At about 3 a.m. on the morning of Friday the 24th of January 1941, two African men were driving a milk delivery truck from the then rural settlement of Karen to Nairobi. It was dark and wet. Soon after the two men had turned right out of Karen Road and were heading north-east towards the city, they saw the lights of a stationary car that seemed to have veered across the highway in the direction they were heading. The car had ended up tilted halfway into a shallow pit on the wrong side of the road about 150 yards beyond the junction. They stopped their truck and got out. The car was a black Buick. Though its headlights were still on, the engine wasn’t running and the windows were closed. At first the car seemed empty, but when the delivery drivers looked inside they saw a man hunched sideways on the floor under the steering wheel on elbows and knees, his head on the floor, his hands together. He looked dead. The two men immediately turned the truck back towards Karen to go and get help.
Within the hour, four local constables from the police post at Karen were on the scene. They flagged down a white dairy farmer who was also driving towards Nairobi. The dairy farmer later stated that he had earlier passed the spot, heading in the opposite direction, at about 2.40 a.m., but had seen nothing. While talking with the constables, the dairy farmer noticed a wound behind the dead man’s left ear. He drove on to the main police station in Nairobi to fetch further assistance while one of the constables fetched Assistant Police Superintendent Anstis Bewes from his nearby home in Karen.
Bewes arrived at 4.50 a.m. He saw tyre marks leading away from the front of the car. When he opened the car door, as well as seeing the body on the floor he noticed blood on the front passenger seat and a strong smell of scent. He also saw white marks on the rear seat – possibly from pipeclay used to whiten gym shoes, he thought – and observed that both armstraps had been wrenched off the inside of the roof and were lying on the back seat. He went off to phone Nairobi, and by 6 a.m. five more police officers were on the scene.
At 8 a.m. a government pathologist, passing by on his way to work, was flagged down. He ordered that the body be removed for examination. It was only when the body was pulled from its crouched position, and he could see the face, that he recognized the dead man as Josslyn Hay, 22nd Earl of Erroll. The body was taken to the mortuary and the car towed away. At the mortuary, Police Superintendent Arthur Poppy confirmed that the dead man had a bullet wound behind his ear surrounded by powder scorch marks. Further examination of the car revealed a spent .32 bullet, bloodstains on the inside of the passenger side window, a hairpin and a lipstick-stained Players cigarette.
Mr Malik admitted to being no less intrigued by the Erroll murder than were his friends, but while part of him – the part that had made him read every book and article on the case that he came across (and recall every detail, clue and theory) – could not help but wonder who did it and why, another part of him thought that there are some questions to which we will never have an answer, and this was one of them. He was relieved to see Tiger Singh approach their table. Perhaps the Tiger would be able to turn the conversation on to another subject. Mr Malik was not quite so pleased, though, to see another figure behind him – a white-haired, brown-skinned man dressed in a pale linen jacket with slacks to match, below which were what looked suspiciously like a pair of white espadrilles.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said the Tiger. ‘Look who I bumped into in the Hilton.’
The man stepped forward. Mr Gopez stood and reached out a hand.
‘Harry Khan. Good to see you, old chap – Patel here told us you were back in the country.’
‘Hey, A.B., Patel,’ said Harry Khan with a white smile. ‘And if it isn’t my old pal Malik. What’s happening, Jack?’
‘Murder,’ said Mr Malik.
‘Murder?’
‘We were just talking about it, Tiger.’
‘He means the Lord Erroll murder,’ said Mr Patel.
‘Don’t worry, Harry,’ said the Tiger, ‘it was a very long time ago. No reason you should know anything about it.’
‘Trial made headlines all over the world,’ said Mr Patel. ‘But then he got off.’
‘I think the word you want, Patel, is acquitted,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Broughton was acquitted – found not guilty by a jury of his peers.’ He turned to Harry Khan. ‘It was Diana – Broughton’s wife – who did it, you see.’
‘Khan, please forgive my friend. He knows not of what he speaks. Malik’ll tell you – he’s read the books. Broughton admitted it, didn’t he, Malik?’
