The Betel Nut Tree Mystery

by Ovidia Yu

  ‘Thank you for saving Uncle Chen’s life,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Only for now,’ he replied grimly.

  Uncle Chen

  Back in town, Le Froy dropped me at the side road that branched off to Uncle Chen’s shop. I paused on the five-foot way. Thanks to regulations instituted by Raffles, our British founder, all shophouses are fronted by a covered five-foot-wide walkway to protect pedestrians from the sun and rain. The rain had stopped and I took my time sorting out the various packages my grandmother had sent and thinking about what I was going to say. Some people claimed my uncle, Small Boss Chen, was the head of Singapore’s largest black-market and loan-shark business. But I knew Uncle Chen’s growling grouchiness hid a soft side, just as he had always hidden milk sweets in my pockets. And that he was terrified of his mother. If he was defying her now, things were really serious. I would tell him my grandmother wanted to see him, but wouldn’t mention that I knew about his meeting or that it wouldn’t be taking place.

  What I really wanted to tell him was that Ah Ma needed him and his support. But I didn’t know how to without making her sound weak.

  I didn’t think about the possibility that Le Froy had committed treason by warning Uncle Chen his meeting had been compromised. It was in character for him to follow the spirit rather than the letter of the law. I had seen him allow sergeants to warn itinerant beggars they were going clear the roads with sticks instead of just using the sticks. Where he was concerned, the point was to get the road cleared for whichever dignitary was coming by, not to hurt children.

  I was still squatting over my bundles, lost in thought, when I was shocked to be addressed with a booming ‘Miss Chen, isn’t it? Good day!’

  I saw a pair of muddy brown shoes first and struggled to my feet. Dr Covington and Junior were accompanied by Greg and Pat, the two McPherson sons. The boys chorused polite greetings, eyeing with interest the bags I was scrambling to pick up.

  ‘Good day, Dr Covington. Hello, Greg, Pat, Junior. What are you McPhersons doing out in this weather?’ The roads in town were thick with mud and dung.

  ‘Mr Meganck isn’t well,’ Greg McPherson explained. ‘He’s in bed.’

  ‘Their tutor is down with the Bombay stomach, Singapore version,’ Dr Covington said. ‘I gave the poor man something to make him feel better and decided to take the boys out for a walk. Good to get some air.’

  ‘Mr Meganck was going to take us to the swamps to look for terns and tree swifts,’ Pat McPherson explained. ‘He knows all the birds. But we walked through the town and didn’t see any.’

  Despite the mud, the air was fresh and clean after the rain so birds and stray chickens were busy hunting down bugs dislodged from the sodden roadside weeds. I thought the boys would enjoy a walk beyond the town. The McPhersons had been in Singapore only a few months longer than Junior, and seemed as interested in snails, frogs and worms as any local children.

  ‘Boys, always after birds,’ Dr Covington said. ‘Can’t wait to start shooting. So where are you off to, Miss Chen?’

  ‘I’m going to visit my uncle. That is his shop over there. He’s got the best peanut brittle. Would you like some?’

  ‘Oh, yes! May we, sir?’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the best?’ Dr Covington asked, with mock sternness.

  ‘The best you’ll find on the island!’ I promised solemnly. The boys’ anticipation shone through their shyness.

  I was not exaggerating. Shen Shen, Uncle Chen’s wife, made the shop’s fah sung thong herself. Unlike the versions sold on the roadside that were just sugar and raw peanuts, Shen Shen used sesame seeds as well as dry roasted peanuts and brushed the brittle with salted ghee as it cooled. It was rich and delicious and had comforted me while I was studying for exams. The shop always had a good supply.

  ‘Then lead the way, Miss Chen!’

  ‘We don’t shoot birds, Miss Chen,’ Pat McPherson whispered to me.

  ‘Good,’ I whispered back.

  Uncle Chen was alone in the front of his shop when we all trooped in.

  ‘Hello, Uncle.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Did you eat yet? Ma wants to see you. You’d better come home for dinner tonight.’ Uncle Chen delivered his usual greeting. In front of strangers, neither I nor my uncle would mention his current dispute with my grandmother.

