The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  William Petrie was more of an unknown quantity. Socially, he seemed easy-going and kindly, but there was usually more than one side to a man. Petrie wouldn’t have risen as high as he had in the colonial service on affability alone. Probably he would dislike showing any weakness. He might also be angry at such an unpleasant interruption to the hunting party. Particularly as he wanted this Count Ranescu in a receptive mood.

  Enjoying the gentler terrain of the flat, grassy ground, the ponies trotted along confidently. A herd of sambhur, watched over by a stag with magnificent antlers, stopped grazing and galloped away as they approached. Half a mile on, they left the ponies with one of the shikaris and continued on foot.

  At a height of more than seven thousand feet above sea level, the air was thinner than de Silva was used to and he found keeping up with the shikaris strenuous. Soon, he felt as if a giant hand had fixed an iron band around his forehead and was slowly tightening it.

  The path left the grasslands and plunged into another forest, this time a denser one. Clouds of vapour wreathed the gnarled, moss-encrusted trees, contriving to leach the colour from the orchids and other epiphytes that had taken up precarious residence on their bark. The high altitude made the air chilly and damp. It moulded itself to de Silva’s body like a ghostly overcoat and he felt cold and miserable.

  Further on, high banks, veined with bulbous tree roots, rose on either side making it essential to walk in single file. A powerful smell of earth and decay filled de Silva’s nostrils. They started to walk over large boulders, the rock polished smooth by the waters of a now dry river. An incautious step trapped his foot and he grimaced with pain as he wrenched it out and limped on.

  He gave a sigh of relief when the boulder-strewn path ended, and they reached the first viewpoint at the place called Little World’s End. There, they paused briefly to catch their breath before going on; ten minutes later, the hunting party’s camp came into sight, pitched about sixty yards from the precipice at World’s End.

  Archie Clutterbuck saw him first and hurried over.

  ‘De Silva! You made good time; well done. Terrible business. William Petrie’s not a happy man. Not at all the way that he wanted the expedition to turn out. Poor Mrs Wynne-Talbot just went over the side. Didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Did you see it happen?’

  Clutterbuck shook his head. ‘Fast asleep in my tent. These long days out in the fresh air always poleaxe me. No, it was Major Aubrey who saw her go. Says he didn’t sleep well – got up for a smoke outside his tent around dawn. He noticed Helen Wynne-Talbot was up and on her own. Thought she must have slept badly too. She was standing at the edge of the precipice and he assumed she was admiring the view – as you probably know, it’s particularly fine at sunrise. He could hardly believe his eyes when she just stepped out into thin air.’

  De Silva’s brow furrowed. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Hard to credit it was anything else, unless she was sleepwalking, and don’t the medics say that even then a person has an instinct for self-preservation?’

  ‘I believe they do. How is Mr Wynne-Talbot taking the news?’

  ‘Much as you would expect – stiff upper lip and all that – but there’s bound to be a lot bubbling under the surface. He had no idea anything had happened until Aubrey raised the alarm. Lady Caroline’s very distressed and naturally worried about her nephew. You’ll need to handle both of them carefully.’

  The trace of an apologetic smile crossed his face. ‘Forgive me, de Silva. I appreciate you don’t need me to tell you how to do your job.’ He jabbed a hand through his thick, white hair. ‘This ghastly business has us all rattled.’

  William Petrie emerged from one of the tents and walked over to join them.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. My apologies for dragging you up here at such short notice.’

  ‘Please think nothing of it, sir. I’m very sorry to hear what’s happened. May I offer my condolences?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Petrie’s calm demeanour gave nothing away. ‘Has Clutterbuck filled you in?’

  ‘I understand Major Aubrey saw Mrs Wynne-Talbot fall.’

  ‘That’s correct. The rest of the party was still asleep, including myself and my wife. She’s extremely upset by all this, so she’s resting at the moment. I’d prefer it if she wasn’t disturbed.’

  ‘Of course, but if I may, I’d like to see the place where the lady fell and then ask the other members of the party a few questions.’

  ‘By all means, but apart from Aubrey, I doubt they’ll be able to tell you anything of importance.’

  De Silva nodded politely. ‘All the same, I would like to speak to them.’

