The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

‘Decent chap, Hebden,’ Buscott observed as the doctor walked away to find Joan Buscott. ‘Sound too, but unfortunately he wasn’t able to help Mrs Wynne-Talbot.’

  De Silva’s ears pricked up. So that was it. He’d presumed that Hebden had told him in strict confidence about Ralph Wynne-Talbot’s visit to him and he had respected that confidence, but Buscott’s remark opened up a can of worms. How many other people knew of the visit and from whom had they learnt of it? And more to the point, who did Hebden think had talked out of turn?

  Buscott’s attention was diverted by the need to find a prize for a little boy who had just dislodged a coconut with each of the five balls his father had paid for. ‘I think we’ve made it too easy,’ he sighed when he returned. ‘Ah, capital! Here comes Hebden with reinforcements.’

  The queue dwindled as teatime approached and people descended on the refreshment tent. Buscott mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. ‘Tea be damned,’ he said. ‘I need a proper drink. Beer, gentlemen?’

  Hebden nodded. ‘Excellent idea.’

  ‘What about you, de Silva?’

  Although de Silva had developed a taste for whisky, beer was a beverage whose appeal still eluded him. ‘I would prefer lemonade, if you don’t mind. Shall I come and help you?’ he added, not keen to be left alone with Hebden.

  ‘No need, I can manage three glasses. You and Hebden keep an eye on things here.’

  As Buscott went off in the direction of the refreshment tent, de Silva wondered what he should say. Hebden was bound to be offended if he thought that people in Nuala were questioning his professional ability. If he believed de Silva was the source of the story, he would inevitably direct his anger at him. One option was to say nothing and hope any animosity Hebden bore him would blow over. On the other hand, it would be interesting to know how Buscott had learnt that Hebden had been consulted over Helen Wynne-Talbot.

  Hesitantly, he glanced sideways and found the doctor’s grey eyes studying him grimly. There was no point dissembling.

  ‘Please believe me when I say that I’ve never spoken to anyone of what you told me about Mr Wynne-Talbot’s visit to you. And even though I trust her with my life to be discreet, I include my wife in that.’

  Hebden didn’t answer for a moment and de Silva’s pulse quickened. At last the doctor nodded. ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid someone did talk.’ He thrust out his chin. ‘Nevertheless, I stand by the advice I gave Wynne-Talbot. Tragic as the outcome was, his wife would have been no better off if I’d agreed to prescribe the drug he wanted. In fact it might even have increased her sufferings with the side-effects it causes.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘What he asked me for was a drug called Nembutal – a barbiturate. Among other things, it’s used for the treatment of anxiety and insomnia. In small doses it induces a feeling of wellbeing and sociability in the same way that alcohol does. Increase the dose, however, even by a small margin, and the patient becomes hostile, irritable and frequently exhausted. Co-ordination is impaired, falls and accidents become a grave risk. A patient may suffer from hallucinations. In this confusion, the risk of a fatal overdose is also high.’

  ‘In other words, a drug to be approached with great caution.’

  ‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t want a patient of mine prescribed it unless they were under continuing medical supervision.’

  ‘So if people were somehow given the impression that you refused to help Mrs Wynne-Talbot, even though there was a viable treatment available, that would be misleading?’

  ‘Extremely misleading.’

  Hebden’s brow furrowed. ‘If it wasn’t you, de Silva, and I hasten to add, I accept your assurance, who was it? I’ve had comments from all kinds of quarters, most of them harmless enough but I don’t like it. The trust between doctor and patient is meant to be sacrosanct.’

  De Silva looked up and saw John Buscott coming across the lawn with two glass tankards of India Pale Ale and a tall glass of lemonade.

  ‘Enough said for the moment,’ Hebden muttered. ‘I suppose Buscott knows too?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  An interesting exchange, de Silva thought as he sipped his lemonade and listened to the two Englishmen discuss cricket scores. If the opportunity arose, he’d like to find out where John Buscott had got his information from. It was also tempting to speculate why Ralph Wynne-Talbot hadn’t wanted to talk to the older engineer about the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Was it simply because he didn’t have the time, or was there more to it than that?

