The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  ‘You must tell the inspector about Vijay’s other work, Kuveni,’ prompted Prasanna. ‘It is important he knows what Vijay saw.’

  A wary expression came over Kuveni’s face. She twisted a fold of her sari. ‘He has friends who help him sometimes. They are shikaris for the British when they do their hunting. Vijay was always the best at tracking. If he goes with them, they give him some of the money they are paid, but he has to be careful not to be noticed.’

  De Silva put down his pen and scratched his head. He shouldn’t condone what the young man was doing. The Europeans and Americans who came to Ceylon for the hunting were invariably well off and usually generous with their tips, provided that their trackers did a good job and found them plenty of game to massacre. Accordingly, tracking jobs were highly sought after and jealously guarded. Under the British system for regulating hunting, they were supposed to be parcelled out by village headmen. No wonder Vijay didn’t want to be noticed.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because Vijay was at World’s End on the night when the English lady died. He saw her fall but then he ran away because he should not have been there.’

  De Silva felt a surge of interest; he scrutinised Kuveni. ‘Please ask your brother to say exactly what he saw. It’s important he understands the question and doesn’t miss out anything he remembers.’

  Kuveni spoke rapidly to Vijay who answered at some length.

  ‘He says he saw the British lady come out of her tent. She stood for a few moments, but she seemed to be in a dream as if she was not awake. She walked very slowly towards the precipice. Some of the ground she walked on was sharp with stones. Creeping plants grow there that will give you pain if you are not used to going barefoot. But the lady took no notice and kept on walking. A man came out of one of the other tents. Vijay saw it was the British officer. By the time he noticed the British lady, she was standing at the edge. She turned once. Vijay does not know if she saw he was there. Then she was gone.’

  ‘Please thank your brother. His information is very helpful. I promise you his name won’t go outside this room.’

  Kuveni looked relieved.

  De Silva leant back in his chair with a frown. This new evidence was very interesting. From the scene the young man described, it was possible that Mrs Wynne-Talbot had been sleepwalking. Her slow pace and obliviousness to pain could be indications that she was in a trance. But then, as he and Clutterbuck had discussed just after her death, sleepwalkers were known to retain a sense of self-preservation, so why would that be absent in this case? Might there be drugs involved? Yet none had been found in her tent.

  He turned the possibilities over in his mind then finally settled on suicide. With what Helen Wynne-Talbot’s husband had told them about his wife’s state of mind, it seemed the most likely cause of death. But why did he still feel that something wasn’t quite right? Was there unfinished business? A loose end left untied?

  He put the thought out of his mind. He was seeing conspiracies where there were none. Fortunately, as Clutterbuck needed no further convincing of Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s suicide, keeping Vijay’s secret safe was easier. Normally he would agree that regulations should be upheld, but in this case, they could go hang. All that remained was to do what he could to help this brother and sister.

  ‘I’ll speak again with the assistant government agent,’ he said.

  A look of anxiety crossed Kuveni’s face.

  ‘As I said, there will be no need to explain to him that your brother was at World’s End.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You may go now. I assume my sergeant knows where to find you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll send him to you when there’s news. Prasanna, come back here when you’ve shown your friends out.’

  ‘I didn’t want to dash their hopes,’ he said when Prasanna returned. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not very optimistic.’

  His sergeant looked downcast. ‘But you will try, sir?’

  ‘Of course, I’ve said I will.’

  Prasanna’s eyes swivelled to the window and the view of Kuveni and Vijay walking away from the station. The girl’s slim figure and pretty face turned many heads as she went by. It was easy to see why Prasanna was keen to impress her with his usefulness, but he must be aware that he was heading into deep waters. With his mother’s ideas about suitable girls, she was bound to disapprove strongly. He wanted to give the lad some advice, tell him Kuveni wasn’t the only girl in the world. But of course there was no point. Anyone could see that the boy was head over heels in love. All the time she had been speaking, his eyes had never left her face. As far as he was concerned, no one else mattered.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I expect your mother will be pleased to have you home. After your good work on the Wynne-Talbot case, I’ll see to it you’re rewarded with a bonus.’

  Prasanna thanked him and departed, but the prospect of a bonus didn’t seem to have cheered him much.

  Chapter 21

  At home, he and Jane sat on the verandah drinking tea as he brought her up to date with the news about Helen Wynne-Talbot, Laetitia Lane and James Aubrey.

  ‘Gracious, it all sounds very dramatic about Miss Lane and Major Aubrey,’ she said when he had finished. ‘Just like the plot of a film. Do you know where they’ll go now?’

  ‘They’ve already left Nuala, but for where, I have no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll be retired to some sleepy village in the English countryside as they would be in a novel. Or maybe the South of France to enjoy their reward from a grateful government.’

  De Silva grinned. ‘I imagine Laetitia Lane would choose the second option every time.’

  ‘No doubt.’ She sighed. ‘So we can all settle down happily again, except, of course, for poor Ralph Wynne-Talbot. Florence told me there’s been news from England. His grandfather has died. It’s so sad they will never meet. Florence says Lady Caroline intends to travel back to England with him after the funeral. I expect he’ll be glad of her support. He’ll have to take his seat in the House of Lords as well as taking charge of the Axford estate.’

