Tolliver nearly blurted his misgivings about why they were telling this to a person as unimportant as he. “In what way has Majidi broken the law?” he asked instead.
“Majidi was guilty of some grave acts.”
Tolliver found the answer vague and said so as politely as he could.
The Liwali gave him a knowing look but offered only another cryptic answer. “His business dealings were unseemly.”
Tolliver wanted to be polite, but he needed a clear statement. “Please, sir,” he said. “It would be best to be blunt.”
The Liwali raised his eyebrows and looked into Tolliver’s eyes. “Very well then. To put it bluntly, Majidi trafficked in whores.”
***
The askari who came to Vera with a message found her in the garden, covered in dirt, working with Frederick Dingle to rescue some Cape moonflower plants that the garden workers were about to pull up as weeds. The note the native policeman handed her was from Justin inviting her to dine with him at the club. There is a ladies’ dinner tonight, it said, and we have something special to celebrate. Meet me in front of the tramway office at six.
She barely had time to bathe, scrub the mud from under her fingernails, and get into an appropriate frock. She donned Justin’s favorite—a silk dress of ivory, pale green, and dusty rose in a flower print. And the sweet strand of graduated pearls he had bought for her in Rome. She wondered if the something special to celebrate would be a way for him to make it up with her. He had been angry that she had gone to the Mission. He had sensed immediately that she was involving herself in something he thought she must stay clear of. They ought to have talked it through, had it out, she thought, not for the first time. But he never would. And whenever she insisted, it turned into an all-out row with his saying, Why must you always insist on talking and talking. It just brings on a spat and bad feelings.
So she had not insisted on discussing the matter. Instead, their instruments had argued their way through the Schubert, and they had gone to bed without a proper good night. Now he was expecting her to go on as if nothing had happened.
And she would.
She hired a public trolley at the end of MacDonald Terrace and arrived less than ten minutes late.
The terrace of the club overlooked the sea and English Point on the mainland. It was crowded with the usual group—members of the British government, prosperous men in trade and their wives, settlers either on their way up-country or here in the port ready to embark for England and home leave.
The cool sea breezes raised the spirits of the crowd almost as much as the gin and quinine water they took for “medicinal purposes.” Justin and Vera carried their drinks to the balustrade overlooking the ocean. Red clouds, reflecting the setting sun, hung over the horizon. From the citadel flew the Sultan of Zanzibar’s scarlet ensign, a reminder to the denizens of the Europeans-only club that they were there by leave of an Arab potentate.
Justin pointed to it and described for Vera his visit that afternoon to the Liwali’s palace. “It is truly elegant, dearest, everything bright and beautifully arranged. Lovely colors. I am certain there is not an Englishman’s residence in the entire Protectorate to equal it. I wish you could have seen it.”
She smiled up at him. How could she not forgive him his Englishness? But she could tease him. “Perhaps I will learn to speak Arabic. Then the Liwali can invite me to tea, and I can see for myself,” she said with a impish grin.
He caressed her cheek. “If any woman can do that,” he said, “I am sure it would be you.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Now tell me about this wonderful surprise we are celebrating.”
“Let’s take a table in the dining room, and I’ll order some champagne.”
“Champagne! Delighted, I’m sure.” She threaded her arm through his as they made their slow way through the knot of drinkers at the bar and found a quiet table in a corner.
When the wine was poured, Justin lifted his glass. “I raise a toast to a stroke of good fortune, You are married to a wealthy man, my dear. I have received a reward of five hundred pounds.”
She was too astonished to drink. It would take him two years working as an A.D.S. to earn as much. “Whatever for?”
“Capturing murderers.”
Her jaw dropped. “Majidi’s?”
“No, no. These were men I arrested in Nairobi, last year. They were shooting up the bar in the Masonic Hotel. After they had served six months in da Gama’s great pile of rocks next door, we shipped them back to Johannesburg, where—it turned out—there was a price on their heads. The reward and a commendation arrived here with today’s dispatches.”
She clinked glasses with him. “My hero,” she said, with a giggle. “Does this mean I can increase my spending on plants for the garden?”
“Yes, but no more than fifteen shillings,” he said, his eyes laughing. “It is Crown property we occupy there. If His Majesty wants it to be beautiful, he can do it with his own money.”
Vera asked what the Grand Mufti was like and what he had had to say.
“I do want to talk to you about it,” Justin said, suddenly more serious. “I have not yet reported it to Egerton and…” He leaned across toward her and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I am not at all sure I want to tell him the whole story.”
She found this at once thrilling and frightening. “Tell it to me.”
He paused while the waiter put down their food. The roast beef smelled delicious. He tucked in and for a few moments their talk was postponed.
A large group of German men had taken a long table nearby. Like many of their ilk, they kept to themselves and spoke their own language. Soon their hearty conversation obscured what Justin and Vera were saying to each other from any others in the room. “There was something very odd about it,” Justin said. “The Grand Mufti and the Liwali told me there will be no Arab outrage over the murder of Majidi. That he was not as highly thought of in their community as we British thought. That we need not bother to investigate his death. He owned the brothel in the souk. They seem happy that someone did away with him. But I do not think that they were telling me the whole story of his crimes. They seemed to be keeping back more than they said.”
