The young man waiting for him at the table was still on his own. ‘They aren’t coming,’ he said miserably. He raked one hand through his fair hair. His forehead glistened and his skin had a greenish hue.
What was there to say? It was impossible to put things right.
Morosely, the young man reached for the bottle of whisky on the table and poured a shot into a glass. He drained the whisky in one gulp and reached for the bottle again, but the dark-haired man pushed it out of his reach.
‘Enough. We’re getting out of here.’
Glowering, the young man tried to get to his feet but staggered; the table rocked as he grabbed the edge. The whisky bottle and the glasses slid off, smashing on the stone floor. He stared bleakly at the jagged pieces glinting in the puddle of whisky and beer then almost toppled into the lap of the heavily rouged and powdered woman sitting at the next table. He clutched at her dress to steady himself, dislodging the neckline.
‘You’ll have to pay if you want to look down there, sweetheart.’ She laughed and shoved him off, rearranging her cleavage.
Her scowling companion started from his seat. He wore an open-necked shirt that revealed a burly chest. The sinews in his thick neck bulged and he clenched his fists.
The dark-haired man pulled a couple of dollars out of his pocket and pushed them across the table. ‘Sorry about my friend. He’s had a few too many tonight, and some bad news. Please, have a drink on us. Happy New Year.’
The woman’s companion hesitated then shrugged and sat down again. ‘Happy New Year, friend. No hard feelings. But I’d get yer mate out of here before someone rearranges that pretty face of his.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ the dark-haired man said dryly.
Outside, the temperature had markedly dropped. The young man gagged and doubled over. His companion helped him to the side of the road and looked away as he vomited bile and alcohol. When it was over, he handed the young man a handkerchief. ‘Here, use this.’
The streets grew quieter as they neared the hotel. In the lobby, the woman behind the desk glared at them. ‘I hope there’s going to be no extra laundry. I charge double, New Year’s Eve or not.’
After making a stumbling ascent of the stairs, they reached a narrow landing painted a drab shade of brown that presented a series of doors. They stopped at the last one; it was unlocked. Inside was a pokey room. A lightbulb with a cheap paper shade – the graveyard of years of dead flies – cast a glaucous light over an ugly table and chair and a bed covered with a faded red counterpane. The young man crumpled onto it and turned his face to the wall.
The window was shut, so the dark-haired man went over and struggled with the sash. After a few moments, it yielded and air crept into the stuffy room. Distant cheers and shouts drifted from the centre of town. A million shooting stars and fountains of light: red, blue, green, silver and gold, split the night sky. As the first round of fireworks faded, welcoming in 1934, a succession of others took its place, each volley crackling and fizzing before it died, until a pall of smoke lay over the rooftops.
His heart hollow, the dark-haired man went over to the bed and looked down at his companion, who, in spite of the commotion, was asleep. Very gently, he reached out a hand and stroked his cheek then brushed back a lock of hair that had stuck to the pale, clammy skin. After a few moments, he returned to the window to view the display. His clenched fists rested heavily on the windowsill.
Then fear seized him. Was it his imagination or had something deep in the earth moved?
Chapter 2
April 1935
Ceylon
It was the day of the Empire Cup, the most fashionable event in Nuala’s racing calendar. While he waited for his wife, Jane, to get ready, Inspector Shanti de Silva strolled around his garden. Overnight rain had revived the red earth and freshened the trees and flowers. His beloved roses looked splendid and the grass under his feet was a springy, emerald carpet.
He turned to see Jane walking across the lawn towards him. ‘Do I look suitable?’
‘Of course you do, you always look lovely. Is that a new dress?’
She shook her head. ‘Shanti dear, I’ve worn it dozens of times.’
‘Well, it’s very nice.’
‘But I have bought something new for the dinner at the Residence tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘As long as we still have money to eat,’ he said with a grin.
She pinched his sleeve. ‘You know I don’t spend extravagant sums on dresses, and this is very pretty - a sea-green silk with a bolero jacket. I think you’ll like it. I plan to wear it with my pearls.’
