A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Page 15

  ‘They are saying we have to prove it.’

  ‘Of course we can prove it,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Good God, it’s been here a hundred years.’

  ‘A hundred and seven, to be precise,’ said Mr Malik. He turned to Tiger Singh. ‘It’s something to do with that certificate, isn’t it? The registration certificate, the one that isn’t there any more.’

  ‘I suspect that the two events – the disappearance of the certificate and the receipt of the letter – are not unconnected.’

  ‘And the lion too, of course,’ said Mr Malik.

  ‘Never mind the lion,’ said Mr Patel, ‘if it’s just a registration certificate we need, there must be a copy of it somewhere, in some government office or something.’

  ‘One might reasonably suppose that to be the case,’ said the Tiger, ‘and I spent most of the morning making enquiries. I have been assured by my contacts in the Interior Ministry, the Land Registry and the City Council that no such copy exists.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Malik. ‘The fire.’

  ‘Fire? What are you talking about, Malik?’

  ‘The fire, A.B. – the one in Erroll’s office.’

  The Tiger nodded.

  ‘Exactly. On Tuesday the eleventh of September 1940, a fire started in the office of the then Military Secretary Lord Erroll, destroying most of the records of the Kenyan Secretariat.’

  ‘Yes, I was reading a book about it again only this morning.’

  ‘The one by the woman who thought he was knocked off by the British Secret Service?’ said Mr Gopez.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Malik. ‘Her theory was that Erroll lit it himself – to destroy incriminating evidence.’

  ‘Sounds like poppycock to me.’

  ‘Like the theory that he was murdered by Juanita Carberry?’ said Mr Patel, smiling.

  Tiger Singh held up a hand.

  ‘I think we need to focus all our attention on the current problem, gentlemen. But it does seem almost certain that among the documents destroyed in that fire were the original records pertaining to Statute 232. This means that the only existing proof of registration is the certificate that, until last Friday, hung on the walls of this very club. The only way we can prove we are registered is to produce the certificate. This afternoon I talked to the minister’s office, to his private secretary Mr Jonah Litumana. He most kindly informed me that rules are rules. We have fourteen – no, thirteen days to find it.’

  25

  A snake may shed its skin but not its soul

  I think it was the great seventeenth-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza who said that searching for the meaning of life is like looking for the purpose of the human earlobe – or it may have been my friend Kennedy. Sitting upstairs in front of her computer on that cloudy Nairobi afternoon, Rose Mbikwa was thinking of her past, her present and her future. She could see that caring for an ancient parent had a purpose. She could see that raising a child had a purpose. But what of her life now? What about life in general? She thought back to Saturday night. She’d had so much fun with Harry Khan – she hadn’t laughed so much since she couldn’t remember when. There was nothing wrong with having fun, was there? There was nothing wrong with laughter? And yet … and yet. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of laughter from outside her window. Rose smiled – the sound of children’s laughter always made her smile. Elizabeth and Reuben’s youngest grandchildren had come to stay for a few days. Now that both their parents were dead they often came up to Nairobi. It gave them a break from the heat and dust of the plains where they had grown up and now went to school. And it gave their great-aunt, Elizabeth’s sister, a break from looking after three such boisterous and active young things.

  Rose Mbikwa’s house was smaller than most in Serengeti Gardens but its garden was large and contained spacious staff quarters – home to Elizabeth and Reuben Mahugu. They had joined the family just after Rose and Joshua were married. At first Rose had refused to have servants. This was the twentieth century – she was a modern woman used and quite able to look after herself, thank you very much. Did her husband think they were still living in the days of the British Empire? It had taken Joshua several weeks – weeks during which the servants’ quarters lay empty and unused – to persuade her that it might be a good idea to give at least two of the tens of thousands of unemployed people in Nairobi a job and a decent place to live. There had been times after Joshua’s death when money was tight and Rose had thought of letting Elizabeth and Reuben go. But where would they go? And what would they do? Even with Elizabeth’s skills as a cook and housekeeper and Reuben’s magical ability to make plants grow (and the old lawnmower perform its weekly duty long after it should have been replaced), employment prospects were never good in a Nairobi that was still sucking in hundreds of people a day from all over the country. But she had no real need for household help now. Perhaps they could retire. With the money invested from the sale of her father’s house Rose would be able to afford them both a decent pension.

  And perhaps it was time that she herself moved – somewhere smaller and easier to manage. It seemed wrong, somehow, that just one person should have so large a house and garden to enjoy. Well, not quite one. Rose looked out of the window. The older two children were helping the youngest climb on to the lowest branch of the jacaranda. Some of Angus’s toys were probably still around somewhere. She should try and find them.

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  Elizabeth wanted to know whether she’d mind if the children stayed two more days.

  ‘No, no, not at all. I was just thinking how lovely it is to hear the sound of children’s voices in the garden again.’ She stood up; there were things to be done. ‘And would you ask Reuben to come in when he’s got a minute – and bring the short ladder. I want to look up into the attic.’