“It would not be the first time that your instincts were right in such a way.”
“I knew you would understand. I have the strongest suspicion that the whole thing was staged just to call off the dogs. And that I am the dog. When I was with them, I kept wondering why they wanted to tell this to me and not to someone higher up. Now I am convinced that not only the Liwali, but Egerton as well would prefer that I drop the whole question.”
“If I know you, you won’t.” She wished as much as believed it to be true. Her Justin would insist that justice be served. And like hers, his curiosity would beg to be satisfied. She thought to tell him something that he might not know. “Do you remember that man with the drooping mustache from the ship?”
“Yes. I met him shortly afterward at the club one afternoon. Hastings is his name.”
“Yes, that is he. He had dealings with Majidi.” She knew she was putting herself in the way of Justin’s disapproval, but it was too important not to tell him what she knew and how she knew it.
“How do you know this?” His voice was edged with accusation, as she had known it would be.
She looked away and lowered her voice. “After Joseph Gautura’s death, I went to see if I could pry information from Majidi. Hastings was there.” Justin looked as if he were about to forget his Englishness and shout at her in public. She bit her lip and bore Justin’s shocked and scolding expression. “I knew you would not approve.” She took in a quick breath. Before he had a chance to say anything, she held up her palms. “Darling, please do not look so hateful. I never saw Majidi.” She paused to let it sink in. “Really. I never entered his shop. But I think what I learned may be important. I encountered Hastings as I approached the door. He came out muttering under his breath. He cursed Majidi.”
She reached for his hand to stop his condescension. It silenced him, but she read his thoughts in his eyes. He loved her for her spirit, but…He admired her pluck, but…There was always that but… How could he expect her to be both of the people he wanted her to be?
In the end, he patted her hand and smiled more or less forgivingly. “Hastings is likely to be here somewhere at this hour. Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll try to speak to him. Signal the waiter and order me the trifle for pudding. I’ll be back in a moment.”
It pleased her that, at the very least, given a choice between haranguing her and accepting her information, he was off now to find Hastings.
The waiter was just bringing the sweets when Justin returned, looking quite triumphant. “I found Hastings. He is coming to meet with me in the morning,” he said.
Her pleasure faded. She wanted him to credit her for having given him a critical piece of information. She wanted to be his heroine as much as he wanted to be her hero. But this world was not made that way. Lady Vera, wife of an Earl’s son, was supposed to take her happiness from her husband’s accomplishments and be glad that he loved her. She was proud to be his wife. She wanted that to be enough. She wished it could be. I’ll get used to it, she told herself. I will.
Once they had finished their meal, he cheered her by refusing Bishop Peel’s offer of a ride up the hill in his trolley with him and his two grown daughters. That saved Vera having to pretend to be British with the proper Peel girls.
“Thank you very much, my Lord,” Justin said. “We do enjoy stretching our legs in the cool of the evening.”
They saw the bishop and his family off, propelled home by his trolley boys in white twill uniforms trimmed with the prelate’s signature magenta.
Vera and Justin went hand in hand up the sandy street. The gibbous moon shone on the huge mango and baobab trees in front of the cathedral at the top of the hill. She always felt like a little girl when they walked like this; he was so much taller than she. She let go of his hand and pulled his arm across her shoulder, feeling sheltered with his body near. She loved him so. “I feel I have to tell you something else,” she said very gently. “Something that feels like a betrayal.”
He stopped and turned her so that the moonlight was on her face. He looked into her eyes. She held his gaze. He kissed the top of her head, and they continued up the hill. “Okay, out with it, you minx.”
She let out a sigh. “Katharine Morley suspects her brother of Majidi’s murder.” She spat out the words and then gulped in some air. “She says he has been acting very suspiciously of late.”
“He is not the killer,” Justin said.
He seemed so definite about it that she was taken aback. “You know this for certain?”
“He made a statement to me that explained his whereabouts.”
“Where was—” She didn’t complete the sentence. She guessed the truth. “He was someplace else, someplace disgraceful for a missionary to be. He could not tell Katharine.”
His arm across her shoulder stiffened. “I have told you enough to set your heart at ease. I cannot reveal what he told me. It would…”
She squeezed his hand. “You are my man of honor,” she said. Her heart was full of him. “Remember when you told me about the conflict between being a gentleman and being a policeman? It is happening for you again, isn’t it?”
He stopped and held her. She raised her face to him and accepted his soft, delicious kiss. He took her breath away.
She nestled her head against his chest. “I have changed,” he said as if he were confessing a fault. “I have felt it keenly since we returned. I am duty bound to do certain things, but I cannot think of doing only my duty. I came into the police force thinking that serving justice and serving King and Country were the same thing. How naïve I was. I no longer care to adhere to the letter of the law. I will keep my word and see out my time here, but on my own terms. I am not sure what I will tell Egerton in the morning, but it will not be everything, not anymore. He despises Morley. But I mean to protect Morley as far as I think he deserves it. If the officials of the realm can compromise with the letter of the law, so can I.”