‘Yes, Patel, but –’
‘And please forgive my friend, Khan,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Whether his mental deficiency is hereditary or acquired, we can only feel the deepest sympathy for both him and his family. No, as usual, cherchez la femme – and you don’t have to cherche very far to find all tracks leading to Diana. Wouldn’t you agree, Malik?’
‘Well, perhaps –’
This time it was Mr Patel who interrupted.
‘Perhaps a third-hand account of a conversation twenty years after the event isn’t worth much? Couldn’t agree more, Malik old chap.’
‘Yes, but … no. I mean, can’t we just agree that no one knows – that it is an unsolved crime? After all, it happened sixty years ago. It’s dead. They’re all dead.’
‘Ah yes, mortua omnia resolvit,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘And yet to the law an unsolved crime is never dead.’
‘It’s not unsolved as far as I’m concerned,’ said Mr Patel. ‘Full confession, case closed.’
‘Alleged confession, Patel. My money stays on the femme fatale.’
‘Did I hear “money”? Are we talking about a bet?’
Tiger Singh held up a hand.
‘If I may say so, gentlemen, it seems to me as if this argument is going nowhere. Each side is simply maintaining a fixed position while trying to denigrate or ridicule the opposing view. And without further evidence a wager is out of the question – wagers demand proof. Now, Khan old chap, what’ll you have to drink?’
‘Bootleg liquor,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘That’s what they used to drink, you know. June Carberry’s husband used to brew it up at their place in Nyeri. Isn’t that right, Malik?’
Mr Patel shook his head.
‘Yes, but that’s not what they were all drinking on the night of the murder. There may have been a war on but it was champagne as usual at the Muthaiga Club – crates of it. Isn’t that right, Malik?’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Tiger Singh. ‘Will you please allow Mr Khan to tell me what he would like to drink?’
‘Yes, A.B., and stop interrupting poor Malik. He’s probably dying of thirst too.’
‘Better than being shot by a jealous lover.’
Mr Malik cleared his throat.
‘If I may make a suggestion, Tiger.’
All eyes turned towards him.
‘I’ve been thinking. You’re quite right, Tiger – this argument about the Erroll murder never seems to go anywhere. But on the other hand it does need settling once and for all, and I’ve just had an idea. What if we could do something here at the club?’
‘A re-enactment, you mean?’ said Mr Patel. ‘You know, I’ve always thought A.B. could make a very good Earl of Erroll. And I could be Broughton – but where, at such short notice, could I get hold of a loaded pistol?’
‘No, no, I was thinking of a sort of trial. Well, not a trial, exactly – more of a debate. Now that the lecture’s been cancelled, we could do it tomorrow.’
‘That’s what I said,’ agreed Mr Gopez, reaching into his pocket.
‘He said debate, A.B., not a bet,’ said Mr Patel. ‘Pros and cons, all that kind of thing. Like at school.’
‘What exactly did you have in mind, Malik?’ said Tiger Singh.
‘That we stage a debate about the Erroll murder here at the club. A.B. and Patel each presents his case, the other is then allowed the right of reply. And there’ll be an adjudicator, of course – to keep things in order. Then a vote is taken, and the person who gets the most supp
ort is considered to have won the argument.’
‘What, no money?’ said Mr Gopez, removing his hand from his pocket.
‘No, A.B., no money. Perhaps you, Tiger, would –’
‘Would adjudicate? I’d be pleased to. Well, Patel, A.B. – what do you say?’
‘Broughton,’ said Mr Patel.
‘Diana,’ said Mr Gopez.
‘Then I take it,’ said Mr Malik, ‘that we are agreed. Now, I was wondering – would anyone like a game of billiards?’
‘Sounds great, Jack,’ said Harry Khan. ‘Speaking of whom, that’ll be a Mr Daniel’s on the rocks for me, please, Tiger. Make it a double.’
