Dark Clouds Over Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  De Silva filed the information in his mind as he finished his egg hopper and wiped his lips on his napkin. Here was the perfect opportunity.

  ‘I must be on my way.’ He dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Have a good day, my love.’

  ‘Are you coming home for lunch?’

  ‘No, but I’ll try not to be late this evening.’

  He set off in the direction of the main entrance to the Residence but then diverged onto a series of increasingly narrow roads that eventually brought him to the rear of its grounds. He had walked round them with Jane the previous year when they’d attended a garden party in the Petries’ honour. Fortuitously, he had noticed where the guest bungalow was.

  Moving as stealthily as a plump detective could, he went as far as the spot where the trees ended and the bungalow’s lawn began. It was a pretty little place in the English style with mullioned windows and a profusion of deep pink roses growing up the whitewashed walls. He cursed inwardly at the sight of a gardener laboriously pushing a hoe back and forward in one of the flowerbeds. He looked as if he was planning to spend a long time over the task.

  The door opened and a maid appeared with an armful of bedlinen. She stopped briefly to speak to the gardener and de Silva heard laughter and rapid conversation before she walked on in the direction of the main house. The gardener returned to his desultory hoeing. De Silva sighed then squatted on his haunches to watch and wait.

  Nearly an hour passed before the gardener picked up his hoe and walked away. De Silva held back for a little while in case he returned, then came out of the trees and crossed the lawn to the bungalow. He had already decided that if anyone saw him, he would say there had been a report of a man acting suspiciously nearby and he had come to investigate.

  He tried the door and found to his relief that the maid hadn’t locked it. He pushed it open and went in. The bungalow was as pleasant inside as it was out. Pale walls made the rooms feel spacious and airy and decades of polishing had given the wooden floor a rich lustre that was set off by colourful rugs.

  There wasn’t a great deal of furniture in the hall or the sitting room and he soon finished his search. Moving on to the bedroom, he found a four-poster bed draped with a mosquito net; a dressing table; a chest of drawers and several cupboards. A shell-pink silk peignoir trimmed with ostrich feathers lay fanned out on the bed and dozens of expensive-looking pots and bottles containing make-up, face creams and perfume covered the dressing table. The “countess” obviously liked to be pampered.

  He left the drawers until last and turned his attention to the cupboards. How Jane would have loved to look through such beautiful clothes: dresses made of fine linen, crêpe de chine and silk; immaculately tailored slacks and skirts; silk blouses and elegant hats. For the count there were shirts from Turnbull & Asser, shoes from Lobb of London and all the jackets and trousers a well-dressed man could desire.

  At the bottom of one of the cupboards, he found a locked tin box that appeared to be bolted to the floor. Taking a thin piece of wire from his pocket, he started to work on the lock and after a few minutes, it clicked. He opened the lid and took careful note of how the contents were arranged before he went any further.

  At first there was nothing unusual – a large wad of money; a ladies’ gold dress watch; a suede pouch that contained a necklace set with diamonds; a double string of pearls and a pair of pearl earrings. The suede smelt of the same perfume that de Silva had noticed the countess wearing up at Horton Plains. At the bottom of the box he found three passports, one of them belonging to the count. De Silva opened the second one and let out a low whistle. Jane was right, it was a foreign passport with the countess’s picture but the name of the holder was Laetitia Lanara. The third passport, in the same language as the count’s, also had her picture but gave her name as Countess Ranescu. He wrote down some details.

  When he had replaced the items as he found them, he locked the box again then started looking through the drawers in the chest and dressing table. A few minutes’ search revealed nothing of interest there or in the bathroom. Last of all, he found the Ranescus’ luggage stored away in a small room at the back of the bungalow.

  Patiently, he checked all the trunks and cases, running his hand over their linings too. Those labelled with the count’s name revealed nothing unusual, but when de Silva came to the ones that belonged to the countess, he paused at a crocodile-skin dressing case. There was a faint crackling sound when he ran his hand over the lining; something underneath it felt lumpy.

  On closer inspection, he noticed that a slit had been made in the fabric then the edges had been sewn together again. He took the wire that had opened the safe and carefully unpicked the stitches. When the slit was large enough, he reached in and brought out a small packet. He was about to remove the contents when he heard a sound and froze. Was it the maid returning? Silently, he closed the dressing case, hid behind the door and waited.

  Time passed very slowly. The maid, and he was fairly sure by now that it was her for she was singing a Tamil song to herself as she moved about the room, was obviously in no hurry. He heard drawers open and close and the rattle of hangers on the cupboard rails.

  When at last her singing faded and the door closed, he breathed again. He must be quick; another interruption might be fatal. He peeled back the flap of the envelope and took out its contents. There were several photographs of Laetitia Lane, clearly taken by a professional photographer, and with them a letter in a language that was foreign to him. He squinted at the words and tried to make some of them out but it was no use; he would write them down and hope they meant something to Jane. He would have to ask for her help now and admit what he had been up to. He also found two more identity documents, both in languages he didn’t know, and a British passport for Laetitia Lane.

