her brain from springing to life, like a wild animal disturbed in its sleep.
And must all conversation, from now on, carry a hidden menace, the possibility that it would lead, as this one had, in directions she would rather avoid? How long would she be a prisoner?
Thankfully, the camp came into view, across the gorge. Christopher slowed, the vehicle giving off a succession of creaks and groans as they descended the bank, scattering a troop of monkeys with the vehicle’s headlights.
“Which are the bigger nuisance in the camp,” said Kees, “monkeys or baboons?”
“Oh, monkeys,” said Christopher, “baboons are—”
“Stop!” cried Natalie. “Christopher, stop! Look!”—and she pointed.
“Where? At what?” he replied, braking hard, so that the Land Rover’s engine shuddered and stalled.
“Sorry,” breathed Natalie. “I didn’t mean to sound so excitable but isn’t that … doesn’t that look to you like a Wellington boot?”
Christopher leaned forward and peered to where she was pointing. “You know, I think you could be right,” he said slowly. “Do you want to get it?”
Natalie got down, while Christopher restarted the engine. She retrieved the boot and carried it back to the Land Rover. “It looks like it’s torn, ripped near the ankle,” she said, getting back in. “But it can be repaired.”
“Well done,” said Christopher. “We have to keep Mutevu sweet. He’s a good cook, but a bit temperamental.”
Darkness was now settling all around them as they traversed the gorge, climbed the bank opposite, and entered the camp.
Natalie got down and, taking her camera and the Wellington with her, returned to her tent. There were a couple of hours before dinner and she knew what she wanted to do. She had done some camping as a girl and had always had with her a bicycle tire repair kit, for repairing tears to the inflatable mattresses inevitably used in camps. She had brought the repair kit to Africa, not knowing what sort of beds were used on Eleanor Deacon’s digs.
She took the repair kit out now and, after cleaning the Wellington, applied gum around the tear and fixed a rubber patch that covered it more than adequately. She wedged the part of the boot where she had stuck the patch under the foot of the bed and sat there reading for half an hour. She judged that by then the patch would be stuck firmly to the boot.
It was now not much more than an hour to dinner and she knew that Mutevu would be in the kitchen.
But he wasn’t. Maybe he was in the storeroom, she thought, and went on through to the other side. As she came round the door, the first thing she saw was the gleam of his white T-shirt.
“Mutevu,” she said, “look what I—oh,” she breathed as she stepped further into the room. “Richard, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Richard Sutton was also in the storeroom, standing next to Mutevu, and small by comparison.
“Natalie, hi,” he said. “Give me a minute, will you? I’ve a touch of indigestion and Mutevu was giving me some bicarbonate of soda to treat it.” He stepped back, and Mutevu turned and went to a cupboard, where he took down a white box. “Two teaspoonfuls,” he said, opening it to reveal the powder. “No more.”
“Thanks,” said Richard, patting his stomach. “This should do the trick.” He looked at Natalie. “Have you got there what I think you have?”
Natalie held up the boot and Mutevu suddenly beamed.
“Miss Natalie! Where did you find it?”
“In the gorge. We scattered some monkeys playing with it.” She showed him the patch. “It was torn, so I repaired it.”
Mutevu took the boot as she passed it across. “What is your favorite food, Miss Natalie? You must tell me. I must repay you this kindness.” He found the other Wellington, which he had kept in the storeroom, slipped off his plimsolls, and changed immediately.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mutevu. I’m just pleased we found it. Now, I’ll let you get on. Dinner isn’t far away.”
“And a good dinner it will be, Miss Natalie.” He grinned. “I cook much better with my boots on.”
2
THE BURIAL GROUND
Mutevu Ndekei leaned forward so that Eleanor Deacon, as always the last to be served, could be given her chops. Lunch, three days later. Lamb chops and chicken were the staple foods at the camp and that was fine by Natalie. The local deer meat she found too heavy, too dense, the fish—brought in frozen from Lake Victoria—too watery, too lacking in flavor. Not that she had voiced these views. Like a