The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  Perhaps Hebden was right. Experience showed that the most obvious explanation for a death was frequently the correct one. In other words, Renshaw had died of a heart attack; there was nothing more to it than that. After all, as well as now having no obvious suspect, he had found no murder weapon either. If Gooptu could be ruled out, and it seemed he could be, all that was left was vague suspicion.

  He thought of Madeleine Renshaw and Tagore, of the grazes on Renshaw’s body and the unwashed teacup with the smell he couldn’t place. When he made his report to Archie Clutterbuck, which he still had to do, he wasn’t even sure he would mention them. With Renshaw dead, Clutterbuck would probably want the matter forgotten as soon as possible. Until he had something convincing to back up his theory that Renshaw had been murdered, he preferred to avoid giving the impression he was just being difficult.

  Chapter 12

  The organ’s sonorous tones filled the church. A rustle like the wind in a grove of coconut trees accompanied it as the congregation rose to their feet.

  Bearing the coffin on their shoulders, the pall bearers walked slowly to the table before the altar and set down their burden. Madeleine Renshaw, veiled in black, followed. Hamish, dressed in a dark suit and tie and a white shirt that made him look like a parody of a grown-up, clutched her hand. De Silva felt a stab of pity for the boy. Even if he hadn’t been close to his stepfather, this death must remind him that he had lost his natural father. His home would be a sombre place for many months too.

  The vicar stepped forward and spoke the opening words of the funeral service. Renshaw might not have been a popular man, de Silva thought, but almost every pew was full. From where he and Jane sat, towards the back of the church, he surveyed the rows of bowed heads. Most of the planters in the area and their families were there, and many of the Renshaws’ household staff. Doctor Hebden sat in the same pew as the Clutterbucks.

  The congregation remained standing to sing a hymn. De Silva, who was no singer, mumbled through it. The organist reached the final chords and they knelt to pray then the vicar called for a few moments of silence: a time for all those present to meditate on their memories of the departed. How many of those memories would be kindly, de Silva wondered, and then felt ashamed.

  A grating sound and footsteps distracted him. To his surprise, he saw Ravindra Tagore ease himself into one of the pews on the other side of the aisle. So, he hadn’t returned to Colombo yet. But what was he doing here? He was the last person de Silva would have expected to want to pay his respects.

  When the service ended, the congregation followed the coffin to the churchyard where it was lowered into the grave and the vicar spoke the final prayers. Afterwards, people stood in little knots and chatted, waiting for a decent interval to pass before moving on to the funeral lunch.

  De Silva found himself beside the Clutterbucks.

  ‘The nerve of the man!’ Florence’s chins wobbled and he realised what she often reminded him of: a jungle fowl. ‘After the accusations he made in that poor man’s lifetime, you’d think he’d have the decency not to darken the church doors.’

  ‘A bad business all round,’ her husband growled. ‘The sooner the fellow makes himself scarce, the better.’

  Florence snorted and shot a glance across the churchyard at Tagore who was talking to Madeleine, but then her attention was distracted by the sight of someone she wanted to speak with. Husband in tow, she sailed off across the grass.

  Jane sighed. ‘I wish they weren’t quite so harsh. I know it’s strange that Tagore’s here, especially as he said he was planning to go back to Colombo several days ago, but he behaved respectfully, and his intentions may be good.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He was talking to Madeleine. I wonder why he didn’t mention her when I asked if he knew anyone in Nuala.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know her well,’ de Silva said with a shrug. ‘It would be natural to offer your condolences at a funeral. Speaking of which, there’s David Leung, Renshaw’s friend.’

  ‘Madeleine certainly won’t be pleased to see him. One thing she has told me is that she didn’t like his influence over her husband. She hoped he might lose contact when they left Colombo, but he turned up again like the bad penny. Oh dear, he’s going over to speak to her. Shall we go to her rescue?’

  Tagore parted with Madeleine as they approached, acknowledging Leung with the briefest of nods as the two men passed each other. He stopped to greet the de Silvas with an uneasy smile.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Tagore,’ said Jane. ‘Wasn’t it a lovely service?’

  ‘It was, Mrs de Silva.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew Mrs Renshaw.’

  ‘We met once or twice in Colombo when her first husband was alive. Our acquaintance is very slight.’

  ‘Are you staying for the lunch? I’d love to hear more about what you’ve been up to since my Colombo days.’

  ‘I’m afraid I shall have to forgo the pleasure. I still have a great deal to do before I leave so I must be on my way. It has taken me longer to settle my mother’s affairs than I expected.’ He made a little bow. ‘It’s been a pleasure to see you again.’

  ‘You were very quiet, Shanti,’ Jane whispered as Tagore walked away.

  ‘I doubt he wanted to talk to me. Anyway, you’re so much better at these awkward social encounters than I am.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s more to the situation with Madeleine than meets the eye.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  It wasn’t the time to mention his suspicions. He’d rather keep them to himself for a while anyway. As Tagore was still in Nuala, he’d find an opportunity to press him about who gave him the bloodstained shirt. It would be a good idea to tell him about the visit to Gooptu as well. It might convince him that de Silva was trying to help and make him more co-operative. People sometimes betrayed themselves if you won their trust.

