The Signare of Gorée: Coffee Pot Book Club Blog Tour.
1846. In the heat of West Africa, the French navy uncovers the corpses of two French soldiers. Inspector Maurice Leroux arrives at the island of Gorée. It seems death has come to this small colonial outpost off the Senegal coast, home to the prosperous mixed-blood women known as the signares.
The navy suspects that the Bambara people, emboldened by approaching emancipation, may be out for blood. While confronted by the locals’ strange magical beliefs, Maurice remains skeptical. Does malevolence play a part, or are these deaths accidental, brought upon by the brutality of nature in an island known as the white man’s grave?
But when murder strikes, it becomes clear that a killer is stalking Gorée.
Swept by a mystery unlike any he has known, Maurice meets Signare Angélique Aussenac. The proud métis, deserted by her wealthy Bordeaux lover, casts her spell upon Maurice.
But beyond the throbbing sounds of the tam-tams and the glittering signare soirées, danger lurks. Someone is watching. And the deaths go on.
Could the killer be one of the rich Bordeaux merchants? Or are they hiding among the powerful signares?
A historical mystery spanning France and Senegal, THE SIGNARE OF GORÉE explores a world of magic, murder, and passion.
Excerpt :
Ousmane ran to the villa. And what a fine villa it was, its stone enclosure painted in blue and white. Within the walls, stood a two-storey building with its balconies facing the port and overlooking an inner courtyard. And the six window shutters were green, and all along the roof, the bougainvillea gripped the stone and ran down the curved balustrades. That pretty house seemed to beckon him. He could make out a row of lemon trees in its courtyard. For all its stateliness, Niar Aussenac’s home was not as spacious and prestigious as the villa owned by Anna Colas Pépin, but today, this villa was his meal.
The morning sun blinded him, and he felt his legs tremble, but Ousmane held fast to the note in his hand as he reached the double carved doors. Barring the way, two intimidating Bambaras, black as he was, but towering over him, met his glance. They recognized those who belonged near their beloved signare. The boy was not part of the household. He had no place here.
“What do you want? Stand back!” thundered one of them.
Ousmane felt a knot in his throat.
“Babacar, let him be!” called out a voice from upstairs. Ousmane looked up toward the voice. His arrival had been noticed. There were hurried footsteps along the floor above.
The tallest of the Bambaras pushed open the doors. Ousmane peered through the opening, hoping to find the owner of the commanding voice. Citrus trees bloomed inside an animated courtyard, offering shade to a dozen domestics seated in the far corner.
A feminine figure overhead caught his eye.
She must have seen him from atop her balcony. Having passed the colonnade upstairs, a flurry of printed fabrics in her wake, she swept down the curved staircase, two female servants in tow. Babacar stepped aside.
Ousmane squinted, his heart beating fast. She came to them, in wafts of ambergris and musk.
She was what they called sañse – dressed in all her fineries, prepared for her appearance at the port. As she walked down the stairs, he could not believe the beauty before him – layers of madras fabric spun with satin, in red, blue, and woven gold threads. Shimmery silk dazzled his vision. It tucked round her waist, it flirted with her slender ankles, it draped over her shoulders and bristled with each of her steps.
Dark ringlets hung alongside her earlobes, whose tips were tenderly adorned with gold earrings from Acra – crafted filigree leaves ending with round bulbs that resembled prickly berries, ripe for the picking.
Behind her, the maids stood naked from the waist up. Beaded and gold necklaces hung low from their necks, the bare skin beneath a sign of their unspoilt purity. Ousmane felt dizzy. He clung to the doorway, catching his breath.
The lady of the house had come to a halt by the door. She studied him, her lips slightly parted. An amused gleam lit her eyes as they rested on the note clasped in his hand.
“What have you here?” Her voice was sweet and melodious.
“Niar Aussenac, a letter for you,” he announced with the last burst of energy he possessed.
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Laura Rahme is the author of seven historical novels. Born in Dakar, Senegal where she spent her early childhood, she moved to Australia at the age of ten. A graduate of two Honors degrees in Aerospace Engineering and Psychology, she has worked over two decades as an IT professional. Her greatest joy comes from travel, researching history, and penning historical mysteries. She now lives in France with her screenwriting husband.
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Website: https://teranga-and-sun.blogspot.com/
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Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Laura-Rahme/author/B008P7CF8KGoodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6449755.Laura_Rahme
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