‘Of all Schubert’s symphonies, the Unfinished is probably my favourite,’ Sithole remarked. ‘I love the mixture of carefree and profound feeling in it.’ He had a deep, clear voice and the quietly assured manner of a completely dedicated man.

‘You like classical music?’ Stephen tried not to sound surprised.

‘Yes. I enjoy classical music and I love to dance.’

‘Oh, me too,’ Stephen smiled at Sithole. ‘There’s actually a sprung dancefloor under the Persian carpet, though we’ve hardly used it.’

They sat down. Dixon served drinks – the men wanted beer – and Stephen invited each of them to tell him about themselves. Sithole began. It was evident that he was the leader, Mugabe and Chitepo deferred to him. He was a headmaster and minister. His reputation as a preacher had already reached Stephen; he urged African congregations to set their sights and ideals high, warning against passivity and despair, telling them not to accept third class citizenship. ‘Don’t sit down and cry,’ he would counsel. ‘Cry while you’re running.’ He explained to Stephen that he was mission-educated and had studied divinity in America for three years. He had just finished writing a book, African Nationalism, which set out the need for equality of human rights and a genuine multiracial society.

When it was Chitepo’s turn, he spoke of his years in London reading for the bar. He had a handsome, open face, and gracious manners. He had recently returned to Rhodesia as the country’s first African barrister. A special law was introduced to allow him to occupy chambers with white colleagues, but his practice was small and unprofitable. White attorneys never referred briefs to him.

‘That’s disgraceful!’ said Stephen indignantly and Chitepo gave him a patient smile, as though Stephen were a child finding out about the evil ways of the world.

‘That is how things are for us.’

Mugabe was mild-mannered, bespectacled and younger than the others. He spoke less than they did; he was diffident, an observer. He had given up a ­teaching job in Ghana and come back to Rhodesia with his Ghanaian wife to join the nationalists. Mission-educated and a devout Catholic, he had earned three university degrees, two of them by private study. Set on top of his wiry, narrow body was a keen face, which was alert with caution.

‘We have heard about everything you have done for our people,’ said Sithole. ‘A man in your position could lead a self-indulgent life, but you chose a different path. Your actions have shown that we can trust you.’ He had a habit of nodding his head at the end of his sentences.

Stephen shrugged modestly. ‘Look, I should tell you that I don’t get involved in African politics, so I’m not sure how qualified I am, but I’m happy to help in any way I can. My line is humanitarian.’