The Idol of Mombasa

by Annamaria Alfieri

  Dingle’s terrified look said it all. The ruins of the little Portuguese church on a cliff had a reputation for being deadly. Stories abounded of its being a breeding ground for every terrifying reptile and venomous insect Africa was prone to produce. Even in the correspondence Tolliver had received, when he was arranging to rent the cottage on the beach at Ras Serani Point, the owner had warned him to stay away from the crumbling Portuguese encampment. He said he didn’t want to read yet another one of those notices in the newspaper about the death of some unsuspecting idiot who went up there to paint the view and gave his life to a snake.

  “You think he went out that way?” Tolliver’s flesh crawled at the thought.

  Dingle shuddered. “I think he must have. How else would he have gotten free?”

  “I’m afraid you are right,” Tolliver groaned. “It’s been a mystery to me how he managed to escape. I interrogated all the guards, and they swore to me there was no funny business, nothing about about letting him go.” Hastings had last been seen inside the prison the previous night, just before lights-out at eleven o’clock. The guards were lax about keeping English prisoners confined to their cells. No one would swear he had locked up Hastings, but Tolliver believed that no one had purposely let him go. For one thing, the ivory hunter was pretty well stone broke. If he had wanted to bribe his way out, he was unlikely to be able to offer a sum adequate to tempt a man to lose his position and suffer imprisonment himself. “Can you show me the tunnel entrance inside the fort?”

  Dingle’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir, but you must be very careful. No one should ever go through there. No one.”

  “That’s as may be, Mr. Dingle,” Tolliver said, “but I shall have to investigate it nonetheless.” He sent Dingle to the fort and steeled himself to get on with mounting a search party. If Vera knew what he was about to do, she’d be screeching.

  It took the better part of an hour to organize a squad and equip them with lanterns, torches, and weapons. Libazo went back to the barracks to fetch a Maasai sword from the box at the foot of his cot.

  When they were ready, they pulled Dingle from his cell and followed him down to the lowest level of the fort. He pointed them to an all-but-invisible cleft in a wall at the end of a narrow passage, behind a couple of bins. As soon as he finished his task, Dingle hurried away, as if terrified they would force him to come along.

  Tolliver and his squad squeezed through the opening.

  The narrow tunnel was hewn out of the coral rock. Since they could not walk two abreast, Tolliver positioned Libazo just behind him and a little to his left, with a hurricane lamp on a pole held out in front of them, so that the light could lead the way. Libazo balanced the lantern pole on his left shoulder and held his sword in his right hand. Tolliver carried a rifle at the ready.

  The place smelled like a grave. The ceiling was so low that he and Kwai could not walk fully upright. Every few paces, they walked into a giant cobweb that shrouded their foreheads and eyes.

  When they had moved along for a few yards, Libazo pointed his sword at the ground in front of him. “Stop, sir,” he said. “Hold the lantern, if you please.”

  Tolliver complied. The rock floor below their feet was littered with the rank dirt of centuries.

  “A man with large feet wearing stout English boots has passed this way very recently,” Libazo said.

  “How do you know the footprints are recent?” Tolliver asked.

  “There are rat tracks all around here, but there are none on top of his footprints, sir.”

  They moved forward then, and Tolliver hoped the ominous skittering noises ahead of them were only rats. He wondered how Hastings could have had the nerve to enter this vile place alone. He must have had a lamp of some sort, but still—only a worse fate at the hands of his government could have driven him to this. If he was still hiding here, he could not miss the sound of a dozen men approaching. On a whim, Tolliver called out, “Carl Hastings, if you are down here, we are coming to take you back to safety.”

  “Is that what we are doing, sir?” Libazo had the audacity to ask. At least he kept the irony out of his voice.

  “Shall we just get on with it?” Tolliver pressed forward, but he had hardly taken ten more steps when the lantern shining before him picked up red and black scorpions, at least eight of them, scurrying across their path. He bit his lip to stave off a gasp, but he couldn’t stop a shudder. He halted until the creatures disappeared into the gloom ahead. He was glad of his stout boots, but the boys with him wore only sandals. “Bring up more light, a burning torch,” he said as evenly as he could. Fire could actually be a better defense than bullets in this dreadful place.

