Lana nodded. ‘But when he says over the great water does he mean that literally or could it be on the far side of the lake?’
Moffat shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Okay. Try this. You and I are calling for our fathers over Lake Malawi but then stop. Why?’
‘Because the mystery of their deaths becomes clear.’
She nodded again. ‘That makes sense. It’s the only thing, other than following their footsteps to the same end, which will stop us wondering.’
‘Don’t even think that, you can make things happen just by thinking them.’ He gave a superstitious shudder. ‘Be positive.’
‘Okay. What was the next part?’
Moffat raised his eyebrows.
‘Give me a break,’ she said. ‘I’m keeping an open mind.’
He grinned. ‘Admit it. You’re impressed.’
‘That too,’ she conceded. ‘Now, what was that bit about witches?’
‘The silent ones gather where witches burn. Don’t ask. I haven’t got a clue what that could mean. Silent ones might be spirits.’
‘And the witches?’
‘Witches were always put to death. They were either poisoned or burned. Every village had its burning place.’
‘Okay, let’s move on. The drums of retribution will stop beating. That seems pretty clear. The call for revenge will cease at last. That’s positive.’
‘Not necessarily. Drums send messages or make announcements. They are also used in ceremonies. If they stop beating we might assume they have no message, but why? Is there no message to send or is there no need to send it any more? If the Nganga meant a ceremony, did the drums stop because the ceremony is over or because there is no ceremony?’
‘Ouch!’
‘See what I mean?’
‘What about the next bit?’
‘Music of the spirits will be heard.’ Moffat looked at her blankly.
Lana stared back at him. ‘Not a clue, huh?’
He shook his head. ‘The next bit makes some sense. Great Mother’s shame lies hidden. I don’t know what the shame is or where it’s hidden but great mother is how Queen Victoria used to be called. In this case I believe the Nganga could mean England.’
‘So England has something shameful which is hidden.’ Lana let out an explosion of disgust. ‘Nothing new in that but what the hell does it have to do with us?’
He wagged his finger at her.
‘Sorry. Two men seek her secret. Which two?’
‘There are ten million people in Malawi. Take your pick.’
‘As clear as that is it?’
‘Your mind is closing.’
She ignored that. ‘What was the next thing he said?’
‘The eyes that cannot see will lead the way.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘It might mean innocence, it could be an image or statue, a place of darkness even.’ Moffat sounded doubtful. ‘Perhaps a blind man.’
‘Okay. Two are from one womb and yet they are not.’ Lana grinned at him. ‘You and me.’
‘You and I,’ he corrected her.
‘Sorry. Just getting excited. It’s like cracking a code.’
‘Don’t get too carried away. What about, The one who fears all eyes and ears will find the jaws of silence. One will speak yet say not a word.’ He shrugged. ‘We might leave those for the moment. I’ve no idea.’
‘The next bit was directed at me.’
‘Yes. There is fear and sorrow for this woman and she is in danger. Beware.’ Moffat looked down at her seriously. ‘That was good advice.’
‘I know.’
‘Still going on with it?’
She nodded. ‘Can’t stop now. I’m too close. I can feel it.’
His fingers locked on her arm. ‘The grave has three mouths and one is hungry. I didn’t like that. One of us could die.’
‘You told me to be positive.’
‘Yes.’ He looked gloomy. ‘It was the word “grave” that got to me.’
‘Could it have another meaning?’
‘What?’
He had a point. A grave was a place of death – nothing more or less. She didn’t like it any more than Moffat. ‘Let’s not dwell on it.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘Fisi feeds on the skill of others but takes the young and weak for himself. Fisi is Swahili for hyena, I know that much. He eats carrion, mainly leftovers from lion kills but is more than capable of killing for himself, especially if something is vulnerable. That sounds like a warning.’
Moffat agreed. ‘It does. But the Nganga gave us hope too. There is power in the old arts which can be summoned through belief.’
‘The potion?’
‘No. That was one of his tricks. The feeling will stay with us for a while. It’s the sort of thing they do to make you believe in their powers.’
