‘I see.’ Claus von Rolt combed the head of a tiny monkey with his forefinger. ‘Then I must get to the original source.’

That week, Ludwig von Kleist finally heard back from the English. They’d committed the munitions requested, but had cut the fifty thousand pounds asked for down to twenty. Von Kleist was told, ‘Be sure to use it wisely.’ A letter of credit was written up.

‘Finally,’ von Kleist said, ‘we can leave.’

‘I think I’ll stay a while longer, Herr Kleist,’ Rolt said. ‘I have some personal business to which I must attend.’

FOR THE GOOD OF MANKIND

Elisabeth von Hoffmann said, ‘You want to know if the head of the decapitated man is capable of seeing anything?’

‘Yes! And if they feel, if they sense anything else.’ Dr Antoine Girodet paused, drank some wine, dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘Are they in pain? And, if so, where is the pain? What is the connection of the mind with the body? Where do feelings reside inside us? In the brain or the heart or in one’s little toe?’ Girodet smiled. ‘Oh, there is much to be learned, Mademoiselle.’

‘You hope the guillotined man’s head will simply tell you all these things you wish to know, Dr Girodet?’ Christophe Bergerard asked.

‘Yes, Monsieur Bergerard—’ Girodet looked over at the door and waved someone in ‘—that is it exactly.’

A dark mulatto girl came into the dining room and placed a silver platter of roasted meat on the table. Bergerard noticed how exceptionally beautiful the girl was and watched her walk away. Elisabeth had noticed her too.

‘Roasted tapir,’ Girodet said. ‘You’ll never eat pork again.’

They ate and drank and the wine was replenished and other dishes were brought in and placed on the table by the beautiful dark mulatto girl (sweet river fish, smoked eel, crabs). Insects smacked and winged the windows. The heat in the room was lifted and spread thinner by two rectangular, framed canvas sails hanging from the ceiling, operated by a bored Negro who stood near the door and pulled down on a rope, all the time staring at the floor.

‘Who will be your participants?’ Elisabeth von Hoffmann asked, disliking the stringy meat that had been served her as much as the topic of conversation.

‘Slaves,’ Girodet said. He waved his fork. ‘Runaways.’ He had an agent, apparently, in neighbouring Surinam, who procured Negro slaves on his behalf then smuggled them over the border, avoiding the Portuguese who were confiscating all healthy labour. It was how he’d acquired the young mulatto beauty serving the food this evening, though the agent had planned to keep her for himself. He’d asked a steep price, but Girodet had been unable to resist her.