The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  ‘Of course not.’

  He went back into the house but was out again a moment later with the maid in his wake, carrying the bag and a stylish cloche hat that was soon settled on Florence’s head. She proffered her cheek, and he planted a rather awkward kiss on it. ‘Take care, my dear,’ he said as he straightened up.

  She patted his arm. ‘I will. I’ll send a telegram to let you know we’ve arrived safely.’

  He nodded.

  De Silva felt somewhat guilty. He hoped he wasn’t being a raspberry at this leave-taking – or was it a gooseberry? He must ask Jane. But neither of the Clutterbucks seemed inclined to linger. Florence was soon ensconced in the official car’s back seat with the household mop on her lap, and her maid in front with the chauffeur.

  ‘They’ve plenty of time to get to the station at Nanu Oya,’ Clutterbuck remarked. ‘But they’ll need it with all that luggage to load on the train. Beats me why my wife needs to take so much; I suppose some is gifts for her hosts. She insisted on taking them tea – says it tastes better when it comes straight from the plantation rather than via the auctions at Colombo.’

  He raised a hand and waved as the official car glided down the drive, slowed to go between the wrought-iron gates, and turned onto the road.

  ‘Well,’ he said briskly. ‘You’d better come inside and tell me how you got on with old Coryat.’

  **

  Clutterbuck leant back in his chair, rested his elbows on the desk and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Mr Coryat wasn’t impressed with what I had to show him, I’m afraid. It was his opinion that none of the pieces were of any value. He also said he wasn’t aware of there ever having been excavations in that area. He suggested that the pieces might have been in Velu’s possession because he was hoping to sell them to unscrupulous market traders who would sell them on to gullible tourists looking for souvenirs.’

  Clutterbuck reached for his cigarettes and lit up a Passing Cloud.

  ‘Plausible, I suppose,’ he said, shaking out the match and dropping it in the ashtray on his desk. ‘Perhaps Velu had an accomplice, and there was an argument that got out of hand. What do you think?’

  De Silva hesitated for a moment. On reflection, he had no good reason to doubt Henry Coryat’s capabilities, and the idea that he had lost his marbles wasn’t a serious one. Clutterbuck might well take a dim view of a local policeman questioning the opinion of someone the British regarded as an authority in his field. He’d have to tread carefully.

  Clutterbuck exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘Well, out with it,’ he said, in an encouraging tone. ‘It’s many moons since I saw old Coryat. I’m interested in your opinion of him. A man can go a bit doolally when he’s too much in his own company, you know. Do you think he’s still all there?’

  De Silva smiled. ‘He certainly didn’t seem mad, and I’m sure his opinion was based on a great deal of knowledge and experience, but nevertheless, we have so little else to go on that I’m unwilling to close off the line of investigation just yet.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Deciding not to mention the idea of a second opinion for the moment, de Silva drew a breath. ‘I’d like to spend some more time searching the area where we found Velu’s body. Even if the pieces I showed to Coryat are valueless, that doesn’t mean to say that Velu didn’t have others that are valuable.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that. I happened to be talking with Charlie Frobisher yesterday – the young fellow who helped you out on the old Hatton road. He saw you leaving the Residence after our meeting and asked how you were faring. I mentioned the business of this man Velu and your finds, and he was intrigued. It turns out he has an enthusiasm for archaeology. His grandfather was a keen amateur archaeologist and when he heard Frobisher was coming out here, he was very interested. He told Frobisher about a Victorian traveller who came to the Nuala area with the intention of doing a bit of treasure hunting.’

  ‘Did he find anything, sir?’

  ‘Not a scrap. Poor fellow died from a snakebite soon after he went into the jungle. He’d been the moving spirit and without him, the expedition collapsed. The locals dispersed, and his British companion returned home in poor health after contracting a fever.’

  De Silva shuddered at the mention of death by snakebite.

