He snapped off one of the Black Prince’s flowers and added a few from other bushes to make a posy for Jane then, with a last look around the garden, already dissolving in the purple twilight, he started back for the bungalow.
Chapter 2
‘Are you going to work today, dear?’ asked Jane the following morning.
A gently baked egg smiled up at de Silva from the bottom of his crispy, bowl-shaped breakfast hopper. He broke off a piece of the pancake, dipped it into the egg yolk, and nodded. ‘I have to write up my report, but I hope there won’t be any need to stay long. If anything important happened while I was away, no doubt Prasanna would have sent a message.’
He reached for the china dish beside his cup and saucer and ladled a spoonful of fiery sambal relish onto his egg. Jane raised her eyebrows. Even after five years in Ceylon, two of them as his wife, she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of eating chillies at breakfast.
‘But sambal is delicious with egg, and the hotter the better.’
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘Never mind. If you prefer your milk rolls and jam, then that is what you must have.’ He polished off the last of the hopper, wiped his mouth and pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be back as quickly as I can. I thought we might have a picnic by the lake. If you have no other plans for the afternoon, that is?’
‘Lovely. I only need to return a book to the library. I hear they’ve just got in a copy of the new Agatha Christie. I want to borrow it before Florence Clutterbuck does.’
He chuckled.
‘Have I said something amusing?’
He came round to her side of the table and kissed her cheek. ‘Enjoy your morning. And please resist the temptation to murder the assistant government agent’s wife if she reaches the library before you.’
‘What nonsense you talk, dear.’
‘I do my best.’
**
The Morris soon left behind the quiet road on the edge of town where Sunnybank was situated, and de Silva was obliged to slow to negotiate the morning chaos of Nuala’s traffic. Rickshaws darted between bullock carts laden with sacks of rice; piles of bananas and coconuts; and mounds of other fruits and vegetables. Stalls offering cooked food lined the dusty streets and passers-by stopped to purchase bowls of curry and rice or paper cornets of sticky sweetmeats.
The front of a shop that dispensed Ayurvedic remedies was bright with garlands of marigolds and gaudy pictures of smiling customers. Crammed in the display case under the counter, a multitude of bottles and jars contained medicinal herbs and spices. A few doors along the street, he glimpsed bales of jewel-coloured silk in the dark interior of a sari shop. At roadside shrines, statues of the Buddha sat in serene meditation amid jumbles of incense burners, candles and offerings of lotus flowers. In the distance, the surface of the town lake gleamed like a sheet of silver.
It was the British contribution to Nuala’s amenities that marked it as different from a typical Ceylonese town. The assistant government agent’s residence was a large and elegant white house with a classical portico. It was set off by English-style gardens with immaculate lawns. The golf club would have been equally at home under English skies. The post office boasted a clock tower that looked like the spire of an English country church and finally there was the Crown Hotel, a sprawling, mock-Tudor edifice that dominated one corner of the crossroads where it was situated.
The door to the police station was unlocked but no one was about. De Silva glanced around the public room. Evidence of recent tea-making indicated that Sergeant Prasanna and Constable Nadar were not far away.
He called out and, receiving no answer, went into his office. It too was empty. Frowning, he returned to the public room and followed the passage leading to the yard at the back of the station. As sunlight and heat met him, he heard the sound of leather on willow and a shout of “Howzat!”
Constable Nadar squinted at his colleague. ‘I wasn’t ready,’ he protested. Sergeant Prasanna, the brightest star of the Nuala cricket team, grinned. ‘Then put the stumps back up and I’ll bowl you out again.’
He polished the ball on his khaki shorts then noticed de Silva. His face fell. ‘Inspector de Silva… we weren’t expecting…’
‘So I see.’
‘We haven’t been out here long, sir. Just a bit of a break. It’s the match against Hatton on Saturday.’
‘Well, you had better win it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The sergeant grinned sheepishly, and de Silva suppressed a smile. ‘Back to work both of you. Prasanna, have you found the owners of those stray ponies that are making a nuisance of themselves down by the lake yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then get on with it. And if you have nothing better to do, you can master the finer points of the Departmental Order Book and explain them to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Oh, and bring some tea to my office.’
‘Right oh, sir.’
De Silva shook his head. ‘Yes sir, Sergeant.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
In his office, he sipped his tea and leafed through the pile of papers on his desk. There was nothing that needed dealing with immediately. He turned his attention to writing the report of his part in the Black Lotus trial. When it was complete, he leant back in his chair with his hands behind his head and stretched. If he left in the next half an hour, he would be at home in plenty of time for a trip to the lake.
He read through the report once more, stood up, and took it over to one of the metal filing cabinets that lined a wall of the room. He pulled out a drawer and walked two fingers through the dividers until he reached the letter “B” then, the report safe in its proper place, he dusted off his hands and closed the drawer. He wondered briefly if it would ever see the light of day again. Probably not, nevertheless protocols had to be observed and, tiresome as they sometimes were, they satisfied his sense of order.
