The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  At a fork, he hesitated then took the left side. It wasn’t long, however, before he doubted he had made the right choice. He stopped, wondering whether he should go back then decided to walk a little further on in the hope of recognising a landmark. He vaguely remembered seeing a fine banyan tree whose aerial roots had grown into thick trunks, encircling their host tree.

  A few more minutes of walking and, to his relief, the banyan came into view. He found a log and sat down to rest, gazing at the massive tree. It was hard to believe that all this had grown from a tiny seed. It must be ancient, at least by the standards of the jungle where everything grew so quickly. There was something cathedral-like about the lofty arcade formed by the aerial roots that had swept down from the crown of the parent tree to plant themselves in the rich red earth. The parent tree’s hollow trunk was very thin in places, crisscrossed with parasitic vines. In a few years, it would rely entirely on its progeny to stay upright.

  His musings were interrupted by a loud crack close by. His heartbeat quickened: elephants? Perhaps he should take refuge behind one of the banyan’s roots. So long as the creatures didn’t see him, or did, but with their weak eyesight thought he was part of the tree, they shouldn’t be alarmed and attack. Jungle lore claimed that elephants heard better through their feet than they did with their ears, detecting shaking of the ground inaudible to humans. Cautiously, he moved to the nearest giant root and slipped into its shadow.

  Time passed, and nothing happened. De Silva’s heartbeat returned to its usual rate. He was about to carry on when there was a commotion that set his heart racing once more. Out of the trees shot a jungle fowl, flying low. Fleetingly, de Silva thought he saw a brown face watching him from a break in the wall of green, then it was gone.

  The fowl settled on the ground, its scarlet wattle still quivering with indignation, then recovered and started to peck for grubs in the leaf litter. De Silva noticed that some of its cobalt-blue tail feathers were missing. He wondered how it had happened. The bird didn’t seem to be moulting otherwise. Perhaps the face he’d seen was that of a villager who’d decided to come out into the jungle to hunt for the pot.

  At last he reached the village. The first thing he noticed was that there was some damage to the village well, presumably caused by the heavy rain. Part of the side had collapsed, and a party of men was shovelling earth out of the hole and repositioning stones.

  The headman leant on his stick directing operations. When he saw de Silva, he came over and greeted him with grudging civility.

  ‘Problems with the well?’ de Silva asked.

  ‘Always problems when the monsoon comes. What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Has your grandson returned?’

  A shake of the head. The headman jabbed his stick at the diggers and the pile of earth they had removed from the hole. ‘His mother still wails,’ he said grimly. ‘Maybe I tell them to bury her under that.’

  What a charmer, thought de Silva. ‘Are any of the other young men missing today?’

  A wary look came into the headman’s eyes. ‘Has there been more trouble? I am not responsible for all of them.’

  De Silva refrained from pointing out that, technically, he was.

  ‘I thought I saw a young man hunting jungle fowl on the way here. Why isn’t he here helping?’

  The headman hobbled over to the group working at the well, spoke to them briefly then came back. ‘They say no one went out hunting this morning.’

  ‘Are they sure?’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  The headman looked nettled, and de Silva sighed inwardly. Probably someone had, but how would he prove it? In any case, it was probably a harmless expedition. The British didn’t make a fuss about villagers hunting for the pot, only when they tracked and hunted big game without the proper licence. If Clutterbuck was right about the headman having a good reputation with the British though, de Silva wasn’t sure why he felt the need to be defensive. Maybe his reputation was undeserved. Still, he wasn’t the quarry today; no point going off on a tangent from the purpose of the visit.

  ‘Very well, if you’re certain.’

  He looked over at the well. ‘Your men would get on faster if there were fewer of them working at the same time. So many feet stepping on the ground around the well weakens the soil and makes it fall back in. I suggest you organise them into smaller groups. The next time rain comes, you will find you have only made the problem worse.’

  A muttered reply that de Silva didn’t choose to catch came from the headman.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he called out breezily, as he walked away. It was always good to have the last word.

