A mile or so from the bungalow, he pulled over and parked the Morris out of sight of the road. Shrugging on his raincoat, he started to walk. Eventually, the bungalow loomed ahead, looking even more desolate in the poor light than the first time he’d seen it. Cautiously, he worked his way round, staying in the shelter of the trees that bordered the garden, until he had a good view of the driveway. Once he left the belt of trees, he would have very little cover, just a few bushes to hide behind. He thought of Coryat’s servants; he’d have to take his chance that they were less than vigilant.
He glanced at his watch: not quite a quarter to ten. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he grimaced. If Coryat left it to the last moment, he was going to get very wet waiting for him.
A fat drop of water, then another and another set the leaves around him quivering. Soon, the rain sluiced down, plastering his hair to his hatless head. There had better be something worth finding in Coryat’s place. At least he should have plenty of time to make a thorough search. Apparently, what with the post-prandial toasts and speeches, the lunch would last for at least four hours.
A door banged, and he snapped to attention. With a raincoat draped over his head, Coryat emerged from the bungalow. He hurried over to the elderly Austin parked to one side of the drive, opened the driver’s door and got in. A few moments later, the car moved off, kicking up water from its tyres.
De Silva waited until the Austin was out of sight before leaving the shelter of the trees. Knuckling the rain out of his eyes, he jogged across the ill-kempt lawn, ducking behind the bushes as he reached them; waiting a few moments in case he heard voices, but all that disturbed the silence was the sound of birds singing. Either the servants weren’t about, or they were sleeping.
Coryat would probably have locked the front door, so he had better start at the back. He patted the pocket where he had secreted a small lock-picking kit in case he needed it. He hoped, however, that he wouldn’t. He was out of practice with breaking and entering.
To his relief, on the second attempt, he found a door that was unlocked. As he pushed it open, the hinges creaked in protest. He looked down at his feet and noticed that the soles of his shoes were muddy. He wiped them carefully on the frayed doormat then stepped inside. Pausing, he listened intently for several moments then, emboldened by the silence, went on.
Beyond the small lobby, the panelled room he entered was the study he remembered from his previous visit. The curtains were pulled halfway across the window and he didn’t dare turn on the light. Still unaccustomed to the semi-darkness, he stumbled against a pile of boxes that had been left on the floor. Hastily, he bent down to steady them and saw that they contained stones of different shapes and sizes, some of them with inscriptions in an alphabet he didn’t recognise.
A search of the desk drawers revealed piles of paper covered in spidery handwriting, presumably Coryat’s. There was nothing de Silva wouldn’t have expected: descriptions of artefacts, notes on their condition and provenance. Most of the objects catalogued appeared to have come from the great archaeological sites at Anuradhapura and Pollonaruwa. From the faded state of the ink, he guessed that the work had been done many years ago. There were also old letters addressed to Coryat from universities and institutions in England and Ceylon asking his advice on various matters.
He worked methodically through the rest of the room, opening cupboards and drawers, some empty and some crammed with files and papers. The man certainly had a fine collection of books; the aroma of leather and old paper was enticing. In other circumstances, de Silva would have enjoyed spending a few hours browsing the shelves. He debated whether he should pull a few out to check them, but when he ran his finger along the tops of the spines, the dust that came away convinced him it wouldn’t be necessary.
Finally, he used the torch from Coryat’s desk to shine a light up the chimney and make sure there was nothing hidden in its dark recess. As he straightened up, he noticed a khaki canvas bag propped against the wall. Inside was an ancient rifle. From the amount of tarnish on the metal fittings, it looked as if it hadn’t been used for years. Unlike Archie Clutterbuck’s study, there were no trophies or photographs of fishing or shooting successes on display. Presumably Coryat wasn’t a sportsman. He probably kept the rifle for protection, although it was hard to see who he would need protection from in this God-forsaken spot.