  The contents of the letter and details of the documents copied into his notebook, he replaced everything in the envelope and pushed it back under the lining. Now he needed to find a way of sewing the slit up. Laetitia Lane didn’t look as if she spent any time on needlework, but if he was lucky, the maid might have left something useful behind.

  There was nothing in the bedroom, but in the sitting room he found a small sewing basket with one of the count’s shirts beside it. Quickly, he threaded a needle and went back to the store room. His stitches were clumsy, but hopefully Laetitia Lane didn’t have a sharp eye for such things. He tied off the thread, restored the dressing case to the place where he had found it and went to the sitting room to replace the needle. Outside, he had just reached the trees when he heard the maid’s song once more. He concealed himself behind the thick trunk of a coconut palm until she had gone into the bungalow, then he returned to the Morris.

  Chapter 12

  ‘The letter’s written in German,’ Jane said, studying the words de Silva had copied into his notebook. She was clearly enjoying having a puzzle to work out and had swiftly forgiven him for hiding his plan to search the guest bungalow from her at breakfast.

  ‘I don’t understand much of it,’ she went on. ‘But look.’ She pointed to the first line, ‘Liebling – it means darling – and this word, gefahr, is danger. Then here,’ she indicated another line, ‘I think it says “I have sent money there for you”.’

  She scanned the rest of the letter. ‘That’s all I can make out, except this part at the end. It looks like an address but not one here in Ceylon. As for the passports, the one in the name of Laetitia Lanara is Italian. The other two are French and German.’

  ‘Well, it’s a start.’

  ‘What do you think this is all about, Shanti? Is there more to Laetitia Lane than simply being the count’s mistress? Why else would she need all these identities?’

  ‘She’s up to something, I’m sure, and I’d like to know what, but I may come up against some opposition from Archie Clutterbuck.’

  ‘Why? If Miss Lane is doing something she shouldn’t, won’t he want to know?’

  ‘In theory, yes. He told me that the Briti
sh are worried about Germany taking an interest in Romania.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Because Romania has oil and an arms industry, both of which might be very useful to the Germans.’

  Jane shivered. ‘When the Great War came to an end, people said it was the war to end all wars. It’s dreadful to think they might be proved wrong. If you think Laetitia Lane’s spying for the Germans and trying to work her way into Count Ranescu’s confidence, you ought to tell Archie Clutterbuck.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’ He hesitated to admit to Jane how much he would enjoy stealing a march on the assistant government agent, even if it might prove a little tricky explaining why he had searched the guest bungalow in the first place.

  ‘Perhaps she and Major Aubrey are in league,’ Jane mused.

  ‘Both spies? This really is beginning to sound like the plot for a film or a novel.’

  ‘It would make an exciting one, I’m sure. But it is rather far-fetched to assume that either of them had a hand in Helen Wynne-Talbot’s death.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’ He looked up at the sun. ‘The picnic’s probably finished by now but I think I’ll leave asking to see Clutterbuck for the moment. I’d like a bit of time to mull over how to present my findings to him.’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll pay a quick visit to the station and see what’s going on down there. In any case, Clutterbuck will want to know how the search for Helen Wynne-Talbot’s body is going. Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll have much news for him. If she really did fall, finding her in the jungle will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  Jane shuddered. ‘That poor husband of hers, one can hardly comprehend how he must be feeling.’

  ‘I sincerely hope I never have to find out first-hand.’

  ‘That’s very unlikely, dear. I prefer to admire the view at World’s End from a safe distance.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be off. I’ll try not to be long. Would you like to go out this evening?’

  ‘There’s nothing on at the Casino but I believe the Crown Hotel has a trio playing after dinner and there will be dancing.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes, I think I would. We haven’t been dancing for a long time.’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  He took her hand, pulled her out of her chair and bowed. ‘May I have this dance, ma’am?’

  ‘Certainly, you may, sir.’

  Laughing, they twirled around the room until they had to stop to catch their breath. ‘I’m not as fit as I was,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘Nor am I, but never mind.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Now, off you go. I’ll tell Cook to serve dinner a little earlier than usual so we have a nice long evening afterwards. Even if we can’t dance the night away anymore, we can still enjoy the music.’

  **

  Nuala’s streets drowsed in the afternoon heat. Even in the bazaar, activity had slowed to a lethargic pace. A lone bullock pulled at a wilting bundle of coriander on one of the stalls, but the old woman behind the counter just flapped her hands half-heartedly in its direction and retreated to the shade. Even the children had given up playing. Stretched out on the parched ground, dogs twitched in their sleep.

  A girl in a yellow sari who seemed livelier than the rest attracted his attention. He slowed and waved her across the road. As he did so, he glimpsed a pair of beautiful eyes above the veil she had drawn across her face to keep out the dust.

  The sight of her reminded him yet again that Prasanna was still waiting for help with – what was the girl’s name? Kuveni – that was it. A shame that developments meant that, once again, tomorrow probably wasn’t going to be a good time to raise the issue. The girl reached the other side of the road and disappeared into a narrow alley. How gracefully she walked, yet her sari looked old and shabby. He wondered who she was.