6
When thunder rumbles in the sky, the porcupine seeks shelter under the same tree as the leopard
The Asadi Club, motto Spero meliora, has a proud history. As the registration certificate above the bar attests, it was founded in 1903 when Nairobi was little more than a few tin sheds beside the railway track. It was originally a social club for homesick immigrants to Nairobi of Indian descent, most of whom had arrived as indentured labourers to help the British build the ‘lunatic line’ from the Indian Ocean to Lake Victoria. Originally built on a modest five acres of ground on the outskirts of what was then known as the ‘Indian Quarter’, it was by now surrounded on all sides by a modern city. Instead of a bare track in front, there was a sealed road; instead of a wire fence round it, there was a thick hedge; instead of coffee plantations on three sides, there were the mansions of the rich and powerful. It boasted a large bar, a dining room and a purpose-built photographic darkroom (though, with digital photography, who uses a darkroom these days?), as well as six squash courts, two tennis courts, a swimming pool and a billiard room with four full-sized tables (only one at the Muthaiga Club now, alas).
Those of you unfamiliar with billiards might think that a game played between two people with two sticks and three balls on a twelve-foot table would not be the most thrilling of pastimes. You might imagine that it would not have quite the excitement of snooker, say, with its fifteen red balls and six colours, or the pizzazz of American eight-ball, with all those spots and stripes and dreaded black ball packed on to a nine-foot table. But billiards is a game of great subtlety and skill. Sinking balls is only part of it; the in-off shot is usually of more value than the straight pot, and you can also score with a cannon (hitting both the other balls with your cue ball). To some extent it is a game of simple physics – of force and momentum, angles and spin. But, above all, billiards is a philosopher’s game – and I suspect that this is largely why it has long been the game of choice among members of the Asadi Club. Though billiards may be a simple game, it is by no means easy.
‘Foul stroke,’ said the Tiger. ‘Two points to Khan. Khan eighty-six points, Malik fifty-three.’
‘Getting a little excited there, Jack.’
The annoying thing was that Harry Khan was quite right. Mr Malik had no one to blame for the miscue but himself. He had been doing well throughout the game so far – nothing ambitious, nothing rushed. But now, in trying to push his cue ball through for a simple follow-on cannon, he had hit it twice. No, he had no one to blame but himself.
Here’s a tip I learned from my friend Kennedy. If you elect to take a spot after your opponent has played a foul, place your own ball one and a half ball-widths from the right side of the D, then line up on the right edge of your opponent’s white ball and play your own ball straight – bottom or side spin is not required for this shot. Your ball will bounce off your opponent’s and sink neatly in the top right pocket. If you calculate the pace correctly the other white will, at the same time, trickle up the table, bounce off the top cushion and come to rest near enough the red to offer a cannon for the next shot, or even another in-off. Harry Khan must have known this too. He took the spot and calculated the pace correctly. He sank his ball, hit the cannon, then another. Three more reds made the winning score of 101.
‘Looks like you lose this time, eh, Jack?’
‘Yes. Well played, Khan. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘JD on the rocks. No, wait a minute.’ He looked at the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘Make that a rain check, I’ve got to get back to town.’
‘Well, come back, won’t you?’ said Mr Patel. ‘Malik can always use another lesson.’
‘You know, I might do that. I kind of like this old place.’ He looked around the room. ‘But ever thought of having it spruced up a bit? Like, modernized?’
Mr Malik followed his gaze. Well, perhaps some of the rooms could do with some fresh paint – though the whole place had been redone after the kitchen fire and that was only … gosh, was it really twelve years ago?
‘It’s not easy to get things changed around here, I’m afraid,’ said Tiger Singh.
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Patel. ‘There’s been a plan before the management committee to turn the old darkroom into a computer centre for nearly a year now, but most of the members think a megabyte is what you get from a large mosquito and hard disks come with old age.’
‘Then you need to get some younger members, right? These old saggy armchairs and that moth-eaten lion by the front door – not exactly hip, know what I mean? Not exactly twenty-first century.’
Tiger Singh looked around him.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Harry, though we can’t get rid of the lion. Club mascot, you know. Guards the door. Keeps the club safe. Isn’t that right, Malik?’
‘That’s right, Tiger. And so far it’s never shirked a day’s duty.’
