They were drinking sangaree: Madeira wine, sugar, nutmeg and water. It was still sometime before midday. Krüger had bought a second carafe, which was already more than two-thirds gone. And all of it straight to his head.

‘Drink, good sir, drink!’ Bayman Quince Rotterdam said. ‘For we are in mourning and this be a wake!’

He swung the cane behind him again and caught one of the children across the thigh.

‘Many years ago, good sir,’ he said, ‘my beloved owner sailed me to Europe and paraded my esteemed self before the princes and dukes, the princesses and duchesses, and finally before the King of Holland himself. I was celebrated for my intelligence and indeed I was awarded a medal for my comportment. They placed a broad orange sash of the purest, finest silk over my head, with a clasp of solid silver, set with blue and red gemstones and a small diamond. Yes, sir, celebrated for my bearing. My beloved owner allowed me my honours; they be earned fairly, he said. But here, upon our return, among this filth and deception and criminal degeneracy, there was no respect to be found. My treasures were taken from me! Stolen by a black devil, my due and glory denied, and now not a single citizen believe my true self. But you believe me, good sir, when I say I be praying his soul, that damn thieving Negro whomsoever he be, that he suffer slow, excruciating torments. And that mean and treacherous Mr Hendrik, oh, it wasn’t him, but he knew who done it and refused to tell. Refused me!’ He drank down his glass of sangaree and poured the remainder from the carafe. ‘Everything here be rotten, yes! Be rotten to the bone and to the marrow.’

Krüger put a coin on the table and motioned to the proprietor. ‘Mr Hendrik said you might help me find his sister,’ he said.

‘Did he now?’

Krüger put a second coin on the table.

‘Young Josephine, she shone and now she gone,’ Bayman Quince Rotterman said. ‘Stolen and sold and sent to the east.’ He pointed with his cane over Krüger’s shoulder. ‘Stolen and sold to live with French beasts!’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Bonis burn down the plantation, good sir. Murder the captain, Captain van der Velde, murder the wife and murder the daughters, true. They strung the captain up in a tree. Took his hands. Took Josephine, took everything.’

Krüger felt a wave of weariness.

The old Negro smiled, than sang, ‘Rotten brothers, rotten sisters, no manners, no! Every one you see, and everywhere you go!’

The children ran up and repeated the song behind him; Bayman Quince Rotterdam swung his cane back with a smirk, then licked his lips.

‘Do you know where she is?’ Krüger said.

‘Oh, good sir, I know all! Yes, all there is to know I know!’