  At the banyan tree, whoever had been watching him from the trees was nowhere in sight. The jungle fowl was still there, but it skittered away at his approach. The bird had been lucky; a pity he hadn’t. It might be worth another call to Inspector Singh at Hatton. If nothing new came from that, maybe he’d have to abandon the grandson as a line of inquiry.

  Chapter 15

  The call from Rudi Chockalingham came the next day. The man he had in mind, a senior curator at the Colombo museum, was willing to meet with de Silva and look at the artefacts.

  ‘I’m afraid I let slip that they had already been appraised by another expert though,’ he said. ‘He was surprised you couldn’t find anyone closer to Nuala. But he assured me his lips would be sealed.’

  De Silva sighed inwardly. A pity, but there was no help for it now.

  ‘Did you tell him it was Coryat?’

  ‘No, I told him the name was confidential, and he accepted that.’

  ‘Good. Thank you for making the arrangements. When can I meet him?’

  ‘The museum offices will be closed over the weekend, but he agreed to early next week. Just telephone me to say when you’ll arrive in Colombo, and I’ll confirm a time with him.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘The curator’s name is Professor Mahindra Jayakody, by the way. Let me know how it goes when we have that arrack, eh?’

  There was a touch of contrition in Rudi Chockalingham’s voice. De Silva thanked him once again, more warmly this time. Anyone could make a mistake.

  **

  ‘That’s perfect,’ said Jane. ‘I won’t need to let the vicar’s wife down. I promised to help at church on Sunday. We can take the train to Kandy on Monday and change to the sleeper for Colombo. We’ll have the Tuesday morning to drive to the hotel and settle in. You can see this Professor Jayakody in the afternoon if he’s still free. After that, we can enjoy our little holiday.’

  De Silva laughed. ‘I’ll let Rudi know. I’m glad you have it all worked out, my love.’

  ‘Oh, I do. I must check what time we need to be on board the sleeper. If we’re lucky, and your ankle’s up to it, there might be a chance to take a walk in the Botanical Gardens at Peradeniya beforehand. It’s so long since we’ve been there. I’d love to visit it again.’

  ‘I’d like that too.’

  ‘Are you going back to work this afternoon?’

  ‘I’d better for a few hours. I don’t want Prasanna and Nadar getting too much into the habit of slacking.’

  ‘I’ll book the hotel and send one of the servants for the rail tickets while you’re gone.’

  She beamed. ‘What a treat this will be.’

  ‘Even more so if it turns up something useful for the case.’

  ‘Whatever happens, at least no one can accuse you of leaving any stones unturned.’

  Chapter 16

  On the Monday, a servant drove them to the train station at Nanu Oya where they boarded the train for Kandy. De Silva was relieved to find that his ankle was giving him very little pain, and his cold had almost gone.

  The journey was uneventful. He spent the time reading, occasionally looking out of the window to see the green hills give way to the lowland landscape. Dense plantations of rubber and banana trees testified to the richness of the soil. From time to time, their dark green was interrup
ted by shimmering expanses of rice fields brimming with monsoon rain. Small villages raced by; children waved excitedly; brightly coloured prayer flags fluttered on trackside shrines; small lakes glittered, and egrets rose in white clouds from the fields.

  ‘We’re lucky to have a dry day for the journey,’ said Jane. ‘It should be beautiful in the Botanical Gardens.’

  De Silva craned his neck. ‘Look over there, there are grey clouds coming in.’

  ‘I’m sure the rain will hold off until we’re safely on the sleeper.’

  ‘If you say so, my dear.’

  The plump gentleman who was the only other occupant of the First Class carriage looked up from his copy of the Kandy Times. ‘I agree with you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘The forecast in the paper is for dry weather until late tonight.’

  Jane smiled at him. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The plump man folded his newspaper and smoothed the creases with well-manicured fingers. An expensively tailored, cream three-piece suit; a bow tie that matched his shiny, dark-brown shoes, and a hat made of fine straw gave him a dapper air. He looked to be a man at ease with the world.