  ‘Hmm, yes. I suppose he will have a lot to think about.’

  ‘Sergeant Prasanna must be relieved to be back in Nuala. I hope you gave him plenty of praise.’

  ‘I did, but I can’t say he’s very happy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Poor lad,’ she said when he reached the end of the story. ‘Even if he does find that this girl cares for him, he’ll have to get round his mother. From what I’ve seen of her, that won’t be easy.’

  ‘No, it won’t. At least the Prasannas are Buddhists, so strictly speaking, there ought not to be a problem of caste as there would be if they were Hindu. But that’s not to say there’ll be no prejudice, especially as the girl is from the Vedda people.’

  They lapsed into silence. ‘I do hope something can be done,’ remarked Jane after a while. ‘It must be hard for them, living among strangers.’

  ‘No doubt, although I believe the girl will adapt given time. If she’s already managing skilled work, she might do well in the end.’

  ‘You liked her, didn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I did. She hasn’t had any advantages in life, but she seems intelligent and polite. The sort of person one would like to help.’

  ‘Perhaps she might even be better off staying in Nuala.’

  ‘Who knows? Certainly Prasanna would be delighted.’

  ‘Do you think Archie Clutterbuck will help them?’

  He frowned. At the moment he was in no position to press Archie Clutterbuck to do anything, but hopefully time would change that. Anyway, he didn’t want to say too much and make Jane worry.

  ‘He’s a decent man. I expect he’ll agree to look into it eventually. When all the excitement’s over, I’ll bring the subject up again and see how he reacts.’

  ‘Good.’

  She shivered.

  ‘What’s wrong
?’

  ‘I was just thinking about poor Helen Wynne-Talbot. She must have been very unhappy to take her own life. I can’t imagine what she was thinking as she walked towards that precipice.’

  ‘If Vijay is right, there might have been nothing going through her mind.’

  ‘You mean she was sleepwalking, or had worked herself up into some kind of trance?’

  ‘There have been many instances of that at religious festivals here and in India. People’s minds depart from their bodies and they harm themselves without feeling pain.’

  ‘But Helen Wynne-Talbot was British.’

  ‘I agree it would not be a British way of behaving, so in answer to your question, I think it’s extremely unlikely. It was early morning and only just getting light. Vijay may not have seen Mrs Wynne-Talbot’s face as clearly as he thinks he did. People from the villages are very superstitious, Vedda people more than most. Vijay probably finds it impossible to credit that anyone would harm themselves unless a devil had entered their body.’

  Jane sighed. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t be too quick to mock. After all, there’s a great deal we Europeans don’t understand about mental illness.’

  He got to his feet; suddenly he was weary of talking about the case. It had been a waste of time and worse still, for the moment, it had probably lost him Archie Clutterbuck’s goodwill.

  ‘Do I have time for a walk around the garden before dinner?’

  ‘Plenty of time. I’ve been teaching Cook to prepare some new dishes and I thought we’d have one of them tonight: chicken fricassée. I told him to take his time and it won’t be ready for at least an hour.’

  She picked up her book. ‘Oh, and dear,’ she added, ‘if you’re planning to be out for long, would you change your shoes? It’s cooling down and there’ll soon be dew on the grass.’

  He went to the bedroom to change his shoes then returned to the drawing room. Surreptitiously, he opened the silver cigarette box that Jane liked to keep for visitors. He took out a cigarette then went to the garden by the side door. Once he was outside, he lit the cigarette and inhaled, drawing the pungent smoke deep into his lungs. He couldn’t remember when he’d last smoked – Jane preferred him not to – but just now, he needed the calming effect of tobacco.

  That expectant hush that foreshadows night had descended on the garden. As he wandered between the flowerbeds, daylight faded. He stopped to smell a chrysanthemum that had opened fully since that morning: a sunburst of shell-pink petals, each one tightly furled like the paper spills the servants used to light the fires in winter. After roses, chrysanthemums were his favourites. He remembered how his mother used to boil up the flowers to make a fragrant tea. She’d sworn by it as a cure for headaches and sore throats. When he was a teenager and hard to rouse in the mornings, she’d always brought him a steaming cup to wake him up ready for school.

  He wondered what she would have thought of his marrying an Englishwoman. She’d been both kind and generous, but he suspected that, like Sergeant Prasanna’s mother, she would have preferred him to settle down with a nice Sinhalese girl. His father, a policeman too, might have been more accepting. His work would have brought him into contact with the British whereas his mother spent her time in the house or with her Sinhalese friends.

  The regret he always felt when he thought of his father came over him. He wished he’d known him better; he’d been a schoolboy when he died. He would have liked to talk to him about how he had dealt with his British masters. Had there been times when he’d found it hard to steer the right course?

  A flock of egrets flew over, flapping lazily towards the rosy glow in the west. He heard the distant screech of a peacock and another answering it.

