The Idol of Mombasa

by Annamaria Alfieri

  “Coconuts,” the boy called back. He threw out his tiny chest and spoke in a tone that said Tolliver did not grasp a most obvious fact of life. There were indeed palms that stuck above the other vegetation all along this coast. Tolliver had never before thought of them as a source of food.

  He looked about him. What was an item as valuable as that dagger doing in a deserted spot like this? He turned to Libazo. “How sure are we that the child is telling us the truth? Could he not have stolen the dagger from Majidi?”

  “I believe he is telling the truth,” Libazo said. “It is true that wild boys like him might steal, but it would be very difficult for him to get near enough to an important trader to do so. He described this place to me before we even knew whose janbia it was.”

  “Makes sense,” Tolliver said. “But there is nothing around here. Why would Majidi have had any reason to be in an out-of-the-way place like this?”

  The boy had come back to the path and stood close beside Libazo. “The holy English people are near here,” he said. He pointed through the dense vegetation with his tawny finger.

  “Show me,” Tolliver said. His skin chilled with the realization that this could be the very path on which the runaway slave was murdered. If Majidi had done it, he might have used his dagger. But then why would he have tossed it into the thicket? It was too costly a thing to throw away.

  Tolliver followed the lad along the path. He knew few details of the slave’s death, but he did know that the missionary’s sister had found the body. She would know if he had been killed with a knife.

  “I remember something else, sir,” Libazo said. “When I found the boy with the dagger…” His voice trailed off as if there were some guilt attached to the incident.

  “Out with it,” Tolliver ordered.

  “Well, a person there said that if the boy had stolen it, he would have taken the sheath as well.” He paused. “Is it not true, sir, that the boy would have taken both? Certainly, the price for both parts would be much more than the price for one.”

  Libazo’s tone made Tolliver curious. “Where exactly did you discover the child in the first place?”

  “In the brothel in the souk, sir.” If anything, the timbre of Libazo’s voice had deepened.

  Tolliver was contemplating what could be the meaning of that when they emerged from the path into a clearing that held the Mission grounds, which seemed strangely hidden here. He was about to ask if there was no road between here and the harbor when he was shocked by the sight of his wife sitting on the veranda of the house with another woman, one with flaming red hair. He strode across the patchy lawn to them. He wanted to be angry. But he did not want to cause a scene.

  Vera leapt to her feet as soon as she saw him.

  “My dear,” he said as he approached her, keeping his tone as even as he could. “What are you doing here? I did not expect to see you.”

  “Nor I you,” she said. Her gaze was level.

  Tolliver swallowed an exclamation. Dash it, she was hiding something.

  Vera indicated her companion. “Katharine, this is my husband, Assistant District Superintendent Justin Tolliver. Justin, dearest, this is Katharine Morley, the sister of my father’s dear friend, Robert Morley.”

  He reached out and briefly clasped the lady’s bony hand. “Actually, it was you I came to see, Miss Morley,” he said.

  He was about to ask her to describe the dead slave’s body when Vera said, “Oh, you are here because it was Katharine who first discovered Mr. Majidi’s body.”

  The missionary’s sister gasped. Vera’s fingers went to her mouth. She looked at Katharine in bewilderment. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “I thought—I did not know you hadn’t—”

  But Vera’s realization came too late. She had blurted out something that Katharine Morley had wanted to keep from the police.

  Justin kept his expression as neutral as he could. “I’m afraid, Miss Morley, that I will have to ask you to come to police headquarters so that I can get a full report from you.”

  Vera gave Justin a look she might have reserved for a husband who had just betrayed her. He stifled any reaction to her shock.

  He turned back to Katharine Morley. “And is your brother here? I will have to speak to him also.”

  She held up her head in a way that made her look defiant. “He is from home,” she said. “I am sure he is on the Lord’s business.” From the way she gripped her fists at her waist, though, and the stiffness of her stance, she looked like a woman trying to convince herself.

  10

  Once back in Mombasa, Tolliver sat down to interview Katharine Morley about how she came to be in Majidi’s shop. She put on a great show of being outraged at any suspicion of her brother, but she failed to disguise the underlying desperation in her voice. She insisted her brother had gone to counsel Majidi to confess to murdering Joseph Gautura. Tolliver did not remark on how patently ridiculous that sounded. Nor did he remind her that she had tripped over all of Mombasa’s available corpses in the past three days.

  Despite her behavior, Tolliver had trouble imagining that slitting the throat of a runaway slave and bashing an Arab to death were the work of this prudish maiden lady. It seemed clear that she was trying to cover up for her brother.

  Tolliver had her sign her statement and reminded her that he needed to see her brother first thing the following morning. He sent her off and went to talk over what he knew with Egerton.

  He hated to say it, but Vera’s father’s faith in his fellow clergyman seemed to have been misplaced. At least that was what the evidence seemed to indicate.

  The D.S. had no trouble suspecting that the missionary was a murderous lunatic and that his sister could be his accessory. “I was afraid you would think it impossible that Morley did it, what with his being a missionary chap like your father-in-law. If you ask me, he’s half mad.”

