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'What would Coleridge have said about that?'

'"Never a soul took pity on me, my soul in agony"?' I suggested, somewhat fatuously.

Miss Lamb wrinkled her nose as we reached the bulkhead and began to descend the clanking metal steps. 'Miserable, rotten spiteful old so-andso,' she said. 'No fun those poets. Except for Shelley. He knew how to show a girl a good time. And he did. Often. He was an anarchist, you know.'

I nodded. 'Indeed. An idealist. A romantic and a dreamer. A man of vision who lived his life in almost unbearable sadness. And he drowned on a pitiless sea just such as this.'

'Oh, your gloom is outrageous, dear Doctor,' Miss Lamb said, squeezing my hand tighter. 'Cheer up, it may never happen.'

Strangely, I did cheer up.

'Baudelaire was a particular favourite of mine,' I confessed, failing to add that I had spent much time down by the Seine and, come to that, down in the Seine, with the poet and Manet and Delacroix on a hot Parisian summer night of shooting stars, lightning and other, stranger, lights in the sky.

'Another flaming junkie,' said Miss Lamb with a cunning smile. 'And a pretty macabre one at that!'

'He was just misunderstood,' I suggested. 'What about Tennyson?'

'Now, he was good,' she noted, eagerly. 'Liked him. But, you know, you've got be in the right sort of mood for it, haven't you? All those cannons to the left, right and centre. Not exactly what you want for a quiet night in with a cheese sandwich and the cat. And he had some very grotty ideas about a woman's place in the world.'

She knew her stuff, did Miss Lamb. I was hugely impressed. 'Wordsworth?' I asked.

'Too flowery,' she suggested, and giggled at her unintentional joke. 'Blake?'

'Mad as the moon. There are some nice metaphors in The Sick Rose but, you know, odd chap!' She paused. 'Miss Franks, my English Lit teacher, would be so proud that I've actually remembered all this nonsense. She could barely get me to stay awake most days.'

'Byron?'

'Oh please,' she said, scowling. 'Come the revolution, he'd be the first one I'd have lined up against the wall, given a last cigarette and then, you know, horsewhipped to death.'

'He would probably have quite enjoyed that, you know?' I noted, speaking from a keen personal knowledge of the man.

We continued to enjoy a pleasant conversation about the ship and its many features, and about art and culture and the delicious uncertainties of life, as we strolled through numerous decks and passageways. She was a bright and charming, witty girl, Miss Lamb; a personal assistant to Bryce, which seemed to mean, from her description, a secretary, a soundingboard, an occasional big sister and, more often than not, a surrogate mother.

'Takes a lot of looking after, does he?' I asked.

'I think you'd be surprised,' she replied. 'A quite remarkable man, is Raymond. With all the childish foibles that such a man is to be allowed in the great scheme of things.'

I understood. 'He likes to be right?' I asked.

'Yes. And usually, he is. But he's the kind of person who has to be right, even if he isn't, if you know what I mean.'

I did.

'My mother once told me that I should try not to fall in love with the

geniuses. The problem there is that they never want to go to sleep.'

As we approached the swimming pool, I felt something that I had not experienced since my earlier confrontations with the apparitions. A sense of impending dread.

I looked quickly around but I could see no ghostly images anywhere.

'We're here,' Miss Lamb said. 'Thank you for walking with me this far, Doctor. And thank you for being so nice to me last night. It really was appreciated.'

I turned to face her and found myself looking into dead eyes. Hollow sockets, filled with maggots. I gasped, and took a horrified step backwards.

Water, water everywhere ...

Miss Lamb was drowning before me. Her arms thrashed about wildly in churning, lush-green waters as her face submerged and then momentarily