‘We’ve received information about one of your workers – a man named Hari Gooptu.’
Renshaw put up his hand with the palm towards de Silva. ‘Stop there, Inspector. The man was nothing but a troublemaker. I suppose you were told he was wrongfully injured on the factory floor. That’s a pack of lies. He engineered his “accident” to get out of working.’
He scratched his cheek. The smattering of a rash was visible on his sunburnt skin. In one place there was a weeping sore.
‘And this isn’t the first time,’ he continued. ‘I warned him he’d be out of a job if he tried anything on again, so I sent him packing. You have to keep to your word or forfeit these people’s respect. Doubtless, he’s idling in some jungle village by now – I’ve no idea where – and good riddance.’
De Silva cursed inwardly. This was the worst possible scenario. Renshaw must have seen trouble coming and this was his way of sidestepping it, but was he telling the truth? De Silva thought of the bloodstained shirt Tagore had left with him. Useless to raise it at this stage. Renshaw was obviously far too wily not to question its authenticity as he had himself.
Renshaw’s lips twitched in a half-smile. He stood up. ‘If that’s all, Inspector?’
‘Not quite. Apparently, the man was flogged. I believe you’re still quite new to this business, Mr Renshaw, but these days that level of discipline is considered unacceptable.’
A sour look came over Renshaw’s face. ‘I know what this is all about. It’s that fellow Tagore, isn’t it? I suppose he put you up to this. He was up here trying to interfere in my business a few days ago, making a lot of unfounded allegations about how Gooptu was treated.’
He scowled. ‘You know what Tagore’s trouble is? No, of course you don’t, so I’ll tell you. I won some money off him at cards once when we were both in Colombo. Had the devil of a time recovering it. He didn’t like it when I put the word around to make sure he didn’t get the chance to cheat anyone else. He’d be happy to lay any trumped-up charge at my door to discredit me.’
Tagore didn’t look like a gambler, de Silva reflected, but he didn’t have the evidence to dismiss Renshaw’s claim. The man had him foiled and he knew it. Still, he mustn’t give in too readily.
‘All the same, with your permission, I’d like to visit the labour lines.’
Renshaw came round to de Silva’s side of the desk and brought his face very close. ‘My workers are as well treated as any in the area, Inspector. If you persist in harassing me by suggesting otherwise, I’ll take a complaint of my own to the assistant government agent. This plantation is my property. I won’t tolerate anyone poking around stirring up my workforce. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
He opened the door; the fingers of one hand drummed on the wood. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’
De Silva felt angry with the assistant government agent, with Tagore and also with himself. Renshaw was obnoxious but he was no fool and he, de Silva, should have anticipated that. This had all the hallmarks of a fruitless investigation, but he couldn’t shirk it now. His next move must be to apply for a warrant to search the labour lines and interview Renshaw’s workers.
Yet even that would be of doubtful use. If this man Gooptu was alive, it was unlikely he would be there, and even more unlikely that the other workers would be willing to risk their jobs by speaking out.
He had one more try at Renshaw. ‘If you have nothing to hide, sir, I suggest you reconsider and save us both a lot of trouble. As I expect you’re aware, I can apply for a warrant.’
‘That’s up to you, Inspector. But I assure you, you’ll be wasting your time. I dismissed Gooptu. He packed his bag and left. That’s all there is to it.’
He held the door a little wider and after a moment’s hesitation, de Silva nodded curtly and walked out of the room. Downstairs, he emerged into the sunshine as a black Daimler drew up outside the factory.
The man who got out of the driving seat had jet-black hair that contrasted sharply with his pale complexion. From his colouring and the oval shape of his eyes, de Silva guessed he was Eurasian. The man noticed him and stared for a moment before giving a brief nod and striding into the factory. The penetrating look reminded de Silva of a photograph of an Arctic wolf he had once seen in a magazine.
He started back down the dirt road to where he had left the Morris. When he opened the driver’s door, a wave of trapped, boiling air rolled out. The tan leather seat was searing to the touch. He wound back the hood and was about to ease himself in when he noticed a sandy-haired boy of six or seven watching him from a few yards inside the gates to the plantation bungalow. De Silva smiled and received a shy smile in return.