Satisfied there was nothing more to examine, he went out to the hall. The bungalow wasn’t extensive; the rooms he hadn’t yet seen comprised a drawing room, a dining room, two bedrooms and a very old-fashioned bathroom. As he’d been led to believe on his first visit, the cooking must all be done in the separate building where he’d met Coryat’s servant.
De Silva’s hopes of finding something useful dwindled as he continued his search. Was he wrong about Coryat? Perhaps he had been too quick to jump to the conclusion that the monkey in the jungle had been playing with broken spectacles. Coryat seemed negligent about his living conditions. Maybe he took the same attitude to the rest of his life. He could have lost his glasses anywhere and simply not got around to replacing them.
He looked out of the window in the dining room, the last room left to search. Rain was falling heavily, leeching the little remaining colour from the forlorn garden. The idea of looking round the outside of the house was distinctly unappealing, but he ought to do so. There might be a cellar reached from the garden, or outbuildings where something was hidden.
He decided to leave through the back lobby where he had come in. He paused on the threshold to the study, his sensitive nose picking up a smell he hadn’t noticed before: the scent of rain and damp grass. Was one of Coryat’s servants snooping around after all, or had he simply failed to close the outer door properly when he came in? That was careless. He’d better check if rain had driven in and, if necessary, clean up the floor to cover his traces.
He listened, but all he heard was rain hammering on the tin roof and the wind rattling the windows. His imagination was playing tricks; he was alone in the house, and it was time he left. But two steps into the study, he noticed something had changed since he arrived.
He froze. The khaki canvas bag no longer stood upright against the wall. Instead, it was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. There was no sign of the rifle. He heard a movement behind him and swung round.
Coryat stood a few feet away, his eyes in line with the rifle’s sights. ‘I considered putting a bullet in your back, Inspector, but my respect for the law convinced me to give you the opportunity of explaining yourself. But first, please take off your raincoat and jacket. I assume you have a gun underneath. Oblige me by removing it and putting it on my desk.’
De Silva hesitated then eased one arm out of the raincoat. He wondered how fast Coryat was on the trigger. Was it feasible to pull out the Webley and shoot him first? He was at least twenty years older than de Silva and his reactions might be slower.
‘Back up a few steps,’ Coryat said sharply. ‘I wouldn’t get any ideas if I were you. I’m a better shot than you might think.’
Reluctantly, de Silva complied and put the raincoat down on the floor. His jacket followed.
Coryat smiled grimly at the sight of the Webley.
‘I thought as much. Standard colonial issue but effective nonetheless.’ He gestured with the rifle, ‘Unbuckle the holster and put it down then get your back to the wall.’
De Silva did as he was told, glancing at the desk as he passed it. There were several objects that might do as missiles, but it would be risky. Coryat shook his head. ‘I repeat, Inspector, don’t get any ideas.
‘That’s better,’ he said as the wall pressed against de Silva’s back.
Coryat raised an eyebrow. ‘Such a pity I had to disappoint the Archaeological Society. I hope the lunch goes well without me. You see, I never had any intention of attending. I smelt a rat at being given an invitation after so long, and I proved to be right. In any case, you and I will have a much more interesting time. Shall we start w
ith your telling me exactly why you’re here?’
‘I’d prefer to start by reminding you that obstructing a policeman in the performance of his duties carries a severe penalty, Mr Coryat.’
‘Oh, I have no intention of obstructing you, Inspector. You’re clearly an optimist. No, I intend to kill you. But first, I’d be interested in knowing exactly what you’ve found out. Fonseka told me about your visit to Colombo, and I doubt you made the perilous journey to my little lair purely for social reasons.’
There was an icy gleam in Coryat’s eyes. De Silva felt his heartbeat quicken. So Fonseka was in league with Coryat. He should never have trusted the chief inspector. Were they behind Rudi’s accident too? ‘You won’t get away with it,’ he said, in the calmest tone he was capable of. ‘People know I was coming here.’
