Dark Clouds Over Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  Florence beamed. ‘Ah look, he likes you. He’s such a dear little chap.’

  ‘He certainly is, ma’am,’ said de Silva, relieved not to have his ankles nipped or worse.

  ‘I do hope your wife is well?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Unfortunately, with our guests here, there hasn’t been much time for my usual activities, so I’ve not seen my friends as often as I would like.’

  ‘I’m sure you are greatly missed, ma’am.’

  ‘One hopes so. Well, I mustn’t keep you, Inspector. Come along, Angel.’

  ‘Enjoy your walk, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m sure we shall.’

  Perhaps, she wasn’t such a bad sort after all, thought de Silva as Florence trotted away with her shaggy companion. There must be times when her position in life wasn’t easy. From what Jane had told him, the present was one of those times, obliged to entertain a guest whom she found extremely uncongenial.

  He straightened his collar and put his hand on the bell pull beside the front door. There was a jangling sound inside the house and a moment later, a servant appeared. Ushered into the study, he found Clutterbuck at his desk with Darcy snoozing at his feet.

  The assistant government agent put the cap back on his pen and closed the ledger in which he had been writing. ‘Ah, de Silva! Another fine morning, eh? We shall miss this spell when the monsoon comes next month. At least the rain is warmer than it is at home.’

  ‘So my wife tells me, sir.’

  Darcy hauled himself up from the rug and ambled round the desk to have his ears scratched. ‘The poor old chap’s glad to have a bit of peace,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘My wife and her little blighter have gone for a walk.’

  ‘Yes, I met them on the way out.’

  ‘Do you have news about the whereabouts of the late Mrs Wynne-Talbot?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. I wanted to speak to you on another matter.’

  Clutterbuck leant back in his chair. ‘Something I’ll want to hear, I hope.’

  De Silva paused. The exact wording of the speech he had rehearsed so carefully after he’d woken at dawn deserted him; he would have to improvise.

  ‘I have some information about the Ranescus.’

  Clutterbuck looked irritable. ‘I told you matters are sensitive where the count’s concerned,’ he growled. ‘I thought you could be trusted to use your common sense.’ A low rumble broke from Darcy’s throat. He rolled over and raised his head. De Silva ignored his owner’s implicit slur and ploughed on.

  ‘I believe that what I found will be of interest to you.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  De Silva drew a deep breath. ‘I found an opportunity to search the guest bungalow here when the count and countess were at the elephant hunt and picnic.’

  A thunderous expression came over Clutterbuck’s face; he struck the desk with a clenched fist. ‘You did what? Goddammit man, do you want to ruin what little’s left of our good relations with the count? What on earth possessed you?’

  ‘Hear me out, sir. I think you will be interested in what I discovered.’

  ‘It had better be good!’

  ‘I showed my wife the photograph you gave me of your hunting party up at the Plains. Jane was sure she recognised the countess. She was convinced the lady is English and a former actress who used to appear on the London stage.’

  ‘What of it? We’d already reached the conclusion she may be the count’s mistress, not his wife. Is her history relevant? In any case, with great respect to Mrs de Silva, she may be wrong.’

  ‘I think not, sir. The countess possesses a passport that shows her to be Italian as she claims to be, but I found others with the same photograph, one of them a British passport in the name of Laetitia Lane – the name my wife recalled.’

  He pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and pushed it across the desk. ‘This is the text of a letter I also found hidden in a piece of Miss Lane’s luggage.’

  Frowning, the assistant government agent scanned the words de Silva had copied out.

  ‘You mentioned Germany’s interest in Romania,’ ventured de Silva. ‘My wife believes this letter is written in German and, in addition to that, one of the passports is for a German national.’

  Clutterbuck’s frown deepened. ‘An Englishwoman working against her country’s interests?’ He opened his top drawer and dropped de Silva’s notebook on top of the papers it contained. ‘You’ll say no more about this, de Silva. It’s way out of your league. If there’s any truth in the allegation, William Petrie and I will take charge. Is that understood?’

  De Silva felt nettled. Clutterbuck wouldn’t even have the information if it wasn’t for him.

  ‘I said, is that understood?’

  ‘Understood.’ De Silva left a barely perceptible pause before adding, ‘sir.’

  ‘You’re sure no one saw you go in or out of the guest bungalow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At least that’s something to be grateful for.’ He closed the top drawer firmly. ‘Well, you can get off now, but remember, where this Wynne-Talbot business is concerned, no more snooping around. Just find the body so the husband can bury her.’

  **

  The Morris protested as he slammed the gearstick into second and pressed down hard on the accelerator to turn out of the Residence’s drive. Snooping around indeed. It was the same old story with the British; it had happened more than once when he was with the Colombo force. They were happy to use his services when it suited them but the moment it didn’t, they treated him like some seedy private detective.

  At home, lunch waited for him but he was too preoccupied to take much notice of what he ate.

  Jane looked at him worriedly. ‘Did it go badly with Archie Clutterbuck?’