‘Do you really believe?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘The trick is to get you to believe too.’
She wasn’t sure she could. ‘What was in that potion?’
Moffat looked shifty. ‘I don’t know.’
Lana stared at him. ‘You must have some idea.’
He looked miserable.
‘Well?’
‘Ah . . . they tend to use natural ingredients.’
‘Like?’
‘All sorts of things.’
‘Moffat!’
‘I don’t know, really I don’t. Herbs, animal parts, uh . . . excreta and urine, blood, ground-up bones, that sort of thing.’
Lana digested the information with about as much enthusiasm as she had the potion. ‘Thank you very much, Moffat,’ she said finally. ‘I am truly, truly sorry I asked.’
They said goodbye at the cars. Moffat was going home to pick up his family and take them to his uncle’s village.
Lana returned to the hotel, her mind turning over the Nganga’s words. She was still feeling more refreshed, more energetic than she could ever remember. But that was all. The things the witchdoctor had said were too broad, too general for her to take seriously. He was clever, she’d give him that. Maybe, she had to concede, he possessed some second sight. That business with her room number was strange. As for the rest of it, what had he told them? It was a bit like reading your horoscope – it was always possible to relate it to one’s own circumstances.
Her two faithful tails were in the lobby. Lana gave them a cheery wave. There was a message for her to call Tim Gilbey but, when she tried his number she was told, ‘Mr Gilbey will be away until Monday week.’ She wondered where he had gone.
Then she called Karl Henning. A servant told her that Mr Henning was not at the farm so she left a message that she would be coming to lunch.
That was yesterday. This morning she checked out of the hotel and drove to Old Town to pick up Moffat. She saw no sign of the two men tailing her and presumed that whatever it was that Moffat’s friends had done to their car had been terminal.
Moffat travelled light. One small handgrip. He threw it into the back seat and walked to the driver’s side. ‘I’ll drive.’ It was an order, not an offer.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, a touch of steel creeping into her voice.
‘I’m supposed to be your chauffeur.’ He opened her door. ‘In that obstinate white head of yours, you know I’m making sense.’
‘I hate it when you’re reasonable,’ she grouched, but got out and walked around to the other side.
He was watching her, grinning. ‘How can you call me obstinate when you get your own way all the time?’ she challenged across the roof of the car.
‘I am a man,’ he said simply. ‘Now get in before I beat you.’ He disappeared into the car.
Lana got into the passenger seat. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Into the back.’
Lana folded her arms. ‘No. I’m not sitting in the back like some bloody white madam.’
Moffat leaned on the steering wheel and looked across at her. ‘You are supposed to be a bloody white madam.’
<
br /> Her nose went in the air. ‘Fine. I’ll be a bloody white madam when we get to Kasungu.’
‘Do you ever do as you are told?’
A small smile crept out. ‘I often react favourably to suggestion.’
Moffat laughed. ‘Are all white women like you?’
Lana thought about it. She had once stated bluntly to friends in London that she’d much rather be hit over the head by a lusty, club-wielding cave man than be met at the door by a new age guy – she thought of them as NAGs – wearing her best apron. By way of response, her friends challenged her to marry a hairy-chested Neanderthal, have his kids, clean his house, cook for him and wait on his every wish and command. She had argued that the problem was not what women had fought for and won, it was what they had become as a result, and the effect it was having on men. This argument fell on deaf ears, leaving the uncomfortable suspicion that she was horribly out of step. Moffat was patiently waiting for a reply. ‘No.’
‘A pity.’ It was lightly said. He turned on the engine. ‘And now we go.’
Lana stirred from her thoughts. ‘We must be nearly there.’
Moffat glanced at the gauge. ‘Another thirty kilometres. We’re getting into tobacco country. Would now be a good time to suggest that you get into the back?’
Karl’s home was a low, Spanish-style building with immaculate gardens, a sparkling blue swimming pool and an all-weather tennis court. The setting was beautiful, overlooking a large, artificial lake. He heard the car and came outside, several Doberman pinschers running excitedly beside him. ‘Lana, how delightful. I’m so pleased you decided to accept my invitation. What on earth happened to your car?’