  He took the flame from a young constable whose eyes were wide with fear. They were all stiff and sweating despite the dampness of this crypt.

  With the torch in his left hand, Tolliver shouldered his rifle and took out his pistol. Maintaining his point position, he moved along faster than before. He had to get his men into the open air, before one of them passed out.

  His breath stopped again when he saw a nest of writhing snakes not three feet ahead. Without forethought, he tossed the burning torch into them. He aimed the pistol and hit one as it tried to slither away. Two others twitched in the flames and were still. Their flesh stank. One of the askaris behind him made a noise as if he were going to retch. “Young pythons,” Libazo said.

  “I hope we don’t run into their mother,” Tolliver replied. He would have liked to laugh, but he couldn’t manage it. Fear knotted the back of his neck. He picked up the torch, which had gone out, lit it off a burning one held up by one of the lads, and moved ahead, hoping the men close around him could not hear the thudding of his heart.

  After only another sixty yards or so, the path began to ascend. A weak light glimmered ahead of them, and Tolliver caught a faint whiff of the sea and something sweetish and corrupt. With more desperation than bravado, he quickened his pace.

  “Hastings,” he called out again. “If you are here, give yourself up.” He worried that the escapee was already miles away and wondered if Libazo would be able to follow his footprints once they were outside. Had Hastings gotten out? Would Hastings have tried to make a run for it across land? Away from the coast, in that scorched, uninhabited tract a man alone could not hope to get far without guns, ammunition, and water. And the protection of a large group. There was always the chance, of course, that he had already been whisked away in a fishing boat. To a dhow. He could be well on his way to Zanzibar by now.

  Closer to the opening, Tolliver slowed his steps. The smells of sea and rot were stronger. The opening at the end was partially overgrown with some sort of bush, which was silhouetted against the light. Tolliver passed off the torch, holstered his pistol, and took his rifle at the ready. “On your guard, boys,” he said just loud enough to be heard.

  The exit was a bit narrower than the tunnel. Libazo handed the lantern to the man behind him and closed ranks with Tolliver. They paused to let their eyes adjust to the light. They emerged.

  They found themselves within the ruins of the fort-like chapel of St. Joseph. It stood on a promontory overlooking the ocean, less than a quarter-mile from the black-and-white striped lighthouse that towered above the cliff. The chapel’s thick walls had no roof. The ground inside was covered with vegetation. Lizards scattered before them. God knew what else was hidden in the underbrush. Gooseflesh crept down Tolliver’s back.

  The other men had emerged. Libazo gasped. “Sir!” He reached out and brushed a large and hairy spider off Tolliver’s sleeve. Tolliver stopped, shuddering, clenching his teeth. Libazo looked him over, and he returned the favor. “Check yourselves, lads,” Tolliver said, no longer at all worried that he might give warning to anyone hiding here.

  “Look there,” one of the constables said, pointing off a few feet to their left.

  The telltale sight of khaki trousers and stout boots brought them to Carl Hastings, lying nearly facedown on the ground, half in and half o
ut of an opening in the wall. The sun, still ferocious at this time of day, beat down on his body. A hurricane lamp, which must have fallen when Hastings went down, lay broken on the ground. There was a charred area beside the corpse, and some of his clothing and flesh had burned too. The sweetish stench of burnt human flesh brought bile to Tolliver’s throat.

  “He must have been already dead when he caught fire.” Tolliver was thinking aloud. He bent down. Something had gnawed on Hastings’ chin and cheek. Most of the boys were vomiting now. Tolliver had all he could do not join them. He looked at Libazo. Only the stiffness of his stance and the hardness of his stare gave away his inner disgust.

  Libazo pointed to the dirt near the corpse’s right hand. “Dead or nearly dead, sir. See the claw marks.”