  He grunted and pushed his plate away unfinished. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’ll investigate Laetitia Lane?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what he’ll do,’ de Silva snapped. ‘I’ve been warned off the whole matter.’

  ‘Oh, Shanti, I’m sorry. I know it’s hard sometimes and you’re upset.’

  ‘Upset? I’m not upset. That fool Clutterbuck can do as he likes. I wash my hands of it!’

  Jane raised a quizzical eyebrow. Contrition overcame de Silva.

  ‘Well, perhaps I am just a bit upset. But more than that, I’m angry.’

  She came round to his side of the table and kissed his cheek. ‘I understand. Really I do.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s at times like these that I have to remind myself that if the British were not in Ceylon, we might never have met.’

  ‘I hope that’s comfort enough.’

  He took her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘You know it is.’ He paused then groaned. ‘Poor Prasanna, I didn’t even get as far as talking to Clutterbuck about this headman again and goodness knows when I will. Not while Clutterbuck and I are at odds anyway.’

  ‘What problem does Prasanna have?’ Jane went back to her seat. ‘You haven’t mentioned anything up until now.’

  ‘How shameful of this man,’ she said when he had explained about Kuveni and her family.

  ‘If there’s truth in it, yes, it’s a serious breach of the trust that has been placed in him. But we mustn’t ignore the possibility that when a pretty girl meets an impressionable young man, she might be tempted to take advantage and exaggerate her family’s plight. Before we can take matters any further, Clutterbuck would need to have the records examined to see how this headman has been discharging his duties. If there are any suspicions of wrongdoing, I was hoping he would agree to make an official inspection.’

  ‘I expect he’ll calm down in a few days.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Oh, of course he will and then you can talk to him. Poor Sergeant Prasanna. We must do whatever we can to help. He’s obviously very fond of this girl, but if she’s from one of the villages, his mother might not think her suitable. That
will mean problems that we of all people should sympathise with.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Are you going back to the station this afternoon?’

  ‘I ought to for an hour or so. I’d better send Prasanna out again for another try, although the chances of finding Helen Wynne-Talbot are looking pretty slim. He can take a few extra shikaris with him this time. They might be more help than young Nadar. Then I’ll come home and spend some time in the garden.’

  ‘Excellent, that will cheer you up.’

  ‘It usually does. That and the company of my lovely wife.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up reluctantly. ‘I’ll be on my way.’ He sighed. ‘I think Nadar’s baby is teething again. It’s not ideal leaving him in charge but what else can I do? Calling Prasanna off the search too would amount to admitting defeat.’

  Jane looked sad. ‘But it may be what has to be done.’

  ‘That is for Archie Clutterbuck to decide.’

  Impulsively, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘I’m glad you see it that way.’

  The Morris waited for him on the drive. The comforting smell of leather met him as he eased into the seat and, by the time he arrived, he was in better humour. Far from being asleep, Nadar was busy with the tasks he had been given that morning and seemed to be making a good job of them. He was palpably relieved at the news that he was not required to return to the search for Helen Wynne-Talbot.

  Sergeant Prasanna was less happy. As he went off gloomily to hire more shikaris, de Silva wondered whether it was time to consider taking over the search himself.

  Chapter 14

  Early the following morning, he was sitting at his desk when the telephone rang. To his surprise, he heard a familiar gruff voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘De Silva? Archie Clutterbuck here.’ There was a pause and the clearing of a throat. ‘De Silva? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He waited. Clearly something was coming that was going to cost the assistant government agent a considerable effort.

  ‘De Silva, it seems I owe you an apology.’ Another pause. ‘I was too hasty yesterday. The thing is, it’s not been an easy week. The Powers that Be have been coming down on Petrie wanting to know what progress we’re making with this Ranescu fellow and that comes back on me. So far, they’re not happy with what we have to tell them. The hunting expedition was a fiasco and then your news about the countess. De Silva, can you hear me?’

  De Silva smiled to himself. Poor old Archie. It can’t have been easy for him to admit he was in the wrong, even if he tempered his admission by putting some of the blame on Petrie and those mysterious powers.

  ‘Yes, sir, and I accept your apology with thanks. Most generous of you.’

  ‘Good man, knew I could rely on you. Now, we have another problem. That damned fellow Ranescu! He’s nothing but a magnet for trouble. The Lane woman, if that’s really her name, told him she wasn’t well and needed to sleep alone. When he woke in the morning, he found she’d done a bunk. He claims she’s taken some very valuable jewellery with her.’

  De Silva’s eyes widened. ‘Is he still claiming she’s his wife?’

  ‘Not anymore. He admits now that they met at the gambling tables in Monaco.’

  De Silva thought quickly. ‘Unless she has access to a car, the train from Nanu Oya is the only way for her to get down to Kandy.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I should have just enough time to get to the station before today’s train leaves.’

  ‘Then get on with it and catch up with her, de Silva. If she gets to Kandy before we find her, she may give us the slip entirely. If we fall at this fence, and Ranescu loses money, it may be the final straw that sets him against us once and for all, and I don’t want to take the blame.’