  The three men walked away from the tents and had soon covered the short distance to the precipice. Beyond the edge, milky fog swirled, completely obscuring the jungle far below. It was a feature of World’s End that the view was only visible for a few hours in the morning before the heat from the jungle rose to meet the humid air of the plateau.

  ‘Aubrey tells me she stood there before she fell.’ Clutterbuck indicated a spot where a tuft of parched grass grew between a few loose stones.

  De Silva studied the spot. It was possible that Helen Wynne-Talbot had stumbled, but unlikely. The stones were small and it shouldn’t have been difficult for her to right herself. At sunrise, the visibility would have been good. Could she have been disorientated on waking, or fuddled with drink? If the violent argument he had witnessed at the races was a regular feature of the Wynne-Talbots’ relationship, she might have been in the habit of turning to the bottle for comfort. A temporary relief that would probably only make their marital difficulties worse in the long run.

  ‘Have you seen enough, Inspector?’ An impatient edge sharpened William Petrie’s voice.

  ‘For the present, sir. I’d like to speak to Major Aubrey now.’

  Aubrey sat on a camp stool in his tent. De Silva smelt whisky on the stuffy air. A glass and a half-empty bottle stood on a low table. The major followed de Silva’s glance. ‘Needed a stiffener,’ he said dismissively. ‘It’s not every day a chap wakes up to something like this. Of course, you can’t be in the army without seeing death close up, but there one’s prepared for it.’

  De Silva nodded. ‘It must have been a shock.’

  ‘It was.’

  Clutterbuck cleared his throat. ‘Well, gentlemen, shall we sit outside? Not much room in here.’

  Aubrey uncurled himself from his stool and stood up. He was in his mid-thirties, athletic in appearance and just over six feet tall, overtopping de Silva by several inches. His dark hair and chiselled good looks reminded de Silva of the American actor, Clark Gable, one of whose films he had seen recently with Jane at the cinema. Instead of Gable’s smooth confidence, however, Aubrey radiated tension and strain. Hardly surprising in the circumstances, reflected de Silva. He remembered that Aubrey was on leave from his post in Calcutta. Presumably it was exposure to the Indian sun that had tanned and weathered his skin.

  Clutterbuck led them to a table in the shade of a clump of trees. ‘I suggest we have something to eat.’ He snapped his fingers to summon a servant. ‘Coffee and eggs and be sharp about it.’

  De Silva frowned. Clutterbuck must be rattled, he didn’t usually play the colonial master so blatantly. With a sigh, he inwardly predicted that the servant would serve camp coffee. Revolting stuff that tasted of chicory and had probably never encountered a coffee bean. He suspected that Major Aubrey would have preferred more whisky and he wouldn’t have minded one himself. The damp chill of the journey still permeated his bones.

  They sat down and he brought out his notebook and pen from his knapsack and laid them on the table in front of him.

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you, Inspector,’ Aubrey began. ‘I don’t sleep soundly as a rule – army training I suppose – and it’s not unusual for me to wake at dawn.’

  ‘I understand you decided to get up for a smoke?’

  ‘That’s right.
I pulled on my trousers and a shirt and went outside. The moon had set and the sky was turning grey. There was a faint line of red on the eastern horizon.’

  He stopped as a servant laid out cups on the table and poured coffee. The smell of chicory rose to de Silva’s nostrils. Two more servants arrived with plates and cutlery followed by fried eggs. At least those were cooked as de Silva liked them, soft yolks and a little burnt around the edges.

  Aubrey waited until the servants had gone before he continued. ‘At first I didn’t realise anyone else was up. I put a plug of tobacco in my pipe, lit it and wandered towards the precipice to take a look at the view. I’d heard it’s at its best at dawn.’

  He paused and drank some of his coffee. ‘That was when I noticed Mrs Wynne-Talbot. She had her back to me and she was standing right at the edge of the precipice. I wasn’t sure what to do. I assumed she’d come out to admire the sunrise as I had and I didn’t want to alarm her in case she stumbled. She must have heard me because she turned round. I wished her good morning and said something about the light, but I don’t think she had a clue what I was talking about. She had the strangest expression on her face, as if she was listening to a sound from far away.’