‘Ah, but they’ll have no proof that you arrived, will they? I’m still a highly respected man in my field, Inspector. Plenty of people will bear witness to my character. I’ll say that you never got here. Unsurprising really, in view of the state of the road. I had to abandon my planned journey to Nuala because the conditions were too dangerous for driving. In a week or two, your car will be discovered burnt out in the jungle below the hillside. I’ll spare you the unpleasant experience of a protracted death. You’ll know nothing of the car’s plunge over the edge. The impact would probably be sufficient to set the vehicle on fire, but a liberal dousing with petrol before the final act should ensure a dramatic denouement.’
De Silva dug his nails into his palms, trying to use the pain to control his rising panic. An innocent man wouldn’t threaten to kill him. Coryat must be deep in whatever criminal activity had taken place. The murder was probably just the tip of the iceberg. In some way, he needed to convince Coryat that there was already plenty of evidence stacked against him, and it would be better to come clean now and ask for clemency. He’d have to make assumptions and hope he touched a raw nerve.
‘You may be able to silence me, Mr Coryat, but that won’t be the end of it. The authorities know you’re guilty of murder.’
Coryat frowned. ‘I had nothing to do with it. It was their decision. The man was in the wrong place at the wrong time, meddling in things he didn’t understand.’
‘They?’
A furtive look came over Coryat’s face. He’d been caught unawares and said too much. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘But you know who killed the villager, Velu.’
Coryat shrugged, regaining his composure. ‘Velu? I don’t recognise the name.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t know his name, but you’re aware of who I’m talking about. And then there’s Inspector Chockalingham. The motorbike crash was no accident, was it?’
If Coryat was rattled he didn’t show it. De Silva tried again.
‘The people you’re dealing with are ruthless. Violence is nothing to them. If you’re not afraid, you should be. As soon as you’ve served your purpose, they’ll dispose of you, and they won’t be scrupulous about how they do it. Tell me everything, and I can help you. Nothing’s worth risking your life for.’
A slow smile crept over Coryat’s face. ‘Oh, I assure you some things are. I might as well tell you now that the artefacts you brought to show me are worth far more than I led you to believe, but they pale into insignificance compared with the rest of the finds we made in the jungle. The supreme prize, however, outshines them all.’
Keeping hold of the rifle, he moved to one side of the fireplace and pressed gently on a panel. The wood swung out like a small door to reveal a shallow compartment.
Coryat reached in and pulled out a bundle of black cloth. Reverentially, he placed it on the desk then stepped back. He nodded to de Silva. ‘Unwrap it if you like; I feel I owe you that. Not many men have the chance to see something as exquisite as this before they die. You should count yourself privileged.’
De Silva took a step forward and Coryat raised the rifle. ‘Slowly though. Remember what I said about not getting any ideas.’
More cautiously, de Silva moved to the desk. The bundle was remarkably heavy for its size. Whatever was inside must be made of stone or metal.
As the cloth peeled away, he saw it was a gold statue. About eight inches high, it showed the Buddha in the lotus position, his right hand raised, palm outwards in a gesture of benediction, and his left across his body. The tips of the forefinger and thumb met in a perfect circle. The statue was an object of such beauty that, despite the danger he was in, de Silva was lost in contemplation for a few moments.
‘Astonishing, isn’t it?’ asked Coryat quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘Five hundred years old; a miracle it’s survived in such good condition. I believe it may have been buried for a long time.’
‘How did you know where to search?’
Coryat nodded to one of the bookshelves. ‘Many of my books are old. I’ve long been interested in a legend one of them mentions about treasure hidden in the area by fugitives leaving the coastal regions to escape the Portuguese invaders. A combination of educated guesswork and luck showed me the way to it.’
It might be worth trying to play on the man’s vanity. Maybe he could be distracted for long enough from his murderous intentions for de Silva to find a chink in his armour.
‘It’s a remarkable piece. It must be one most archaeologists never dream of finding in their whole career.’
Coryat smiled. ‘You flatter me, Inspector, but I’m afraid it won’t help your situation. It’s a pity in a way. I have nothing against you personally. If you hadn’t poked your nose into my business, I wouldn’t have to kill you.’