  Jane nudged him. ‘Shanti?’

  ‘What more can I say, my love?’ he answered quickly. ‘Anything else is surmise.’

  She pinched his sleeve. ‘Sometimes you’re very provoking.’

  ‘I’ll try not to be in future.’

  He offered her his arm. ‘Ah, I see Madeleine has managed to extricate herself from David Leung’s company without our assistance and people are starting to move on. Shall we go and find that lunch?’

  Chapter 13

  The telephone rang in the hall at Sunnybank and de Silva went to answer it. Jane’s voice greeted him.

  ‘How was the journey back to the plantation?’

  ‘Very good, thank you, dear. I must say, the Clutterbucks’ car is most comfortable. And Florence was needed at the Residence so Madeleine and I had it to ourselves.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I thought you might be at the police station.’

  ‘I checked in there, but there was nothing urgent, so I came home.’ If he was truthful, the funeral lunch organised by Florence Clutterbuck was sitting rather heavily on his stomach.

  ‘What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I might read or do some paperwork.’

  ‘Oh, if you’re not too busy, I forgot my library books need returning. They’re already overdue I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then I’ll save your ham and take them back.’

  ‘Bacon, dear, bacon. I have a list of new ones to take out too, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Will you ring me tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’d better go. I hear Madeleine calling. Goodbye, dear.’

  ‘Save the bacon,’ de Silva muttered. He must remember that.

  **

  Nuala’s subscription library bore little resemblance to its counterpart at the Crown, but with its cluttered shelves and comfy seats, it had a certain homely charm. He arrived half an hour before closing time and deposited Jane’s stack of detective stories on the counter. The librarian left off shelving books and came to
check them back in, removing the little slips of brown card tucked in the front covers.

  He paid the small fine and handed her the list of books Jane wanted. She ran her eye down it and nodded. ‘I think all of them are in, Inspector de Silva. Except this one,’ she pointed, ‘and Mrs De Silva doesn’t say which cookery book she’d like.’

  ‘She said something the other day about cake recipes. She’s decided it’s time to persuade our cook to be more adventurous.’

  ‘Well, most of our cookery books should have a section on baking. We haven’t many, but if you go past detective novels and turn left at history, you’ll find what we have on the top shelf. Do you need my help?’

  ‘Thank you, but I think I can manage.’

  He found his way to the shelves where detective novels were kept and hunted for the titles Jane had listed. When he had located them all, he moved on to the place the librarian mentioned and studied the small selection of cookery books. Most of these tomes struck horror into his heart – recipes for English dishes of a more dismal nature than he had thought possible – but there were several recipes for cakes. One of them, involving coconut and lime, even looked quite appetising. The author of the book wrote that it was the perfect addition to afternoon tea.

  Tea. De Silva scratched his chin. The loose tea and stained cup he had found in Renshaw’s office were still in the trunk of the Morris. Preoccupied with following the lead to Gooptu – the lead which had led nowhere – he had done nothing about them. He placed the cookery book on the top of his pile and went to look for a section on medicine. If he was right that the tea was pitta, it might be worthwhile expanding his knowledge about it.

  The medical section was even slimmer than cookery, but there was one book entitled Ayurvedic Medicine: a brief outline by an Englishman, Doctor Oswald Scroop. Hebden had mentioned that some English medics took an interest in Ceylon’s traditional herbal remedies.

  A glance at the copyright page showed that the book was nearly fifty years old. The cover had faded from red to pink and presumably the book hadn’t been opened for many years as some of the pages needed peeling apart, but it was better than nothing and luckily he had a ticket to spare.

  He took everything to the counter and waited while the librarian stamped the books out and worked her magic with more little slips of card. In the Morris he put the pile on the passenger seat and motored slowly home, enjoying the warm evening air.

  Dinner was a briefer meal than usual. He never liked to linger over food when he ate alone. In any case, he wanted to learn what Dr Scroop had to teach him. He made himself comfortable in the drawing room with a glass of whisky at his elbow and began to read.

  The good doctor’s style was dry and somewhat turgid, but de Silva ploughed on, only occasionally finding that his eyelids drooped and he had to stand up and walk about the room to refresh himself. Eventually, he reached the part where Scroop discussed the benefits and properties of pitta tea. From the doctor’s description of what it contained, it seemed de Silva’s sense of smell had not deceived him.

  He continued reading. Most of the benefits of the tea that Scroop detailed were familiar to him. People drank it in order to balance their digestive systems, soothe the stomach and generally calm fevered temperament. It aided sleep and healed the skin. It relieved burning pains in the joints and cooled irritability. In addition to drinking the tea, there was also a list of foods to avoid. He ran his finger down them: foods that were pungent, sour, or salty; heat inducing foods like chilli and hot pepper; coffee; some fruits and nuts – almonds in particular unless they had been peeled and well soaked.

  He paused. The smell he hadn’t been able to place in the tea, was it almonds? He got up, fetched the box containing the tea and the cup that he had brought in from the car, and sniffed the tea carefully. He still smelt rose, mint, liquorice and coriander, but not almond. Raising the cup to his nostrils, he sniffed again. Did he imagine a faint smell of almonds? Why on earth would you put almonds in pitta tea if they were generally one of the foods to avoid?

