The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  ‘In the circumstances, that was the least of my worries. I told her to go very slowly, and anyway, no harm was done.’

  There was a knock at the door and David Hebden came in.

  ‘Ah, I’m glad to see that my patient is awake.’

  He came to the bed, took de Silva’s pulse, and listened to his chest with a stethoscope. When he was done with that, he produced a small flashlight and turned it on. ‘Head up and stay still. Try not to blink.’

  De Silva waited while Hebden shone the light into both of his eyes. ‘Most satisfactory,’ Hebden said cheerfully when he had finished. ‘You’re a very fortunate man.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be ungrateful, Doctor Hebden, but I would like to go home as soon as possible.’

  ‘Naturally. Let’s say tomorrow, all being well. I’d like to keep you in overnight in case you have a relapse, although I don’t anticipate trouble.’

  He looked at Jane. ‘I rely on you to keep him in order, Mrs de Silva. Once he’s home, he needs to rest for a week at least.’

  Jane smiled. ‘I’ll make sure of it. How is Miss Watson?’

  ‘Recovering well from her ordeal, thanks to your husband. She’s staying with the Applebys for the moment.’

  ‘Good. I’m sure Peggy will look after her excellently.’

  ‘Well, I’d better be off and see my other patients. I’ll be back in the morning.’

  The door closed behind him and de Silva scowled. ‘Rest for a whole week?’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told, dear,’ said Jane firmly.

  ‘Humph.’

  ‘Anyway, everything’s under control with Sheridan in custody, and Archie Clutterbuck has recovered the bearer bonds.’

  ‘That must be a relief to Mrs Danforth.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. At least she won’t want for money.’ She rested her chin on one hand. ‘The financial arrangement between her and her husband did sound a strange one. One can only assume she used her money to keep the upper hand.’

  ‘Drip feeding it to him when she thought she needed to, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps the aeroplane tickets and the luxuries like the Lagonda were to make up for demanding he didn’t tell anyone about Emerald.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But we’ll never know. It’s hardly the kind of question one can ask.’

  ‘Quite.’

  His stomach gave a low rumble. ‘But I will ask if there’s anything to eat in this place. I’m hungry.’

  Jane smiled and smoothed the hair from his forehead. ‘Good. I’m sure I can find something suitable.’

  Chapter 23

  A few days later

  ‘Have you heard yet what Mrs Danforth and the other members of the company plan to do?’ de Silva asked Jane.

  ‘She says she’ll go back to England. I’m not sure about the rest, apart from Emerald who’s staying here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You aren’t really surprised, are you? I’m certainly not. I’d put money on it that we’ll have an announcement in a few months’ time.’

  ‘Miss Watson and David Hebden?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure they’ll be very happy.’

  ‘I must say, I hadn’t thought of her as a provincial doctor’s wife – it’s a world away from a travelling life on the stage.’

  ‘That’s true, but it’s clear she’s in love and, given time, people usually adapt. She’s such a charming young lady. She’ll be a great asset to Nuala.’

  He grinned. ‘Is this the wisdom of Mrs Appleby or Mrs de Silva?’

  ‘Both.’

  He shifted in his chair and let out a yelp. Frowning, Jane reached to pat his uninjured arm. ‘Try not to move around too much, dear.’

  ‘I’m trying, but I forget.’

  ‘Oh, talking of forgetting, a parcel came for you.’ She levered herself out of her seat. ‘It’s in the hall. I’ll fetch it.’

  While she was gone, he surveyed the garden. Meringues of cloud drifted across the blue sky and a breeze as light as a cream puff cooled him. Hidden among the trees, a golden oriole sang. There were far worse places to recuperate and, in truth, he was rather looking forward to a respite from police work. It would do Prasanna good to be in charge for a while and Nadar was shaping up. I’m not far away if they need me, he thought, drifting into a doze.

  ‘Here it is.’ Jane returned with a neatly wrapped parcel the size of a small brick. ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to find it. One of the servants had moved it. You weren’t expecting anything, were you? I wonder what it can be.’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  He reached for the parcel then winced. ‘Ouch! You’ll have to do it for me.’

  Jane shook the parcel. ‘It doesn’t rattle, and it’s quite heavy.’

  ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘Patience, dear,’ said Jane, undoing the string and taking off the brown paper to reveal a fat book bound in burgundy leather with gold tooling on the spine. She held it up. ‘Alexandre Dumas: The Three Musketeers. There’s a note too. Shall I read it to you?’

  ‘Please.’

  To Inspector Shanti de Silva, (Nuala’s fifth musketeer!), I hope that you will accept this token of admiration and gratitude from myself and Angel. With best wishes for a speedy recovery, Florence Clutterbuck.

  ‘Gracious! I wasn’t expecting that.’ Jane giggled. ‘I shall have to keep an eye on you and Florence in future.’

  De Silva winced, partly from the very idea and partly from the pain that still afflicted his arm.

  ‘Good old Florence. You know perfectly well that won’t be necessary. I wonder if she thinks that my part in the sword fight was more swashbuckling than it really was. Fighting with a cushion and a Roman bust might be a bit of a disappointment.’

