As soon as he entered the high-ceilinged lobby, he heard a man’s words booming from the balcony above. In a theater, it might have passed for the voice of God. “I have studied the Koran,” the voice was saying. “I know whereof I speak.” The tone was preachy and juicy, and Tolliver could picture drops of spittle flying out of the speaker’s mouth along with the words. He was glad he was not in the path of either. A more modulated male voice responded, but Tolliver could not make out what it said.
Tolliver inquired of a Sikh clerk at the reception desk and then mounted the steps toward District Superintendent Egerton’s office. The sonorous voice had resumed its argument, more insistent than before, which hardly seemed possible. The noise came from the D.S.’s open office door. “You have not been listening,” the speaker bellowed. “The Koran allows them to keep slaves if they are taken in war. Joseph Gautura had been enslaved to Majidi since he was nine years old. How could a child that age have been taken in war? Now that he has run away, it is our duty as Englishmen to see that he is left in peace.”
Tolliver paused before approaching the office while the speaker—shouter, more like—went on. “If you do not heed my advice, I shall report this to the Anti-Slavery Society in London. They will speak to our friends in Parliament, and then we shall see how quickly you listen.”
“I assure you,” the modulated voice, which must have been Egerton’s, said, “we will look into the matter. As I said at the beginning of this conversation, Mr. Morley, with the Grand Mufti’s visit under way, we must be careful not to stir up trouble among the Arab traders.”
Tolliver stopped twirling his hat and stood up straight. The booming voice belonged to Robert Morley, Vera’s father’s friend—the very person the Reverend McIntosh had asked Justin to help.
He stepped forward and knocked on the dark wood doorjamb. A large, unkempt man, who must have been Morley, swiveled in his chair and frowned disapprovingly at Tolliver, as if he were a rude and suspicious intruder. District Superintendent Egerton stood up with a faint expression of relief, clearly hoping to escape Morley’s raucous arguments.
The two men could not have been more different. Morley had an egg-shaped head on an egg-shaped body. Thinning hair, sweaty, dark, and ungroomed, stuck to his temples. His mismatched light linen jacket and trousers were rumpled, his white shirt collar wrinkled, his black bow tie askew. Egerton, on the other hand, was slender and spiffy in a white twill tropical uniform. His carefully brushed black hair showed the slightest bit of gray at the sideburns. His thin black mustache could have been drawn on his upper lip with a well-sharpened pencil. His neat eyebrows knit in a questioning glance at the intruder.
Tolliver took two steps forward and extended his hand to his superior officer. “I am A.D.S. Justin Tolliver, sir. I was passing nearby and thought I would stop by and introduce myself. I am sorry to have interrupted.”
Egerton shook Justin’s hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Tolliver, delighted. Mr. Morley and I were just finishing our meeting.”
Morley heaved himself out of his chair. He seemed on the verge of objecting, but then he studied Justin and smiled broadly. “Why, you are Clarence McIntosh’s new son-in-law, are you not?” He pumped Justin’s hand and left it damp. “I am Robert Morley, the man your father-in-law wrote to you about. You are going to help me get justice for a runaway slave.” It was a confident statement, not a plea for reassurance. Morley turned to Egerton. “This young officer is a family member of a zealous antislavery cleric. And he has promised to support my point of view.”
The cordiality in Egerton’s eyes vanished, replaced by disappointment and annoyance.
Morley’s took Tolliver’s hand again in his moist grasp. “Capital. Capital,” he said. He smirked at Egerton. “Now we shall see what happens.” He chuckled and made his gleeful way down the stairs, his heavy tread causing them to creak and squeal.
Egerton’s expression changed from quite annoyed to something more neutral. He indicated the chair that Morley had just vacated. “We will worry about the reverend later. Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Without waiting for a response, he called for the hall boy and ordered two cups.
Rather than taking the position of power behind his desk, he pulled his chair around to sit next to Tolliver, and pointed to a manila folder on the credenza under the window. “I have read the file of your service in Nairobi, Tolliver,” he said. His voice was nearly cordial. “I daresay you will want to have your sergeant—Zibalo, is that his name?”