  The afternoon drew to a close and people started to drift away. De Silva helped to dismantle the coconut shy and the donkey then went to find Jane who greeted him with a broad smile.

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a better time of it than I have,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  De Silva cast a glance at the other ladies still packing up unsold items and put a finger to his lips. ‘I’ll explain on the way home.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Jane as the Morris bowled along in the direction of Sunnybank.

  ‘Buscott was no problem. It was Hebden.’

  ‘Doctor Hebden? But he seems such a charming man.’

  De Silva frowned. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you about Ralph Wynne-Talbot. Something Hebden told me in strict confidence. I suppose he thought he could trust me as I’m a policeman, and of course, if I had questioned him formally, he would have been obliged to tell me. Anyway, I kept the information to myself, then, to be perfectly honest, I forgot about it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Wynne-Talbot came to see Hebden a few days before his wife’s death, asking him to prescribe a drug called Nembutal.’

  Jane nodded. ‘I’ve read about it. It’s for the treatment of depression, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Where did you hear about it?’

  ‘I forget. It might have been an article in one of my film magazines.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that was it. There was a film made in America about a doctor who illicitly experimented on his patients with different drugs and it was one of them.’

  ‘Well, the point is, Hebden declined to prescribe it because he thinks it often does more harm than good.’

  ‘That does rather bear out what I believe happened in the film.’

  ‘Wynne-Talbot apparently accepted his decision and that would have been the end of it except somehow word of their meeting got out.’

  ‘Surely you didn’t say anything, dear?’

  ‘Certainly not, but there was a bit of an awkward moment while Hebden thought I was the one to blame. Luckily, he accepted my word that I wasn’t.’

  ‘I should hope so too. But who do you think it was?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. John Buscott mentioned it while we were waiting for Hebden to arrive but I didn’t have the chance to find out how he knew.’

  ‘That’s easy. I’m sure I can make discreet enquiries. I’ll see Joan tomorrow. She and I are going to the orphanage with Florence Clutterbuck. We need to take them the money we made at the fête.’

  ‘It might be very useful if you can find out.’

  Jane tilted her head to one side. ‘Does this mean you think there’s something suspicious about Ralph Wynne-Talbot asking for Nembutal? It could have been perfectly innocent, you know. After all, he’s not a medical man so he might not be aware of the disadvantages. In any case, he didn’t get his prescription and you said he didn’t argue with Doctor Hebden about that.’

  ‘I agree that there may be nothing in it, but you know me.’

  ‘I do, my dear. Never leave any stone unturned.’

  ‘So tell me about your afternoon. Why so cheerful?’

  ‘I do believe I’ve made a little bit of progress with Sergeant Prasanna’s problem.’

  ‘Really? That is good news.’

  ‘I saw his mother near the stall looking as if she wanted to come over.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘After a while, yes. She thumbed throu
gh those film magazines I donated. Except I was sure she was only pretending to read them. I went over and talked to her. The atmosphere was rather awkward at first, but I’m convinced it was all a ploy. She wants to find out more about Kuveni.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘Female intuition, dear.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I suddenly had an idea, so I steered the conversation round to the orphanage.’

  ‘You’re going too fast for me.’ De Silva grinned, amused by his wife’s energetic tone. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Because it occurred to me that I might be able to interest her in doing some kind of event to help us with raising money. An afternoon of beauty treatments or demonstrations perhaps, I’d need to work out the details. Anyway, that’s not so important. What is, is that she’s coming to have tea with me to talk about it.’

  ‘And Kuveni will be there?’

  Jane beamed triumphantly. ‘Of course, and once Mrs Prasanna gets to know her better, I’m certain she’ll take a favourable view of her son’s choice.’

  He laughed. ‘My head is in a whirl with all this matchmaking.’

  ‘But you do think it will work, don’t you?’ she asked, suddenly anxious.

