‘It’s always worth standing up to injustice, Shanti.’
He put his arm around her. ‘The voice of my conscience. I’m doing all I can, my dear, but I won’t get results without good evidence.’
‘Bullies like Renshaw make me so angry. He’s one of the worst kind of plantation owners.’
‘I know, and one day they will have to change or lose everything. But I’m afraid that day may still be a long way off.’
That evening after dinner, they sat in the drawing room by the fire. The Tiffany lamp on the table at Jane’s side cast bronze and rose-pink light over her face as she turned the pages of her book. He watched her for a while, regretting that the silence between them didn’t seem to have its usual companionable air, but perhaps it was better not to reopen the discussion about Renshaw tonight. In any case, what more could he say? He didn’t want to mention the bloodstained shirt. She would be distressed by the thought of it and even more so if it led her to question whether Gooptu had been not just flogged but killed.
She looked up. ‘Is Ivanhoe still proving tiresome?’
‘Perhaps I’ve read too much of Sir Walter’s work. His style begins to feel a little stale.’
‘You should read Mrs Christie. She’s far more entertaining.’
‘But that would be too much of a – what’s the English expression – a bus driver’s holiday?’
‘A busman’s holiday, dear.’
‘I forgot to ask if you had a pleasant afternoon at your sewing circle.’
‘Very pleasant, thank you.’
‘Who was there?’
‘Oh, the usual people, you know. The vicar’s wife, some of the planters’ wives and, of course, Florence Clutterbuck. She’s in charge of the project to replace the church kneelers. As she would be.’
De Silva chuckled. ‘Of course. I hope you behaved nicely.’
‘When have I ever done otherwise? We had a very amicable chat about all kinds of things.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear the claws were sheathed.’
Jane sniffed and returned to her book.
He stood up and went over to kiss her. ‘I was only teasing.’
She smiled. ‘I know.’
‘I’m going to take a turn round the garden before bed.’
‘In the dark?’
He pointed to the window. ‘No, see? The moon is very bright this evening. There’ll be plenty of light to see by.’
‘Well, wrap up. It will be cold out there.’
After the warmth inside, the air was like a draught of iced water. He exhaled and his breath turned into a little cloud. The moonlight cast an otherworldly glow over the garden. Small creatures rustled and scampered in the undergrowth and an owl hooted. From far away he heard a series of faint bangs. That would be the firecrackers that the local farmers set off to scare away wild elephants and prevent them from destroying the crops.
He crossed the lawn to the flowerbeds where his roses grew and admired the blooms. Some of them were smaller than the length of his thumb, others the size of a small dinner plate. Nearby, some dahlias grew. He fingered the thick, fleshy stem of one of the tallest plants. It reached almost to his shoulder. He had read somewhere that there were countries where the dahlia’s hollow stems were dried and used as pipes to enable swimmers to breathe underwater.
The moonlight glimmered on the pearly shell of a snail, inching its way along a leaf. He picked it off and its soft, slimy body retracted swiftly. Maybe it was the moonlight that made him whimsical, but it suddenly seemed like a symbol of Ceylon’s progress to independence: creeping forwards then recoiling when faced with overwhelming odds.
He took the snail over to a pile of dead leaves and placed it gently on top. Even though he rarely visited the temple nowadays, his Buddhist upbringing still made him loath to take away life without good reason.
His brow furrowed. Why wasn’t he as angry as Jane about this Renshaw business? It was too easy to dismiss her views as womanly emotion. If a snail was important, wasn’t a man even more so? Yes, but the rule of law was important too and he cared deeply about that. It was one of the reasons he had joined the police force in the first place. Men like Renshaw must be overcome by legal means, not the court of public opinion, and if that took time, the maintenance of law and order justified the wait.
Poor Ceylon! His country had known so many foreign conquerors: first the kings and princes of Southern India, then the Portuguese, the Dutch and finally, the British. But life for many people under the British was not so bad. They had built schools, roads and railways; tarmac and iron had sliced a way through virgin jungle, climbed rolling hills and opened the way to the palm-fringed beaches of the Indian Ocean.