  One by one, the lights were going on in the town below. He walked to the end of the garden and stood by the privet hedge watching them. The words of a hymn they had sung at church the last time he went with Jane slipped into his head:

  When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,

  When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,

  Count your blessings, name them one by one,

  Count your blessings, see what God has done!

  Then something he couldn’t quite remember about conflicts great or small. He sighed. Did he invite problems? He had never thought so but certainly his assumption that life in Nuala would be peaceful and uncomplicated hadn’t proved to be correct. Perhaps he must accept that people made life complicated wherever you were.

  He looked back at the bungalow. The lamps on the verandah glowed and Jane still sat there, calmly reading her book. He hoped he was going to enjoy this chicken fricassée. The last English recipe Cook had served for dinner – Lancashire hotpot – had been moderately enlivened by the presence of plenty of onions, but he still preferred a good fiery curry. Still, Jane had accustomed herself to his country’s food, so he ought to make the effort in return.

  A figure appeared in the doorway to the verandah. Jane closed her book and waved. Dinner must be ready; he should go inside and wash his hands. As he crossed the lawn, it suddenly dawned on him why he had felt that something remained unfinished, even after young Vijay confirmed that Helen Wynne-Talbot had jumped.

  It was the anonymous caller to the station who had spoken to Nadar. He hadn’t telephoned back. Perhaps he was just a crank; one of those tiresome people who needed to bolster their sense of importance by pretending to know something about a case that no one else did, but in some obscure way, the silence bothered him.

  The chicken fricassée turned out to be pleasant, with a silky sauce and plenty of vegetables and chopped herbs. To de Silva’s mind, however, some chillies would have vastly improved the mild, grassy flavours. When dinner was over, he and Jane retired to the drawing room to read. After a surfeit of the muscular works of Sir Walter Scott, he wanted a change and Jane had suggested he try Jane Austen. He was reading Pride and Prejudice which he was enjoying far more than he had expected. He understood from Jane that Sir Walter had been a great admirer of Miss Austen’s works, as she had been of his, in spite of the fact that their novels could not be more different.

  He found the place where he had stopped the previous evening and settled into a new chapter. When it came to the end, he let the book fall in his lap and rested his eyes for a few moments. They felt rather scratchy this evening, perhaps the lingering effects of that dusty walk up to Horton Plains, even though it seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He wondered what Miss Austen had been like: an acerbic lady perhaps. Her observation of the workings of the human heart was perceptive and her eye for folly sharp. Would he have enjoyed meeting her? It might have been an unnerving experience. Perhaps he would have been as incapable of holding an interesting and rational conversation with her as dull Mr Collins or giddy Lydia.

  Jane looked up from her Agatha Christie. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Very well. It’s an excellent novel. As you said, a pleasant change from Sir Walter.’

  ‘Where have you got to?’

  ‘Darcy’s formidable aunt has just arrived at Longbourn to find out whether Elizabeth Bennet is hoping to marry him.’ He grinned. ‘I notice that in literature it’s frequently aunts who are cast as the villains – P G Wodehouse is another example – whereas uncles are mostly amiable.’

  Jane sniffed. ‘I hope you’re not implying anything.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  She closed her book and stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.’ She rested her chin on her hand pensively.

  ‘Sixpence for them?’

  ‘A penny, dear, it’s all they’re worth anyway. I was just thinking about Sergeant Prasanna again. It seems very harsh that he might have to give up this girl to please his mother.’

  He shrugged. ‘Yes, but who knows? The girl may not even be keen on him in the first place.’

  ‘Oh, surely she will be. Your sergeant’s a good-looking young man and you always say he has a bright futu
re if he stays in the force.’

  ‘I believe he does, but that doesn’t mean the girl will feel the same way about him as he does about her.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  He returned to his book but when he looked up again, Jane was still sitting in her chair, with the same thoughtful expression on her face.

  ‘What is it now? I hope you’re not turning into a Mrs Bennet, fretting about marrying her daughters off. There’s no point worrying about Prasanna and his love life. He’s old enough to stand up to his mother if this girl’s the one he really wants.’

  ‘Actually, I wasn’t thinking about him any longer, I was thinking about Ralph Wynne-Talbot.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I was wondering if he will marry again.’

  ‘I should think it’s rather more a question of when.’

  ‘Shanti!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean that unkindly, but won’t he need a wife to help with this great house he will inherit? Who will manage it for him?’

  Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d like to think a wife is something more than a housekeeper.’

  He put his book on the table beside his chair, reached out and pulled her onto his lap. ‘I can’t answer for the British aristocracy, but mine certainly is.’

  She stroked his hair. ‘I’m very glad to hear it. And I expect you’re right about Ralph Wynne-Talbot. It will be a lonely life if he doesn’t find someone to share it with, and I’m sure every mother of unmarried daughters in England will be eager to help him do so.’

  Chapter 22

  It rained steadily in the night. In the morning, the garden smelt of damp earth and grass, and birds darted between shimmering trees. As the Morris purred along the road into town, the beauty of the day dispelled de Silva’s gloom.

  Nadar was already at the station, but there was no sign of Prasanna. ‘He has gone to the bazaar, sir,’ Nadar said uncomfortably when de Silva asked where his colleague was.