The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

De Silva felt irritated at being put off but there was no point arguing, so he nodded. Regrettably, Prasanna would have to be patient a little longer.

  Clutterbuck went to his desk and took something out of a drawer. ‘I almost forgot. This is a picture that was taken of our party before we went up to Horton Plains. I’ve no use for it and I don’t suppose anyone else wants to be reminded, but it’s a decent photo of Mrs Wynne-Talbot. It might be a help in your search.’

  ‘Good idea, sir. I’ll take it with me.’

  Chapter 10

  Jane was far more of a cinema fan than he was, avidly devouring all the film magazines she could lay her hands on. However, he enjoyed the visit to the cinema to see the Busby Berkley film. The choreography, with its kaleidoscopes of perfectly synchronised, tirelessly smiling bathing belles, seemed to him to have something in common with the cases he had solved over the years – a multitude of elements that eventually resolved themselves into a pattern that made sense. At least that was what you hoped would happen.

  ‘What a delightful film,’ she remarked as they drove away from the Casino cinema that evening.

  ‘Not as much storyline as 42nd Street, though.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s the singing and dancing one goes for.’

  ‘I’ll give you that.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you for coming. They’re showing The Thin Man next month. That will be more up your street.’

  But his attention hadn’t just strayed because of the film. His thoughts had distracted him too. Although he had agreed with Clutterbuck about Major Aubrey, the uncertainty he’d felt about the officer had come back to haunt him. It was hard to put the reason into words. He simply had the feeling that the dismissal of Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s death as suicide was too convenient.

  Then there was Ralph Wynne-Talbot. Why had he taken a provincial doctor like Hebden, whom he’d never met before, into his confidence about his wife? In a short time, they would have been in England, and able to afford the best medical help money could buy in London’s famous Harley Street.

  ‘You’re very preoccupied,’ said Jane as the Morris sped along the quiet roads towards Sunnybank. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not wrong exactly, but I’m concerned I’ve missed something.’

  ‘You mean about Mrs Wynne-Talbot?’

  ‘Yes. Do you remember what I told you about the count and countess?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘It appears they’re not the only people who have something to hide.’

  ‘Really? I imagine you don’t mean Archie or the Petries so that leaves Major Aubrey.’

  ‘Precisely. I asked Clutterbuck if he would make enquiries about him. He wasn’t willing at first, but then he agreed to get in touch with Colombo and ask for their assistance. Clutterbuck called me up to the Residence today. Aubrey lied about being stationed in Calcutta. He hasn’t been there for two years. That was strange enough but then another telegram came with instructions that there were to be no further enquiries.’

  ‘That is odd.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And there was no explanation?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Does that make you suspicious of Major Aubrey? I mean as far as Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s death is concerned. But then why would he want to do her harm?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘There’s something not quite right about Aubrey, quite apart from what we’ve heard from Colombo. When I questioned him, he seemed a troubled soul.’

  ‘He had just witnessed a terrible death, dear.’

  ‘Of course, but I had the feeling it was more than that.’

  ‘How did he come to be with the hunting party?’

  ‘Apparently, he invited himself. Archie Clutterbuck told me he let Aubrey come along because he seemed agreeable and likely to be a good shot. He talked a lot about the shooting he’d done in India, and as we know, old Archie loves a sportsman.’

  Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure he does. Florence often regales us on sewing afternoons with stories of the elephant and tiger hunts he took part in when they were in Bengal. I don’t think I’m the only one who finds it distasteful.’

  He changed down a gear as the Morris slid into the final bend before the driveway to Sunnybank. ‘I’ll show you something when we get home,’ he said. ‘I’d be interested in your opinion.’

  Settled on the floral-patterned sofa in their comfortable drawing room, de Silva dropped the photograph Clutterbuck had given him into Jane’s lap. ‘Here you are. Take a look and tell me what you think. Aubrey’s the one on the far left.’