“Libazo,” Tolliver said, immensely surprised that Egerton seemed to have read not only his file, but also his mind. “Yes, sir, I very much think that he could—”
Egerton cut him off with a wave. “All taken care of. Sent a telegram as soon as I got your response that you were accepting this assignment. Already received a reply. He will arrive on the down train tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, sir. It is precisely what I would have requested. Awfully good of you to think of it.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Egerton said, continuing to warm. “Very happy to have you with us.” They watched the boy deliver the tea.
When they had taken a few sips, Egerton got down to business. “You are not supposed to be on the duty roster until Monday, but I hope you will take up your post tomorrow. I don’t want to cause you trouble with the little lady, but we need you right away. If you start tomorrow, you can be here when Libazo reports for duty. The force will be on parade tomorrow. It will be a good time to introduce you to the troops.”
“Certainly, sir.” Tolliver recognized Egerton’s mention of “the little lady” for what it was: a challenge to see if Tolliver was in charge of his own wife. He was very glad Vera was not here. She would not like being called a little lady. And she would object to how quickly he had offered up the last two days of their honeymoon.
Egerton left no time for second thoughts. “Now as to this business with the runaway slave. I want you to understand that it is not the sort of thing we can pursue just now.” Egerton spoke with calm certainty, seeming to have taken complete charge of the conversation. But Tolliver noticed that he had drawn his feet under his chair and braced them, as if getting ready to bolt—not the posture of a relaxed man.
Tolliver knew better than to challenge Egerton directly, but he need not give in without a question or two. “Vera’s father asked me to help the Reverend Morley if I could, and my own principles would favor freeing any slave, but I made no representations to anyone. I am afraid what you heard from the missionary was merely an assumption.”
Egerton stretched out his legs again. “I am glad of that. I don’t think we are able to be at all helpful to him.”
Tolliver blinked. He knew that slavery was outlawed on British territory, so he had expected the force to take the Reverend Morley’s side against the Arab. “Sir,” he said, hoping not to put the D.S. back on edge, “dealing with runaway slaves was not a part of my work in Nairobi. There are none up-country. I am afraid I am not clear on what exactly the law is on this point.”
Egerton smiled at him. “No need to apologize about that,” he said. “Most of our junior lads started out not knowing the finer points of the law. But law or no law, I am afraid this is an area that is not as black and white—so to speak—as the citizenry back in England imagine it to be. Here, we have many considerations to sort out.”
Tolliver sipped his drink. “But British law does forbid slavery.”
Egerton drained his cup and put it down with a thump. His feet were back under his chair and he had clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath, making no effort to hide his displeasure. “Yes, but as I just said, we are not in London. You understand, I think, that this part of the Protectorate has a status different from the rest of the country. Though most who live here are Africans, this coastal strip functions more like Zanzibar—as an Arab preserve. Our government came here with many goals. One was to stop the slave trade. And in many ways we have. No more trails of misery and corpse-strewn paths—no
t since the railroad went in anyway. But we are also here to develop the economy of the Protectorate. And …” His voice trailed off. He looked out the window, as if seeking a proper explanation in the cloudless sky.
Tolliver looked into his now empty cup and waited through an uneasy silence.
Finally Egerton sighed and continued. “I have always supported England’s role in the suppression of slavery. Taking the moral high ground on this subject is one of the reasons we can hold up our heads as supreme among nations, but—” He moved to the edge of his seat. Tolliver could see that Egerton himself was walking a tightrope. “Dash it all, man, like any other beast, slavery has a tail, and we are dealing with that tail here. You see, we have to keep peace with the Arabs to maintain our control, not only here and in Egypt on the ground, but also on the seas between here and India. The Arabs take any interference with their way of organizing their households as a personal insult. It is deuced difficult keeping the balance between our morals and what they see as their right.”