  ‘I’m not going to disillusion her,’ said Jane with a smile.

  He chuckled. ‘No, I do rather fancy a moment of glory. Anyway, it was a very kind thought and an amusing choice. I must thank her. Who knows, I might even pick up a few tips.’

  Jane smiled. ‘Possibly, dear, but I sincerely hope we never have another situation where you need to use them. Now, I have things to see to. Will you be alright on your own for a while?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Shall I put on some music for you?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘No, you choose.’

  As Jane disappeared into the house, his thoughts turned to Frank Sheridan. The actor had often been on de Silva’s mind in the last few days. The charitable view was that Sheridan had been almost as much a victim as Alexander Danforth. One could see him as the helpless pawn of his condition: two men trapped in one body. Jane said it reminded her of the story of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

  De Silva wondered, not for the first time, why Sheridan had written those words on the mirror: the rest is silence. Unless Danforth had let something slip, Sheridan was very unlikely to have known that Polly Devlin had died. But he clearly bore Danforth a grudge that went beyond rational bounds for depriving him of the woman he loved. In Sheridan’s twisted state of mind, were those words his marker that he had finally exacted revenge on the friend who, in his dark hours, he regarded as his worst enemy?

  The soothing strains of a Chopin Nocturne drifted from the house. De Silva decided to put unanswerable questions aside. If he was honest, although he had no need of silence, a rest was very welcome.

  He opened The Three Musketeers and settled down to read.

  **

  Historical Note

  The abdication of Edward VIII is touched on in this book and some further explanation may be of interest to readers.

  In our present age of instant global communication and social media, it’s hard to credit that the British public was largely unaware of the crisis that loomed for the monarchy in 1936. It was the case, however, although the story was being widely reported abroad, especially in the American press. The King’s insi
stence on marrying the twice-divorced American socialite, Wallis Simpson, with whom he had been having an affair for several years, rocked the throne. His ministers and the Church of England, of which he was head, were violently opposed to the match.

  It wasn’t until early December that the British press broke their silence when they took a remark by the Bishop of Bradford about the King’s need for spiritual guidance as licence to print. On December 11th, the Abdication Bill passed into law and Edward and Mrs Simpson left for France. His brother, George, who suffered from shyness and a terrible stammer, reluctantly succeeded him as George VI.

  An Inspector de Silva Mystery

  Fatal Finds in Nuala

  Harriet Steel

  Kindle edition first published 2018

  Copyright © Harriet Steel

  The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Chapter 1

  July 1937

  As he peered through the Morris’s rain-soaked windscreen, Inspector Shanti de Silva began to regret the impulse that had led him to arrange one of his occasional meetings with his counterpart in Hatton. Still, life couldn’t stop just because it was the monsoon season. Inspector Singh at Hatton had treated him to an excellent lunch too. He might not admit that to Jane, in case she decided to put him on short rations at dinner.

  Yet there was no getting away from the monsoon. The wipers were helpless to keep up with the torrential rain, and it was impossible to see more than twenty yards ahead. If he had to drive any slower, he might never get back to Nuala for dinner in any case. He resigned himself to the thought. It would be better for his waistline.

  The car rounded a bend and he saw something blocking the road. Braking carefully to avoid skidding, he came to a halt. A roadworker hurried over to the car, his waterproof cape flapping in the wind. De Silva wound down the window.

  ‘The road is closed, sahib,’ the man said apologetically. ‘A tree has come down.’

  ‘How long to clear it?’

  The roadworker waggled his head. ‘Who knows, sahib? It has only been reported a little time. I’m waiting for more men to come and help with the clearing. Tomorrow perhaps the road will be open again.’

  It wasn’t unreasonable, thought de Silva with a sigh. The tree couldn’t have been down all that long; the road had been clear when he passed this way going to Hatton. Well, unless he wanted to return there, his only option was to go back to the last crossroads and take the old road to Nuala. From what he remembered of the state of its surface, he’d have to drive even more slowly than on this one, but at least he’d be able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

  ‘I’ll turn around,’ he said to the roadworker. ‘Good luck with your job. I hope you don’t have to wait for too long for reinforcements.’

  ‘Thank you, sahib.’

  It took ten minutes to reach the crossroads. Piloting the Morris onto the old road, de Silva saw that his reservations hadn’t been misplaced; the surface was pitted with numerous potholes. Some of them could probably swallow a rickshaw and would certainly do the Morris’s axles no good at all if he went down one. Gingerly, he set off, weaving from one side of the road to the other in his efforts to avoid trouble. This kind of driving was anything but restful. Narrowly missing an enormous puddle in the depths of which lurked goodness knew what pitfalls, he made a mental note to postpone future visits to Hatton until the dry weather. It would have been no surprise if the wise carpenter of Benares had suddenly appeared, sailing along in his boat, or, as Jane’s Christian religion had it, old Noah and his Ark.