  ‘The companion never fully recovered and died a year after reaching home, but by then he had returned her husband’s effects to the widow,’ Clutterbuck went on. ‘There were diaries among them that Frobisher now has. There was some family connection, I believe, but he can tell you more about that himself.’

  He glanced out of the window. Dark clouds massed behind the belt of trees beyond the lawn. ‘When do you plan to make this search? The rain won’t hold off much longer. I suggest we see what the weather’s like in the morning then decide how to proceed.’

  De Silva was taken aback. Archie wanted to come too? Usually the only activities that inveigled him from the Residence were hunting, fishing, and golf. Was he developing a sense of adventure? Or had he always had one, but it had been held in check by his wife’s presence?

  ‘No need to look so bemused, de Silva. I won’t get in your way, but Frobisher piqued my interest. I want to see what you find first-hand. Frobisher will join us.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘We’ll speak in the morning. Oh, I almost forgot. The headman of the village where Velu lived appears to have a blameless record. My officials tell me he’s always had a reputation for paying the village taxes on time, and there’ve been no complaints about him from his villagers.’

  That didn’t mean to say that they had no grievances, thought de Silva; merely that none had ever been reported. But it provided some reassurance that he would be dealing with an honest man.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s helpful. I’ll go over there this afternoon and see what I can find out.’

  ‘Good.’

  Clutterbuck stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. ‘Until tomorrow then.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘Do you think Archie read King Solomon’s Mines as a boy?’ asked de Silva as he and Jane ate in the dining room. The clouds had opened on his way home to Sunnybank, and lunch on the verandah hadn’t seemed an appealing prospect. He ladled sambar into a bowl and topped the hot, spicy concoction with a couple of rice patties. He rubbed his hands. ‘Just what’s needed on such a dreary afternoon.’

  ‘I doubt there are many Englishmen of his stamp who didn’t,’ replied Jane with a laugh. ‘I agree it’s unusual for him to want to be personally involved in an investigation, so you’re probably right he’s attracted by the prospect of an adventure. I’m sure lots of Englishmen have harboured a secret desire to be Allan Quatermain and find lost cities of gold. It’s the kind of romantic notion that helped to build the British Empire.’

  ‘Particularly the prospect of the gold,’ de Silva said wryly. ‘But I must admit, it’s somewhat galling that it was his talk with Charlie Frobisher rather than anything I said that interested him in this expedition.’

  ‘You can’t assume that, dear. Anyway, you’ve got the result you wanted, whatever brought it about. And even if you’re right, it may not all have been down to Frobisher. I expect Archie’s rather bored too. Thanks to the monsoon, his beloved outdoor pursuits have to take a back seat, and we know he’s not much of a man for reading.’

  ‘He does have his job to do.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t take up every minute of the day.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  He finished off the sambar and rice then dabbed his lips with his napkin. ‘Excellent. Well, so long as he doesn’t expect me to play the noble savage, Umbopa, to his British Allan Quatermain, I don’t mind him coming along. It will be useful to have another pair of eyes, and Charlie Frobisher may prove to be a positive asset.’

  A servant came in to clear the plates and bring more rice and an array of curries.

  �
�Archie wants me to telephone him in the morning,’ de Silva said. ‘We’ll decide then if the weather’s good enough to go. Meanwhile, I’ll drive over to Velu’s village this afternoon and see if I can find out anything that might help us.’

  Jane frowned. ‘In this rain, dear?’

  He sniffed the delicious aroma of his favourite cashew and pea curry and piled some onto his plate. ‘If everything came to a halt because of the monsoon, we’d get nothing done from May to September. Don’t worry; I’m used to it.’

  **

  After a short nap, he drove to the police station and collected Prasanna. It would be handy to have him along to help find the way to the village – hopefully, in this weather, they wouldn’t need to walk too far from the road. It would also be useful to have Prasanna to smooth the path for the interview he hoped to have with Kuveni’s brother, Vijay, if they could find him. What the headman and the other villagers had to say might be important, but Vijay had worked with the dead man. He might even have been the last person to see him alive.