His thoughts dwelt on the Black Lotus gang as he straightened his desk and refilled his pens for the morning. Rising from the slums and go-downs of Hong Kong, the secret society that the Chinese called a triad was said to have a hand in a vast number of Asia’s gambling and smuggling rackets. Many of the bodies washed up in harbours from Hong Kong to Bombay were reputed to be their handiwork. The flushing out of the chapter who had sought to practise their dark arts in Ceylon had been a major triumph for Colombo’s police force. He was proud to have played his part. But he was also extremely glad that those days were over. A quiet life in Nuala suited him very well.
He shrugged on the uniform jacket he had removed while he was writing and patted the elephant badge on the lapel. When he was a boy, elephants had been plentiful in Ceylon. He grimaced. That was something the country didn’t thank the British for: all their needless hunting – killing out of arrogance and conceit. It was an aspect of the British character he disliked intensely. What profit did they gain from massacring a hundred, two hundred or even a thousand elephants? The lives of those magnificent creatures were nothing to them but the raw material for boasting of their exploits at their clubs.
He took a breath and his shoulders dropped. Not all the British were like that, of course. Many were like his Jane, fond of the country and appreciating all the beauty and variety with which nature had blessed it. Change would come one day, and it was right that it should, but it might be a mistake to push the British out too soon, as the activists wanted. Change was best when it came gradually, not like a tropical storm smashing down all but the sturdiest trees in its path.
His hand was on the doorknob when the black Bakelite telephone on his desk erupted into life. With a sigh, he picked up the receiver, hoping the call wouldn’t sound the death knell of his plans for the afternoon. The assistant government agent’s gruff voice crackled down the line. ‘De Silva?’
‘Mr Clutterbuck, sir. What can I do for you?’
De Silva listened for a few moments, the crease between his brows deepening. ‘I see… yes
… of course… in half an hour.’
He made a quick telephone call home, leaving a message for Jane who was still out, and set off.
Chapter 3
The Morris turned off the public road into the driveway leading up to the Residence. As he slowed to round the bends, de Silva wondered what it was that made Clutterbuck want to see him at such short notice.
He parked the car in the shade and went up to the Residence’s imposing front door. One of the house servants answered the bell.
‘The master is on the telephone,’ the man said. ‘He asks if you will wait in the hall.’
De Silva nodded and sat down in one of the easy chairs. He looked about him and thought what a lovely place the assistant government agent’s home was. The British did themselves proud in Ceylon. The floor was of well-aged teak, polished to a deep lustre; the furniture was antique and the hangings and carvings on the wall of fine quality. Someone had arranged a bowl of jasmine on a side table and its perfume filled the air.
The quiet was broken by the creak of footsteps and the click of toenails on wood. Archie Clutterbuck came through the doorway, followed by his elderly black Labrador, Darcy.
‘Ah! Inspector de Silva. Good of you to come so promptly. Forgive me for hijacking your afternoon.’
The assistant government agent’s jowly face and heavy-set build often gave people the impression that he would be intimidating but de Silva had found him fair and reasonable to deal with. He jumped to his feet. ‘There’s no need to apologise, sir. There was nothing that couldn’t be postponed.’
Darcy sniffed his hand and de Silva felt a wet nose.
‘Don’t make a nuisance of yourself, old chap,’ Clutterbuck scolded. ‘Push him off if you like, de Silva. He always thinks everyone wants to be his friend although it’s not necessarily the case.’
‘It’s not a problem, sir. I like dogs, even though we don’t have one ourselves.’
‘Good. Well, shall we go to my study? We can talk in peace there.’
Slightly mystified, de Silva followed Clutterbuck along a passage lined with hunting prints. The study was a very masculine room, the furniture battered in comparison with the elegant pieces in the hall. It was also very untidy with piles of papers and periodicals stacked on every surface. Many of those, he noticed, were magazines for the sportsman and fisherman. Clutterbuck’s fondness for trout fishing in the clear waters of the rivers up at Horton Plains was well known. A strong smell of tobacco permeated the air.
The Labrador went over to the fireplace and flopped down on the Indian rug in front of the hearth. He rested his chin on his paws, but his eyes remained open, following his master’s every move. Clutterbuck leant down to pat him, and his tail thumped.
‘Will you have a whisky, Inspector? I usually have a pre-prandial.’
This was a British habit that de Silva had not found it hard to adopt, even coming to prefer the drink to arrack. ‘Thank you, sir, I will.’
‘Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable.’
De Silva sat down in an armchair whose springs had known better days as Clutterbuck poured generous measures into two cut-glass tumblers and handed him one of them. He indicated a small ebony box inlaid with ivory. ‘Cigarette?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Don’t smoke, eh? Mind if I do?’
‘Not at all.’
De Silva suppressed a twinge of impatience. Unless this was a purely social visit, and he doubted that, he wished Clutterbuck would get to the point.
The assistant government agent lit up a Passing Cloud and inhaled as he shook out the match.
‘Well, to business. I expect you’re wondering why I asked you here.’ He cleared his throat and de Silva waited.
Clutterbuck grimaced, showing tobacco-browned teeth. ‘It’s a rather tricky matter. One of the planters may have gone a bit too far with one of his people.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another?’