The British had brought tea bushes and rubber trees. Would Ceylon be any better off if she tried to stand on her own feet now?
He loved his country as much as any man and wanted her to be free one day, but he feared what might happen if independence from the British came too soon. Ceylon had had many names: the Teardrop of India, the Pearl of the Indian Ocean, the Paradise Island. But paradise was a fragile construction.
When he and Jane were first married, he had read the Christian bible to try and understand her faith better. The story of Adam and Eve that it contained taught how easily paradise could be lost. Gooptu might have suffered an injustice but what mattered was the greater good. Patience was better than bloodshed.
The snail disappeared into the pile of leaves, leaving only a silver trail behind. ‘Wise creature,’ de Silva murmured. ‘You know how to bide your time.’
Chapter 7
‘What a beautiful morning,’ he remarked. He and Jane were eating breakfast in the dining room; she had decreed it too cold to sit on the verandah. There had even been a whisper of frost on the lawn when they woke up.
He held out his cup and she poured him more tea. He added milk and three generous spoons of sugar then looked up. ‘What’s the matter?’
She shook her head. ‘Shanti, dear, think of your waistline.’
He patted his middle. ‘What of it?’
‘It’s expanding.’
‘Next you’ll be wanting me to take exercise.’
She laughed. ‘Well, a little exercise wouldn’t hurt.’
‘I’ll tell you what, give me a couple of hours to go to the station then we can have that picnic at the lake after all. I’ll take you out for a row in one of the boats. Will that satisfy you?’
‘Lovely. I’ll tell Cook to make sandwiches and I think there’s some cake left from yesterday.’
‘Sandwiches?’
‘This is going to be an English picnic, dear. It will make a nice change.’
‘If you say so.’
He drank the last of his tea and put down the cup. ‘I suppose it’s time I was off.’
Jane got up from her chair, came over to his side of the table, and planted a big kiss on his cheek.
‘What do I deserve that for?’
‘I’m very proud of you, Shanti. You do know that, don’t you? I hope our conversation yesterday didn’t make you think otherwise. I know I mustn’t assume this man’s guilty just because I dislike the sound of him.’
He kissed her back. ‘And I mustn’t take it for granted that because something is difficult, it’s not worth pursuing. It’s good for me to be reminded that I must stick to my rifles.’
‘Stick to your guns, dear. It’s stick to your guns.’
Before he left for the station, de Silva went to inspect his garden. He was glad to find that apart from a few browned leaves and fallen petals, the roses seemed none the worse for the cold night.
The Morris’s engine purred into life and he kept up a good speed until he was nearly at the police station when he came upon a bullock cart with a broken axle blocking one side of the road. A horde of rickshaws trying to get past it had ground to a halt in a cacophony of horn blowing and imprecations. Constable Nadar’s rotund figure was in the midst of it all, his earnest face glowing with exertion as
he tried to untangle the mess.
De Silva leant back in his seat and tapped his fingers on the walnut steering wheel. Poor Nadar. He was a nice young man and very willing, but his organisational skills left something to be desired.
The driver of the cart finally succeeded in unharnessing the two massive-shouldered beasts and led them away while other men unloaded sacks and bales from the cart and manhandled it to the side of the road. De Silva gently pressed his foot on the accelerator and eased the Morris forward. The crowd of rickshaws and bystanders parted before him. As he cleared the jam and the Morris speeded up, he saw a black Daimler approach from the direction of the road that led to the Five Palms plantation. The man de Silva had seen at the plantation was at the wheel with Charles Renshaw in the passenger seat. Renshaw saw the Morris and immediately averted his gaze.
The Daimler went by too fast for de Silva to make out the passengers in the back. He shrugged and drove on to the station where Sergeant Prasanna jumped to his feet. ‘Good morning, Inspector, sir.’
De Silva tossed his hat onto the hat stand and nodded. ‘I see Nadar is on traffic duty this morning.’