They stood in the shadows at their garden gate, embracing. She felt it then. This was the reason she wanted him off the force. Because her Justin was not a man to follow rules, British rules, when they meant that iniquity rather than justice would be served. A picture fell into her head of their tossing his uniform onto a bonfire. “Oh, my darling, my darling,” she whispered.
He kissed her. The sky above them was full of stars.
12
In the cool of the following morning, with a few of the brightest stars still visible over the town, Justin Tolliver left home. Invigorated by the almost cool air, he jogged to the police barracks, where he asked the askari on duty at the desk to wake up Kwai Libazo.
As Tolliver expected, the boy Haki appeared when Kwai did, which meant he was living there—against all regulations. It pleased Tolliver that what he had said to Vera the night before was true. He no longer felt obliged to put a stop to Libazo’s kindness to the child just because British rules said he should. Instead, he gave the boy a coin and sent him off to find some breakfast.
“We need to go to the bazaar,” Tolliver said.
The look on Kwai’s face was like nothing Tolliver had ever seen there. His breathing quickened as if he were the one who had been running. But “Yes, sir,” was all he said.
Tolliver remembered that Libazo had resented something Abrik Singh had said about the brothel. And that he had found the Arab dagger there. Whatever was going on, Tolliver hoped that Libazo had not taken up with one of the prostitutes.
It was fully light by the time they approached the souk. Along the way, Kwai had said nothing. His mind was full of what had passed between him and Aurala in that room of draped green silk the day before.
He had gone to her and let her take him into the room. Whatever else he thought, he could not stop himself from making sex with her. If he had to pay her, he would. He was sorry for the way he had been dressed. He had wanted to go to her for the first time in his Kikuyu shuka, not in his uniform. But once she was in his arms, no other thoughts were possible.
Afterward, he had poured out his questions to her. “Why are you doing this? You are too beautiful to be doing this.”
She had touched his face, lightly, with what seemed like real affection. “You are not the first man to say that.”
He looked away. “I do not want to have to buy your time.” He struggled to keep the accusation out of his voice. The whole business confused him. If he were just a Kikuyu or Maasai tribesman and she just a girl, the custom would be for him to buy her from her father in exchange for goats or cattle. Was paying to be with her here so different from paying to have her as his wife? But he knew it was, because if he had bought her from her father, she would be his and only his and that was what he wanted her to be.
She had risen up and sat cross-legged beside him. “Up in Somalia, my sister was taken away by bad men,” she said. “People told me that they had taken her to Mombasa. I ran away to find her. She was my only friend. It is—” She had stopped and studied him for a moment. “Why do you want to know this?” she had asked.
There was only one answer. And he did not know how to give it. A tribal girl would expect him to buy her from her father for cows and goats. A British girl would expect him to ask her father’s permission and to take money along with the girl. He had no idea what a Somali girl’s family would expect him to do. But he and Aurala were no longer part of any such family. They were alone in this world. Except for each other. “Because I want you t
o be my wife,” he said before he knew he was going to.
Tears came into her eyes. “You are in earnest, aren’t you?”
He took her hands in his. Her fingers were long and beautiful, like everything else about her. “Yes,” he said. “I am in earnest.”
She seemed confused. But then her eyes registered realization. “This is about Majidi, isn’t it?” she demanded, shocking him.
“The dead man? No. Why would you think that?”
“What other reason could there be for you to say you want to marry me?”
Her words made him angry. “You don’t see me,” he said with more heat in his voice than he intended. “I am not the sort of man who would say such a thing to get information. I am a man who wants to be yours. Who wants you to be his. That is all. Will you or won’t you?”
She had looked at him for a long time, gazing into his eyes as if she were reading a book, and then putting her hand on his chest.
Her face had been grave when she finally spoke. “You must wait and let me ask some questions of my sister. We will talk of this again another day.” And then she had made love to him again, and she had wept when it was over.
She had not taken any money from him. Before he left she had given him one of the bracelets from her arm. He had it now in the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt, and here he was, arriving at the bazaar with Tolliver.
It was very quiet. A few of the Hindu Indian stalls were open for business, but the Muslims were all in their mosques, because today was Friday, their holy day.
When Kwai spoke for the first time that morning, he reminded Tolliver that the place where they were going was run by Somali women and that it might be closed.
“I don’t think they stop work in brothels for religious reasons.” Tolliver laughed, but the look Kwai gave him dissolved his glee.
The rear of the market was very quiet. The bookstall was still locked. The door to the brothel was closed, but a single electric lightbulb burned before its entrance. Tolliver rapped on the door and within seconds both Leylo and Aurala Sagal came to let them in. Aurala Sagal confirmed Tolliver’s fears by going immediately to Kwai Libazo’s side and taking his hand. She was almost as tall as he, elegant and seductive in a way he was sure Kwai found irresistible.
The Idol of Mombasa Page 14