  He stopped and they all waited a few moments.

  ‘And then?’ enquired de Silva at last.

  ‘Then she simply turned to face the drop, and was gone.’

  ‘And how long do you estimate the whole episode lasted?’

  ‘A minute, possibly two, but that’s a guess.’ A note of sarcasm came into his voice. ‘I’m not in the habit of witnessing suicides, and I forgot to look at my watch.’

  De Silva ignored the jibe and jotted down a quick note.

  ‘Were you acquainted with Mrs Wynne-Talbot before the expedition?’

  Aubrey shook his head. ‘Never met her or her husband until we started out from Nuala.’

  ‘Clutterbuck, Lady Caroline and I are the only people on the expedition who’d met the Wynne-Talbots before,’ William Petrie intervened.

  ‘I don’t believe I exchanged more than two words with her once we had met,’ Aubrey added.

  ‘Did she seem to be enjoying herself?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Petrie. ‘My wife’s nephew always takes the lead. Helen is,’ he paused, ‘was, a very reserved lady.’

  ‘I appreciate none of you knew her well, but was there anything unusual about her behaviour yesterday?’ De Silva lowered his voice. ‘Did anything seem amiss between her and her husband? Was she drinking more than usual?’

  Petrie’s eyebrows went up and de Silva was afraid he had been presumptuous. ‘There was nothing unusual about her behaviour and no argument with Wynne-Talbot,’ the government agent said firmly. ‘As for drink, from what I’ve seen of her, she hardly touched the stuff. A small sherry before dinner at most.’

  De Silva jotted down a few more notes. It was always possible that Mrs Wynne-Talbot drank more in private than she did in public, but suggesting that might further arouse Petrie’s displeasure and get them no further forward. He put down his pen.

  ‘Thank you, Major Aubrey. I don’t think I need detain you any longer.’

  Aubrey pushed back his stool and stood up. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’ He turned to William Petrie. ‘I suppose you’ll be calling a halt to the expedition now, sir?’

  Petrie nodded. ‘In the circumstances, it would be inappropriate to continue.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘When Inspector de Silva has completed his inquiries, I’ll make the arrangements for departure and you’ll be informed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Decent enough fellow,’ Petrie remarked quietly as Aubrey returned to his tent. ‘Even if he does seem a little too fond of the bottle. Still, today he has some excuse.’

  ‘Do you know much about his history?’

  ‘Very little. He mentioned to my wife that he grew up in Devon. He also told her his regiment has been stationed in India for several years, but he and I talked mainly about shooting, and not a great deal about that. I didn’t want to spare him too much time. In effect, Aubrey invited himself on this expedition and it was up to him to make himself agreeable. My brief was to see to it that the Ranescus had a good time.’

  He scowled. ‘One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Helen Wynne-Talbot turned out to be a most unfortunate addition to the party. Of course, I won’t say that in my wife’s hearing.’

  A twig cracked and he looked up. ‘Ah, here comes Countess Ranescu. By the way, she’s Italian, originally from Rome I believe, but her English is flawless.’

  De Silva was transfixed. The first sight of the countess was enough to take any man’s breath away. Whereas the tragic Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s beauty had been remote and ethereal, the countess was utterly beguiling. A pair of immaculately tailored khaki trousers and a cream silk shirt set off her lissom figure to perfection. An abundance of dark, wavy hair framed a vivacious face with eyes of such a dark blue that they were almost black. At the moment, their expression was solemn, but it was easy to imagine how they would sparkle when a less sombre occasion did not forbid merriment.

  Petrie and Clutterbuck scraped back their chairs in the dust and jumped to their feet; de Silva followed suit.

  ‘I hope I am not interrupting your talk, gentlemen.’ The countess’s seductively accented voice lingered over the words.

  ‘Not at all, Countess.’ William Petrie hurried to greet her and she held out her hand for him to kiss. Archie Clutterbuck straightened his tie and bowed. She rewarded him with a charming smile that revealed neat, flawlessly white teeth, then turned her attention to de Silva.

  ‘Ah, the famous Inspector de Silva.’