  ‘So this is the rogues’ gallery.’ She studied the photograph in silence for a while. ‘I must say, if anyone looks like a villain, it’s Count Ranescu. What a belligerent-looking man! One would hesitate to argue with him.’

  She tilted the photograph so that the light from the lamp on the side table fell on it more brightly. ‘The countess, if that’s who she is, looks very familiar.’

  She peered more closely at the photograph then looked up with a triumphant smile. ‘I think I know who this is. When I worked in London as a governess, I had a friend who liked the theatre and sometimes we’d go to matinées together on our days off. We saw all sorts of plays – Terence Rattigan, Noel Coward, Oscar Wilde. This lady looks just like an actress who used to be in the West End. She usually played the juvenile leads, but then she ran off with a wealthy businessman and gave up the stage. The gossip columns were full of it at the time.’

  De Silva rubbed his chin. ‘That’s most interesting. How sure are you?’

  Jane looked at the photograph again. ‘Pretty sure. She was a very beautiful young woman. It’s hard to credit there would be anyone else who looked like her. Let me see, she would have been about twenty then. A few years younger than I was and it was fifteen years ago.’ She put down the photograph. ‘As you say, she looks about thirty-five, so that would be right. Now what was her name? Laetitia…’ She paused and her brow puckered. ‘Laetitia Lane! That was it.’

  De Silva chuckled. ‘If she is an impostor, being an actress would explain how she gives such a convincing performance. I doubt even a genuine countess would possess more aristocratic poise.’

  ‘I think you’re rather struck with the lady.’ Her smile admonished him.

  ‘I only have eyes for you, my love.’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘Seriously, if I am right, it probably makes no difference to your case. But let’s just suppose that it wasn’t suicide—’

  ‘Who might be the murderer? You must have read enough detective novels to think of all the possibilities.’

  She pondered a few moments. ‘What if there’s something going on between Miss Lane and the major? Maybe it wasn’t an accident that they were on the same expedition. Helen Wynne-Talbot might have overhead them talking or even discovered them together, and the major decided she must be silenced.’

  ‘That would be a most dramatic twist, but you are making him out to be an incorrigible villain and very precipitant.’

  ‘People can do terrible things when surprised in guilty acts, at least they do in novels.’

  ‘Any other ideas?’

  ‘Could Aubrey and Mrs Wynne-Talbot have rigged the whole thing? As you haven’t found her body yet, how can you be sure that she’s really dead? Perhaps she and the major are the ones in love and they plan to run away together.’

  De Silva rubbed his chin. It was a possibility that had crossed his mind, but he had dismissed it on the grounds that it would have been hard for Helen Wynne-Talbot to leave Horton Plains without attracting attention. Also, as far as he knew, Aubrey was still in Nuala. Unless he had misjudged Helen Wynne-Talbot, she didn’t have the resourcefulness to go into hiding on her own until Aubrey could join her.

  But then there was the missing shikari, who still wasn’t accounted for. Should his absence tell them something? Might he have witnessed the incident and been bribed or threa
tened by Aubrey into keeping quiet? If he knew the truth of what had happened at World’s End, he needed to be found, but how? His fellow shikaris were obviously not going to co-operate, either because they genuinely knew nothing about him or they too had been warned off.

  His head throbbed. It was too late in the evening to sift the wheat from the… the expression refused to surface in his tired mind.

  ‘These are interesting ideas, my love,’ he said wearily. ‘Unfortunately, we’ll need more than inspired guesses to get to the bottom of this.’ He yawned. ‘I’m off to bed. Are you coming?’

  ‘In a moment.’

  ‘Let me know if you think of anything else.’

  ‘I will.’

  Later, unable to sleep despite his weariness, a condition that occasionally bedevilled him, de Silva mulled over their conversation. Jane had a very good memory for names and faces and she might well be right about the countess being this Laetitia Lane woman. In that case, what were the lady’s intentions? If she was the count’s mistress, she wouldn’t be the first woman, or the last, to snare a rich man who could give her the lifestyle she craved without being unduly concerned that he was married. It didn’t inevitably mean she was a murderer.