“Is slavery, then, completely legal here, sir?” Tolliver had tried to keep out any note of disapproval, but he had not entirely succeeded.
Egerton’s tone also took on an edge. “The treaty we made with the Sultan in 1897, after a great deal of tedious negotiation, declared that anyone born after 1890 is free, but those born before remain slaves. It is not what you might have wished for, Mr. Tolliver, but there it is. And this would be the worst possible moment to protest the arrangement.” It was clear that the D.S. was trying his best to seem commanding, but his body had become completely tense and his ears had taken on a red tinge.
Egerton’s discomfort was embarrassing Tolliver. The man seemed to have a conflict within himself. Perhaps his own beliefs warred with what his work required. Or it might be that he desperately needed to keep Tolliver on the force and feared that the moral choice might drive Tolliver to resign. Whichever it was, it would be best to mollify him. “Sir,” Justin said, “I imagine you are saying that during the visit of the Grand Mufti, with all the accompanying rise in the sense of Arab pride, we cannot just now safely take up the Reverend Morley’s cause.”
Egerton collapsed back into his chair and let out a long breath. “Finally,” he said, “a man who understands the line we have to walk. Khalid Majidi, the man whose slave has absconded to Morley’s mission, has a great deal of influence. The last thing we want while the Grand Mufti is on the scene is to give him a reason to incite revolt. And suppose the Mufti turned the Egyptians against us. We have to think about the importance of Suez. Trouble there would not help anyone.”
Tolliver found himself torn. It was unlikely that defending the rights of one slave here would close down the canal. That seemed a bit far-fetched. Still, there was no knowing what upsetting the Grand Mufti might cause. Serving on the force over the past year, he had learned how pragmatism was often the best policy in this young country. The somewhat-seasoned policeman in him saw the practicality of Egerton’s attitude, despite the antislavery sentiments of his childhood. But he had been in love with Vera for all of the past year. She did not have to be here to tell him where Egerton’s argument went wrong. In his mind, he could hear her declaring that slavery was slavery and right was right.
Egerton gave him a querying look but also held his peace.
Tolliver chose his next words carefully. In this case, wherever the road to justice led, it could not go through insubordination. “Well, sir, what exactly can we do about Majidi and his runaway slave?”
“I am trying to put across to you one essential point, Tolliver. To the Arab, slave-holding is not only legal, it has been the custom of his forefathers through the ages. No matter what we may think in our hearts, we absolutely must not aggravate the differences between us and the Mohammedans. No action is often the right action in such cases. So we will do precisely nothing.”
“I understand,” Tolliver said, though he did not entirely agree, and he feared the row that would ensue when Vera found out that her father’s friend was pursuing a hopeless cause, at least for now.
***
At that same hour, returning from the market bearing the makings of a nice lunch for herself and Justin, Vera found an Englishwoman waiting for her. The lady had a confused air about her, half apologetic, half defiant. She looked to be about thirty-five, tall and skinny, wearing a long linen skirt, a loose-fitting jacket, and a white shirtwaist with a high collar, trimmed with a bit of lace. She had a rather old-maidish, dry look, except that her blue straw hat exactly matched her startlingly beautiful eyes.
Vera stopped at the door. The stern glance of her visitor made her feel as if she were intruding on the woman and not the other way ’round. “How do you do,” she said. “I am Vera Mc—I mean Vera Tolliver.”
The woman turned up the sides of her mouth—more a show of very large teeth than a smile. What was evidently meant to be a friendly expression somehow made her look even more pinched. Underneath her tenuous exterior of calm, something deeply troubled this woman. This was no simple social call. She put down her parasol, drew off her right glove, and held out her hand. Her fingertips were cold despite the heat of the day. “Mrs. Tolliver, I am Katharine Morley.” She squeezed Vera’s small hand so hard it hurt.
Nevertheless, Vera’s smile was sincere. “How do you do, Miss Morley. I have met your brother several times when he visited my father at the Mission up at Athi River. It is a pleasure to meet you at last. Won’t you come in?”
