A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (8 page)

When four old but still serviceable
Brückner and Gabell confectionery production machines came up for a good price in
Kampala, Petula bought them and had them shipped by rail to Nairobi. The new venture
took off like a rocket.

Much of its success was due to Mr
Malik's reputation. His staff liked him, his suppliers and distributors trusted
him. It was also due in large part to Petula's inspired idea to use African animal
names for the new products. Although jelly babies have a worldwide following, what
African child could resist biting the head off a Jiant Jelly Jiraffe? And while
lollipops are lovely and gobstoppers are great, wouldn't you rather get your
tongue to work on a Lion All-Day Licker or suck on an Elephant Ball (available in a
handy two-pack)?

And so the Jolly Man Manufacturing Company
began winding down its cigar operations and winding up production of bonbons.

‘Gentlemen, and ladies.'

Other than at the regular Sunday curry
tiffin, ladies were still an unusual sight at the Asadi Club. Tonight was an exception.
News of the Lord Erroll debate had spread and though it was being held on the evening
before the annual Asadi Club safari, the dining room was packed with members and their
wives. Even Petula, who never came to the club, had sounded interested but at the last
minute had phoned her father to say she wouldn't be able to make it – another CI
meeting.

Tiger Singh stood. The room fell silent.

‘This is, as you know, an unusual
event. Tonight at the Asadi Club, rather than our usual lecture, we are going to examine
a crime. The crime is murder. This is not, of course, a trial – it is a debate between
two of our members, Mr Gopez and Mr Patel. But it is in many ways like a trial, with
you, ladies and gentlemen, as the jury. As in a court of law, you will not be called
upon to make a moral decision, though morality may well be discussed. You will be called
upon to make a decision of fact. Certain facts are undisputed, and I will outline them
shortly. Other facts are disputed, and I will allow the debaters themselves
to describe to you whichever of these they think you will find
pertinent.'

The Tiger adjusted his gold-framed
spectacles low on his splendid nose.

‘The people involved in the case are,
with one exception, now dead. No new witnesses will be called, no new evidence
presented. Such evidence as will be presented is in the public domain. I'm sure
many of you will be familiar with much, if not all, of it. Some of you may even have
formed your own judgement about the guilt, or innocence, of one or more of the parties
involved. Should you have done so, I urge you to put away your prejudices and to listen
with open minds to what Mr Gopez and Mr Patel have to say. Our two protagonists will
soon be presenting their arguments, but before they do so they have agreed that I should
read out a summary of the background to the case, and of the evidence produced in the
trial of the only person prosecuted for the murder on the twenty-fourth of January 1941,
of Lord Josslyn Hay, the twenty-second Earl of Erroll.'

The Tiger turned towards the two men seated
beside him and, after receiving a nod from each, began outlining the facts of the case –
the crashed car, the discovery of the body, the police investigation. He described the
clues the police had found at the scene of the crime – the broken armstraps, the
lipstick-stained cigarette and the white marks on the back seat of the car – and how
when the investigating officer visited Sir Jock Delves Broughton at his house on the
afternoon of the murder, he noticed a pair of half-burned white gym shoes on a bonfire
in the garden.

‘And now, to the trial. The prosecution
alleged that Broughton, on hearing Lord Erroll dropping off Diana at the house in Karen
at about 2.20 a.m. on the night of the murder, put on a pair of gym shoes and climbed
out of his first-floor bedroom window armed with a pistol. He hid in the back seat of
Erroll's car. When the car slowed down at the junction with Ngong Road, Broughton
shot Erroll, pulled him on to the floor, drove the car into a murram pit, ran home,
climbed back up the drainpipe and got back into his bedroom without being seen by anyone
in the house – though one person in the house gave evidence that she heard a dog barking
sometime in the night. As corroboration the prosecution hoped to show that the bullet
that killed Lord Erroll matched bullets previously fired from Broughton's own
gun.'

The Tiger pursed his lips.