  To his surprise, de Silva felt a flush creep up his neck in a way that he had not experienced since his youth. He bowed. ‘You do me too much credit, Countess Ranescu.’

  ‘I’m sure I do not, Inspector. Everyone speaks very highly of you and your skill in solving mysteries and unmasking villainy. But how sad we must meet in such tragic circumstances. If there is anything I can do to help, I shall be delighted, but I fear I only know what Major Aubrey has to tell.’

  ‘But a woman’s intuition is a powerful tool,’ said Petrie. ‘The inspector has been asking whether we noticed anything strange about Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s behaviour yesterday. Can you help us?’

  The countess tilted her lovely head to one side and pondered for a moment before speaking quietly.

  ‘We had only just met, so she was unlikely to confide in me, but she did seem very sad. I wondered if she and her husband had had a disagreement, or perhaps she was not as fond of hunting as he was.’

  De Silva glanced at the tents scattered around the clearing. ‘Which one did Mrs Wynne-Talbot sleep in?’

  Petrie pointed. ‘That one, and my wife’s nephew has the one next to it. The tents are fairly small – it’s always a problem carrying equipment all this way – so it made sense to have one person to a tent.’

  ‘My tent is there,’ said the countess, pointing with a perfectly manicured finger. ‘And the count’s is on the far side. The distance to poor Signora Wynne-Talbot’s tent is not far, but he and I slept soundly and heard nothing.’ She made a sweeping gesture with her elegant hand. ‘So much fresh air, but so damp and chilly. The count suffers from a cold since we arrived here. His medicine is brandy.’

  The man who just then emerged from one of the tents she had pointed to was, de Silva assumed, the count. He was as stocky as his wife was slender, with a coarse moustache tweaked into handlebars on either side of his pink, fleshy lips. With his small, fierce eyes, he reminded de Silva of a bird of prey skulking on its perch. His very evident cold had probably ruffled his feathers even more than usual.

  Petrie hurried forward. ‘Please come and join us, Count Ranescu. Once again, I’m so sorry about all this, especially when you’re unwell.’

  Ranescu acknowledged Petrie’s remarks with a churlish nod. No doubt to him the death of a being
with two legs instead of four was an inexcusable inconvenience. He stared at de Silva rudely. ‘Who is this?’

  De Silva resolved not to give the man the satisfaction of responding with anything but courtesy. ‘Good morning, Count Ranescu. I am Inspector de Silva of the Nuala police, at your service.’

  The count grunted. ‘I suppose Petrie had to call you in, but to me the answer is obvious. The lady wished to kill herself and she succeeded.’

  An awkward silence descended and de Silva hoped this wouldn’t be the moment that Lady Caroline or, worse still, Ralph Wynne-Talbot chose to come out of their tents.

  ‘I’m sure you are hungry, dearest,’ the countess said quickly. ‘Perhaps something can be arranged?’ She smiled at William Petrie.

  ‘Of course, of course. I should have thought of it sooner.’

  Orders were barked and servants scuttled to bring up another table and more chairs. Soon the count was tucking into a large plate of eggs, which improved his mood a little but de Silva still learnt nothing from him or the countess that might throw new light on Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s death.

  When the count had eaten his fill, he and the countess retired to their tents.

  ‘Count or no count,’ Archie Clutterbuck muttered under his breath, ‘what a beautiful woman like the countess sees in that appalling fellow I find it impossible to imagine.’

  Petrie chuckled dryly. ‘Oh, I’m told he has redeeming features. Several million of them. I expect they go quite some way to providing compensation for the count’s lack of charm.’ He shrugged. ‘Otherwise, I agree with your assessment. To be perfectly honest, even if it weren’t for today’s unfortunate events, I’m not convinced we’d have built up any trust or respect with the count. I suppose I’ll have to put up with some flak from the Powers that Be in Colombo, but I can’t say I’ll be sorry to see the last of him. Two consecutive days in his company are more than any sane man should be obliged to endure; one doesn’t so much converse with him as get mown down by a juggernaut of tedious self-congratulation. As for his prowess with a shotgun, even though he’s very fond of claiming he was brought up with a Purdey in his hands on the family estates in Romania, he couldn’t hit a barn door at five paces.’