A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Read online

  Mr Gopez gave a snort. ‘Heads he wins, tails we lose, more like.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mr Malik, ‘all this is really my fault.’

  ‘Your fault?’ Mr Gopez and Mr Patel spoke as one.

  ‘Yes, Malik,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘Please explain how the theft of the certificate of registration of the Asadi Club is your fault?’

  ‘How can the criminal actions of a conniving, corrupt, contemptible … politician,’ continued Mr Gopez, ‘be your fault?’

  ‘I should have seen it coming. I knew about the fire in Erroll’s office, and that all the government records had been destroyed. I should have seen it coming. I should have done something before it was too late.’

  ‘My dear Malik,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘If you are to blame, then I am to blame – we are all of us to blame. No, there are some events which simply defy prediction.’

  For a long time no one could find anything else to say.

  ‘On another subject,’ said Mr Patel at last, ‘more bad news, I’m afraid. You know how I lined up that chap at the safari for the talk this week?’

  ‘Angus Mbikwa, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, you may remember he said he’d give us a talk on the organization he works for – Clarity International. He can’t make it. Terribly apologetic, of course. Some last-minute thing or other. I think there was going to be quite a good crowd.’

  ‘Can we postpone it to next Thursday?’ said Mr Gopez.

  Mr Patel looked at him.

  ‘My dear A.B., again you seem to be forgetting that the way things are looking there won’t be an Asadi Club next Thursday. That’s why there was going to be such a good crowd. Seems a pity to let them down. It would have been good to keep up the old traditions to the last, as it were.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘The band playing on as the ship goes down. Don’t suppose you’ve got any bright ideas for a talk, have you, Malik?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Mr Malik. ‘Although …’ he paused. ‘Well, there’s always the Erroll case.’

  ‘The Erroll case?’ Mr Gopez stared up at the ceiling as if trying to recall something. ‘Didn’t we once have something about the Erroll case here at the club – a debate or something? Patel, you remember it, don’t you?’

  ‘I was reading those books again,’ said Mr Malik, ‘especially Juanita Carberry’s autobiography. There are still a few points that don’t quite add up. Then I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday.’

  Tiger Singh shook his head.

  ‘What else is there to say?’

  ‘Oh, a couple of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Mr Malik put down his glass.

  ‘Well, now you ask, Tiger, I am sure you spotted that in the last debate one very important piece of evidence was – how shall I put it? – overlooked.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The position of the body when it was found. You will remember that the body was not in the driver’s seat but was crouched on the floor, hands over head. The police report was adamant that the body could not have slipped down into that position after death. It must have been put there deliberately, and it would almost certainly have taken more than one person to do so. How, and why?’

  Seeing he had now gained his friends’ attention, Mr Malik continued.

  ‘And then there was the dairy farmer.’

  ‘He gave evidence at the trial, didn’t he? Saw the body soon after the police arrived.’

  ‘That’s right, Tiger. He happened to be driving around Karen at 2.40 a.m. and said he’d seen nothing unusual. But nobody asked why the dairy farmer was driving around then, and again driving past at 4 a.m., just after the body was found.’

  ‘I don’t really see –’

  ‘And nobody asked whether a dairy farmer driving around in Karen might have any connection with a milk truck being driven around at the same time and place.’

  ‘Now you come to mention it,’ said Mr Gopez, ‘I think there was something about it in that conspiracy book. Didn’t they work for the same dairy company?’

  ‘Yes, A.B. – the Grange Park Dairy in Karen. Leslie Condon was the manager. He lived in the house at the dairy.’ Mr Malik looked at each of his friends seated round the table. He sat back in his chair. ‘And it so happens that one of the delivery drivers was the father of the friend I was talking to yesterday.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ said the Tiger, ‘that this chap – your friend’s father – was one of the men who found the car, who found the body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This driver, though – he gave a statement to the police, didn’t he?’