‘I have to say that their case was not
a strong one. In a fine example of the barrister's art, the counsel for the
defence, Mr Morris, showed conclusively that Broughton's gun could not have been
the one that fired the fatal bullet, thus demolishing the ballistic evidence on which
the prosecution largely relied. As a house of cards will fall after one card is removed,
their case collapsed. In a unanimous decision the jury acquitted Broughton of the murder
of Lord Erroll. I will now leave Mr Patel to explain to you why he thinks they were
wrong.'

Tiger Singh bowed towards Mr Patel, who now
stood.

‘Thank you, Tiger.' He turned to
face the audience.

‘The Tiger has said that I will try
and convince you that the jury was wrong to find Sir Jock Delves Broughton not guilty of
the murder of Lord Erroll. On the contrary, I
think they were right.
Why? In the light of the evidence – or lack of evidence – and in the light of
Broughton's plea of not guilty, they had no choice. But we, ladies and gentlemen,
are privy to information that the jury did not have. We know what happened
after
the trial.'

If Mr Patel had been wearing a waistcoat,
thought Mr Malik, at this point he would undoubtedly have stuck his thumbs into its
pockets.

‘Since the trial and acquittal, there
have been many theories about who was the murderer. Means and motives abound. There
were, apparently, many people in Kenya who would have been quite happy to see Erroll
dead – as well as, if you believe one theory, the British government. But after the
trial no new witnesses came forward, no new and reliable evidence was found.'

Mr Patel reached for the glass of water in
front of him and took a small sip.

‘But many years later – in 1982 to be
precise – one of the people involved in the story made an astounding claim. Juanita
Carberry, at the time of the murder fifteen years old and stepdaughter of Erroll's
friend and former lover June Carberry, told the English journalist James Fox that two
days after the murder Broughton had arrived at the farm where she lived near Nyeri.
Finding her alone, he confessed to her that he killed Lord Erroll.'

Though most had heard the story before,
there was still an audible gasp from the audience.

‘Yes, my friends, by his own
confession, Broughton was indeed the murderer. The story Juanita Carberry told was this.
Immediately after the inquest into Erroll's death, Broughton drove to where his
wife was staying with June
Carberry at her house on the Nyeri farm. He
arrived to find Diana and June were out. Only young Juanita was at home. When she had
first met him at his house in Karen on the afternoon of the murder, he had taken her to
see his horses. Now she took him to see her own horse. On the way to the stables he told
her that he had shot Erroll. He added that on the way up to Nyeri he had stopped at
Thika and thrown the gun into the Chania Falls.

‘James Fox revealed all this in his
book
White Mischief
. But not only this – he also discovered that Broughton made
other confessions. After his return to England in September that year, Broughton
confessed to an old friend called Marie Waterhouse, later again to an old horse-racing
acquaintance called Alan Horn. Fox also unearthed second-hand evidence of even more
confessions. For instance, Prince Windisch-Graetz – an Austrian resident of Nairobi at
the time – heard from a doctor who visited Broughton while he was in jail before the
trial that Broughton had confessed to him.' Mr Patel turned to Mr Gopez and smiled
sweetly. ‘But that is, of course, hearsay evidence and not admissible in this
debate.'

He held up three fingers of his left hand.
With his right hand, one by one, he bent the fingers down.

‘Confession one, Juanita Carberry.
Confession two, Marie Waterhouse. Confession three, Broughton's old racing friend.
Three independent confessions. A most interesting story, is it not? But James Fox was
not the only person to whom Juanita Carberry revealed her secret. According to the
writer of another book on the subject, Juanita Carberry had already described the events
of that day in Nyeri to her as early as 1977. And Miss Carberry
narrates much the same story in her own autobiography – this last book published only
eleven years ago.

‘So, ladies and gentlemen, Sir Jock
Delves Broughton may have been found not guilty of murder by a jury of his peers, but it
was he who had the motive, he who had the means, and he who later confessed – on at
least three separate occasions – to that dark deed. It was he who killed Lord Erroll.
Your Honour, I rest my case.'