  Tolliver remained silent and let Egerton warm to his subject. “The way the man rants and sputters, it’s almost comical. You know what the strong African air can do to people’s minds. The poor bloke has been here with little company but his sister’s since ’04. His mind could very well have turned, given how long he has lived in this heat. His sister’s too. Have you seen her?” He did not wait for Tolliver to answer. “The very picture of an eccentric English old maid. I wouldn’t be surprised if she goaded him into it. It happens, you know, brother and sister, mother and daughter. A couple of potential loonies living together isolated like that. Half the market towns in England have a pair like them living in some deserted farm on the outskirts.”

  By the time Tolliver left the D.S.’s office, he had heard Egerton repeat his theory so often he was himself on the verge of believing that Morley and his sister were in it together, that they suffered from some common delirium that made them think they could be the instruments of the Lord’s vengeance by killing the slave and claiming Majidi had done it. All very far-fetched, but Tolliver had actually seen some queer behavior among English people, even up in the highlands where the air was not so maddeningly humid.

  Much as Tolliver wanted to resist the appalling idea that an Englishman of the cloth and his sister had murdered both Joseph Gautura and Khalid Majidi—and done it in the name of stamping out slavery—he had to admit that the missionary’s behavior had never seemed that of an entirely sane man.

  And when he had arrived at the Morleys’ home, Vera had been sitting on the veranda sipping tea with the man’s sister. It would have been natural for her to visit a friend of her family’s, but why had she not told him that was what she intended to do?

  He refused to consider that his wife might know anything that she had not told him. He would not dignify such an idea by asking her about it. It was patently absurd that she might know one of them to be guilty and not tell him. On the other hand, if she thought them innocent and they were not, she just might insert herself into the investigation in such a way as to queer his chances of discovering exactly what they were up to. Oh, dear lord
, he thought, let that not be so.

  The sun was going down as he climbed the sandy street up to the bungalow. When he turned, as had become his habit, to look at the sea before going in, there were purple clouds on the horizon and the waves of the ocean glowed with an eerie phosphorescence.

  After supper, he and Vera passed the evening playing music. Ordinarily, playing together—he on his cello, she at the piano—brought them closer. But that evening, instead of uniting in their emotions, they played at cross-purposes, unable to synchronize their rhythm—she rushing ahead when he wanted their pace to caress a particularly beautiful passage. When they gave it up as a bad job, Justin did not ask the questions or state the suspicions in his mind, and Vera did not offer explanations or opinions that might have dispelled his worries about her father’s friends and what she might know about them.

  For her part, Vera wanted to warm the chill between them, but she feared attempting it. It would only bring them back to the same argument they always had—he saying she was too emotional and she saying he was too English. That evening, neither of them had the courage to try to part the curtain that seemed to have fallen between them.

  The two slept fitfully. In the wee hours they were both awake, and each knew the other was also. At any previous time, that sleeplessness would have led to a beautiful interlude and ended in happy kisses. As it was, both felt that their love had taken a turn away from its sweet perfection. And both worried that the distrust that had arisen between them could do permanent damage.

  ***

  Early the following morning, when Tolliver arrived at headquarters, he sent an askari to remind Morley that he was expected to come and give a statement.

  He then took over a small, vacant office and told the Indian constable at the front desk to direct the Reverend Morley to him as soon as he arrived. He made some notes on the blank sheets before him on the desk, formulating theories about the deaths in this case. No inquiry at all had been made into the death of the slave Joseph Gautura. There were good reasons for that, not the least of which was that His Majesty’s government had bigger fish to fry. Justin had agreed with the D.S. about which was the lesser evil: letting that “little” murder go unattended, or getting the Arabs into an uproar during a politically delicate time. Still his conscience niggled at him. The British government ought to stand for justice for all under its control. Certainly they had to assert authority. Otherwise, their humanitarian efforts would go nowhere. But what right did the British have to claim the moral high ground if they gave justice only to the powerful?

  He had evidence in the fingerprints that Majidi had killed the slave with his dagger. Only his were on the sheath. He must have used the knife on Gautura and then thrown it into the swamp. Or more likely, given its value, had accidentally dropped it on the path in the dark, only to have some animal carry it off. Baboons were prone to picking up bright things. If one had, on finding he could not eat it, he might have flung it away. But then Tolliver immediately thought it was possible that Morley or his sister had stolen the knife. But how, without its sheath? And why would they have tossed it in the swamp? No, there was no way to connect either one of them with the dagger.

  And now there was another murder. One that could not be ignored. If it turned out that the missionary had killed the slave owner, there would be hell to pay all around. The Grand Mufti would likely raise a holy ruckus with his fellow Muslims. A great deal was riding on Tolliver’s investigation—including, he thought sadly, Clarence McIntosh’s goodwill. And Vera’s along with it.

  He had found Vera at the Mission the day before. How far might she go to help her father’s friend? Tolliver’s thoughts froze on that suspicious idea. It was unthinkable. But he could not banish it. To rile him more, he heard the rotund missionary’s heavy tread on the stair.

  Tolliver did his best to greet the man cordially. He asked him if he would like a cup of tea. Morley, in an obvious huff, refused the tea and sat down so hard that Tolliver feared he would crack the chair.