  ‘He answered their questions.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘But did he, I am now wondering, tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’

  Over the last day or two Mr Malik had been giving some thought to that very question. Is there such a thing, he wondered, as the truth? If so, where did it lie? Was the truth about what happened to Lord Erroll in the written word – in the policemen’s notebooks and court reports, in all those books and articles about the case? Was it in mind and memory? Or was it somewhere else – hidden away in plain view perhaps?

  ‘Did my friend’s father tell the truth, Tiger?’ said Mr Malik. ‘That was the very question I asked him.’

  ‘And he gave you the answer?’

  ‘Yes. So I was wondering if tomorrow the members of the Asadi Club might be interested to discover who really killed Lord Erroll.’

  The barman of the Jockey Bar at the Hilton Hotel gave a broad smile of recognition.

  ‘The usual, sir?’

  After receiving a nod from his customer he dropped three ice cubes into a highball glass and added two shots of Jack Daniel’s.

  ‘And will you be dining at the hotel tonight?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ said Harry Khan, taking the glass. ‘I’m meeting a … a friend.’

  ‘Would that be a lady friend, sir?’

  Harry Khan grinned.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  He looked at his watch. There was plenty of time before he was due to pick up Rose at her place. Drink in hand, he wandered over to the jukebox at the back of the Jockey Bar. The discs hadn’t changed since the last time he was here. Put a ten-shilling coin in the slot, press button A then button 6 and Bill Haley would be only too pleased to rock you around the clock. Press G9 to hear Little Richard express high-pitched surprise at exactly what Miss Molly has lately been up to, or press C4 for three minutes and forty-two seconds of Chantilly lace and a pretty face that might make you forget that the Big Bopper ever passed on to that great rock-and-roll heaven in the sky.

  Harry Khan went to the window and looked out over the darkening city. Nairobi sure wasn’t New York. But still, he kind of liked the place. Now the new mall was going ahead it looked like he might be spending more time here. Maybe he should think about renting an apartment. He could talk it over with Rose tonight. Yeah. If he reminded her about the jukebox, maybe she’d even come back to the hotel for a dance. Rose liked dancing. He smiled. Yeah, maybe she would. As he turned back towards the room he noticed a man and a woman at a table in the corner of the bar. Wasn’t that Rose Mbikwa’s son, the guy he’d met at the weekend down at the lake? He was about to go over and say hi, but something about the way Angus Mbikwa was leaning over the table towards the woman he was sitting with, and the way she was leaning towards him, made him change his mind. He thought he recognized the woman too. They were talking in low voices but even so, as he left the bar, he couldn’t help but overhear their words.

  ‘Are you sure, Sunita?’ said Angus Mbikwa.

  ‘Yes, Angus, I’m sure.’ Her eyes were bright. ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.’

  31

  The swallow does not line its nest with its own feathers

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Tiger Singh.

  Again the dining room of the Asadi Club was crowded with members and an a
lmost equal number of their wives. Mr Malik had been rather hoping that Petula would be able to make it, but she was busy again. Clarity International seemed to be taking up an awful lot of her time these days.

  ‘Before we begin our talk, several members have asked me if there is any news on the future of the club. I fear I have nothing new to tell you. But tonight we will try and forget about the problems facing us and conduct business as usual. Two weeks ago you will remember that instead of our usual lecture we staged a debate between two of our members, Mr Patel and Mr Gopez. The subject of the debate was a crime committed here in Kenya nearly seventy years ago – the murder of Josslyn Hay, the twenty-second Earl of Erroll. Mr Patel suggested that, despite the fact he had been acquitted of the crime in a court of law, the man who shot Lord Erroll in his car that dark night in January 1941 was Sir Jock Delves Broughton, whose wife was having an affair with Erroll. As evidence, he pointed to the fact that an English journalist later revealed that Broughton had confessed his guilt to no fewer than three independent witnesses – including, just two days after the murder, to a fifteen-year-old girl, Juanita Carberry. Mr Gopez then drew your attention to certain inconsistencies in this claim. Firstly that Broughton’s confessions each differed in several key respects, and secondly that Juanita Carberry’s evidence also appeared unreliable. He suggested instead that the murderer was in fact the young girl Juanita Carberry herself. By a narrow vote you, the audience, found Mr Gopez’s claim the more convincing. But since then more facts have emerged.’