  ‘Good to see you again. Now your niece is here to interpret for us, I’m sure we’ll get along very well indeed!’ Dr Covington greeted Uncle Chen. ‘So well!’ He gave the impression that their visit was my idea, that I had wanted to introduce him to my uncle.

  ‘Come in. Look around. Take your time.’ I could tell Uncle Chen was not himself. He was not even pretending he didn’t speak English.

  I thought about Shen Shen’s anxieties as I handed over Ah Ma’s packages to him, but I saw no guilt in him. I assumed that men having affairs with other women would have an air of guilty secrets and care more for their own appearance than for their wives’. Uncle Chen in his singlet and sarong was as careless as ever about his looks and sounded almost gentle when he shouted to Shen Shen to bring tea because I was there with friends.

  Uncle Chen might not seem guilty but something about me being there was making him uncomfortable. That was as plain to me as the hairy mole on his chin.

  I remembered the ang moh who had come to his shop to question him and had a sudden thought. ‘Did Victor Glossop tell you about my uncle’s shop?’ I asked Dr Covington. ‘Before he died he came round here and asked my uncle a lot of questions. Did he tell you about my uncle and grandmother? What else did he tell you?’

  If Victor Glossop had told Dr Covington about my uncle’s shop, he might also have mentioned whatever had got him killed.

  ‘Questions?’ Dr Covington looked between my uncle and me. I could see him trying to read us and failing. ‘Victor? What are you talking about?’ He rapped on the counter, startling all of us. ‘Has somebody been coming here and asking you questions? Miss Chen, what has your uncle been saying?’

  I wondered if Dr Covington could have been sent to get information on Uncle Chen. No, that was absurd. Dr Covington wasn’t from the Colonial Office. He was American, not British. The Americans feel about the British much as we ‘Straits-born’ feel about mainland Chinese: yes, there’s history between us but we’ve moved on.

  My family thought I understood the ang mohs, while ang mohs I met expected me to explain local ways to them. The problem was, neither group was homogeneous or easy to understand.

  Still, I wanted to warn Uncle Chen not to say anything to him. So I stood there and looked stupid. Uncle Chen picked up the cue: ‘You like imported cigarettes? China cigarettes, Indian cigarettes also I got,’ he told Dr Covington.

  Shen Shen ducked her head and started wiping the counter. She would not answer any questions.

  ‘There’s some nice stuff here. You have good overseas connections, I hear?’ Dr Covington said to Uncle Chen.

  ‘You want imported cigarettes, tobacco, whisky, all I got.’ Uncle Chen said. ‘The best. The cheapest.’

  ‘And, of course, you must have a lot of dealings with China. You have close ties there?’

  Uncle Chen made a noncommittal sound.

  ‘This is not a good time to invest in China,’ Dr Covington said. ‘Too big, too chaotic, too unmanageable. You should let me help you invest in America. These days it’s safer to keep money in America than in any banks out here. And in Germany. German technological advances are going to take us into a whole new world.’

  ‘It can’t be safe to invest in Germany now,’ I said. ‘They are having rallies and demonstrations. There may even be another war.’

  ‘Germany doesn’t want another war,’ Dr Covington said. ‘The last one was bad enough. They are only trying to bring about a new order. The German Nazi Party has many connections with wealthy Americans, like the Hearsts. They are investing in research and building factories. All these things will grow in value. Germany and America don’t want another war. They a
re looking to improve people’s lives.

  ‘Don’t forget, America was once a colony being kicked around by the British, just like your little island here. And look where we are now! The whole world looks to us for help. They want us to swear we’ll be backing their side if they get themselves into another fight. But no, sir! Americans have had enough of fighting. The Brits may call themselves your lords and masters but you have to know when to tell them enough is enough.’

  Uncle Chen and Shen Shen looked as blank as I felt. I don’t think they were acting either. The boys didn’t seem surprised. Maybe Dr Covington was one of those men who fancied himself an orator and delivered speeches every chance he got.

  ‘Americans, Germans, not our business,’ Uncle Chen said.