  The clock on the post office’s tower struck four as he parked the Morris along the side wall of the police station where there was some shade. Speculating as to whether Nadar would be asleep or awake, he went inside, letting the front door bang as he closed it. His constable jumped to his feet, quickly fastening the top button of his tunic. De Silva suppressed a smile as the young man drew himself up like a ramrod and assumed an expression of the utmost gravity.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’

  De Silva nodded. ‘On your own, I see. Where’s Prasanna?’

  ‘He’s just gone out for a while, sir.’

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘There was a telephone call at ten o’clock from a gentleman who wanted to speak to you but he wouldn’t give his name.’

  ‘So how am I supposed to ring him back?’

  ‘He said he would call again, sir, but he has not yet done so.’

  ‘Did he say what he wanted, this mystery man?’

  ‘He said he needed to speak to you on a very important matter concerning Mrs Wynne-Talbot.’

  De Silva’s brow puckered. When he had worked in the police force in Colombo, it had been a not-infrequent occurrence to find people coming into the station claiming that they had vital information about one of the crimes the police were trying to solve. Most of them had been cranks, particularly the ones who would not give their names. He’d soon learnt to season their “vital information” with a generous pinch of salt.

  ‘If he calls again, Nadar, tell him I want his name, and details of how to contact him before anything else.’

  Nadar looked a little crestfallen. ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘Never mind, Nadar, I’m not blaming you. How is the baby by the way? Sleeping better, I hope?’

  The constable’s plump countenance brightened. ‘He is, thank you, sir. Two teeth have arrived and he is much happier than he was. My wife and I also.’

  ‘That’s excellent news. I hope it lasts.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  So, no more dormouse, at least for the moment, de Silva thought. He made a telephone call to the Residence and, after a short wait, was told Clutterbuck would be free to see him at eleven the next morning. He hesitated, it was sooner than expected and he had planned to take a little longer composing his speech; on the other hand, it would be a load off his mind. He was also aware that he owed it to Prasanna to try to make some progress with his lady friend’s problem.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Tell him I will be there.’

  He stood up and went to the small mirror over the washbasin in the corner of his office. His reflection stared back at him resolutely. He straightened his badge and stood there for a few moments, then, humming the tune from 42nd Street, he went out to the Morris and drove home in the sunshine.

  Chapter 13

  While he shaved, he whistled one of the tunes he and Jane had danced to the previous night.

  ‘It’s good to see you so cheerful,’ she remarked, coming into the room. ‘Wasn’t it a lovely evening? That pianist played beautifully and the singer and the bass player did very well too. I hope the Crown make a regular feature of having them perform.’

  ‘Yes, it would be nice if they did. If I may say so, my wife was the best dancer there.’

  Jane laughed. ‘Oh, what nonsense. There were lots of women who danced far better than I ever could.’

  He scraped away the last of the shaving foam and patted his cheeks dry. ‘I disagree entirely.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, dear.’ She looked wistful. ‘But it was so nice to hear some music. I’ve missed that.’

  ‘But what about Florence’s musical soirées? I thought you enjoyed those.’

  ‘Oh I do, but I love to hear modern music too, the kind one dances to.’

  He hung up his towel. ‘I enjoyed it as well. If there’s a chance, we’ll go again.’

  On the way to the station, an idea crossed his mind. He’d have to give it some thought, but for now, he must concentrate on the interview with Archie Clutterbuck.

  At the station, Nadar looked rather more rumpled than he had the previous day. Presu
mably another baby tooth loomed: dormouse time again. More in hope than anticipation, he left instructions for tasks to be done that day and set off.

  The road leading to the Residence was busy with traffic coming in from the countryside: bullock carts laden with boxes of vegetables, bananas, mangoes and other fruits, as well as great leafy bundles of herbs. Rickshaws and bicycles jostled for space too.

  As the gates came into sight, de Silva suffered a momentary pang of doubt. He hoped he wasn’t going to stir up a hornets’ nest without good cause. His foot eased off the accelerator but then he pulled himself together again. What he had found at the guest bungalow could be important. If it was, it ought to improve his standing with the British rather than diminish it. As for Prasanna, he was a reliable young man and his information must be given due weight. If there was any truth in the allegations against the headman, the British, with their much-vaunted sense of fair play, could hardly complain. And if there wasn’t, it was still fair that the matter was looked into.

  To the right-hand side of the drive, the Residence’s gardeners were trimming the edges of the lawns and hoeing already immaculate flowerbeds filled with roses, marigolds and geraniums. The style was very formal, de Silva reflected. In his own garden, he preferred a touch of natural wildness. According to Jane, however, the Residence garden was a prime example of British taste.

  He met Florence on the front steps, the little black and white household mop cavorting at her heels.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Inspector de Silva! Good morning to you too. Angel and I are about to go for a walk around the grounds.’

  The little dog puffed out his chest and emitted a high-pitched bark then stopped to sniff at de Silva’s trouser leg.