A moment's silence was followed by a
burst of applause during which Tiger Singh leaned towards him.

‘Mr Patel – you should have been a
Queen's Counsel.'

Mr Patel smiled.

‘Thank you, Tiger – praise indeed.
Let's see A.B. get out of that.'

The Tiger stood up.

‘I think we all agree that Mr Patel
has presented a most persuasive – and, may I say, eloquent – argument. Though the
confessions he describes would not necessarily be admissible as evidence in a court of
law, I must remind you – and myself – that this is not a court of law. It is simply a
debate. I would now like to introduce to you Mr Gopez who is, if I am not mistaken,
ready to sow one or two small seeds of doubt in your minds.'

Mr Gopez stood.

‘Thank you, Tiger. Ladies, fellow
members. My good friend Mr Patel has already told you that the journalist James Fox
unearthed evidence that Sir Jock Delves Broughton made three confessions to the crime of
murdering Lord Erroll – one while he was in Kenya, and two more after returning to
England. What he neglected to point out is that the confessions differed in small but
important details. For instance, Juanita Carberry said that Broughton told her
he'd thrown the gun into the Chania Falls. According to the journalist James Fox,
however, Broughton's later confession to his old friend Marie Waterhouse included
the detail that after the murder he gave the pistol to a friend to hide. To his old
horse-racing acquaintance in England he said he had not himself pulled the trigger but
had arranged and paid for the murder on behalf of a third party – a man called Derek. So
you see, ladies and gentlemen, three confessions – but three different
stories.'

Mr Patel stood up.

‘With your permission, Tiger, I would
like to point out that the journalist interviewed each of these people many years after
they heard Broughton's confession. Any differences between their accounts can
simply be put down to the effects of time on memory.'

‘Of which, I am sure, many of us are
all too aware, Mr Patel. But shall we let Mr Gopez continue?'

‘Thank you, Tiger,' said Mr
Gopez. ‘Now, with Mr Patel's permission, I would like to ask
you
a
question.'

The Tiger raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘In your long and distinguished career
in the law, have you ever come across a case of someone confessing to a crime they did
not commit?'

Tiger Singh nodded.

‘I have indeed, Mr Gopez.'

‘And leaving aside confessions made
under threat or coercion, is it not the case that the more serious the crime, the more
likely it is that someone will falsely confess?'

‘In serious crimes – such as murder,
for instance – I can almost guarantee one or more people will turn up at the
lawyer's office or the police station falsely claiming to be the
culprit.'

‘Thank you, Tiger.'

‘Mr Gopez, I think you will have to
explain to the jury – the audience – the relevance of this phenomenon to the subject of
this debate.'

‘Certainly, Tiger, I will be pleased
to.'

Mr Gopez turned again to the audience.

‘Many of you will be aware of the
legal principle of double jeopardy. Briefly stated – and I'm sure the Tiger will
correct me if I stray too far from the correct definition –
it is a
principle enshrined in law which prevents a person from being tried twice for the same
crime. I bring up this point because, as I think you will see, it has a strong bearing
on the case under discussion.'

The Tiger again nodded but said nothing.

‘Let us get back to Sir Jock Delves
Broughton,' said Mr Gopez. ‘Let us examine the character of the man. An
Englishman, he inherited a fortune from his father but by the time he arrived in Kenya
in 1940 he had lost most of it through gambling and other wanton extravagances. He
avoided fighting in the First World War by claiming to have suffered sunstroke as his
regiment was leaving for France. Many people thought he faked it. I ask you, ladies and
gentlemen, does this sound like a bold man, a man who would not hesitate to shoot a
rival dead? No, it is a picture of a weak man, a cowardly man. And Broughton was not
only weak in spirit but in body – a car accident many years before had left him with a
limp and a crippled right hand. Yet because of lack of any other evidence, this is the
man who, it is claimed, climbed down a drainpipe from an upstairs room in the dead of
night, crept unseen into a car, shot a man, manhandled the corpse, ran a mile back to
the house and climbed up the drainpipe without being seen. This is the man who on the
tenth of March 1941 was charged with the murder of Lord Erroll.'