  ‘I want the boys to try Shen Shen’s fah sung thong,’ I said, to change the subject.

  ‘Good idea!’ Uncle Chen said. He pulled out the square-bottomed metal biscuit tin and prised off its round lid with the back of a spoon.

  As the boys looked into the tin, I saw Junior pick up two pieces and slide them into his pocket, along with the shiny metal whistle lying on the counter. Then I saw Dr Covington noted my noticing.

  ‘Help yourselves, boys,’ Dr Covington said. ‘Help yourselves, take as much as you like. This is Miss Chen’s family shop so it’s all free for friends. Especially for the sons of the governor, am I right?’

  Uncle Chen beamed and bowed, the very image of service and servility. ‘Take, take. Take more,’ he said. ‘Take all.’

  The McPherson boys were awkward. Greg McPherson pulled a coin out of his pocket and tried to offer it to my uncle, but Dr Covington took it and put it back into the boy’s pocket.

  Under his instructions, the boys took handfuls of the sticky sweetmeat and put it into their pockets. I winced for the state their pocket linings would be in.

  ‘You have to be careful about trusting that boss of yours,’ Dr Covington whispered to me, while the children were occupied. ‘Le Froy doesn’t have a very good history with women. You should ask him about that some time. Or with friends. He only makes friends with people he can make use of. And he’s not very good at it. Why do you think he got posted out here? He brings bad luck to everybody around him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Wait and see.’ Dr Covington tapped the side of his nose. It was clearly meant to convey an understanding between us. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was supposed to understand.

  Dr Covington shepherded the boys out ahead of him. Junior turned and gave us a shy goodbye wave but the McPherson boys looked like they couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough.

  I would have happily given them all the peanut brittle they could eat, but I would have liked to do the giving. And I would have folded it in clean brown paper, not let it pick up lint in their pockets.

  ‘He wants to frighten us,’ Uncle Chen said, when the door was shut behind them. Uncle Chen was no conversationalist but he understood far more English than he let on. ‘That one is always like that. He wants to make us scared of your big-shot policeman because he is scared of him. Waste my time, only.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Shen Shen said. ‘Su Lin, maybe you should stop going out to work. When big people are fighting each other, we small people are the ones to suffer.’

  Or, as Ah Ma always said, whether elephants make love or war, the grass gets flattened. And we were the grass.

  But we weren’t the only ones suffering. An ang moh man was dead, murdered on our island. And the ang mohs were pretending that nothing had happened. If we didn’t find out who had murdered Victor Glossop, we would all be haunted by his angry ghost the next time the gates of Hell were opened. Though I didn’t really believe in the superstitions, I would ask the temple to put up a shrine for him at the next Hungry Ghost Festival.

  ‘I must go to work,’ I said. Uncle Chen had already gone into the back room to wash out the peanut brittle tin.

  Shen Shen studied my face closely. ‘You didn’t sleep well last night. What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I just have a lot of work to do.’

  ‘We’ve all got a lot of work to do,’ Shen Shen said. But she stood there miserably instead of returning to her work. I wanted to say something comforting, but I didn’t know what. Shen Shen had grown up farming pineapples on rough land between rubber plantations and was one of the most superstitious people I had met. I suspected she blamed her miscarriages on my bad-luck presence in Chen Mansion because why else would a woman choose to live in two rooms above a shop when she could live in relative luxury as Second Son’s First Wife? Anything I tried to say to her might make things worse.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ I said, falling back on customary pleasantries as I left. ‘Make sure you eat enough.’

  Nicole’s Suite

  Nicole Covington’s suite at the Farquhar was grand and comfortable. There was a sitting room, a bedroom, a dressing room and, in the bathroom, a fancy ceramic WC with a wooden seat; a man came to empty the pan three times a day or whenever he was summoned.

  It was a very pleasant space, despite the clutter of clothes, shoes, sweet wrappers and empty soda bottles scattered all over it.

  And despite its beautiful occupant.

  When I arrived just before noon that day, Nicole was still in her dressing-gown and bleary-eyed from sleep. I saw an empty gin bottle lying on some dirty plates and wondered if she had been drinking the night before. She seemed to think I was late, though we had not settled on a time for me to be there.