‘I like your car, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Does it go very fast?’
‘Pretty fast, nearly fifty miles an hour. Come and have a better look if you like.’
The boy came forward until he was close enough to touch the car. Tentatively, he put out a small, freckled hand and stroked the gleaming navy paintwork.
‘Hamish!’
They both swung round. A slight young woman with fair hair hurried across the grass.
‘Hamish, what are you doing out here? You know you’re not to leave the garden by yourself. Where’s your ayah?’
A rebellious look came over Hamish’s face. He balled his fists. ‘I don’t want her with me all the time. I’m not a baby.’
The woman sighed. ‘No, you’re not a baby, so you’re old enough to do as you’re told.’ She looked at de Silva and he saw her eyes dwell briefly on his police badge. ‘Good afternoon. I hope my son wasn’t making a nuisance of himself?’
‘Not at all, ma’am. We were just talking about the car.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, Hamish loves cars, and we’re rather off the beaten track here. Not many come this way.’
‘But there’ve been two today,’ Hamish piped up. ‘This one and the big black one.’
De Silva noticed the woman’s smile vanish abruptly. Clearly, she was not keen on her husband’s visitor.
‘May I introduce myself?’ he asked. ‘Inspector Shanti de Silva.’ He gave a little bow. There was a defenceless air to this woman that seemed to require a reassuring display of old-fashioned gallantry.
She held out a delicate white hand. ‘I’m Madeleine Renshaw. Have you been up to visit my husband? I hope there’s nothing wrong?’
The artless way she said it made him think that she had no idea about the flogging business.
‘Nothing at all, ma’am. It was merely a routine visit.’
There was a pause. ‘I believe you know Jane, my wife,’ he said.
A glimmer of surprise lit Madeleine Renshaw’s eyes then was extinguished. ‘Oh, of course I do. We both attend St George’s church in town. She welcomed me very kindly when I arrived, but I’m afraid I don’t have much time to join in local activities. We only moved here from Colombo a short while ago and there’s so much to do.’ Her voice held a trace of defensiveness.
‘I’m sorry to hear it. Perhaps when you’re more settled? I’m sure my wife would be delighted to help.’
‘Perhaps. Well, I mustn’t keep you from your duties, Inspector.’
Hamish tugged at his mother’s skirt. ‘Can I show him Jacko?’
‘Not today, darling. The inspector has more important matters to attend to.’
‘Pleease?’
De Silva smiled. ‘And who is Jacko?’
‘My bird. I’m teaching him to talk.’
‘Ah, a mynah bird?’
Hamish nodded eagerly. ‘He’s very clever.’
‘I’m sure he is. I had one when I was about your age. It learnt to say many things. They are excellent mimics.’
‘Pleease, Mamma?’
‘Oh, very well. If you can spare the time, Inspector?’
De Silva deliberated for a beat. He doubted Charles Renshaw would be pleased to find he was still on his property, but it might be worth furthering an acquaintanc
e with his wife. Renshaw had mentioned getting a shipment ready for tomorrow so it was a fairly safe bet he wouldn’t come down from the factory until lunchtime at least. He nodded. ‘It will be a pleasure.’
‘Would you like to bring your car into the driveway?’
‘Thank you.’
Hamish beamed. ‘Can I sit in the passenger seat?’
De Silva laughed. ‘Of course, if your mother has no objection.’
‘You don’t, do you, Mamma?’ asked the little boy quickly, already scampering to the passenger side of the Morris. He jumped in and started to examine the instruments on the walnut dashboard.
His mother shook her head. ‘I’m afraid his manners leave something to be desired, Inspector. I’ll see you on the verandah.’
De Silva drove slowly up to the bungalow glancing once or twice at Madeleine Renshaw as she took a short cut across the lawn. Her figure was slender, and she walked gracefully.