  In the few days since he had last driven along it, the monsoon rain had washed away more of the run-down surface of the old Hatton road. De Silva was glad that Gopallawa hadn’t telephoned to say the Morris was repaired. The borrowed car had its vices, including a tendency for the gear stick to jam between the second and third gears and a persistent leak where one of the windows didn’t roll up properly, but he had far fewer qualms about subjecting it to this rough road than he would have done with the Morris.

  The drive was a tedious one. Although his cold had seemed to be on the wane that morning, by the time they reached the spot where Prasanna advised leaving the car, de Silva had a headache from staring into the curtains of rain that reduced visibility to a quarter of the distance he felt comfortable with.

  He pulled the car off the road, and Prasanna ran to the boot and fetched the raingear they had brought with them. Struggling against the wind, they donned it and set off.

  De Silva had to keep a hand on his hat to stop it being blown away, and the wind buffeted his raincoat so that it constantly flapped against his legs and impeded him. The steaming, milky air caught in his throat; his body heat trapped by the raingear, he started to sweat profusely. He scowled as water streamed from the brim of his hat, some of it finding its ingenious way under his collar. Enviously, he looked at Prasanna who was making much lighter work of the journey than he was. Oh, to be a young man again.

  ‘Is it much further?’ he shouted over the wind and rain.

  ‘No, nearly there, sir. At the top of this slope, we’re on the edge of the village.’

  They ploughed on, the cleats of de Silva’s rubber boots by now so clogged with mud and mashed up fallen leaves that it seemed to him they weighed twice as much as they had when he first put them on. He consoled himself with the thought that at least no snakes would be out of their burrows in this weather.

  At last, to his relief, the shape of a thatched hut loomed out of the murk. Soon, they were at the centre of the small village. De Silva went over to the largest hut, presuming it to be the headman’s. He twitched aside the canvas curtain hanging across the doorway.

  ‘Hello?’

  There were rustling sounds inside, then a series of coughs. He called again.

  ‘Who is it?’ grumbled a man’s voice.

  ‘Police.’

  A moment passed then an elderly man came to the door and pulled back the curtain. He wore long, loose trousers and a bulky, dun-coloured woollen jumper, but his feet were bare. In contrast, the woollen hat pulled well down over his ears was as red as a cockscomb. Below it, his eyes had a wary expression.

  ‘Are you the headman here?’

  The elderly man nodded.

  ‘Can we come in? We mean you no harm. I need to ask you some questions.’

  Reluctantly, the headman stood aside for them to enter.

  It took a few moments for de Silva’s eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. When they were, he saw there were two young men in the room as well as three women, two of them young and one middle-aged, also numerous children. If any of them recognised Prasanna, they didn’t acknowledge him.

  The back of the room was taken up by a clutch of pallet beds. Next to one of them stood a crudely fashioned wooden cradle. Fetid air, stale cooking smells and the aroma of unwashed bodies made de Silva’s nose twitch. A bleating sound indicated that the family goats, presumably too valuable to be left out in the rain, were also somewhere inside the hut.

  The cradle suddenly emitted a loud wail. The headman barked an order to one of the women who went to pick up the baby and put it to her breast.

  ‘Tell me then,’ he said gruffly. ‘What has my grandson done?’

  De Silva saw the middle-aged woman pull the edge of her sari across to hide her face. He heard her weeping.

  ‘Your grandson?’ he asked with a frown. ‘I haven’t come about your grandson. I’m here to make inquiries about a man called Velu.’

  The wariness faded from the man’s eyes. ‘Velu? He hasn’t been here for many days. What do you want with him?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. First, tell me what kind of man he is.’

  ‘Not a good one. He’s lazy and likes to quarrel.’ He pointed to the prettier of the young women. ‘He wanted to marry my granddaughter, but I told him no. Later, he stole grain from me.’

  ‘Do you have proof of that?’

  ‘He denied it, but all the other villagers can be trusted.’