‘Some fool tried to run me off the road.’
‘The locals aren’t very good drivers.’ He surveyed the damage, ignoring Moffat. ‘Looks like you were lucky.’
‘That’s why I have a driver with me. He is familiar with the roads north of here.’
‘Good idea.’ Karl pointed for Moffat’s benefit. ‘Park over there. Go around the back to the kitchen. My staff will give you something to eat.’
Moffat said, ‘Thank you, master,’ and drove to where Karl had indicated he should leave the car.
Karl led Lana into the house. It was furnished with heavy, masculine pieces with a clever blending of shape and contrast. Lana was drawn to a large, hand-carved chiffonier. ‘This is magnificent.’
Karl joined her in front of the cabinet. ‘It is, isn’t it? A lucky find.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘In a small village near Karonga. It was in an old shed.’
She ran her hand over the gleaming wood. ‘If only it could speak,’ she murmured. ‘What tales it could tell.’
He smiled. ‘This particular piece has a nefarious history. It belonged to an Arab slaver called Mlozi who was hanged in 1895.’
‘How do you know?’
Karl bent and pulled out a drawer which was empty. He reached to the back and pressed a spring. A section of the base slid back, revealing a secret cubbyhole. ‘I found a sort of ledger in here. It was undoubtedly Mlozi’s. It contained details of cargo and sailing dates for the Arab dhows which took slaves down to Losefa. Pinned to each sailing was a receipt. They were all made out to Mlozi.’
‘Where is the ledger now? I’d love to see it.’
‘It was an important piece of Malawi’s history. It’s in the museum in Lilongwe.’
‘I wonder how this came to be in a shed.’
‘I don’t know the answer to that but I can hazard a guess. Mlozi’s stockade was shelled to the ground. Mlozi himself was found hiding in a cellar under his house. He was tried, then promptly dragged off and hanged from a tree. I imagine a great deal of looting took place. The man I bought it from had no idea how the cabinet got there. It had been there as long as he could remember.’
‘That’s fascinating.’
‘You like old furniture?’
‘Love it. Our house in England is full of old stuff. My mother has been a collector for years.’ Lana looked around the room. ‘No woman’s touches?’
‘I was married once. We’re divorced.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Pry all you like, my dear. I don’t mind. Now, perhaps you’d like to freshen up before the guests arrive.’
She found Karl outside on the terrace deep in conversation with another man. ‘Ah, Lana,’ Karl said when he saw her approaching. ‘Come and meet a friend of mine. Ramón Alzaga from Buenos Aires.’
The stranger rose and regarded Lana with frank admiration. He was slightly taller than her and thickset. His tanned body was powerful and fit. He wore his dark hair slicked straight back and had the kind of five-o’clock shadow she suspected would never quite go away. An aquiline nose lent a slightly aristocratic look to his face. He was not unattractive in a swarthy kind of way. Dressed as he was, in khaki shorts and white short-sleeved shirt, he had the appearance of someone who lived permanently in Africa rather than Argentina.
Karl was saying, ‘My friend, allow me to introduce Lana Devereaux.’
Ramón put out his hand and Lana, thinking he wanted to shake, responded with her own. Instead, he raised her hand to his lips, brushed them lightly over the back and then, turning her hand over, kissed the palm. ‘Charmed,’ he murmured.
Lana retrieved her hand feeling somehow that she had been undressed in public. ‘How do you do,’ she said formally. Her hand had been kissed before but never with such slow and sensual innuendo that was both disturbingly intimate and deliberately provocative.
Ramón turned to Karl. ‘Where did you find such a delightful flower, my dear friend?’
Karl smiled at Lana. ‘I had the good fortune to sit next to her on a flight from Johannesburg to Lilongwe,’ he said lightly.
Lana went to sit at the table and Ramón, with an excessive show of good manners, fussed over her chair until she was settled. Karl was still smiling but Lana noticed that his eyes were rock hard. He was not pleased at the presence of the Argentinean and was unable to hide it.
