3.

Back in Nairobi, Justin Tolliver’s steps slowed as he left the stable, on the back street near Government House. What he was about to tell D.C. Cranford played in his head. He had not taken Gichinga Mbura into custody. In the hour’s ride from the mission to town, he had not determined where to start in explaining why he had not arrested the witch doctor. He cursed the fact that this murder had taken place while the district superintendent of police was away.

Cranford was a formidable man and too like Tolliver’s own father, the Earl of Bilbrough. And Tolliver was many ranks beneath Cranford in the local hierarchy. Perhaps the district commissioner resented Tolliver’s bloodlines; he lacked such distinction himself. Maybe that was why he went all toffee-nosed with Tolliver when he got the chance of it. Though jolly on the surface, the D.C. was completely certain of his own opinions and sure to be unyielding on the very point Justin wanted to make: that there was more to this murder than at first met the eye. Tolliver was not prepared to risk a native dying for a crime he did not commit. The Tolliver family’s antislavery position and the fervent conviction of his student days moved him more than ever. The natives must have the same consideration as an Englishman when it came to the law. He was not at all sure Cranford would see it his way.

On a whim, he turned away from Government House, went instead toward the bustling main street, and dodging a dogcart as he crossed, made for the offices of the Standard Bank of India. There he hoped a preliminary chat with Kirk Buxton would give him some ammunition to convince Cranford that they needed to eliminate the other possibility before arresting Gichinga Mbura.

The building that housed the third largest bank in British East Africa looked nothing like any bank Tolliver would have expected to encounter in his native York. There, banks were palacelike granite affairs meant to inspire absolute confidence in their financial solidity. This was a corrugated iron and wood building, the window frames painted a strange, muddy golden color. Only its stone stoop and heavy oak door gave any impression the bank might outlast the decade. The cramped interior smelled of pipe smoke and spicy hair tonic.

Tolliver asked the Indian clerk on the ground floor for Buxton and found him at a desk on a loft that overlooked the complete lack of activity below. The manager had an accounting journal open before him, but he was reading the day’s copy of The Leader, the local paper. Gossip spread with the speed of sound in this town. Buxton might already know of Pennyman’s death. But at least, he could not yet have read it in the newspaper.

“Halloo, Tolliver, my boy,” Buxton called out as Justin mounted the short wooden staircase. It was what all the sporting supporters called him. They admired his prowess at cricket and polo, and especially at tennis. And they thought their cheering for him at matches made him a chum. But calling him “my boy” also established the superiority of Buxton’s social position, at least according to local rules. The thing Tolliver most disliked about the Protectorate—the only thing he disliked really—was that the officials hereabouts had, like Buxton, served first in India. They brought with them the strict social stratification of the Raj, a detestable snobbery based only on administrative rank and salary. When Justin first arrived to stay, he came as an English nobleman, albeit a younger son. He was welcomed everywhere and included in the best gatherings. But he soon had to give up the idea of farming. At the instigation of a fellow army officer, he had volunteered for the understaffed and desperate police force, at which point the social structure pushed him down into a limbo. His invitations to dine with the tonier settler families, especially those with eligible daughters, had all but dried up. The only reason he was still welcomed at the Nairobi Club was that they wanted him for their cricket team. Without sport, Tolliver would have been tantamount to a social pariah.

Buxton extended his hand, and Tolliver endured his crushing handshake. The banker was a broad, sturdy man, built more solidly than the office of the business he ran. Like almost every European settler, he wore a light-colored gabardine suit and a shirt of heavy cotton that was, in this climate, no more comfortable than Tolliver’s uniform khaki.

Buxton indicated the chair beside his desk. “Can I offer you a whiskey?”

Tolliver took the seat. “No, but I would gladly take some quinine water.” He nodded toward the bottle on the sideboard.

Buxton poured the water into a glass and, without asking, put in a splash of gin. He grinned at Tolliver. “Only thing that makes the vile stuff tolerable,” he said and handed over the drink.

Tolliver took a sip. “Thank you. I’ve had a hot ride just now, coming back from the Scottish Mission.” He watched Buxton’s eyes, but Buxton acted as if he didn’t know the news. Tolliver decided he would blurt it out when the moment was right and see how the man reacted when he heard.

Buxton’s face took on an expression of apprehension. “The hospital? You aren’t ill, are you? Have you fever? Do you think it’s malaria?”

“No, no. I am afraid I have awful news. Dr. Pennyman has been murdered.”

Shock froze Buxton’s heavy aquiline features. “Good God, man. How could such a thing have happened?”

If he was acting, he was doing a good job of it. Tolliver sipped his drink and waited for the banker to ask a real question. Before he did, there came the sound of a woman’s voice from below and a foot on the stair.

Lucy Buxton’s face appeared coming up from the ground floor. Tolliver had met her before, danced with her once or twice at socials. It was evident that the news of her lover’s death had reached her. The pale, normally perfect skin of her face was blotched with red, her eyes shone with tears; her usually rosy lips were pale and drawn. She barely looked at Tolliver, who had risen from his seat as soon as he saw her on the steps. Kirk Buxton remained seated. “You’ve heard,” she said to her husband.

He showed none of the warmth with which he had greeted Tolliver, a man he barely knew. “Just now. Evidently, you have too.”

Mrs. Buxton went straight to the credenza, poured herself a generous whiskey from the cut crystal decanter, and drank down a large gulp. She sank into a chair in the corner and stared into her glass.

Tolliver knew the couple would have preferred that he leave and let them get on with whatever hostilities might ensue, but in this situation he was a policeman and sometimes that took precedence over gentlemanly behavior. He had been tripped up in the past by watching his manners rather than the people he was investigating. This was a case of murder and finding the real culprit was the only way to do what he had joined the police force to do: help Britain bring peace and prosperity and civilization to this beautiful but savage land. Half-justice was no way to accomplish that.

Now that the lady, if she qualified for that description, was seated, he sat back down, sipped his drink, and waited to see how this man and wife would behave while being observed by an officer of the law.

He gleaned no clues, only embarrassment for his trouble. Buxton also helped himself to a very large whiskey. Lucy gave him a look she might have bestowed on a cockroach.

“Don’t worry,” her husband said with distain. “If I know you, you won’t be in mourning for long.”

“Quite right.” She drained her glass.

Her husband took it, refilled it, and left it on the credenza for her to take. “Sometimes, Lucy,” he said, “I think you should have been born a man.”

She grabbed her drink. “That’s funny. I always think that of you.”

Her husband rounded on her and said, in too loud a voice, “Why don’t you just go back to Berkeley Cole?” At which point, Lucy launched what was left in her glass at Buxton. Much of it ended up on Tolliver’s uniform jumper.

He stood up and mumbled apologies, all of which were drowned out by the biting, venomous words they spat at each other. There was nothing for it but to leave. He would now have to go back to his room at the officers’ barracks and change. He could not report to the D.C. smelling like a Scottish distillery. He was glad of the delay, though he was sure no amount of forethought would increase his chances of convincing Cranford of anything.