  “I know your superiors think me loud and uncouth,” he said without any other greeting. “I care not how you judge me. England, of all the nations of the world, has taken the field against the abominations of slavery. It is only by seemingly rude expressions of concern that the public of Great Britain have come this far in the fight.”

  It sounded like a rehearsed speech to Tolliver. He gave one in response. “I am well aware that Englishmen have spent blood and a king’s ransom in treasure to stamp out slavery, Reverend Morley. But we are here to speak of something entirely different.”

  The missionary pressed his lips together and glared at the papers on the desk as if they already contained his death warrant.

  “I have asked you here,” Tolliver said in his most mannerly and formal fashion, “to clear up some of the details in our inquiry into the murders of the runaway slave Joseph Gautura and the ivory trader Khalid Majidi.”

  Morley still said nothing—merely glanced into Tolliver’s eyes and then folded his hands over his protruding belly and sat in glum anticipation, as if he were waiting for a funeral to begin. His pouting lips had a faintly revolting feminine shape.

  “I wonder, sir, if you would care to begin by telling me what you know about the death of Khalid Majidi.”

  Morley raised his eyebrows. “You have ordered me to come here. I am here. It is up to you to ask me a direct question.”

  All right, thought Tolliver, I didn’t expect you were going to make this easy for me. Nor will I make it easy on you. “I have reason to believe that your sister Katharine may be the murderer.”

  Morley gasped, just as Tolliver had hoped he would. The man could not have been more shocked if a mortar round had hit the room. He opened and closed his mouth several times. Tolliver waited a few beats and then followed up. “I must ask you your sister’s whereabouts during the night when Gautura was killed and also on the afternoon when Majidi was murdered.”

  Tolliver then sat very still and waited, letting the silence make the man uneasy, watching him fidget and sigh until the tension force him to speak. When he did, he was loud and indignant. “You are mad to think my sister capable of murder. This is insanity. I shall report you for having lost your mind, young man.” He began to rise from his chair.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Morley,” Tolliver said firmly. “I assure you that any complaint you might make to my superiors will go entirely unheeded.” Given Morley’s experience of being ignored by the authorities, Tolliver was counting on his statement to further rile the missionary.

  The older man’s mouth resumed its imitation of a fish in a bowl. He half rose out of his chair again and then sat back down, defeated at last.

  “Very well,” Tolliver said, claiming victory. “Why don’t you just tell me what you know? If I am entirely in the wrong, can you prove me so?” When Morley did not fuss any further, Tolliver pressed his question. “Kindly tell me where your sister was on the night Joseph Gautura was killed.”

  “In her bedroom fast asleep.” The missionary had taken on a distinctly sanctimonious air.

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Yes, of course. It is where she has been every single midnight of her life.” Morley was obviously still shaken, but he was trying very hard to get the upper hand.

  Tolliver put him back on edge. “You saw her there yourself? Entered her bedroom and made sure of her whereabouts?”

  “How dare…how dare you?” The missionary was out of his chair in a second, sputtering with outrage as if Tolliver had out-and-out accused him of incest.

  Tolliver did not try to calm him. Riled up was how he wanted the man. The more emotionally distraught he became the more he would reveal. “I see,” Justin said, uncapped his pen, and pretended to make a note. “So you assume that she was in her bed though you did not actually see her there? You were, I take it, in your own bed that night?”

  Morley’s hard, dark little eyes flickered away from Tolliver’s stare—a good indication
that he was about to hide the truth. “Where else would I be?” He settled back into the chair, feigning calm.

  “Where indeed? And yesterday? You were in the bazaar yesterday, were you not?” Tolliver did not know this for certain, but he said it as if he had seen Morley there with his own eyes. “You were there when your sister went to Majidi’s shop?”

  “I was not with her, no.” He spoke quietly now, as if he understood that, on some level, he had no choice but to acquiesce.

  Tolliver waited. He did not believe that Katharine Morley had killed Gautura or Majidi. But he was about to get what he really wanted out of this conversation: the truth about Robert Morley’s whereabouts at the times of the murders.

  “I cannot vouch for where my sister was.”

  “Why is that, sir?”

  Morley slumped against the back of his chair. “I suppose I have to tell you where I was.”

  “That would be best.”

  “I cannot believe that my sister killed either of those men.”

  “Your telling the truth will be the quickest way of dispelling any suspicion of her.”

  Morley looked longingly at the window, as if he wanted to turn into a bird and fly out of it. Then he stared up into the corner of the room. “I have—” He paused and glanced into Tolliver’s eyes for a moment. “Can we keep this between us? I would not wish my sister to learn this.”

  Tolliver folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “As long as it is not evidence needed to convict a criminal, I will keep your confidence,” he said.

  The defeated clergyman looked back into the corner. “I have—ah—formed an attachment to a—to a native woman.” He looked into Tolliver’s eyes, begging for understanding.

  Tolliver was not sure how successfully he hid his sympathy for the man. The chances of an Englishman finding a suitable spouse this far from home were next to nil. Morley was not an attractive man, but that did not mean that he lacked a man’s appetites and desires. “So you were visiting that lady?”