Mr Gopez paused to survey the audience.

‘Now let me, if you will, indulge in a
little speculation. Broughton denies the charge and is acquitted. He knows about double
jeopardy – with no new evidence he cannot be charged with the same offence. But at the
same time he has come to realize that murder, shooting
a man –
especially, if I may say so, a lord of the realm, the Hereditary Lord High Constable of
Scotland, no less – is quite a glamorous crime. Indeed, he can hardly fail to be aware
of this – the trial made headlines for weeks in newspapers throughout the world. Add to
this the fact that Lord Erroll was thought by many to be a cad and a bounder, and that
there were many people in Kenya who were quite pleased to see him dead – why, that made
killing him almost seem like a selfless act of public service. If Broughton can somehow
make people think that he did it and managed to get away with it, think how he will rise
in their estimation. What a clever fellow, what a brave chap that Broughton is. Hooray
for Broughton.'

‘Let me get this clear, Mr
Gopez,' said Tiger Singh. ‘You are suggesting that Broughton did not murder
Lord Erroll, but later – for reasons of self-aggrandizement or bravado – claimed to have
done so?'

‘I raise the matter as a distinct
possibility.'

‘But if Broughton didn't really
kill Lord Erroll, Mr Gopez, then who did?'

‘That, my dear Tiger – ladies and
gentlemen – is what we shall now explore.'

Mr Gopez again turned to his audience.

‘If not Broughton, ladies and
gentlemen, then who? Long after the crime, long after the suicide of Broughton himself,
another person confessed. It happened in 1966 at the Muthaiga Club, the very place where
Lord Erroll had first met Diana Broughton. Twenty-five years after the murder and the
trial, four people were sitting round a table at the club playing cards. One was the
Managing
Director of the
Sunday Nation
. Also at the table was
Diana – who by her fourth marriage had now become Lady Delamere, no less. Though the
room was cool, the Managing Director was sweating. Two weeks earlier his paper had
printed a piece by an investigative reporter which clearly stated his belief that Diana
was the murderer. The law says that you are not allowed to call someone a murderer in
print – it is gross libel. The Editor had managed to pull the story before the second
edition, but the Managing Director had been in daily dread of a letter from
Diana's lawyer ever since. Finding himself seated next to her at the card table,
he thought that perhaps it might not be too late to apologize. He had hardly begun when
Diana interrupted him. “Oh,” she said, “everyone knows I did
it.”'

In front of the packed audience in the
dining room of the Asadi Club Mr Patel again rose to his feet.

‘Look, A.B., how many times do I have
to tell you? What she said – if she said it – was no more than an ironic
joke.'

Mr Gopez turned towards him. He smiled his
biggest smile.

‘Patel, I completely agree with
you.'

Mr Patel sat down as if he had been pushed.
Mr Gopez paused and leaned forward, both hands resting flat on the table in front of
him.

‘As any detective will tell you,
ladies and gentlemen, the investigation of a crime always starts with what might be
called the big five – who, what, when, how and why? But there is a sixth question.
Sometimes we not only need to know why this person did what they did, but why is this
person telling me about it? With that in mind, let us look again at
the confession of Sir Jock Delves Broughton to Juanita Carberry. We have heard much
about him, but what about her?'

Mr Gopez picked up a book from the
table.