By the time he and Hamish reached the verandah, she was sitting in one of four rattan chairs arranged around a table with a blue cloth. An unchecked jasmine rambled over the tiled roof, shading the seating area and spilling its perfume into the air.
‘I’ve told the servant to bring us iced tea, Inspector. I hope that will suit you.’
De Silva thanked her then gave an involuntary start as a black shape swooped onto the back of one of the rattan chairs. ‘Ah, I expect this is Jacko.’
The mynah bird shuffled sideways along the chair rail and cocked its head. ‘Hello? Tea, mangoes?’ It followed its remarks with a raucous burst of shrieks and whistles.
Madeleine Renshaw winced. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector.’
‘There’s no need to apologise. My bird was just as noisy.’
‘What did you call him?’ asked Hamish.
‘Rascal, because my mother said that was the best name for him. I’m afraid he eventually disgraced himself by using bad language and she banished him to the servants’ quarters. I had to play with him there.’
‘What’s bad language?’
‘Something you’re too young to know about yet,’ his mother said firmly. ‘Ah, here’s the tea.’
The servant set a tray of iced tea and small cakes on the table then flapped his hands at the mynah bird. With a volley of indignant squawks, it flew up to perch on a corner of the roof, where it stayed, watching the cakes with beady eyes.
‘You must find life very different here from Colombo,’ de Silva said, making conversation as he put one of the cakes Madeleine Renshaw offered him onto his plate. He took a bite. The sponge was heavier than the cakes Cook made at home.
‘I do. Colombo was always so hot and busy. I never liked it much. It’s much more beautiful here and the air is better for Hamish. I worried about his health in Colombo.’
Hamish had taken his cake and was crouching on the lawn where he had enticed Jacko down from his perch with a scattering of crumbs.
‘He has far fewer coughs now,’ Madeleine went on.
‘Has he lived out in Ceylon all his life?’
She shook her head. ‘He was born in England, but he doesn’t remember it. He was only ten months old when his father and I brought him to the island.’
‘It must have been hard coping with such a young child in a strange country. Did you and Mr Renshaw already know people out here?’
‘Oh, Charles isn’t Hamish’s father. Hamish is my son by my first husband.’ Her face clouded. ‘He fell ill and died when Hamish was three years old. Not long after that I met Charles. He was very kind and—’
Jacko suddenly landed in the middle of the table, rocking plates and cups.
‘Oh this wretched bird!’ Madeleine flapped her hands. A flush sprang to her cheeks. Jacko shrieked and took off again. He landed on the lawn and strutted up and down, his feathers ruffled. ‘Get out, get out! Mangoes!’ he squawked.
‘Hamish! Take your bird away now, or like Inspector de Silva’s mother, I will banish him for good.’
Hamish scrambled to his feet. ‘Sorry, Mamma.’ He ran off across the lawn, leaving a trail of crumbs for the bird to follow.
‘I suppose Jacko is less trouble than a dog,’ Madeleine said ruefully.
The blast of a siren sounded from the direction of the factory. Her head jerked round. ‘They’re finishing work for the morning. I’d offer you lunch, Inspector, but my husband is always in such a hurry.’
De Silva stood up. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you, ma’am. Although it would be a great pleasure to spend longer in your company, I must be getting back to the station.’
He waved to Hamish. ‘Goodbye! Be careful what you teach your bird.’
Negotiating the rutted road back to Nuala, de Silva pondered over the little encounter. When she relaxed and the pinched, careworn expression left her face, Madeleine Renshaw was a pretty woman. It was easy to see how a certain sort of man would want to protect her, but Renshaw didn’t seem that kind, in fact more of a brute.
There must be a good fifteen years between them in age. He wondered what they had in common. Their marriage certainly seemed an unlikely love match. But then he was no expert in such matters. It was taxing enough to fathom the schemes and mysteries of the human mind, let alone the human heart.
His mind turned to the warrant he needed to apply for if he was to question the workers at Renshaw’s labour lines. Clutterbuck was the appropriate man to hear the application; among his numerous duties, he served as the magistrate for the Nuala area.