  In fact, we had not even settled that I would be working there or on what terms. If I hadn’t been an undercover agent I would have thrown something at her and left. And I learned something that first day: Nicole’s beauty was a performance, part of an act she put on. When she’d come into the Detective Shack she had been an actress playing the role of an indignant femme fatale. Her clothes, her make-up, her manner were all part of the act. Today in her room she was either being herself or playing a spoiled child.

  ‘No, I don’t want you to come back later, you stupid girl! It’s about time you showed up. Look at the mess here! No, leave it and help me get dressed!’

  Fortunately, I learned this meant helping her choose her dress for the day rather than zipping her into one. I shook out the clothes and undergarments I found draped over furniture, bundled into the closet and stuffed under the bed, and requested a box iron and an ironing board from Housekeeping. Nicole calmed down as I laid out several frocks on her double bed, lining up the matching shoes beneath.

  I was amazed at how many clothes she had travelled with. And there was a collection of cigarettes and powders hidden under them.

  ‘Put those away. Can’t you see they’re all wrong? And this one too. Why are you so stupid? Oh, as God is my witness I’ll never wear anything but red once I get out of here.’

  ‘Why can’t you wear red here?’

  ‘That’s what that old fool Taylor says. He says if I wear red now, you local idiots will all think I’m celebrating Victor’s death and believe that I killed him. And you’ll drown me as a witch or something. Oh, what a bore. We weren’t even married and now I have to dump half my wardrobe for him. I can’t even wear my rubies. Why are backward people so stupid and superstitious? With my colouring, I look my best in red. And now I can’t wear any of those dresses and gowns.’

  Nicole was right. Her prettiest frocks were all in shades of pink, red and scarlet. I removed the offending garments and replaced them with a dark blue tailored dress with side pleats, a two-piece floral ensemble and two more dresses in green and brown cotton. ‘I don’t think anyone here will object to you wearing red, Mrs Covington. For most Singaporeans, it’s an auspicious colour. And it’s nobody’s business but yours what you wear.’

  From what I saw, Westerners were far more sensitive about the colour red. They were referred to as ang moh, meaning red skin, because that was the colour they turned in our sun. But as I knew from my time at the mission
school, the colour red reminded them of blood (menstrual and otherwise), sin and adultery.

  Come to think of it, I had never seen any of the Mission Centre ladies or schoolteachers in a red dress. But the Christmas decorations in the lobby and the corridors of the Farquhar Hotel were full of red – red holly berries on dark green leaves (made of painted cardboard), dark red knitted socks holding candy canes and bottles of rum, and little red Santa Claus dolls. They had a lot of red around for people who didn’t believe it symbolized luck.

  ‘Don’t call me Mrs Covington. I’m sick of being Mrs Covington. Taylor still thinks I should be in mourning for his precious Radley. He’d like to make me wear black for the rest of my life. Like that old Queen Victoria did.’

  ‘But he didn’t try to stop you marrying Victor Glossop,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Didn’t he? Well, tell me, Miss Know-It-All, am I married to Victor Glossop?’ She let her words hang.

  ‘This green dress is nice.’ I held up a dark green lacy crêpe frock.

  ‘That’s not a morning dress. Good God, don’t you know anything?’

  Eventually she agreed to put on a blue and white sailor-suit dress and said she felt well enough to eat something.

  Junior was not in Nicole’s bedroom and there were no toys, books or clothes to show a child shared the space. I guessed his things would be in his grandfather’s room and the playroom downstairs.

  Kenneth Mulliner appeared with her ‘breakfast’ (though it was past lunch time). He didn’t ask what I was doing there, just got straight to business. ‘Nicole, you said you would decide by last night. What are you going to do with all the wine and champagne you ordered for the wedding?’

  ‘Oh, Kenny, you are such an unmitigated bore. Just handle it, won’t you? Isn’t that what you’re here for?’

  ‘And what about the tons of tomato ketchup you insisted on buying? It’s all just sitting in the box room and the hotel is complaining. You’ve put this off long enough. Just tell me what you want me to do with—’