  ‘My name is Joseph Edelman,’ he said. ‘May I take the liberty of asking yours?’

  ‘I’m Jane de Silva, and this is my husband, Shanti.’

  ‘Are you travelling all the way to Kandy?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘Ah, I’m delighted to hear it. Train journeys without good company are tedious. I’ve travelled this line many times. Lovely as the scenery is, it pales after a while.’

  He placed the newspaper on the seat beside him and tapped one of the articles. ‘I’m afraid there is still no news of Miss Earhart. I doubt there’s any hope of finding her now.’

  The aviatrix, Amelia Earhart, had taken off from New Guinea at the beginning of the month, heading for Howland Island, a speck of land two thousand miles away in the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. Her aim was to be the first woman to pilot an aeroplane round the world. Eight hundred miles into the flight, the coastguard vessel with which she was in radio contact lost track of her. Since then, no trace of her plane had been found.

  ‘What a tragic loss,’ said Jane sadly. ‘It was such a courageous plan.’

  ‘Indeed; Miss Earhart is, or I fear we must say was, a brave lady. I have never travelled by air myself, and I don’t think I should like to. I prefer to go by train.’ He smiled. ‘As I expect you have realised, I’m not British; I am from Switzerland. We have lakes and mountains, but no ocean bordering our country. The idea of nothing but water and sky as far as the eye can see alarms me.’

  ‘What brings you to Ceylon?’ de Silva asked.

  ‘My business. I deal in precious stones. Ceylon is renowned for the quality of its rubies and sapphires. After I concluded my transactions in Colombo, I decided to enjoy a few days in the hills. Now it’s time for me to return to Colombo. I have a passage booked on a ship that sails for Europe next week.’

  They chatted amicably until the journey ended, then, wishing the amiable Swiss goodbye, went to arrange for their luggage to be kept safe at the station until it was time to board the sleeper.

  Hiring a rickshaw for the short journey to the gardens at Peradeniya, they soon arrived and strolled in.

  The first impression a visitor has on entering the gardens is of vibrant colour. Flowerbeds overflowing with a profusion of flowers pepper the sweeping emerald green lawns. Then the eye takes in meandering paths that draw one further in. Magnificent trees offer shade; the lazy course of the Mahweli River widens to a lake carpeted with waterlilies, and sweet, spicy scents fill the air.

  Much as de Silva loved flowers, it was the trees in the gardens that impressed him most: the gigantic Java fig tree that spread like a huge living umbrella, taking up most of its surrounding lawn; the stately avenue of royal palms, and a towering tree planted as a sapling by the then British Prince of Wales, when he made his state visit to Ceylon in the previous century.

  When he was a child, de Silva had been fascinated by the cannonball tree close by. The melon-sized seed pods that gave the tree its name sprouted straight from the trunk, interlaced with long, knobbly stems that carried deep pink flowers, the shape of which reminded him of giant slugs.

  ‘My parents brought me here sometimes when I was a child,’ he said. ‘My mother had relations in Kandy we visited occasionally. I liked it when one of the pods fell from the tree and exploded on the ground. The stench was terrible though.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘It’s later than I thought. We’ll have to walk a bit faster if we’re to see everything.’

  ‘Are you sure you can manage?’

  ‘Definitely. My ankle’s fine now.’

  Quickening their pace, they found the out-of-the-way corner of the garden where the famous colony of fruit bats nested in the trees, making the branches restless with their constant comings and goings. Lastly, they went to the orchid house.

  ‘How beautiful they are,’ said Jane, smelling a pale-yellow flower with burgundy markings at its throat. ‘Especially the scented varieties.’ She frowned. ‘Shanti? Is something wrong?’

  With a start, he looked up. ‘Sorry, I was thinking about the case.’

  ‘You’re not regretting we’ve come, are you?’