De Silva shook his head.
‘The thing is, the government agent was back off to Kandy the day it came up, but before he left, he told me he wanted the whole wretched business sorted out sharpish in case the situation got ugly.’
De Silva pictured William Petrie barking the order before the official car whisked him off to the provincial capital at Kandy.
‘Who is the man involved?’
‘Renshaw. Charles Renshaw.’
De Silva recognised the name. Charles Renshaw had come to the area about a year previously when he inherited his plantation from a distant relative. Few people had a good word to say for him.
In general, de Silva had to admit, Renshaw was the exception to the rule. Most of the tea plantation owners treated their workers reasonably well nowadays. They worked long hours, but they were given breaks and adequate food. Healthcare was provided, albeit of a fairly basic nature, and if a worker was genuinely sick and unable to go out to the fields, he or she was not penalised for it. There was plenty of room for improvement, of course, but changing things too quickly tended to invite trouble. Renshaw, however, was reputed to be a boss who wasn’t taking any steps towards a better future.
‘What happened?’
‘Allegedly, Renshaw flogged one of his workers, a man called Hari Gooptu. Renshaw denied it and said Gooptu was malingering, claiming he’d trodden on a stray nail on the factory floor that had flown off one of the machines and he was unable to walk.’
De Silva winced at the thought. ‘And was he?’
‘According to Renshaw, there wasn’t much wrong with him and in any case, he’d driven the nail into his foot deliberately to avoid working. Apparently, he’s been a troublemaker for some time.’
‘But flogging…’
‘Quite. But whatever the truth about Gooptu, and at the moment we have no proof he was flogged, the Tamils are used to a firm hand. It doesn’t do to upset that. If there was to be a strike, it could spread and then where would we be?’
‘Is there any indication there will be?’
‘Not yet, but what concerns me is the confidential information I’ve received about the Colombo lawyer, a Tamil, interesting himself in the business. He’s reputed to be a clever chap – too clever for his own good. They tell me in Colombo that they’ve had their eye on him for a while. A higher education doesn’t necessarily fit a man to understand every situation. Questioning the actions of one of the planters is likely to open a most undesirable can of worms. Best to rely on them to do the right thing. Most of ‘em do.’
‘So, you think this man will stir up Renshaw’s workers?’
‘It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility.’
De Silva frowned. Inevitably, Clutterbuck would look at things from the British point of view and not want to make trouble for Renshaw, but if Gooptu had been ill-treated, it was wrong to let the planter get away with it.
Clutterbuck had the grace to colour a little. ‘One rogue doesn’t change things in my view, and I’m satisfied that will be the government agent’s view too. A stiff warning ought to be sufficient to bring Renshaw into line.’
He went to the sideboard and picked up the whisky bottle. ‘A drop more?’
‘Thank you, but I won’t.’
‘I think I’ll have a small one.’
‘And the lawyer’s name is?’
‘Tagore. Ravindra Tagore.’
‘What’s brought him up to Nuala?’
‘I’m not certain. Some family business I believe. It’s most unfortunate it’s coincided with this. Anyway, as I say, William Petrie wants it knocked on the head as soon as possible. I’d like you to go and see Renshaw first.’
‘Might it not be better for you to have a quiet word?’
‘I think it’s rather late for that. I hear Tagore is already preparing a formal request for an investigation. I thought you might already have received it, but clearly not. If we’re seen to be trying to apply political pressure, it could only make matters worse.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good man. Report to
me on what you find and then we can decide how to handle Tagore.’
Clutterbuck drained his glass and stood up. Darcy scrambled to his feet, tail wagging. ‘Well, thank you for your time, de Silva. I hope to hear from you soon.’
‘You will, sir.’
As he left the Residence to return to the Morris, de Silva felt a pang of irritation. Clutterbuck was by no means the worst of the British he had come across in his career. Some of them rode roughshod over the local officials whereas he had the decency to give the impression of consulting rather than commanding. However, the fact remained: in practice, the assistant government agent would have the last word.
Chapter 4
Jane sat in the garden in the shade of the frangipani tree. He dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’m sorry about the picnic.’
‘Never mind. What did Archie Clutterbuck want?’
De Silva glanced at the cover of the Agatha Christie detective novel in his wife’s lap. ‘He demanded to know why his wife had a black eye.’
‘You and your nonsense. What did he really want?’
‘There’s some trouble at one of the plantations – Charles Renshaw’s place.’
She frowned. ‘That awful man? His wife comes to church. She’s a pretty little thing but looks as if she’d be afraid of her own shadow. I ought to make more effort to talk to her, poor girl. She might be glad of a friend. I wouldn’t be surprised if her husband bullies her.’
‘You may be right but that’s not what Clutterbuck wanted to talk about.’
‘It’s shameful that innocent people are treated so badly,’ she said when de Silva had explained.
‘We don’t know yet whether this man was telling the truth.’
‘If he was, I hope you’ll throw the book at Renshaw. Flogging’s brutal, it’s barbaric. We’re living in the 1930s, not the Middle Ages.’
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 2