De Silva sighed. Clutterbuck was unlikely to be happy about granting it, but there was no help for that, and when all was said and done, he was a fair-minded man. He’d better telephone from the station to make an appointment to see him and explain the situation.
At the station, the smell of curry greeted him. Sergeant Prasanna and Constable Nadar were having lunch. Prasanna wiped a smear of dahl from his chin as they both jumped to attention. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ they chorused.
‘It’s alright, get on with your meal.’
De Silva looked at the assortment of tin containers and plates on Prasanna’s desk. ‘Your mother’s famous coconut roti, eh? A secret recipe, I believe?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Prasanna grinned. ‘She wants to feed me up for the match on Saturday.’
‘Then victory is assured. But maybe you should put in some practice as well, just to be absolutely certain. If there’s nothing urgent, you may take the afternoon off. Constable Nadar will be happy to hold the fort, I’m sure.’
The sergeant’s face brightened. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Nadar, I have a telephone call to make, then, if you need me, I’ll be at home.’
The chubby constable looked disconsolate. ‘Yes, sir.’
In his office, de Silva made the call to the Residence. To his relief, he found he had a temporary respite. Archie Clutterbuck had gone on an expedition to Horton Plains.
**
The early afternoon sun beat down on the garden at Sunnybank; the roses drooped. A fat spotted dove pecked in the flowerbeds, hunting for worms and insects. A pair of green bee-eaters chirruped among the leaves of the plantain tree.
Indoors, all was silent but when de Silva called out for the house servants, one soon appeared.
‘Where’s your mistress?’
‘At her ladies’ sewing circle, master.’
‘Of course, I’d forgotten it’s today. I want some lunch. What do we have in the kitchen?’
‘Vegetables in coconut milk, brinjal and curried cashew with peas, master.’
‘Good, bring me some of all of them and some rice. I’ll eat on the verandah.’
Half an hour later, he sat in the shade, enjoying his food with liberal seasonings of lime pickle and chutney. The brinjal was delicious. It surprised him that, according to Jane, no one ate eggplant in England. Such a tasty vegetable and so healthy. But the English had strange ideas about food. Most of the English dishes he had eaten had seemed to him bland and overcooked.
When he had ea
ten his fill and the dishes were cleared away, he leant back in his chair and let his gaze wander over the garden. It was wonderful the way that contemplating it made the troubles of the day dwindle to insignificance. He would decide what to say to Tagore and Archie Clutterbuck tomorrow. For now, he wanted a nap.
The air had cooled, and the sun was slipping below the trees when Jane woke him with a tap on his shoulder. She smiled. ‘A busy day, dear?’
He shook himself and stretched. ‘Thinking is a very tiring activity.’
‘And what were you thinking about?’
‘How to deal with this business up at the Renshaw plantation.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Yes, I went up earlier today. He didn’t admit to flogging this man, Gooptu, and I wasn’t able to find out his side of the story.’
‘Why not?’
‘Renshaw said he’d dismissed him and didn’t know where he’d gone.’
‘Did you believe him?’
De Silva shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Renshaw’s a thoroughly unprepossessing character. I wouldn’t put it past him to ill-treat his workers but without seeing this man, Gooptu, I’ve nothing more to go on than Tagore’s allegations. I asked Renshaw if I could go down to his labour lines and speak to some of his people, but he flatly refused. He said if the police persisted in harassing him, he’d take a complaint of his own to Archie Clutterbuck.’
‘Did you tell him who made the complaint?’
‘I didn’t need to. He’d worked that out for himself. He knew Tagore was in town.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘I’ll have to apply to Archie Clutterbuck for a warrant.’
‘Does he know you want one?’
‘Not yet. I telephoned the Residence, but he was up at Horton Plains on a fishing expedition and not back until tomorrow evening.’
‘And what about Tagore?’
‘He can wait; he’s made enough mischief already.’
‘Shanti!’
‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’m prepared to stick my neck out and apply for this warrant, but I don’t have much confidence I’ll find anything to support a charge against Renshaw. Your Mr Tagore may have embroiled me in trouble with the British for nothing.’
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 4