‘Yes, sir. I thought I’d better hold the fort here.’
‘Any calls?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So, what have we on today? Have you made any progress with that break-in at the Ayurvedic shop?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. That street is very quiet at night. There are only a few people living there and none of them heard anything.’
‘But you said the owner reported that nothing of any importance seemed to have been stolen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I suggest you tell him there’s no more we can do for the moment. Find out how much it will cost to repair his locks and tell him he’ll be given some compensation from the police fund. That should satisfy him.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘You look glum, Sergeant. Is there something else?’
Prasanna sighed. ‘It’s my mother, sir. It turns out she knows Doctor Bandi – he’s the owner. She gets her wrinkle creams and her tonics from him. The long and the short of it is he’ll complain to her that I haven’t found the culprits and she’ll keep telling me off about it.’
De Silva had met the sergeant’s mother, a formidable widow who owned a beauty shop. She barely reached to her only son’s shoulder, yet she ruled him with an iron rod. Prasanna had obviously inherited his good looks from her, but his easy-going nature must have come from his father.
‘The worst of it is,’ Prasanna went on gloomily, ‘when she’s annoyed about something, she always comes back to the same subject.’
‘And that is?’
‘She complains that I do not marry.’
‘Ah.’ De Silva remembered his own mother’s views on the subject of his marriage prospects. He had spent many years trying to explain why he didn’t want to marry any of the suitable girls she found for him. His father had simply rolled his eyes and disappeared to his vegetable patch until the storm blew over.
‘It’s worst of all when she sees Constable Nadar’s mother at the bazaar. She’s always talking, talking, talking about her lovely daughter-in-law and her beautiful grandchild. My mother says I have no heart and why am I being so stubborn when Nadar is two years younger than me and a family man already?’
De Silva cleared his throat and gave Prasanna what he intended to be a fatherly pat on the shoulder. ‘If you’ll take my advice, young man, you’ll stand up to your mother and wait for a woman you love to come along. I did, and I’ve always been very glad of it.’
Prasanna looked dubious but he nodded. ‘Thank you for your good advice, sir.’
The door opened and a perspiring Nadar came in.
‘All in order, Constable?’
Nadar nodded. ‘I’m sorry you were kept waiting, sir.’
‘Never mind, Constable. If you’re all done, bring my tea to my office, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
In his office, he wrote a brief report of his visit to the Five Palms plantation then set down his pen and contemplated the opposite wall for a few moments. His hand hovered to the telephone and he picked up the receiver and dialled. The operator’s voice came on the line with that peculiarly hollow sound that made it seem as if she was speaking from the bottom of a well. He gave the number of the Nuala Hotel. After two rings, a polite voice answered. De Silva asked for Tagore and then waited.
A few moments later, the voice came back on the line. ‘Mr Tagore is staying at the hotel, sir, but he appears to be out. May I take a message?’
‘Would you tell him Inspector de Silva called? I shall be out myself for the rest of the day, but he can reach me at the police station on Monday.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
He put the receiver down. There, that was done. He picked up the copy of The Colombo Times that lay neatly folded on his desk. The paper crackled as he opened it and scanned the articles. There were still shortages of rice due to the drought; an Australian cricket team was visiting Colombo. A full-page article showed the members of the Black Lotus gang. It listed their sentences and praised the dedication of the Colombo police in rounding them up. A short paragraph near the bottom of the page mentioned his name. He stood up and tucked the paper under his arm. Jane might like to see the article, small as his part in it was.
**
The morning chill had vanished but a light breeze ruffled the aquamarine surface of the lake making the temperature of the air pleasantly cool. As they walked across the grass to find a good picnic spot, a couple of shaggy brown ponies trotted over to them.
‘Are they some of the strays you mentioned?’ Jane asked.
‘Yes, Prasanna still hasn’t found out who owns them.’ He flapped his hands to send them away, but the ponies stood their ground.