  De Silva let the summary judgement pass. It didn’t matter to Velu now.

  ‘Are any of his family in the village?’

  De Silva partly knew the answer, but he wanted to see if the headman confirmed that the woman who claimed to be Velu’s widow had told the truth. It wasn’t unknown for people to pretend they had lost a relative to get help. Kuveni might have been lied to as well.

  ‘He has a wife, but she is unhappy with him. He never gives her money. She grows vegetables on their plot and sells them in exchange for rice and eggs.’

  ‘Has Velu talked of leaving the village for good?’

  The headman shrugged. ‘He’s hardly here anyway.’

  ‘Where does he go?’

  Another shrug. ‘He never says. And when I tell him that if he doesn’t work his patch of land, I’ll give it and his hut to a family who need it, he laughs and boasts he’ll soon have somewhere much better to live.’

  ‘What about his wife? How would she live?’

  ‘As a servant in Nuala perhaps? Who can say?’

  What an unpleasant man, thought de Silva. The British might be happy with the way he ran his village, but there was no kindness in him.

  The middle-aged woman had stopped weeping, and she and the younger two were now huddled by the back wall of the hut, whispering to each other. The young men watched the proceedings with mild interest.

  ‘But why are you asking about Velu, sahib?’ the headman asked.

  ‘He’s been murdered. His body was found in the jungle near here.’

  A gasp came from the women, but the young men and the headman seemed unperturbed. ‘Then I can give his hut and his land to someone else,’ said the latter, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

  ‘Not before my sergeant and I have had time to search it,’ said de Silva firmly. ‘Get one of your boys to take us there now.’

  The headman nodded to one of the young men. ‘My son will take you.’

  Truculently, the headman’s son went to the door and waited for de Silva and Prasanna to follow.

  ‘Before we go,’ said de Silva, ‘what’s this about your grandson?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It must be something, or why did you ask what he’d done this time?’

  The headman was tight-lipped. De Silva looked at the women, but they avoided his eye.

  ‘You may as well tell me now. I won’t go anywhere until I have an answer.’

  ‘There was some trouble in Hatton,’ the headman started reluctantly. �
�Bad men said my grandson was involved, but the British magistrate didn’t find him guilty of any crime. He was set free.’

  ‘But he’s not here now. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Perhaps he has found work in Hatton.’

  ‘Why would he do that and not tell you?’

  The headman raised an eyebrow and pointed a bony finger at the middle-aged woman who began to cry again. ‘Ask her, she is his mother, the widow of my son by my first wife. Maybe he was tired of her complaining,’ he added viciously.

  The woman hung her head. Her young companions made sympathetic noises that seemed to infuriate the headman. ‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Was there ever a man as unlucky with his wives as I am? The mother of these boys,’ he gestured to the two young men, ‘died complaining as well.’

  ‘We haven’t come to listen to your family troubles,’ de Silva said sharply. The headman might be praiseworthy in his public life, but if, as appeared to be the case, his private one left much to be desired, it was spiteful of him to air it to strangers.

  He went to the door where the headman’s son waited. ‘We’re wasting time. Take us to Velu’s hut now.’

  Back out in the rain, they squelched across what seemed to be the central path through the village onto a narrower one. The huts looked much poorer and many of their thatched roofs showed signs of rot. There was no one about apart from a few rangy dogs scavenging in the gully that ran along one side of the path and some disconsolate chickens penned up in crates placed on their sides and turned into coops by pieces of wire tacked over the openings.

  Velu’s hut was neat but as dispiriting as the rest. Steady drips plopped from several holes in the banana-leaf thatch through which appeared gunmetal sky. A tin can, charred from use as a cooking utensil, contained the remains of a meal. De Silva sighed. He felt even more sorry for Velu’s wife than he had before. The picture of her life that was emerging was a grim one.

  ‘Thank you, you may take us back now.’

  They splashed back to the main area of the village. De Silva gave the headman’s son a few annas which brightened his expression.