‘I’m only teasing, and I’m sure I’ll love it.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we be on our way? It would be a pity to miss the first race.’
The Morris Cowley waited for them on the drive. One of the houseboys had washed and polished its smart navy paintwork and chrome fittings and they gleamed in the sun. De Silva started the engine and the car crunched over Sunnybank’s gravelled drive and turned onto the road.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,’ remarked Jane, putting up one hand to hold her hat in place as they speeded up. Sunshine filtered through the green tunnel of trees above them, dappling the road with light and shade. ‘Florence Clutterbuck says William Petrie and Lady Caroline will be here today. They’re up from Kandy for a while and have brought Lady Caroline’s nephew and his wife with them.’
De Silva didn’t comment. The arrival of this nephew, Ralph Wynne-Talbot, and his wife, Helen, seemed to have acted like a stone tossed into the quiet waters of the de Silvas’ sleepy little town. The Wynne-Talbots were being treated as the most exciting visitors to come to Nuala in a long time. He hoped they were not going to disappoint everyone.
At any rate, Florence Clutterbuck, the wife of the assistant government agent, Archie Clutterbuck, and self-appointed leader of Nuala society, clearly intended to make the most of the visit. It wasn’t every day that her husband’s superior and his wife bestowed their company on Nuala, let alone brought prestigious relatives with them. Among other things, Florence was organising a grand dinner to which everyone who was anyone in Nuala had been invited. De Silva supposed he should be flattered that he and Jane were on the list, although he wasn’t fond of having to dress up for the occasion.
Jane sniffed. ‘Well, aren’t you curious to see them?’
He chuckled. ‘If you want me to be, then I am.’
His wife reached across the steering wheel and gave his knuckles a brisk rap. ‘You’re very provoking.’
De Silva smiled and changed gear as he decelerated to negotiate the bullock cart lumbering towards them. It surprised him that his down-to-earth wife was so excited about the whole business; he concluded it must be an English trait to take such an interest in the British aristocracy, in which the Wynne-Talbots were, apparently, about to play a notable part.
Jane had explained to him several days previously that they were in Ceylon en route from Australia to England. In England they would be visiting Ralph’s grandfather, William Wynne-Talbot, 13th Earl of Axford, who was not in the best of health. His death, when it unfortunately occurred, would make Ralph the fourteenth earl and master of a large tract of the English Midlands. He would also inherit Axford Court, generally considered to be one of the finest stately homes in England. In the days of Henry VIII, it had replaced the draughty, medieval castle built by Guillaume de Wynne, a Norman knight who had come over to England with William the Conqueror.
Henry had rewarded Guillaume’s Tudor descendant with the earldom for his services to the Crown. The first earl had the good sense to keep his king’s favour by building a house that was large and magnificent enough to eclipse those of his peers, but not so grand that it overshadowed the royal palaces.
Yes, Ralph Wynne-Talbot’s prospects were bright: a great landowner and a belted earl with the surety of a welcome in the highest echelons of society.
‘But one thing puzzles me,’ Jane remarke
d when she had imparted all this information. ‘I don’t understand why Ralph Wynne-Talbot has no title. Florence Clutterbuck was speculating as to why that should be, and even though I don’t like gossip, she does have a point.’
‘Why would he have one? I thought you said it was his grandfather who was the Earl of Axford.’
‘Yes, but where an ancient family like theirs is concerned, they usually have more than one title. The earldom will be the principal one but any lesser one, say viscount, is usually given to the male heir as a courtesy.’
De Silva shrugged. ‘Perhaps there is no lesser one.’
‘It would be odd. Florence thinks it strange too that Lady Caroline has never mentioned her nephew up until now. I wouldn’t expect to have heard about him, but the Clutterbucks have known the Petries for many more years than we have.’
‘There’s probably some perfectly simple explanation,’ said De Silva, rather bored with the topic. ‘Nearly there. I hope there are some decent parking places left.’