  He rolled over, glanced at the clock and groaned inwardly; it was ten past midnight. He was tempted to wake Jane and share his speculations with her, but she seemed to be sound asleep and he refrained. His thoughts dwelt on Laetitia Lane. It would be interesting to know more about what she was up to. Just suppose it was more than coincidental that she and Major Aubrey were both on the Horton Plains expedition. He had to admit, his curiosity was piqued and part of him was also attracted by the possibility of scoring a point. He still couldn’t shake off a lingering resentment that he had been steamrollered into abandoning any further investigation. If there was more to this business than at first met the eye, it would give him great satisfaction to show the British they were not as clever as they liked to think.

  Clutterbuck had mentioned that the count and countess were staying in the guest bungalow in the Residence grounds. The guest suites in the Residence itself were given over to the Petries and Ralph Wynne-Talbot. That was very fortunate. It would be impossible to search any of the rooms in the Residence without being apprehended; there were always servants about. But if the Ranescus were out, once the servants had cleaned and tidied the rooms in the guest bungalow, it was probably left unattended for the day. Searching the bungalow was a risk, of course; Archie Clutterbuck would explode if things went wrong, but the risk was one worth taking if a search revealed anything interesting about the countess.

  The bed creaked as Jane stirred beside him. ‘You’re awake. Are you still thinking about your case? Have you come to any conclusions?’

  He put his arms around her and kissed her. ‘Sadly not. Go back to sleep, my love.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘Has Florence mentioned how much longer the Ranescus plan to stay in Nuala?’ he asked at breakfast.

  ‘For another week or so, I believe. She was complaining about what hard work it is entertaining them. She’s quite taken to the countess whom she describes as absolutely charming, but apparently, the count is very difficult to please.’ She giggled. ‘In fact, the other day, Florence let her hair down in a most indiscreet way. She went so far as to call him a dreadful little man! Still, today she’s arranged an early morning elephant ride and a picnic by the river before the day gets too hot. She hopes that will be a success.’

  De Silva filed the information in his mind as he finished his egg hopper and wiped his lips on his napkin. Here was the perfect opportunity.

  ‘I must be on my way.’ He dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Have a good day, my love.’

  ‘Are you coming home for lunch?’

  ‘No, but I’ll try not to be late this evening.’

  He set off in the direction of the main entrance to the Residence but then diverged onto a series of increasingly narrow roads that eventually brought him to the rear of its grounds. He had walked round them with Jane the previous year when they’d attended a garden party in the Petries’ honour. Fortuitously, he had noticed where the guest bungalow was.

  Moving as stealthily as a plump detective could, he went as far as the spot where the trees ended and the bungalow’s lawn began. It was a pretty little place in the English style with mullioned windows and a profusion of deep pink roses growing up the whitewashed walls. He cursed inwardly at the sight of a gardener laboriously pushing a hoe back and forward in one of the flowerbeds. He looked as if he was planning to spend a long time over the task.

  The door opened and a maid appeared with an armful of bedlinen. She stopped briefly to speak to the gardener and de Silva heard laughter and rapid conversation before she walked on in the direction of the main house. The gardener returned to his desultory hoeing. De Silva sighed then squatted on his haunches to watch and wait.

  Nearly an hour passed before the gardener picked up his hoe and walked away. De Silva held back for a little while in case he returned, then came out of the trees and crossed the lawn to the bungalow. He had already decided that if anyone saw him, he would say there had been a report of a man acting suspiciously nearby and he had come to investigate.

  He tried the door and found to his relief that the maid hadn’t locked it. He pushed it open and went in. The bungalow was as pleasant inside as it was out. Pale walls made the rooms feel spacious and airy and decades of polishing had given the wooden floor a rich lustre that was set off by colourful rugs.