‘From her own autobiography we learn
that this fifteen-year-old girl had already suffered much in life. Her father John
Carberry was a sadist and a bully – known to local Africans as
Msharisha
, after
the long whip he used freely on both animals and men. Her mother had died in a plane
crash when she was three, her stepmother June was one of the most notorious of the
so-called Happy Valley set of the time – free, with her husband's apparent
connivance, to indulge her tastes in extramarital sex, drink and drugs. This was the
early world of Juanita Carberry. June encouraged the adolescent Juanita to smoke
cigarettes and wear make-up, so perhaps it was no surprise when Juanita revealed in her
memoir that by the time she was fifteen she was – how may I put it? – already a woman.
Indeed, for more than a month before the murder she was being locked in her bedroom
every night at the farm at Nyeri after being caught with a soldier in her
bed.'

Mr Gopez paused to allow the mixture of
shocked gasps and shocked laughter to fade.

‘Yes, and a few months after the
murder of Lord Erroll she ran away from her father and stepmother to live with her
uncle. But let us return to Juanita's account of the days before and after the
murder – not the one that she gave to James Fox or to later writers, but the one she
gives first-hand, the one in her autobiography. In essence
it is this.
At the time of the murder she is at home in Nyeri – a good three-hour drive away from
Nairobi. Her stepmother June is staying with the Broughtons near Nairobi at their house
in Karen, her father is overseas. On hearing by telegram of the death of Lord Erroll,
whom she had never met, she and her governess drive from Nyeri to Karen. Here at lunch
she meets for the first time Broughton and Diana. While going for a walk in the garden
with the avuncular Broughton to see his horses she notices on a smouldering bonfire some
half-burned gym shoes. She drives back to Nyeri with June and Diana. A couple of days
later Broughton turns up and, finding her alone, confesses that he killed Erroll and has
just thrown the gun into the waterfall at Thika. He then tells her how he had hidden in
Erroll's car and shot him when the car slowed down at the road junction. Feeling
sorry for him because of his wife's affair – everybody, it seems, knew about the
affair – she decides to tell no one of this confession.'

Mr Gopez paused. Through the open windows of
the club dining room could be heard the noises of the night. Inside the room, silence –
no laughter now.

‘Now, let us compare this with the
account Juanita gave to James Fox some years earlier. In most ways the story is the
same, but in her earlier version there is an additional element. You may remember that
when Lord Erroll was found dead in his car by the milk delivery drivers that dark and
rainy night, the armstraps usually attached to the inside of the roof were lying on the
back seat. Juanita had a theory about this. She told Fox that on the day before the
murder she had visited the hairdresser in Nairobi with
June and Diana.
They had gone in Erroll's car, and she was sure that at that time the armstraps
were in place. Her theory was that Broughton had shot Erroll from the back seat while
the car was moving. He'd then grabbed the straps as the car ran off the road,
pulling them off when the car crashed.'

Mr Gopez held up the book that was still in
his hand.

‘In her autobiography, you may
remember, Juanita Carberry said something slightly different. She said that when she
arrived at the Broughtons' house at Karen on the morning after the shooting she
had never met Diana. Here she is saying that the day before that she went to the
hairdresser in Nairobi with Diana and June. So, had Juanita Carberry met Diana before,
or hadn't she? Was she in Nyeri on the day before the murder, or was she in
Karen?'

Mr Gopez put the book back down on the
table.

‘It was while considering these
interesting inconsistencies that the question occurred to me – the sixth question. Why,
I began to wonder, why after keeping the secret of Broughton's confession for over
forty years, did Juanita Carberry at last decide to tell other people? I think I have
already demonstrated that Juanita's version of events is sometimes contradictory,
and I've raised the possibility that she may not always have been telling the
truth. This made me think, ladies and gentlemen. What if the whole story of the
confession was not the truth? What if Broughton had not, on the way to the stables at
Nyeri, told her that he killed Lord Erroll? But why make up such a story? The simplest
answer was that she wanted to hide something, to divert attention from what really hap
pened that night in January 1941. She wanted to protect someone – but
who?'

Mr Gopez again leaned forward over the
table.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. I suggest the
person Juanita Carberry wanted to protect was none other than herself.'