Katharine’s smile was a tiny bit cheerier this time. She reached up, pulled out her hat pin, and took off her hat, revealing her hair, pulled back in a very tight bun of a lovely dark shade of ginger. “I wonder if I might sit down. I took a rickshaw from the Nyali Bridge to the top of your road, but I could walk faster than the poor boy could drag the contraption over the sandy path to your door. The heat is fierce at this hour, but I did not have a moment to lose.” Her voice was low and determined and carried a heavy Midlands accent.
“I am sorry. Yes, certainly. Please come out to the veranda. The sea breeze will cool you. May I offer you something? A cup of tea?”
With the mention of tea Katharine’s angular face visibly relaxed. Vera went in and asked Miriam to bring them tea and bread and butter. When she returned she found Katharine looking out toward the sea, taking in the lovely view—the charming cove and white sand, the coconut palms, the fishing nets and traps arrayed against the neatly thatched native huts. “This spot really is very pretty,” Miss Morley said. “Robert told me it would be. I’ve been at the Nyali Mission for nearly eight years, and yet I’ve never come here.”
Vera thought to invite her to come for a bathe, but she could not imagine Miss Katharine taking off her prim high-button shoes and cotton hose to sleep at night, much less to frolic in the sea.
At this moment, despite Katharine’s gracious remark, her eyes were filled with distress. She looked across the table to Vera. Her thin lips disappeared completely when she pressed them together. She took a deep breath. “I am sorry to trouble you, a person I have never even met,” she said. “I came running to you because I did not know what else to do. I cannot find my brother. He set off for the Mission Society office this morning, but when I went there to look for him, they said he had no appointment there today. I thought he might have gone to the souk, but he was not there either. I cannot tell where he is. I had hoped to find your husband at home. There has been a…a murder on the edge of the Mission grounds.”
Vera listened in shock to Katharine Morley’s description of the slain runaway slave and her conviction that his master had killed him rather than let him go free.
Katharine paused in her story when Miriam brought out the tea. She accepted the cup Vera handed her with pure desire in her eyes. “Oh, how I need my tea at this moment,” she said, as if she had been offered medicine to relieve a sharp pain. She gulped it down in a less-than-ladylike way. “I know my brother appealed to your father about Joseph’s fate, Mrs. Tolliver. Robert is so passionate a
bout the fight against slavery. It is the one note that vibrates in his entire being. Do you think…” Her voice trembled on the last few words. She was fighting down the urge to weep.
Vera poured her another cup of tea. She drank it down and took in a ragged breath. “My brother…I am afraid for him… Majidi…”
Vera reached for her hand. “Do you think Mr. Morley is also in danger?” Vera’s voicing of the possibility collapsed Katharine Morley’s restraint. She pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from the sleeve of her shirtwaist and buried her face in it.
Vera scolded herself. Her mother had told her a thousand times not to blurt things out. She cast about in her mind for something, anything to comfort the poor woman. “I cannot believe your brother has come to harm in broad daylight,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster, but not quite believing her own words.
Shaking her head, Katharine leapt up and jammed on her hat. Her expression showed a war between hope and despair. “I must go home,” she said. “I must hurry. I can only hope I’ll find him there. Please. Please,” she begged. “Ask Captain Tolliver to look for him.”
Vera was also on her feet, determined to repair the damage her ill-chosen words had done. “Please send me word the minute you find him. My husband will do all he can. I know he will. I promise you that. My family so values your brother. And you too. We value you too.”
Katharine squeezed Vera’s hands with her bony fingers and gave her a pleading glance. “Pray that he hasn’t…that he… Please pray for him.” And she was gone.
4
As soon as he could politely tear himself away from Egerton, Tolliver hurried back to the cottage on the beach. He stripped off his uniform jumper and asked Vera to take a walk with him along the shore, claiming that he sorely needed the sea breeze to cool him off after the heat of the town. What he really wanted was to break the news to her gently that he would not be able to do much for her father’s friend.
The Idol of Mombasa Page 4