  ‘Come on, Tiger,’ said Mr Gopez as he put the tray of drinks down on their usual table by the window. ‘Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid it is,’ said the Tiger. ‘They’ve wanted this land for years – and now they think they’ve found a way to get it.’

  He helped himself to one of the glasses. He didn’t have to explain who they were.

  ‘Then,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘they’ve got another think coming.’

  ‘While your optimistic spirit does you proud, A.B., the fact remains that without the certificate – and according to the law – this club cannot be shown to be legally registered. It is therefore illegal – as the minister’s private secretary Mr Jonah Litumana seemed rather too pleased to tell me.’

  ‘How long did you say we’ve got?’

  ‘Until Monday week, just as it says in the letter.’

  ‘But why us? Why not the Nairobi Club or the Muthaiga?’

  ‘I phoned Pongo Hepplewhite this morning. He said he wasn’t surprised – they’ve been trying to get hold of the Muthaiga Club for years too. When I told him about the registration certificate he whipped theirs straight off the wall of his office and into a bank vault.’

  ‘But we’ve been here even longer than they have,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Surely that means something? Law of primogeniture – or whatever you legal chaps call it.’

  Tiger Singh shook his head.

  ‘While the principle of primogeniture, A.B. – whether it be agnatic, cognatic, uterine or absolute – has done sterling work in ensuring the succession and inheritance of innumerable royal houses both within Europe and without, I fear it is inapplicable to the present situation. We have to prove to the ministry that we are registered. Without the original document we cannot do so. Ergo we are illegal, ergo they can close us down.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Patel, ‘we’ll just have to pay them off.’

  ‘As a lawyer, my dear Patel, I did not hear that. Besides, it would take millions of shillings – tens of millions. Have you looked at the accounts recently?’

  ‘Couldn’t we all, well, chip in a bit?’ said Mr Malik.

&nb
sp; ‘A noble thought, Malik. There are currently two hundred and forty-three full members of the Asadi Club, with another thirty or so country members. Some of us might be able to scrape together a lakh or two, but I know most couldn’t.’

  ‘But hang on a minute, Tiger,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Is it not a basic principle of law that a party is assumed innocent until proven guilty? We may not be able to prove that the club was registered, but under the law would we not be given the benefit of the doubt, so to speak?’

  ‘An excellent point, A.B., but I fear the principle in question relates to matters of criminal law,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘Our case, unfortunately, falls within the civil jurisdiction.’

  ‘But if this damned burglary wasn’t criminal, what is?’

  ‘I suppose you could have something there,’ said the Tiger. ‘What you’re saying is that in this case, although by law proof of registration is incumbent on the respondent, if said proof can be shown to have been destroyed, removed or otherwise made inaccessible by criminal act then, under the civil code, such proof must be assumed. Is that about it?’

  ‘In a coconut shell, yes.’

  ‘I will certainly give the matter some thought. Does anyone else have any ideas?’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Mr Malik, ‘that we should consider fighting this on two fronts, as it were. First, the legal one. A.B.’s idea is a good one, and perhaps we can prove registration some other way, or question the regulation, or –’

  ‘Or tie them up in so much pink ribbon that they won’t be able to lift a legal finger.’ For the first time that evening the Tiger smiled. ‘I’ll certainly see what I can do. And the second front?’

  ‘We need to make an all-out effort to find the missing certificate.’

  ‘If it still exists,’ said Mr Patel. ‘After all, the powers of darkness might have already destroyed it.’

  ‘You have a good point, old chap,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘If they have taken the certificate it would make sense to destroy it asap. But still, trying to get the damned thing back has to be a priority. Perhaps we can ginger up the police, get them to launch a proper investigation.’

  The Tiger shook his head.

  ‘As far as the police are concerned, all that was stolen is a stuffed lion and a framed certificate – neither of which are of great monetary value.’

  ‘What about if we offer a reward?’

  Again the Tiger shook his head.

  ‘Under present circumstances, A.B., I fear that would be of little use. There are complicating factors, you see. I happen to know that the Minister for Police is a close friend of the Minister for the Interior. They play golf together – I’ve seen them at the Sandringham. Whatever we do, we cannot count on much help from official quarters.’

  ‘One thing I’d like to do is have another word with our club manager,’ said Mr Malik. ‘We might have missed something.’

  When the manager was called to the table, he confirmed the story that on Friday night the Tiger and Harry Khan had been the last to leave the club. He told them again about the incident with the front door being accidentally locked.

  ‘But Mr Khan brought the spare back-door key straight back from Mr Singh’s house.’

  ‘And when you locked up, you are absolutely sure the lion was still there – and, as far as you know, the certificate?’

  ‘As far as I can remember, Mr Malik. I locked up as usual. It is a routine. I had already checked all the windows were closed while Mr Singh and Mr Khan were in the billiard room – what with so many members being on safari, it was a quiet night. After Mr Khan brought me the key I went back inside, emptied the till and put the money in the safe in my office. I checked that all the keys were on the board there and switched on the alarm. Then I went out again through the back door. The alarm gives you thirty seconds to get out.’

  ‘What about the front door – did you lock that?’

  ‘It was already locked, sir. Mr Khan –’

  ‘Ah yes, of course, Mr Khan had closed it behind him. So you didn’t need to check that it was closed.’