  The Tiger now turned towards the two chairs beside him, where a short, round, balding man was seated beside another man, black-skinned with white hair.

  ‘Mr Malik,’ he said. ‘Do we understand you to say that you have new evidence pointing to the true identity of the murderer of Lord Erroll?’

  Mr Malik stood.

  ‘Evidence would probably be too strong a word, Tiger. But thanks to my friend Mr Thomas Nyambe I think I can shed some interesting light on the case.’

  The Tiger looked around the room. All eyes were on Mr Malik.

  ‘And are you willing to share with us your discoveries?’

  ‘With my friend’s permission, I would be pleased to.’

  A nod and a smile from Thomas Nyambe gave him the answer he needed.

  ‘Mr Malik, the floor – the stage – is yours.’

  Mr Malik turned to his audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you may remember from our last debate that Lord Erroll’s car was first discovered just outside Karen by two milk delivery drivers, on their regular early morning run to Nairobi. So far, neither of these drivers has figured much in the stories that have been written about the case, nor in the debate. But as one of these men is going to play an important part in the story I am about to relate, allow me to tell you a little more about him. After the war, one of these delivery drivers decided to give up driving lorries. In 1946 he applied to join the public service, where his skills eventually led to him being appointed personal driver to a senior government administrator – a post he held for many years. When he retired, his son – also a skilled driver – took over the job. It is this man, my good friend Mr Thomas Nyambe, who is now sitting beside me. I will now disclose what his father told him of the events of that night.’

  From his seat beside Mr Malik, Thomas Nyambe made a small bow of acknowledgement.

  ‘Let us go back to that dark damp night in January 1941. Two delivery drivers see a black car pulled up on the side of the road with its lights on. They stop to investigate. At first they can’t see anyone inside, but when they open the front passenger door they see a man lying on the front seat.’

  ‘They opened the door, Mr Malik?’ said Tiger Singh. ‘But in their evidence I seem to remember them saying that they did not open the door.’

  ‘I will shortly come to that point.’

  ‘I see. The man, was he dead?’

  ‘At first they didn’t think so. Remember that Erroll had been shot from the left side. He was now slumped on to the passenger seat. The two drivers couldn’t see the wound – as far as they were concerned it was probably just another mzungu on his way home from the Karen Club who had pulled over to sleep off a few too many drinks. But then they notice that in the back seat is another person – a young woman.’

  There were gasps from the audience.

  ‘At first they think she must be sleeping too, but then she speaks to them – in fluent Swahili. As I’m sure you know, this was unusual at the time. Most of the white settlers, especially the so-called Happy Valley crowd, knew only enough words of Swahili to shout orders to their servants.’

  Mr Gopez spoke.

  ‘You mean it was Juanita?’

  ‘Yes, A.B., it was Juanita Carberry.’

  ‘Ha! What did I tell you? Cherchez la jolly femme, every time.’

  Mr Malik held up a hand.

  ‘But perhaps things are not quite that simple, A.B. The girl was shaking like a leaf but managed to tell them who she was and something of what happened. She had been hiding in the back of the car. She felt the car slow down and stop. She heard Erroll greet someone and ask what was wrong, heard the door being opened, heard another man’s voice. Then two shots. She was terrified both by the shots and lest whoever had fired them saw her. She stayed hidden in the back seat not moving a muscle, scarcely daring to breathe. After a minute or two she heard a door slam shut and a car drive off. She peeped over the back of the driver’s seat. Erroll was already slumped over on to the front passenger seat. He was clearly dead.’

  ‘She didn’t see who did it?’