  Distracted by his musings about how all religions sought to explain cataclysmic weather in terms of a Divine plan, as well as by the need to concentrate on the road ahead, he didn’t notice the change in the Morris’s engine tone at first. But when he did, he realised with dismay that something was wrong. The engine spluttered again, and he felt a violent jolt. The Morris lost speed; a few yards later, it came to a complete halt.

  Steam drifted over the bonnet. He wasn’t sure whether it was the result of the fault, or simply the rain turning to vapour in the humid air. Whatever the case, he wasn’t hopeful that he would be able to fix the problem out here. If he couldn’t, it would be a job for Gopallawa Motors, and they were back in Nuala.

  He reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed his raincoat and hat. Getting out of the car, he pulled them on and went to open the bonnet. He was no mechanic and his ideas were soon exhausted. For sure, this was a problem he’d need Gopallawa Motors to solve.

  A glance at the sky told him that it would soon be dark. He had a choice: stay with the car and spend the night in the jungle or walk the rest of the way to town. He weighed up the options. If he walked fast, he might be on the outskirts in an hour or so. Maybe he would find a rickshaw man to take him home to Sunnybank. Alternatively, he could stay where he was and wait for another car to come by and rescue him, but then he might be waiting until morning. Dearly as he loved the Morris, she was not a comfortable bed.

  It was an awkward job steering her to the side of the road on his own, but eventually he accomplished it. He made sure that the handbrake was firmly on and set off in the direction of town, head down into the wind.

  Despite his waterproofs, he soon felt as soggy as yesterday’s rice. On he trudged, mud splattering his trousers and rain dripping from the brim of his hat. It found its way through the tongues of his shoes and soaked his socks. His feet squelched at every step. Jane had counselled him against going down to Hatton today, and she had been right.

  He reckoned he had walked about a mile when something that sounded very like a scream startled him; he stopped and listened. He wasn’t afraid of it being a wild animal. They had too much sense to be on the prowl on a night like this, but something about the eerie cry unnerved him.

  It came again, fading against the howl of the wind. He squared his shoulders. Perhaps he was imagining things and it was just the wind. Briskly, he stepped out once more.

  Then his heart started to pound. A pinpoint of white light was emerging from the darkness, dipping and swaying, emitting an inhuman wail.

  He didn’t think of himself as a superstitious man, but all reason deserted him. The Mohini! It must be the Mohini of ancient legend. The weeping, spirit-woman who haunted lonely roads, her dead baby in her arms. She begged her victims to help her, but if they did…

  His blood froze as he remembered the old tales.

  She was nearly on him! Her light dazzled him. Sweat poured from his forehead, mingling with the rain. His vision blurring, his breath came in ragged gasps. The ground caught at his feet like glue. In a burst of desperation, he wrenched himself free and ran, blundering into puddles and potholes; stumbling over the debris the storm had tossed onto the road. The cries grew louder.

  Then something struck him, and there was darkness.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Lucky for you that young Frobisher was also coming home from Hatton last night,’ said Archie Clutterbuck. ‘He was down there for me on official business. Even luckier he didn’t run you over. He told me he saw you in the nick of time and just managed to stop. If it hadn’t been for that branch coming down and hitting you on the head, there would have been no harm done.’

  De Silva swallowed. He had no intention of admitting his foolishness to his boss, the assistant government agent. Far from being the ghastly apparition he had feared, the white light had heralded the approach of Charlie Frobisher, a new member of the Residence’s staff. One of Frobisher’s car’s headlights had been out, and the heavy rain had done the rest. As
far as Frobisher was concerned, de Silva hadn’t been running as if his life depended on it; he had simply been the victim of a freak accident, knocked out by a dead branch brought down by the high wind.

  ‘I’m most grateful to him. Would you convey my thanks? I don’t know how I would have got home without his help.’

  ‘No lasting ill effects, I hope?’

  ‘Only a slight headache.’

  ‘Good; but you obviously took quite a knock from that branch. You must speak to Doctor Hebden if the headache gets any worse. I’m sure Mrs de Silva would say the same.’

  Jane would, and indeed she had in no uncertain terms.

  ‘Damnable time of year,’ Clutterbuck went on, conversationally. ‘Haven’t had a game of golf in weeks. Course is completely waterlogged, or so the head greenkeeper tells me. No shooting and precious little fishing to be done either.’

  He glanced at the elderly Labrador snoozing in front of the cheerful fire.

  ‘Just as well old Darcy doesn’t need as much exercise as he did when he was a youngster. I think he’d toast himself in front of that fire all day if I didn’t push him out occasionally.’

  From the pungent smell of drying dog, de Silva guessed that there had been a recent sortie.

  ‘Well, apart from running around in the dark getting yourself into scrapes, have you anything to report?’

  ‘Nothing of any importance, sir. My visit to Hatton was merely a routine one. I like to keep up with Inspector Singh down there.’

  ‘Good plan. Never know when you might need his cooperation, and then personal acquaintance is invaluable. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, eh?’

  ‘Quite right, sir.’

  Clutterbuck looked at his wristwatch. ‘I have a luncheon appointment in an hour, but I hope you’ll take a pre-prandial with me before you go. Something to keep out the damp, eh?’