  ‘No, sir. And there is the alarm board too – all the door and window locks show up on the board. It is easy to see if anywhere is unlocked.’

  ‘Do you lock the door to your office?’

  ‘No, sir, it is not necessary. The internal doors are not alarmed – but, as I say, I always check the key board in my office before I leave. No keys were missing, and all the keys were certainly there the following morning.’

  ‘Then it’s quite clear what must have happened,’ said Mr Gopez.

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Someone must have hidden in the building – stayed on after everyone else had gone.’

  ‘Or snuck in through the back door,’ said Mr Patel, ‘while everyone was out the front.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tiger Singh, ‘I suppose either is possible. Then after our meticulous manager locks up, he – or they – have the run of the place.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said Mr Patel, ‘but why take the lion? And how did they get out? All the doors and windows are alarmed. And why take the certificate?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s difficult to work out,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Let’s not forget that two days later that letter arrives. As the Tiger says, they must be connected.’

  Since rereading all the accounts of the Erroll murder, Mr Malik had been thinking a lot about connections. Everyone assumed that everything about the case – the position of the car and the body, the bloodstains and the marks on the seat, even the inconsistencies in Juanita Carberry’s accounts of what had happened – were all somehow linked. But what if they weren’t related at all?

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘they might not be connected. I mean, the person or persons responsible for taking the lion are not necessarily the same persons who removed the certificate.’

  ‘While logic is on your side, Malik,’ said the Tiger, ‘I fear circumstances are not.’

  ‘The Tiger’s right, Malik,’ said Mr Patel. ‘That would be stretching coincidence a little too far.’

  ‘Well, it’s no use sitting around,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘I’m going to jolly well do something. First thing – house-to-house enquiries. Someone might have seen something.’

  ‘And I’ll talk to the staff again,’ said Mr Patel. ‘One of them might have remembered something.’

  ‘And I,’ said the Tiger, ‘will call an extraordinary general meeting, for tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent idea,’ said Mr Patel.

  ‘By the way, sir,’ said the manager. ‘I have had two quotes for repainting the clubhouse. What would you like me to do about them?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘I rather fear that the way things are looking at the moment, the club may never need repainting again.’

  26

  Worm is to frog as frog is to snake as snake is to pig as pig is to man as man is to worm

  What with the threat to his beloved Asadi Club, the closing of the Evening News and the imminent celebration of his only daughter’s nuptials, you might think that Mr Malik had enough to think about. But as he sat on the veranda peeling a meditative banana, his mind was on other things. It was Tuesday. In half an hour’s time he would leave the house and drive the mile to the museum. He would meet his friends – perhaps Rose Mbikwa would be there. He would give a lift to Thomas Nyambe, and as many others as could fit into the back seat of his old Mercedes, to wherever that day’s bird walk would be. After the bird walk he would come home and write his ‘Birds of a Feather’ column. He would seal it in its customary plain brown envelope and drop it in the postbox at the corner of Garden Lane and Parklands Drive. He would then drive over to the Aga Khan Hospital – as he did so often these days. In a separate building at the back of the main complex is a large ward whose patients see few visitors. It is the Aids ward, and it was where – eight years ago, and unknown to Mr Malik at the time – his own son Raj had died.

  When Raj had told him three years earlier that he was gay,
Mr Malik had stormed and Mr Malik had fumed. ‘Go from my house,’ he said, ‘and take your unnatural perversion with you.’ How strong was Mr Malik’s anger, how righteous his indignation. And so Raj had gone away, and had died unloved and unacknowledged by his father. Only when he learned that Raj was dead did Mr Malik’s love for his only son come flooding back into his heart, but no one and nothing could make up for the mistake he had made and the sin he knew he had committed. It was too late to repair the damage. There was one small thing he could do, though. He could make sure that other people’s sons and daughters did not die alone and unloved. For some years now Mr Malik had been a familiar figure in the building at the back of the hospital, where he would sit beside the sick and dying. He would talk or not talk, and much was the comfort he brought.

  A small sound behind him interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Oh, hello, darling.’

  ‘Good morning, Daddy dear. What were you thinking about – the wedding?’

  ‘In a way. I was just thinking about Raj, actually. How he would have liked to be there on Saturday. He was so fond of his little sister, so proud.’

  Petula came over to his chair and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘And I was proud of him. I still am.’

  ‘You know …’ said Mr Malik.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know.’

  Together they looked out into the garden. The bougainvillea was a riot of yellows and pinks and mauves, the canna lilies were bright orange splashes against the green of the camellias and hibiscus.

  A full minute passed before he spoke again.

  ‘So, everything’s really all right?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy. Salman’s coming tomorrow. I’m picking him up at the airport. We still have quite a lot to talk about.’

  ‘I suppose you have,’ said Mr Malik.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’ll get it, Daddy.’

  Petula returned to the veranda, wearing a large smile and carrying a bunch of red roses wrapped in a fat red ribbon. Mr Malik watched as she put the roses into a vase, humming a tune. Salman, it seemed, was learning.