  The Morris turned into the drive at Sunnybank and came to a stop at the front door. He applied the handbrake then leant across to kiss her cheek. ‘It sounds like an excellent plan. Well done, my love.’

  Chapter 28

  At breakfast on the Monday morning, de Silva found an envelope beside his plate. It was much too early for the post to have been delivered. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked the servant who brought his eggs.

  ‘It was on the front door mat at dawn, sahib. No one saw the messenger.’

  ‘Strange.’ He looked at his plate. ‘Good, the yolks are still soft. You can bring my coffee now, but tell Cook not to send the memsahib’s eggs out yet, she won’t be ready for another ten minutes at least.’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  The door closed behind the servant and de Silva slit the envelope with his knife – Jane would tell him off for that. He took out the letter and scanned it quickly then folded it up again and put it and the envelope in his pocket. How to deal with this? He wasn’t sure yet. He picked up his knife and fork and attacked his eggs on toast.

  **

  The commotion at the police station greeted him the moment he walked through the door. A perspiring Constable Nadar looked up with palpable relief at the sight of him, and the two irate, gesticulating men in front of the desk, surrounded by their noisy gangs of supporters, fell to grumbling quietly.

  ‘What’s going on, Constable?’ asked de Silva, ignoring them all for the moment. Nadar started to speak, but finding a second wind, the crowd started talking and shouting once again. De Silva raised a hand. ‘Silence! Or I’ll have the lot of you thrown out.’

  With resentful looks, the crowd went quiet. De Silva pointed to the main protagonists. ‘The two of you may come into my office. Nadar, show the rest the door.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The two men trooped into the office behind de Silva and stood with downcast eyes while he settled himself behind his desk and took up paper and pen. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  ‘He let his bullock knock over my stall. Everything is ruined – mangoes, bananas, everything. Nothing can be sold – all trampled in the dust.’

  ‘He lies! And he has lost nothing worth selling anyway. It was all rotting produce no one wanted. Nothing else was touched.’

  The first man lunged at his adversary’s throat. ‘I do not lie,’ he hissed.

  De Silva brought his fist down hard on the desktop. ‘Enough!’

  Both of the men stopped, resentful expressions on their faces. ‘I’ll come and see for myself,’ said de Silva. ‘Wait for me outside.’ Muttering, the men went out to the public room and de Silva waited for a few minutes before following them. It would do them no harm to have a little time to cool off. He took out the letter that had been delivered that morning and read it once more then put it in one of his desk drawers. Perhaps it was as well that he didn’t have time to decide how to act on it straight away. He’d think about it when this squabble was resolved.

  **

  ‘What a morning,’ he said when he returned home for lunch. ‘At one point the whole bazaar must have been involved and of course everyone had an opinion.’

  ‘Really, dear? What was the matter?’

  ‘Oh, a bullock ran amok and turned over a fruit and vegetable seller’s stall. The bullock’s owner was denying the damaged goods were worth anything.’

  ‘Did you manage to resolve it?’

  ‘After an hour or so, but it was hard going and I’m not sure either of them are really satisfied. Still, it can’t be helped.’

  ‘What a pity. Come and have your lunch. Cook has made your favourite.’

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘Pea and cashew curry. Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Jane as they ate. ‘I managed to find out what you wanted to know about Ralph Wynne-Talbot and Doctor Hebden.’

  ‘That didn’t take you long.’

  ‘It was easy. Joan Buscott’s a charming lady, and she doesn’t have a suspicious bone in her body. Apparently she heard it from Florence and told her husband.’

  ‘And did you find out who Florence heard it from?’

  Jane gave him a triumphant smile. ‘I did. It was from Ralph Wynne-Talbot himself.’

  De Silva gave a low whistle.

  ‘It does seem odd, doesn’t it? But then after the tragedy he’s suffered, perhaps he needed to prove to himself and everyone else that he did everything he could to prevent it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s it.’ He scooped up the last of his curry and rice and ate it then pushed the plate away. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Will you have some more?’