‘Apart from that time it disappeared,’ said Mr Patel.
‘Ah yes.’ Mr Malik smiled. ‘But it didn’t really disappear – just went out to get some fresh air.’
‘Our friends are referring to an incident a few years ago,’ said the Tiger to a mystified Harry Khan, ‘when the lion was found on the club roof. No one ever found out how it got there but Sanjay and Bobby Bashu were strong suspects. Anyway, hope to see you here again, Harry. In fact, there’s that debate on tomorrow night. Would you be interested in –?’
‘That guy you were talking about? Sorry, guys, dead white males are not my scene. Besides, I’ve got a dinner date.’
Harry Khan racked his cue and with a wave of his hand and a white, white smile bid them all a good night. Pausing on his way through the front door only to pat the head of the stuffed lion, he climbed into a shiny new red Mercedes CLK cabriolet and departed the car park of the Asadi Club in a small shower of dust and gravel.
Inhabitants of Chicago may be familiar with the ‘Maneaters of Tsavo’, whose stuffed and snarling forms have so long bewitched children and bemused parents visiting the Field Museum of Natural History. The story of these two Kenyan lions goes back to the late 1890s when the railway from Mombasa to Lake Victoria was being built. The tracks had reached nearly halfway to Nairobi when Railway Superintendent Lieutenant-Colonel J. H. Patterson, DSO, began noticing an increase in absenteeism among the Indian labourers. Not known for his enlightened attitude towards his employees, at first he didn’t believe the stories the workers told him about screams in the night and blood on the tent flaps. No, he thought, damned coolies were probably sneaking off down the line to open another grocer’s shop in Mombasa. But when they brought him a dusty sandal which still contained the foot of its wearer, he realized that something must be done. What happened next you can read about in the lieutenant-colonel’s best-selling 1907 memoir The Maneaters of Tsavo and Other East African Adventures. In a later chapter of the same book you can read about another maneater – the so-called Kima Killer.
On the 4th of June 1900, Superintendent C. H. Ryall of the Nairobi Railway Police received a telegram that had been sent up the line from Kima railway station, not far from Tsavo. ‘Lion fighting with station,’ it read. ‘Send urgent succour.’ Eager for some sport, Ryall ordered that his personal carriage be attached to the next down train and set off, accompanied by two friends. On arriving at the station he arranged that the carriage be left in a sidi
ng overnight. He and his companions, well armed with heavy rifles, would take it in turns to stay awake and keep watch from within. But perhaps the night was too hot – or the whisky too strong – because during his watch Ryall dropped off to sleep with the sliding door still wide open. No one in the carriage saw the gleam of yellow eyes in the moonlight; no one heard the pad of four soft paws.
Because the track where the carriage was parked was not well ballasted, the carriage had ended up leaning very slightly to one side. When the hungry lion jumped in, his weight was enough to tilt it a fraction more. The door slid closed, the latch clicked shut, and three men and a lion were locked inside the carriage. The noise was heard by a certain Mohammed Khan, the very man who had sent the telegram in the first place and who was now crouched safely in a water tank opposite the siding, observing the whole business.
His first thought was that this Ryall chap was a genius. To improvise so clever a trap, then to bait it with your very own self. That took a lot of British skill, and a lot of British pluck. What would the brave sahib do now that he had captured the beast – shoot it with his revolver or strangle it with his bare hands? Mohammed Khan heard a commotion but no shots. It looked as though the sahib was going for the bare-handed option.
You can imagine his surprise, therefore, when the next thing he saw was two trouserless gentlemen leaping from a window on the near side of the carriage, followed a minute later by the lion – though the latter was exiting backwards and seemed in less of a rush. The reason for the animal’s unusual orientation and unhurried pace soon became clear. The lion was dragging behind him through the window the lifeless body of Superintendent Ryall.
Mohammed Khan was a sensitive soul and knew immediately what he must do. He must find those trouserless gentlemen some clothes quick-smart. Heedless of personal risk, he climbed out of the water tank and in loud whispers indicated that if the two men followed him he would see what he could arrange.
A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Page 4