  ‘That’s right, Tiger. She saw neither the murderer nor his – or her – car. As soon as she thought the coast was clear, she tried to get out of the back seat but found the doors wouldn’t open – Erroll always drove with his car doors locked, apparently, since someone had taken a potshot at him a few months before. She tried to force one of the doors open – hanging on to an armstrap and pushing with her legs – only to find the strap come away in her hands. When she tried the other side, the same thing happened. Then she saw the lights of another vehicle coming down the road. Fearing it must be the murderer coming back to the scene of the crime, she once more tried to hide.’

  ‘But what was she doing there in the first place, Mr Malik?’

  ‘I’ll get to that in a minute, if I may, Tiger. The vehicle she hears, though, is not the murderer’s car. It is the milk truck, on its way to Nairobi. When the two drivers discover Juanita in the back seat of the car she pleads with them not to tell anyone they have seen her. She isn’t meant to be there – and if her father finds out, she’s bound to get a thrashing. Both men know all about Msharisha Carberry and his rhino-hide whip. They respond as African gentlemen. They promise her they will say nothing. The last they see of Juanita is her white gym shoes disappearing into the night.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Tiger. ‘The broken straps, the shoe whitening on the seats – it certainly explains them. But the mysterious murderer? She hadn’t seen him. Are you saying it was Broughton all along?’

  ‘No, it was not Broughton. Broughton was, as he always claimed, at home – as was Diana his wife. I must say that this was the part of the case that always puzzled me the most. Both Broughton and Diana had alibis – not strong alibis, but alibis nonetheless. It wasn’t until I talked to my friend Mr Nyambe that I realized where I had been going wrong.’ Mr Malik surveyed the now silent room. ‘As you may know, Lord Erroll never seemed satisfied with having just one woman on the go. It was well known that at the time of his murder he had another mistress who was away in South Africa. What was not so well known was that he had also been having an affair with the attractive wife of the manager of the Grange Park Dairy.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Mr Gopez under his breath. ‘Makes Casanova look like bally Bertie Wooster.’

  ‘And may I ask how you know this, Mr Malik?’

  Mr Malik looked again at his friend Thomas Nyambe, who was still sitting quietly beside
him.

  ‘All the men who worked at the dairy knew who drove the black Buick that would often be parked outside the Condon house soon after Leslie Condon had left early in the morning for Nairobi.’

  ‘I see. But Condon, what’s he got to do with the murder?’

  ‘It was hard to keep secrets in such a close-knit community. Condon had found out about his wife’s affair – most probably told about it by a fellow member of the Muthaiga Club. That night at the club, he was there. He overheard the conversation at Broughton’s table – half the club did. He heard Broughton tell Erroll to bring Diana home by three. This was his chance. After Erroll and Diana had gone off dancing he left the club. He knew from overhearing their conversation when Erroll would be taking Diana home to Karen. Erroll was almost sure to then return to his own house in Nairobi along the same road – this time, alone. Condon’s plan was to ambush Erroll in a deserted spot somewhere along that road. He drove back to the dairy to get his revolver, then hid his car near the turn-off. At about 2.15 a.m. he saw Erroll and Diana drive past towards Broughton’s house. As soon as they were out of sight he pulled on to the road, got out of his car and lifted up the bonnet. He didn’t have to wait long for Erroll to come back. He waved him down. Erroll stopped and wound down the passenger window to ask what was the matter. Condon pointed the gun through the open window and fired two shots. He then got back into his car, turned round and went home again to his house at the dairy.’

  ‘If I may interrupt you, Mr Malik,’ said the Tiger, ‘by my calculations he would have got back at about 2.45 a.m. Why did he tell the police he had been past the junction at 2.40 a.m., but had seen nothing? Why tell them he had been there at all?’

  ‘The delivery drivers. As usual, they were loading the truck at the dairy at that very time, ready to take the milk to Nairobi. They had seen him return. Condon knew that if the police began asking questions they would be bound to say something. By telling the police himself that he had indeed driven past the place where the car was found, he pre-empted this possibility.’