De Silva tried to ignore the chilling threat.
‘Did you find other pieces as valuable?’
A scowl replaced Coryat’s smile. ‘I’ve wasted enough time. Put your car keys on the desk. I assume you didn’t walk here. Tell me where you left it and we’ll go.’
Slowly, de Silva fished in his pocket for his keys. Coryat was too far away to throw them at him with sufficient force to disable him temporarily and get control. He pinned his hopes on there being a chance on the way to the car. He would pretend to lose the way to buy time.
Coryat was just picking up his own keys when a doorbell rang. If whoever it was had driven in, the noise of the rain had masked their approach. An irritable expression came over Coryat’s face.
‘Why are they coming here today?’ he muttered.
He jerked his head towards the largest of the cupboards. ‘Get in there and don’t make any noise. If you try to call for help, you’ll regret it more than you can possibly imagine.’
Reluctantly, de Silva did as he was told.
The cupboard was empty apart from an old coat on the hanging rail and a pair of what seemed to be heavy boots. The stuffy air reeked of mouldering wool. He heard the click of the lock turning, followed by receding footsteps. Coryat must be going to answer the door.
De Silva pulled out his handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth. It was dusty in the cupboard, but he couldn’t afford to sneeze or cough. It was obviously going to be unwise to move around either if the mysterious visitor, or visitors, came into the study.
Voices and footsteps grew louder. He guessed there were two men, maybe three, with Coryat. The one who was talking spoke English with a strong accent. De Silva frowned. Wasn’t it familiar?
When Coryat answered, he talked fast, as if he was nervous. De Silva struggled to make out what he and the man were saying but only managed to catch something about an agreement to hand over money. Coryat’s agitation was even more apparent as the conversation went on. There were other noises. It sounded like the room was being searched.
De Silva only just stopped himself from recoiling when the door of the cupboard in which he was imprisoned shook.
‘It’s locked, boss,’ said a rough voice, very close to his ear. His stomach churned. Any minute now, Coryat would have to open the door. From what he’d said earlier, thought de Silva, after that, it wil
l all be over for me.
‘Open it,’ the man with the accent barked. His name suddenly came to de Silva. It was Joseph Edelman.
‘There’s nothing that would interest you,’ Coryat said sharply.
De Silva heard the sneer in Edelman’s voice. ‘Then why lock it?’
‘My servant. He’s untrustworthy. I keep important academic papers there that I don’t want him meddling with.’
Edelman laughed. ‘An illiterate peasant? Do you really expect me to believe he’d be interested in your tedious outpourings, or have the faintest idea how to find anyone who’d give him a handful of rupees for them? Open it!’
‘I don’t remember where I put the key.’
‘Then break it open.’
‘Okay, boss.’
The voice was a new one. Edelman must have two men with him.
A heavy blow shook the cupboard door, swiftly followed by a second and a third. De Silva wondered which of the men would kill him, not that it really mattered. He just hoped they carried out their task quickly.
His breath caught in his throat and the roar of blood filled his ears. He watched the slit of light around the door as it widened. Then suddenly, the blows stopped. There was a thud, as if a body had fallen to the floor, and a long, low groan of pain that sent a shiver down de Silva’s spine.
‘Ah, I see you decided to keep this intriguing statue for yourself.’
The voice was Edelman’s, oily with sarcasm. ‘You should have asked me, my friend.’
‘Take it! And take back the money.’
Coryat spoke so fast that his words tumbled over each other. ‘It’s in my safe. Take it, it’s yours. I don’t want anything more to do with this.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t come to that conclusion earlier.’
De Silva heard a blow and a muffled scream.
‘Get him out of here,’ Edelman said coldly. ‘One of you can finish him off outside.’
De Silva heard sounds of a struggle; they must be dragging Coryat away. There was nothing he could do to help him. He’d be lucky to save his own skin. How much time did he have before the men came back? Presumably they’d want to finish the search.
Fatal Finds in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 4) Page 14