  Tolliver looked about. “What could have killed him—?” he started to ask.

  The answer came in a split second.

  A mottled brown snake reared on the other side of the body, not three feet from Tolliver. Its fangs and the inside of its mouth were dead black. “Mamba!” someone screamed. Tolliver’s skin turned to ice. From behind him, Libazo swung his sword, slicing the snake’s head from its body.

  Tolliver leapt to his feet. They all stood barely breathing, scanning the ground around them. And then panting, as if they had just finished a race to the death. It was a full minute before any of them could speak a word. Tolliver did what he would have done to any man who had just saved his life. “Thank you,” he said. He gripped Libazo’s shoulder and held it for a second. “Thank you.”

  ***

  As soon as he had organized the lads who would stay to guard the corpse, Tolliver started back along the outdoor path, euphoric at the mere fact of being out in the light. But these high spirits faded quickly as he considered the practicalities of his investigation.

  The day’s shadows were already long. Darkness would fall, in its sudden African way, in the space of an hour. He had left four constables with the body. He had to get some boys back up there soon to move Hastings’s remains to the fort. Otherwise, the men left there would spend the night surrounded by creatures that could kill them instantly with a sting or a bite.

  And he was no closer than he had ever been to identifying exactly who had killed Khalid Majidi. No one else in the entire Protectorate Administration seemed to care a fig about that. On top of which, he had not eaten since breakfast.

  As it happened, what with transporting the body, locating the doctor, and summoning him to examine it before the heat destroyed any evidence, Tolliver barely had a moment to down a tin of bully beef from the barracks stores before he was called to the autopsy. He sent Haki with a note to Vera, not to wait dinner for him. It was becoming a habit he greatly regretted. But that argument over his leaving the force was over. He would see out this assignment. After that he would be done with taking such risks to serve a justice that didn’t exist.

  It was after ten when the doctor finished his examination and declared that Hastings had died, as they all suspected, from a mamba’s bite.

  “Well then, his killer has already been executed,” Tolliver said.

  The doctor turned over his instruments to an orderly to be cleaned. “Since the deceased was a subject of the Crown, you’ll have to report immediately to Egerton.” He finished scrubbing his hands and dried them. “I saw the D.S. earlier in the bar at the club. I’d tell him myself, but I was up at three this morning, delivering a baby. It’s bed for me before I collapse.” He picked up his black bag and strode off, looking not half as tired as he professed to be.

  Tolliver sighed and prepared to do his duty. The death of an Englishman, even one accused of a crime, was no light matter. Reports would have to be written. The Colonial Office in London would have to locate his next of kin. Personal belongings would have to be inventoried. Tolliver was thankful that his job of work in that regard would end with his report to Egerton.

  He found the D.S. playing snooker with some other district officers. Egerton took the news in a corner of the billiard room and invited Tolliver for a drink and a sandwich. It was an offer Tolliver could not refuse. Once they had given an order to the waiter, Tolliver told Egerton about the discovery of Hastings’s body and the doctor’s conclusion.

  “Save His Majesty’s government from having to try the bastard,” was all Egerton had to say on the subject.

  “He and Majidi must have had accomplices in the slave trade,” Tolliver offered mildly.

  “No doubt. But it seems likely that their operation is done for with both of them gone.”

  Tolliver attacked the sandwiches as soon as they arrived. “Al Dimu, the eunuch, bears watching,” he said between bites.

  “I suppose,” Egerton replied, taking only a few pieces of fruit, and pushing the rest of the plate toward Tolliver.

  “And we have not discovered who killed Majidi.”

  “No one among the Arabs is at all concerned about that,” Egerton said as if he meant to let the Liwali and the Grand Mufti have the last word. After all he had been through, it galled Tolliver that Egerton might force him to give up investigating Majidi’s murder. He thought to protest, but didn’t see the use of it.