The course was already bustling with chattering, laughing racegoers. A few had arrived by car but most on foot, so to de Silva’s satisfaction, the Morris came to rest in an ideal place close to the entrance to the course.
Racing was a popular sport with all classes of Nuala’s society and visitors in saris and sarongs mingled with those wearing floral frocks, western-style suits or even morning dress and top hats. As they passed one of the refreshment tents, de Silva’s famously acute nose picked up an appetising aroma of cashew and pea curry. He and Jane had eaten lunch at home, but he must remember where the tent was. He could always find room for his favourite curry.
They made their way to the paddock where the horses entered in the first race were already collected, circling and fidgeting as if they knew that the race was imminent and were keen to be off. Their jockeys, mostly gentleman amateurs looking smart in their shining boots, breeches and colourful silks, chatted to owners and trainers.
‘I always think it’s most ingenious that they find so many different combinations of colours and patterns,’ said Jane. She pointed to one of the jockeys. ‘I like the look of the gold stars on the blue background.’
De Silva glanced at his card and then over at the rails where the bookies had set up their pitches. ‘He’s riding number twelve, Firefly. The odds are a hundred to eight.’
‘Oh dear, not much chance of winning then.’
‘You can never tell, although I agree it seems unlikely.’
‘Oh, but it’s a pretty name, maybe I’ll put a few rupees on each way.’
‘Well, I suppose a pretty name is as good a reason as any. We’d better get over to the bookies, then. The race will start soon.’
Unfortunately, Firefly finished second to last but the de Silvas’ choice in the next race fared better, coming fourth. They were nearing the paddock to see the horses entered in the third race, the Empire Cup itself, when Jane shaded her eyes and pointed to a group standing inside the ring.
‘Oh, look over there! The Petries, and Florence and Archie Clutterbuck with them. The young couple must be the Wynne-Talbots. My, but she’s lovely, isn’t she? What beautiful blonde hair she has, and so slim. He looks very handsome too.’
De Silva studied the young couple without a great deal of interest, but he had to admit that his wife was right: Mrs Wynne-Talbot was a stunner. Tall and slender as a birch sapling, she had hair like spun gold, regular features that would not have been out of place on a Greek statue and delphinium-blue eyes. Her husband was equally striking but in a more robust way with dark-brown, wavy hair, a strong jaw and an athletic build.
Archie Clutterbuck noticed them and beckoned.
‘Ah, my love,’ whispered de Silva. ‘Here’s your chance to meet this famous couple.’
‘Oh dear, I wish I’d worn something smarter, and whatever shall we say to them?’
‘You look extremely smart. And as for what to say to them, there’s never a gap in the conversation with Florence Clutterbuck around.’
Jane giggled. ‘That’s very true.’
‘Splendid afternoon, eh?’ Archie Clutterbuck boomed genially as the de Silvas joined the little group that had formed around a fine chestnut filly. ‘Mrs de Silva! A pleasure to see you.’ He turned to the Petries. ‘Do you remember Inspector de Silva and his wife?’
‘Of course we do,’ Lady Caroline said with a smile. ‘We often tell people about your triumph in the Renshaw case, Inspector. I hope life has been a little more restful for you recently. But I forget my manners - may I present my nephew, Ralph Wynne-Talbot, and his wife, Helen?’
Helen of Troy, how apt, thought de Silva. He hoped she would stop at being a beauty, and not go on to cause a catastrophe.
They shook hands and exchanged polite murmurings; Helen Wynne-Talbot gave them a fleeting smile. Although she was tall for a woman, her hand was small and delicate and felt as insubstantial as a feather in de Silva’s. In contrast, her husband’s grip was firm and his smile all-encompassing. To de Silva’s way of thinking, however, the charm was just a little too practised.
Jane stroked the chestnut’s neck and the filly snorted and nuzzled her hand.
‘You’re fond of horses, Mrs de Silva?’ asked William Petrie.
‘Yes, when I was a governess in England, one of the families I worked for were keen riders and had a large stable.’