‘Poor creatures,’ said Jane. ‘I suppose they have water and grass here, but they really should be looked after properly.’ A pensive look came into her eyes. ‘We might have space for one of them at least.’
De Silva thought of his roses and she laughed. ‘I was only teasing, dear. No need to look so horrified. But seriously, something ought to be done.’
‘I know, and I have Prasanna on it, but I’m afraid his mind is more occupied with cricket at the moment. After the match is over, I shall press him harder.’
One of the ponies came close, flicking its tail and whickering gently then suddenly it shied as, with a loud caw, a crow landed close by. The pony wheeled and trotted away in the direction of the water, followed by its companions.
‘That’s better.’ De Silva spread the picnic rug out on the grass and put down the hamper. As Jane unpacked it, he surveyed the lake. A flotilla of small rowing boats bobbed at anchor by a jetty. Two had already been taken out but there were plenty left for them to get one after lunch.
He turned back to his wife. ‘What have we got?’
She opened a box and produced the sandwiches. ‘Egg and cress, sardines, or pork luncheon meat. And I had Cook put in some butter cake for you.’
‘You’re too good to me,’ he said with a grin.
He picked up a sardine sandwich and took a bite. He would never fathom why the British liked their food so bland.
As they ate, and drank Elephant ginger beer, they chatted and watched all the other people enjoying an afternoon by the lake. A large Ceylonese family were picnicking nearby, the women dressed in a rainbow of saris and chattering like a flock of Brahminy starlings. The men wore the ubiquitous sarongs and shirts and were quieter, either talking in pairs or simply lounging while they smoked and gazed out over the lake. A gaggle of children played on the shoreline, running in and out of the water with squeals of excitement and scooping up handfuls of it to throw at each other. The hardier ones had ventured in up to their necks and were swimming about, their dark hair gleaming.
Jane shivered. ‘I suppose it’s warm enough to swim. Children never seem to notice the cold anyway.’ She
looked more closely at the children playing. Among the crowd of lithe little dark bodies, one was pale and hanging back from the rest.
She shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘Poor little mite,’ she said. ‘He must be shy.’
De Silva followed her gaze. ‘Why, it’s the Renshaw boy, Hamish.’ He scanned the bank. ‘And Madeleine Renshaw over by the kiosk watching him.’
‘It wouldn’t do for Florence Clutterbuck to see her,’ Jane remarked. ‘She wouldn’t approve of her letting her son play with “the natives” as she likes to call them.’
De Silva shrugged. He tried to regard the assistant government agent’s wife as an amusing curiosity and not let her ignorant remarks trouble him. She wasn’t the only Briton to use the term “natives”: a description that belittled his country’s ancient and rich civilization. Many didn’t bother to understand what a melting pot his country was. First the Sinhalese, his own people – the original owners of Ceylon – then the Tamils, either coming in over the centuries in waves of invasion from South India or brought to Ceylon more recently by the British to pick the tea.
‘Shanti?’
‘What? Oh, Hamish. He won’t come to any harm. Tucked away at that plantation, I expect the poor lad gets precious little chance to meet playmates his own age.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘At least he has his bird.’
‘His bird?’
‘It’s a mynah. He’s teaching it to talk. It’s an impudent little creature.’
‘Then it had better not be introduced to Florence.’
De Silva finished his sardine sandwich and helped himself to an egg and cress. Ceylon’s version of Buddhism didn’t require its followers to be strict vegetarians and he sometimes ate meat; luncheon meat was, however, a step too far. In his opinion, it was one of the least appealing of British creations.
‘That would be unwise, I agree,’ he replied. ‘It might be executed for high treason.’
Jane shaded her eyes with one hand. ‘That’s a very pretty dress she has on – Madeleine Renshaw, I mean. And my gracious, if I’m not very much mistaken, that’s Ravindra Tagore coming over to talk to her. I wonder how they know each other. Perhaps they met in Colombo. She’s never mentioned him but then again there’s been no reason why she should. Do you want to go over and speak to them?’
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 5