  On the way up the hill to home, he fumed. The D.S. really believed that the British police force should kowtow to the Grand Mufti. But whatever the D.S. said, Tolliver knew he could never give up now. Granted, Majidi was also a murderer. Whoever had killed him had in actuality avenged the death of Joseph Gautura and also extracted punishment for the other hideous crimes Majidi had committed. The snake had punished Carl Hastings for his disgusting part in capturing and transporting slaves. Such rough justice should be enough.

  It wasn’t. Tolliver told himself that he was a policeman and that he wanted to find the killer in order to serve the rule of law. But he was well aware how strongly his own curiosity also figured in his desire to solve the mystery. He could hear the voice of his mother scolding him for always wanting answers to questions other people wished he had not asked. In this case, he would serve his conscience, not his masters.

  As he walked from his front gate to the door, a lovely fantasy of Vera in her harem outfit pushed his other thoughts aside.

  He was barely through the door when she came running to him from the bedroom, already in her night shift. He began to unbutton his uniform jacket.

  She kissed him. And he was enveloping her in a warm embrace when she pushed him away. “Where is Kwai Libazo?” she demanded.

  “Did you expect me to bring him home with me?”

  “Don’t tease, Justin. Aurala Sagal is terrified. I think she expects those brothers of hers are going to arrive any minute.”

  “Is it really imminent? Kwai went off duty almost three hours ago.” He began to rebutton his jacket. “I’ll go to the barracks and—”

  She stopped his fingers. “If he is off duty, there will be no need. He went straight to her, I am sure.”

  He took her hands in his. “How do you know that?”

  She pulled his arms back around her. “Because I know love when I see it.” She reached her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “Shouldn’t we make sure he has gone to her?”

  “I have no doubt that he spends every second that he is off duty with her.” She gave him a triumphant smile. “Besides, I gave a note to Haki to give to him, telling him what he must do.”

  “Of course you did.” He laughed out loud and went back to undoing his buttons.

  The next thing he did put an end for the night to all analytical thinking on his part.

  ***

  Kwai Libazo and Aurala engaged in no such pleasure games in the dark of that night. Kwai, as Vera implored him to, had gone straight to Aurala as soon as he was released from duty. Much as he desired her and much as she had learned to desire making love with him, their time together was spent only in talk about her leaving Mombasa as quickly as they could arrange it. Neither said what they hoped for: that they would one day be together forever. There were too
many obstacles between them and that lovely dream.

  “A.D.S. Tolliver’s memsahib said she would appeal to the people at the Mission in Nyali to hide you there until she can take you to Athi River, to her father’s house, where you can stay in safety.” Kwai watched Aurala’s eyes as he spoke. Her look signaled fear, something like horror, but she said nothing.

  He stroked her cheek. “Tell me what you want to do.”

  She asked him a question instead. “Do you want me to go far away from you?”

  He smiled at her. She might be Somali, not Kikuyu or Maasai, but hers was an African’s answer to what he had asked. He chose to make an African’s response and answer her question with another one. “Do you want to be my wife?”

  “Do you really want to do that?” she asked very softly.

  He laughed at their conversation of only questions. “Yes. It is what I want. It is a grave thing for two as different from each other as you and me to marry. But it is all that I want.”

  Still she looked at him, more with wonder than with either yes or no in her glance.

  “Please think about it,” he said. “But whatever else happens, I want you to be safe. You can be protected in the up-country where no one knows where you are. My people are near there. Mrs. Tolliver’s father is a kind and good man. He will shelter you. I will come there as soon as I can to be with you.” He waited while she opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to respond. Perhaps not knowing what her heart wanted her to say. He kissed her hand.

  Finally, she found her voice. “What kind of man would want to marry a woman who has done what I have done?” There were tears in her eyes.

  He wiped them with his thumbs and caressed her hair with his fingertips. “I could tell you that I am a very special man because I want such a thing. But that is not true. Kikuyu men, Maasai men, and I, being both, do not care that the girl I marry has made sex with someone else. In my village, a man would not consider that any more important than her having eaten a coconut or drunk its milk. The men of my tribes want a woman who will make them a good wife. They do not believe what your people believe, that a girl who has done what you have done should be killed.”