His next words confirmed that Ramón’s visit was unexpected. ‘Such a surprise,’ he told Lana. ‘Ramón called me from Blantyre. He’s been doing business in South Africa and Zimbabwe and, since he needed to see some people in Malawi, decided to surprise me with a visit.’ Karl laughed. ‘Mind you, his surprise was conditional. Typical Ramón. He’d managed to get a lift to Lilongwe but I had to fetch him from there. That’s why I wasn’t here when you called.’ He looked at Ramón. ‘It must be . . . what . . . two years since we last saw each other? Too long my friend, too long.’ While his words were warm, his eyes retained the consistency of granite.
Ramón inclined his head and glanced coldly at Karl. Lana could see that the two men did not like each other and were making very little effort to conceal their feelings. When Ramón turned back to Lana, however, his eyes held nothing more than admiration and interest. ‘I was too close to Kasungu to miss the chance of catching up with Karl. He tells me you are going sailing together. I hope you don’t mind but Karl has invited me to join you.’
‘It’s not up to me to mind, I may not be able to make it myself,’ Lana said. She wondered what the hell was going on. She was fairly certain that Karl had not invited the Argentinean to join him, or, if he had, he had done so against his will. That meant that Ramón had probably invited himself. Why? He didn’t seem to like Karl any more than Karl liked him. ‘Interesting,’ she thought. ‘There’s something more than masculine dynamics happening here.’
Guests began to arrive as early as 11.30. Two hours later, the lunch party was in full swing. Tobacco farmers, teachers, a doctor and his wife, pilots, a couple of tobacco buyers and an assortment of others. Maybe it was because they lived in such a remote area, perhaps because they had to rely on each other for company, but Lana mostly found their open and good-humoured conversation refreshingly stimulating. There were no pretensions with these people.
One was open to the p
oint of rudeness. A woman in a white dress commented loudly, ‘The trouble with little children is that no-one knows how to cook them any more,’ as three small boys, wet from the swimming pool, brushed past her. She looked across at Karl. ‘Do stop them running through the guests, they’re an absolute pain.’
When Karl went off to speak to the children, the woman sat next to Lana. ‘I’m Stella.’
‘Lana Devereaux.’ Lana was wary. There was something hostile about the woman.
Stella stared at Lana. ‘So,’ she said softly. ‘Where did you spring from I wonder? Karl is a dark horse.’
‘I met him on the flight to Lilongwe. He’s been most kind.’
Stella gave a hard little laugh. ‘Karl is never kind, darling. Not where pretty women are concerned.’ She rose and looked down at Lana. ‘I hope you like the missionary position, my dear. It’s the only one he knows.’ She left before Lana could think of a suitable reply.
As she watched Stella walk off Lana wondered what on earth had provoked her. ‘What a vulgar creature,’ she thought, more amused than offended.
Karl rejoined her. ‘Don’t mind Stella,’ he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. ‘She’s had too much to drink.’
‘She did seem a little out of sorts.’
He smiled wryly. ‘Stella opens the gin bottle at 11.30 every morning. Throws the top away. She manages to upset most people by midafternoon.’
‘But why?’
He smiled. ‘She’s a very nice woman. Just unhappy. How’s your drink?’
‘It’s fine. She doesn’t seem to like you very much.’
He smiled absently then waved to someone. ‘Excuse me, Lana, more guests.’
Left alone, Lana watched the ever-swelling crowd on the patio, or khonde as she had been told it was called. Men and women, casually dressed, tanned and carefree, everyone knew everyone else. She looked around. Apart from the servants, not a black face among them.
Talk flowed over and around her. Lana sipped white wine slowly and generally refused topping up, noticing that the same inhibitions did not afflict most of the guests. Conversations became louder and more raucous as the afternoon wore on. Men flirted openly with other men’s wives and no-one seemed to think it strange. Faces flushed and unsteady on their feet, some found the swimming pool while others departed in an alcoholic haze. It struck Lana suddenly that this was how these people compensated for their isolation.
Echo of an Angry God Page 25