  There wasn’t a great deal of furniture in the hall or the sitting room and he soon finished his search. Moving on to the bedroom, he found a four-poster bed draped with a mosquito net; a dressing table; a chest of drawers and several cupboards. A shell-pink silk peignoir trimmed with ostrich feathers lay fanned out on the bed and dozens of expensive-looking pots and bottles containing make-up, face creams and perfume covered the dressing table. The “countess” obviously liked to be pampered.

  He left the drawers until last and turned his attention to the cupboards. How Jane would have loved to look through such beautiful clothes: dresses made of fine linen, crêpe de chine and silk; immaculately tailored slacks and skirts; silk blouses and elegant hats. For the count there were shirts from Turnbull & Asser, shoes from Lobb of London and all the jackets and trousers a well-dressed man could desire.

  At the bottom of one of the cupboards, he found a locked tin box that appeared to be bolted to the floor. Taking a thin piece of wire from his pocket, he started to work on the lock and after a few minutes, it clicked. He opened the lid and took careful note of how the contents were arranged before he went any further.

  At first there was nothing unusual – a large wad of money; a ladies’ gold dress watch; a suede pouch that contained a necklace set with diamonds; a double string of pearls and a pair of pearl earrings. The suede smelt of the same perfume that de Silva had noticed the countess wearing up at Horton Plains. At the bottom of the box he found three passports, one of them belonging to the count. De Silva opened the second one and let out a low whistle. Jane was right; it was a foreign passport with the countess’s picture, but the name of the holder was Laetitia Lanara. The third passport, in the same language as the count’s, also had her picture but gave her name as Countess Ranescu. He wrote down some details.

  When he had replaced the items as he found them, he locked the box again then started looking through the drawers in the chest and dressing table. A few minutes’ search revealed nothing of interest there or in the bathroom. Last of all, he found the Ranescus’ luggage stored away in a small room at the back of the bungalow.

  Patiently, he checked all the trunks and cases, running his hand over their linings too. Those labelled with the count’s name revealed nothing unusual, but when de Silva came to the ones that belonged to the countess, he paused at a crocodile-skin dressing case. There was a faint crackling sound when he ran his hand over the lining; something underneath it felt lumpy.

&
nbsp; On closer inspection, he noticed that a slit had been made in the fabric then the edges had been sewn together again. He took the wire that had opened the safe and carefully unpicked the stitches. When the slit was large enough, he reached in and brought out a small packet. He was about to remove the contents when he heard a sound. Was it the maid returning? Silently, he closed the dressing case, hid behind the door and waited.

  Time passed very slowly. The maid, and he was fairly sure by now that it was her for she was singing a Tamil song to herself as she moved about the room, was obviously in no hurry. He heard drawers open and close and the rattle of hangers on the cupboard rails.

  When at last her singing faded and the door closed, he breathed again. He must be quick; another interruption might be fatal. He peeled back the flap of the envelope and took out its contents. There were several photographs of Laetitia Lane, clearly taken by a professional photographer, and with them a letter in a language that was foreign to him. He squinted at the words and tried to make some of them out, but it was no use; he would write them down and hope they meant something to Jane. He would have to ask for her help now and admit what he had been up to. He also found two more identity documents, both in languages he didn’t know, and a British passport for Laetitia Lane.

  The contents of the letter and details of the documents copied into his notebook, he replaced everything in the envelope and pushed it back under the lining. Now he needed to find a way of sewing the slit up. Laetitia Lane didn’t look as if she spent any time on needlework, but if he was lucky, the maid might have left something useful behind.

  There was nothing in the bedroom, but in the sitting room he found a small sewing basket with one of the count’s shirts beside it. Quickly, he threaded a needle and went back to the storeroom. His stitches were clumsy, but hopefully Laetitia Lane didn’t have a sharp eye for such things. He tied off the thread, restored the dressing case to the place where he had found it and went to the sitting room to replace the needle. Outside, he had just reached the trees when he heard the maid’s song once more. He concealed himself behind the thick trunk of a coconut palm until she had gone into the bungalow, then he returned to the Morris.