  ‘No, but I wonder if I did the right thing confiding in Rudi Chockalingham. There might have been other ways of finding an expert to give a second opinion.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t expect it will matter. Henry Coryat’s been gone from the museum for a long time. This man probably wouldn’t even know him. Anyway, you don’t have to give his name.’

  De Silva shrugged. ‘That’s true. All the same, I would feel better if Rudi hadn’t slipped up.’

  They reached the gates and looked around in vain for a rickshaw.

  ‘How tiresome,’ said Jane. ‘I’m sure there were dozens free on the way in.’

  ‘Always the same when one’s in a hurry. We should have left sooner.’

  A voice called out to them, and they looked up to see their companion from the train leaning out of the window of a car. ‘If you’re bound for Kandy station, may I offer you a lift?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Why thank you,’ said Jane. ‘We hadn’t expected it to be so busy here at this time of day.’

  Edelman motioned to the man who sat in the passenger seat next to the driver. The man, who de Silva guessed was Edelman’s servant, jumped out and held the door to the back seat open for them to get in.

  ‘Thank you again,’ said Jane. ‘I was beginning to be afraid we’d be late.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure. Did you enjoy your walk?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Alas, I had a business appointment – that is why I arranged to have a car at my disposal – otherwise I would have liked some exercise myself.’

  Soon, they reached the station. The de Silvas thanked Edelman for his help then collected their luggage and paid a porter to take it to the train.

  ‘I’d forgotten how crowded Kandy is,’ said Jane as they followed the porter down the platform. Trolleys piled with luggage rumbled along; passengers for Second and Third Class carried boxes and bundles on their heads; food vendors’ stalls did a brisk trade, and beggars held out pleading hands. ‘I expect Colombo will be even more of a shock,’ she added.

  ‘We’ve become country pumpkins in the years we’ve been away, my love.’

  She giggled. ‘Bumpkins, dear.’

  But, in the hubbub, he didn’t hear her. He felt a headache coming on and his cold seemed to be getting worse again. Perhaps he had done a bit too much today. He hoped Jane would agree to have an early dinner and read until bedtime.

  With relief, he saw they had reached their carriage. He checked that the porter stowed their luggage in the right place and tipped him. Jane was already in their compartment when he boarded the train.

  ‘You look tired, dear.’

  ‘I am rather, and this wretched cold won’t go away. If you don’t mind, I�
��d like to eat early and come back here.’

  ‘If we finish dinner too soon, the attendant may not have come to get the bunks ready, but I suppose we can ask if we see someone.’

  ‘Oh, I’m perfectly content to read in our seats for a while. They can do the bunks later.’

  ‘Very well.’

  At least, de Silva thought, I will be content if I manage to give my head a rest from puzzling over this case.

  Chapter 17

  Polished mahogany panelling lined the walls of the First Class dining car. Brass fittings gleamed in the glow cast by bracket lamps with bell-shaped shades of etched glass. Crisp white cloths covered the tables; the cutlery was silver, and the crockery marked with the badge of the Royal Ceylon Railways, a picture of a stupa and an elephant, in a terracotta, brown and gold roundel surmounted by the Imperial crown.

  As he and Jane settled at their table, de Silva admired the scene. What a pity the menu was less likely to impress him. A steward hurried over and shook out their napkins with a ceremonial flourish then placed them in their laps. Menus printed on thick cream card were brought.

  ‘Hmm. Tomato soup; fishcakes; lamb cutlets with Duchesse potatoes and petits pois, or vegetable curry; Queen of Puddings; cheese; coffee.’

  Jane gave him an admonishing look. ‘I’m sure it will be delicious, dear.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a whisky and soda first? That will make you feel better.’

  ‘I might just do that.’

  ‘Good evening!’

  A jovial voice interrupted their conversation. De Silva looked up to find Joseph Edelman beaming down at him.

  ‘I see I’m not alone in preferring to dine early. Late meals are so bad for the digestion.’ He patted his ample stomach with a podgy hand. The signet ring on his little finger caught the light. ‘And with a constitution as delicate as mine, one cannot be too careful.’