his horse, skidded down a riverbank and got himself drowned. Being an orphan was good for a while. It didn’t last, though, they soon forgot me and I was on the streets at ten, fending for myself. But listen, Friedrich, I’m damned sure this time the kindnesses will last. A lot of those passengers are scared out of their wits about this voyage, they won’t be wanting to offend a priest, someone who will be able to talk to God direct, on their behalf.’

He laughed. ‘I gave the situation a little push along when they asked me to say grace, reminding them of the mighty winds and seas, and the shipwrecks and drownings . . . one lady even swooned . . . that lay ahead if they didn’t put their trust in the Lord. It was funny to watch. I really put a stop to the disorder, they all behaved like little mice after my prayers. The waiters, they call themselves stewards, could get on with their jobs then. They were very grateful for my intervention. So . . . I had some soup, ham and tongue, sour bread and beer. Supper is on at nine, coffee and a packet of sandwiches each. I’ll be there, not a penny to pay. This isn’t such a bad life after all. I think I’ll take a nap until then.’

The next morning he explored the ship thoroughly. The overcrowded steerage class reminded him of the many foul slums he’d endured over the years, and he turned away very quickly. He was amazed to find hen coops, sheep and cows in small pens, pantries heaped with vegetables and dried meat and vats of basic groceries.

‘Like being on the bloody Ark,’ he muttered sourly.

Then he began the climb aloft, ignoring the ‘No Thoroughfare’ signs and taking himself on into the first-class section; strolling the windy decks, prayer book in hand, admiring from under lowered lids all the beautiful people who passed him by, and appreciating the elegance of the deckchairs and tables, set out there under a canvas roof. Appreciation turned to envy when he went down a few steps to see the sheer luxury of the lounges and saloons that these people enjoyed. He peered into cabins by boldly opening doors, apologising, pretending mistakes, then wandered into a music room, past a polished piano, to study the books lining one wall, irritated beyond measure.

On a table he found a discarded menu that spoke of the previous night’s dinner, and stood, shocked. It offered six courses, several choices, various wines and cheeses, a menu as splendid as one would find in a leading city restaurant. And these people could freely partake of such largesse, day in and day out! He went in search of the dining room, and sure enough the tables were all set aglitter in preparation for their lunch.

An officer approached him. ‘Can I assist you, Reverend?’

‘Yes. I appear to be lost.’

‘I see. Then let me escort you to your cabin. You are in second class, I believe.’

‘That is correct. But these passages are a maze. Could you tell me where we are now? The ship, I mean.’

‘We’re approaching the mouth of the Elbe, and soon we will be out in the North Sea.’

‘Then what?’

‘We head south into warmer climes, Father.’

‘Ah yes. Of course.’

They were descending flights of steps to the lower orders, the Pastor noted, irritated. ‘What language do they speak in Australia?’ he asked.

‘Mostly English. The natives have their own language.’

‘No German?’

‘Very little.’

‘What a pity.’

‘Once everyone has settled down, we arrange English lessons in each class. Twice a week. They are a great help to people.’

He drew himself up to retort: ‘I am fairly proficient in English already, thank you.’ Although he knew exactly where he was, he looked about him as if bewildered. ‘Now where are we?’

The officer opened a door and, with a glance at the sign overhead, pointed ahead. ‘Your cabin is down there, on this deck, Reverend. You really must not come past this door, it is forbidden to second-class passengers.’

‘Goodness me, so it is.’ He padded quietly away, the hand with the prayer book clutching the handrail, the other pressed to his chest as if to hold his cloak about him.

‘Cabin!’ he muttered, not for the first time. He knew now that it was only a partition, that above him were superb cabins, fit for a prince.

Still he marched in with a smile. ‘Wait until you see what I’ve got here, Freddy!’

With a dramatic gesture he flung back his cloak to reveal a wine bottle shoved down the front of his waistcoat.

‘Pinched it from a rack in the dining room, the upper-crust dining room, Friedrich. I’ll bet you’ve never seen anything like it in your life. Poor chap. But Otto had. He’d dined in the best of them, fêted he was, by nobs, ladies and gents alike. Once you get a taste of that life, it’s hard, damned hard, to sink back into poverty, so you have to start fighting, see. Nothing to do with your sins and sinning and all that business about evil ways you peddle. Nothing at all. Times were hard, theatres closed, not much work even for a good actor, so Otto had to make his own luck.’

He rummaged in the trunk and came up with a corkscrew. Soon he was settled on the bunk, swigging from the bottle.

‘A tasty brew, my friend. Bloody good! And to think it was just chosen at random, so to speak. But listen, did you know they don’t speak German in that outlandish country? Only native and English. So . . .’ He waved the bottle about knowingly. ‘That puts me one up on you. I speak English rather well. I fell in with an English Shakespearean actor, and he taught me. We used to do scenes in English for the nobs at private soirées and house parties. They were very much in fashion for a while but never paid much, so he wandered off, back to England, I think.

‘You don’t believe me? Listen to this . . . “But trust me gentlemen, I’ll prove more true, Than those that have more cunning to be strange.” Rather fitting, don’t you think, Freddy? Really funny. Though somehow I don’t believe you hav