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clasped his hands behind his back, and began to speak, staring into middle distance.
    â€˜I was about five years old when my family were sold into slavery – ’
    â€˜Oh, the poor little lamb!’ moaned Miss Prudence Miller, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing her eyes. The gentlemen in the back row were shaking their heads sadly.
    Pedro looked confused by this early interruption.He coughed and then continued.
    â€˜We were separated before being put on board the ship. I never saw my mother and sisters again.’
    â€˜Oh, the fiends!’ cried Miss Fortitude Miller. The ladies either side of the duchess murmured their agreement. One had begun to take notes.
    A hot flush spread up my face. This was terrible. I knew they meant well, but they were treating Pedro’s story like some kind of sentimental novel. Didn’t they understand that the boy before them had really lived through all this? I glanced at Lizzie. She looked at me helplessly.
    Pedro laboured on. He had just reached the part where Kingston Hawkins spotted his musical talent when the door to the library opened again. Two gentlemen came in. Pedro stopped speaking. The first was a tall man with high, gaunt cheekbones, small shrewd eyes, a long nose and prominent chin. He moved like a daddy-long-legs, all knees and elbows. Thesecond was a real surprise: a stocky, middle-aged African, soberly but smartly dressed. He bore a gold ring on a finger of his right hand. Pedro’s eyes were now locked on the African visitor.
    â€˜Ladies, gentlemen,’ said the gaunt man. ‘I apologize for our tardiness.’
    â€˜Mr Sharp, Mr Equiano, welcome,’ said the duchess. ‘Do take a chair. We were just hearing Pedro’s story.’
    â€˜No doubt it is the same dismal tale that many of our African brothers have to tell,’ said Mr Sharp. ‘I think we already know the salient points, your grace.’
    Mr Equiano took a seat by the duchess and turned to Pedro.
    â€˜Come, Pedro, sit by me,’ he said in a deep, rich-toned voice. ‘I think you’ve sung for your supper enough times before tonight.’
    Pedro smiled with relief and bolted for the chair next to his new champion. Watching Mr Equiano, I leant over to Lizzie.
    â€˜Who is he?’ I whispered.
    â€˜Mr Equiano? He’s quite something, isn’t he? He was once a slave but he managed to buy his freedom. He’s one of the most travelled people I’ve ever met. You should hear him talk about the icebergs of the Arctic Circle! Now he’s settled in London, married an English lady, and devoted himself to freeing his fellow Africans. He assists Mr Sharp – that’s the other gentleman over by the fireplace. Mr Sharp’s a lawyer – a very brave man: he’s rescued other slaves before now.’
    Mr Sharp coughed, drawing the meeting to attention.
    â€˜We are here to decide what we can do for Pedro,’ said Mr Sharp. ‘I think most of us know that the law states that no one can be removed from British soil against their will.’ Mr Equiano patted Pedro on the shoulder. ‘I regret to say, however, it is less clear as to whether the institution of slavery can exist here or no.’
    â€˜There is no slavery in Christ!’ called out one man from the back.
    â€˜Of course, my friend,’ continued MrSharp, ‘we all agree on that in this room. We believe that the very air of this island is inimical to slavery – one foot on British soil and a slave becomes a free man – but no doubt Mr Hawkins will dispute that.’
    â€˜And he’d only be saying what many people think, Granville,’ added Mr Equiano with the bitterness of experience.
    Mr Sharp nodded an acknowledgement. ‘However, I think we have been handed an opportunity. Hawkins’ threats against Pedro are just what we need to show the public how cruel and absurd the system of slavery is. We must make Pedro’s case