  He took the cup to the sideboard, picked up the soda syphon and squirted in a little soda, swilling it round to release the brownish residue. In his time in Colombo, he had learnt a few things about poisons. Only one gave off the faint smell of bitter almonds.

  In the garden, the waning moon cast an eerie light, too dim to see by. He returned to the verandah, found one of the lanterns Jane liked to keep there and lit it. The trees stirred in the light wind as he walked along the flowerbeds until he found what he was looking for. It was a fat, horned slug. After a short tussle with his conscience, he bent down and poured some of the contents of the cup over it. Slowly, the creature’s slimy body began to bubble and fizz; after a few moments, it was a shapeless mess.

  He stood up and stared at the puddle of slime; he had been right to suspect foul play. Charles Renshaw hadn’t died of heart failure. He had been poisoned with cyanide. Here was the murder weapon. Now he had to work out who had wielded it.

  He turned over in his mind what his course of action should be. His conclusion was that it would be a good idea to find out more about David Leung’s movements, and also Ravindra Tagore’s.

  Chapter 14

  Constable Nadar was alone at the station when de Silva got there early the next morning.

  ‘Hasn’t Prasanna arrived yet?’

  ‘He has, sir, but he left again to spend the morning looking for the owner of the ponies at the lake. He said you wanted to get on with it before there was an accident.’

  ‘So I did.’ He thought for a moment. If Prasanna had already been back to the Crown, he would have mentioned it or left a message. It wasn’t really his fault if he hadn’t pursued the matter. At the time, he hadn’t seen it as particularly important himself.

  ‘I have to go out. If anyone calls, you’ll have to deal with them, Nadar.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His constable was becoming more confident, de Silva thought, as he hurried out to the Morris and started the engine. A year ago, he would have looked apprehensive at the suggestion.

  He turned his mind to the matter in hand. Overnight, a few doubts had crept in, but daylight had dispelled them. His gut feeling was still that it was too soon to involve anyone else, but he was sure that he had a murder investigation on his hands.

  He drew up at the Crown, went to the reception desk and asked to see the manager in private. The man rose to his feet when de Silva entered his office. ‘Good morning, Inspector. I hope nothing is amiss?’

  ‘Nothing concerning the hotel, but I need some information about one of your guests.’

  ‘I’m not sure we are at liberty—’

  ‘You are if I’m making the inquiry in an official capacity, and that is the case here.’

  The manager looked crestfallen. ‘Very well, Inspector. What do you want to know?’

  ‘You have a Mr David Leung staying at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Leung has been here – let me see – I believe it is ten days now.’

  ‘Has he had any visitors?’

  ‘I’m not aware of any. In any case, he spends most of his days away from the hotel. I believe he often takes luncheon at the Empire Club.’

  ‘And evenings?’

  The manager shrugged. ‘Occasionally he dines alone here. Otherwise I couldn’t say.’

  ‘What about last Saturday? The evening of the Hatton cricket match.’

  ‘I shall have to enquire, Inspector. One moment, please.’

  He picked up the telephone and spoke for a few moments then replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Leung was not booked in for dinner that evening.’

  ‘And what time did he return to the hotel?’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t keep track of all our guests’ movements, Inspector.’

  De Silva ignored the tone. ‘I imagine the night porter who was on duty might remember. I’d like to speak to him.’

  The manager frowned. ‘He will be sleeping in the staff quarters now.’
>
  ‘Then he’ll have to wake up. I won’t keep him long.’

  With a reluctant air, the manager led him along a maze of corridors, much narrower than those in the public area of the hotel. Heat and steam billowed from the kitchens they passed. De Silva glanced in and saw the cooks and kitchen boys stripped to their loincloths as they worked. The shouting of orders and clattering of pans was deafening.

  A row of storerooms contained sacks of spices, rice and other cereals as well as bottles of wines and spirits. Outside, crates of fruit and vegetables were being unloaded from carts and two men were shovelling a pile of refuse into a huge incinerator. Another pushed a cart loaded with soiled laundry into an open-fronted washhouse where women were scrubbing away on washboards or rinsing sheets in big tanks. Smells of soap and bleach drifted out, making de Silva’s nostrils prickle.

  They reached the shacks where the hotel staff lived, and the manager went to call the porter. The man emerged scratching his head and blinking at the sunshine. ‘Many people came in late that night,’ he said when de Silva questioned him and described Leung.

  ‘Try and think. Mr Leung has a distinctive appearance – expensively dressed, very pale skin but jet-black hair. He would have driven up in a black Daimler.’

  The man’s bony hand rasped his chin. ‘Yes, I remember now.’

  ‘And what time was it?’

  ‘Half past three. Maybe four o’clock.’

  ‘You’re sure it wasn’t earlier?’

  ‘Yes. It gets cold by then. I don’t forget that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  De Silva dropped a few rupees in the man’s hand. ‘Here’s something for your trouble.’

  The man grinned and put the money into a fold of his sarong then ducked back into the shack.