‘We hope this one’s in with a chance today. Our trainer tells us she’s been performing very well over the gallops. But racing’s a funny old game, so I don’t suggest you put the family fortune on her.’
Jane smiled. ‘Perhaps just a little flutter.’
‘Do you have many horses running today, sir?’ de Silva asked.
‘Only two. Kashmir in the second to last race and this one, Carolina Moon.’ He touched Lady Caroline’s arm. ‘A tribute to my dear wife and a favourite song of ours.’
‘And a delightful one, I must say,’ said Florence Clutterbuck. De Silva smiled to himself. Florence probably thought she had been left out of the conversation for quite long enough.
A voice boomed over the loudspeaker calling the horses to the starting post. Carolina Moon tossed her head and showed the whites of her eyes. Her groom, a small wiry man, brought her under control and the jockey mounted. As he gathered the reins and made ready to go, they all wished him luck.
The de Silvas said their goodbyes and walked over to one of the bookies. After a brief deliberation, they put a few rupees on Carolina Moon to win then went to find a space at the rails near the finishing post.
It took several minutes for the stewards to marshal the seething mass of horses into some kind of order, then the starter fired his pistol and they were off. The track had softened a little with the rain, but the horses’ hooves still thundered over the cropped turf as their jockeys crouched low in the saddles, urging them on. Slowly, the field separated into two groups, the leaders ten, then twenty yards ahead of the rest.
‘See how her jockey’s holding Petrie’s filly back in fourth place,’ said de Silva. ‘He’ll let the front runners set the pace then come through to win in the last few furlongs.’
Jane squeezed his arm. ‘You’re very knowledgeable all of a sudden. I hope that’s right.’
‘Of course it is. Haven’t we had a tip from the horse’s mouth?’
‘With reservations, dear.’ Jane raised an eyebrow.
The noise from the crowd increased as the horses streamed like a multi-coloured river around the final bend and into the home straight. ‘What did I tell you? She’s moving up!’ He struck the rail with his race card.
‘I hope the jockey hasn’t left it too late.’
The horses bunched so that it was hard to see who was ahead, then by inches Carolina Moon took the lead. In a few moments, she was clear and streaking towards the finishing line. A roar went up as she passed the post.
‘What a magnificent performance!’ De Silva beamed.
‘The Petries will be pleased. I hope we see them to cong
ratulate them. And how nice to have such an exciting result when Lady Caroline’s nephew and his wife are with them.’
‘We’d better go and collect our winnings.’
‘Oh yes, we mustn’t forget those.’
‘And after that, let’s go to one of the refreshment tents and celebrate. I’m beginning to feel a little peckish.’
Jane laughed. ‘Alright, I suppose it is a special occasion.’
As they left the bookies, they met Archie Clutterbuck who had also been collecting his winnings. ‘Don’t tell my wife,’ he begged. ‘Florence doesn’t really approve of gambling. I left her with the Petries and told her I needed to speak to someone on official matters for a few minutes.’
They walked back together to where he had left Florence with the Petries and congratulated them on the win.
‘Yes, all very gratifying,’ William Petrie said when he had thanked them. ‘I hope Kashmir continues our run of luck. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must go and congratulate our people.’
Florence lowered her voice conspiratorially as the Petries and the Wynne-Talbots walked away. ‘What a charming couple the Petries are and the nephew will be an ornament to the aristocracy, I’m sure. But the wife!’ Florence rolled her eyes. ‘She’s a funny little thing. Nothing to say for herself at all. I can’t imagine how she’ll manage as chatelaine of a great house like Axford Court. When she becomes Countess of Axford, she’ll be expected to take her place in London society and take the lead in the county too, when the family’s in residence. It will be essential for her to stamp her authority on her staff.’
When he wanted some light relief from his usual reading matter of the English classics, de Silva enjoyed the stories of P G Wodehouse. A vision of Wodehouse’s creation, the stately butler, Jeeves, floated into his mind. Florence Clutterbuck had a point. As Jane would say, one would need to get up very early in the morning to stay ahead of Jeeves.
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 16