  ‘Better not.’ He patted his stomach.

  ‘How sensible of you, my dear. Can you stay for a while?’

  ‘No, I’d better get back. I’ve paperwork that needs dealing with and this morning held me up. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I’ll be late home this evening. I have to see someone down in Hatton, so don’t keep dinner waiting for me.’

  ‘Alright, dear.’

  As he went out to the Morris, he felt guilty about not telling her the truth, but it was better that way. Nevertheless, a knot tightened in his stomach.

  At the station, Nadar was alone. De Silva frowned. ‘I don’t recall sending Prasanna out for anything today. Where is he?’

  Nadar fiddled with a pencil. ‘He didn’t come in, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I think he has some problems, sir…’

  De Silva’s frown deepened. If Prasanna and Kuveni had argued, surely Jane would have known about it?

  ‘It is his aunties, sir. They tell him he will be the death of his mother and he must mend his ways.’

  So that was it. To be frank, he was surprised this hadn’t happened sooner. He hesitated: best not to mention Jane’s scheme to Nadar for the moment. ‘Hmm. In the circumstances, if you see him, you may tell him I excuse him today, but I expect him in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Nadar unhappily.

  In his office, de Silva took the letter from his drawer and studied the hand-drawn map and brief instructions one more time. Jane’s news clinched it; Ralph Wynne-Talbot’s admission might have been the outpouring of a troubled mind, but it might have been less innocent. He had to know for sure. Distractedly, he applied himself to his paperwork. There were several hours to go before the rendezvous.

  Chapter 29

  Matthew Claybourne waited for him at an unremarkable guest house on the road that led north out of Nuala. De Silva wasn’t surprised he hadn’t thought to search it before. He found a place where the Morris wouldn’t be too conspicuous and promised the guest house owner a generous tip to keep an eye on it.

  They took Claybourne’s car and drov
e for half an hour until the road became too broken up to go on. Setting off on foot, de Silva felt uneasy. There had been rain the previous night and the reddish-coloured mud on the narrow track soon coated his shoes and the bottoms of his uniform trouser legs. The trees crowded in on them, the smell of humid, burgeoning vegetation mingling unpleasantly with the stench of decay. A film of sweat soon covered his face and a million microscopic insects made the air hum with the vibration of their wings.

  A nasty suspicion grew in his mind that Johnny Randall – if that was who the man calling himself Ralph Wynne-Talbot really was – would not show up. Realistically, he held all the cards. Even if there was truth in Claybourne’s accusation, William Petrie and Archie Clutterbuck were unlikely to believe him. If I were in Wynne-Talbot’s place, thought de Silva, I’d keep away, and if necessary, deny everything and rely on people thinking Claybourne was a crank, and a malicious one at that.

  He yelped as, preoccupied with his thoughts, he stumbled over a tangle of roots snaking across the path.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Claybourne sharply.

  ‘I tripped over one of these damned roots.’

  ‘You’d better be more careful. I’m not planning on carrying you if you break anything.’

  De Silva’s fists clenched then he reminded himself of his resolve. They had started, and whatever the hazards, he would finish this crazy expedition. If it proved a waste of time and Claybourne still wouldn’t see sense, he’d arrest him for wasting police time.

  By the time they reached the spot where the jungle thinned, the sun was slipping below the tree canopy. It grew harder to see the way, but de Silva realised they were walking through what remained of an old coffee plantation. The area once under cultivation looked to have been quite small – a reminder that not all the planters who had come to Ceylon had been wealthy men.

  In places, skeletons of coffee bushes clawed up from the brushwood and weeds, desolate evidence of Hemileia vastatrix. Coffee rust: or as it was more commonly known, Devastating Emily. The terrible blight had ravaged the coffee fields nearly seventy years ago, in most cases bankrupting those who had previously profited from Ceylon’s fragrant black gold. It had taken years for the hill country to recover as the more tenacious planters developed the tea trade.