Six hundred and twenty-seven skulls. I’d counted them, written down each new crate in Langton’s ledger. Six hundred and twenty-seven. A sum so simple, yet so terrible. One plus one plus one, until there were multitudes, all of them now ash, grated fine as sand.

Pomfrey was still eyeing me. ‘Man’s got the right idea, I’d say, when he settles someplace that allows him to warehouse his bobtail right under his own roof.’ He gave me a feeling like the hair being pulled tight on my scalp. I looked around. Broad backs, yellowy faces, waving arms. No other women, just the two serving-girls. I’d never sat at a table in a public house before. If any of the slaves had thought to gather in such numbers, Langton would have stamped on it at once, scattered them like cockroaches.

I was expected to be quiet, when it wasn’t just the two of us, mind my own business and stay out of Langton’s way. But I was in a new place: I wanted something new from myself. I sat up, pricked up my ears.

‘What’s the latest out of Parliament?’ Langton asked.

‘Nothing new. Coven of wastrels and do-nothings and castrati.’

‘Just what you said in ’06 –’

‘Well –’

‘‒ and then they cut the trade with France, which was the first sally before they choked us off altogether.’

Pomfrey waved a hand. ‘The emancipationists want to feel they’ve had their say. Et cetera. A lot of hot air. One thing to stop the blasted trade, quite another to cut a man off at his knees. They can’t just take a man’s property.’

‘We need to make scientific arguments uppermost in the debate, Pom, and we need to be quick about it. Any luck finding another specimen?’

‘Oh, there are always specimens, boyo. This fair world of ours is stocked to its rafters with specimens. But you want a white nigger, you want one of them albinos, that is going to take time. And it is surely going to take money.’

‘I’ve been in touch with George Benham, who acted as sponsor.’

That name thudded into me. I looked away, down at the copy letter, resting in the bag at my feet. Pomfrey tipped his chair onto its hind legs. ‘Oho. George Benham.’

‘Old friend.’

‘Ha. I know all about your old friendship. Know he cut you loose. Cut you off.’

‘I’ve rewritten the manuscript. To every single one of his specifications.’ Langton clenched his jaw, looked at me. ‘Not to mention I come bearing gifts.’

Pomfrey laughed. ‘Mahomet going to the mountain, eh?’

Langton tilted forward. ‘The albino is the part of all this that doesn’t have to concern him. I want to try for another study – I heard there was one on display in Paris.’

‘And?’

‘Maybe start there.’

‘Paree? Paree? Start in Paree? Start again, you mean. I still haven’t been paid for your last white-nigger chase.’

‘Truth be told, Pom, my pockets are let. I was hoping you’d see your way to –’