  ‘Understood, sir. I’m on my way.’

  Rummaging in one of his desk drawers, he found the photograph of the hunting party then went to the cupboard where he kept a spare set of civilian clothes. Swiftly, he changed his uniform for a sarong and a loose cotton tunic, putting his police badge in the breast pocket. If he caught up with Laetitia Lane on her way to Kandy, rather than apprehending her straight away, it would be interesting to follow to see where she went.

  At the door, he looked back. Who knew how this would end? He returned to his desk, buckled his holster on under the tunic and tucked his Webley into it.

  **

  Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic on the road to Nanu Oya and he reached the station shortly before the train was due to depart. He hurried to the ticket office and showed the photograph to the clerk.

  ‘Have any of these people bought a ticket for the train to Kandy this morning?’

  The man peered at the faces in the photograph for a few moments then shook his head. ‘No, no one of that appearance has been here today.’

  ‘And you’re the only one selling tickets?’

  ‘Yes, but it is possible that some of the passengers send servants from their houses or hotels to purchase tickets for them. When I am busy here, I do not see everyone who boards the train.’

  De Silva heard ominous hooting coming from the platform. Dismayed, he realised that in his haste he had brought very little money with him. He dug into his breast pocket and produced his badge. ‘Give me a ticket to Kandy. First Class. You’ll be paid later.’

  A look of alarm came over the clerk’s face. ‘Sir, I cannot—’

  ‘Inspector,’ de Silva said firmly. ‘I am Inspector de Silva of the Nuala police and if you don’t issue that ticket in the next ten seconds, the government agent will want to know why.’

  The clerk’s hand shook as he wrote out the ticket. With mounting irritation, de Silva watched the slow, looping writing cross the paper. Another burst of hooting came from the platform and he snatched the ticket from the counter and dashed to the gate, ignoring the guard who tried to stop him. A moment later, he wrenched open the nearest door and jumped aboard. With a final blast, the train jolted forward and started to rumble down the line.

  He stood at the entrance to the carriage’s corridor and waited for his laboured breathing to subside. His heart thumped and flecks of red and green danced before his eyes. Jane would tell him he was getting too old for this kind of escapade. She might be right.

  When he recovered, he walked back to the head of the train and started to comb the carriages one by one. Third Class was the hardest to search, the carriages were so full of people, baskets, bags, boxes, even goats and squawking cages of hens. He moved on to Second Class and drew a similar blank. Initially, he had guessed that if Laetitia Lane was trying to escape on the train, she would choose one of the more crowded carriages to hide in, but perhaps he was wrong. Maybe a woman like her would simply travel First Class and defy anyone to see through whatever disguise she decided to adopt.

  Cautiously, he entered that part of the train and stopped at the first door he came to. The compartment’s occupants were an elderly couple in western dress. Neither of them bothered to look up from their books as he passed. The next four compartments were similarly unfruitful but at the sixth, he paused, hanging back a little so as not to attract the attention of the woman inside. Dressed in the white habit of a nun, she was sitting in one of the window seats, her eyes downcast as she studied the book in her lap. As she read, her long, slim fingers counted the beads of a rosary.

  His heartbeat quickened. There was something suspiciously serene about this woman. He very much suspected she was his quarry. It was worth checking the final compartments, however; there was plenty of time before the first stop. Even if she decided to get off then, he would be back in time to see her go.

  He waited until the train entered a tunnel then crept past the door while the corridor was in semi-darkness. When the train emerged into the open air once more, he continued his search, but none of the remaining compartments had anyone in them who could by any stretch of the imagination be Laetitia Lane. He returned to the carriage next to the nun’s and sat down to
wait for their arrival in Kandy.

  The journey down to the city seemed interminable. At each halt, he went to the door of his compartment and listened intently but the nun stayed where she was. All he could hear was the faint click of the rosary beads. Breakfast seemed a long time ago but he bought sparingly from the food vendors who came past. At Kandy, the nun would probably take a rickshaw to her destination and he needed to have the means to follow her. An argument with a rickshaw driver was likely to attract attention and he’d seen crowds set on people who tried to avoid the fare.

  At last the train arrived into Kandy station and halted with a great belch of steam. Guards walked along the platform banging open the doors, and porters hurried to take passengers’ luggage. De Silva disembarked and concealed himself near a group of them until he saw the nun climb down from the train. He studied her intently; her wimple and the cowl of the travelling cloak she wore made it hard to see much of her face, but the height and build seemed right for Laetitia Lane. Surely there was a good chance this was her? If it wasn’t and the real Laetitia Lane had escaped, he would feel the failure keenly, even if others excused it.

  She summoned a porter and pointed to the compartment where she had been sitting. The man bounded up the steps and returned a moment later with a leather suitcase and a small travelling bag. De Silva wondered if either of them contained the jewellery. Or would Laetitia Lane take the precaution of concealing it about her person? If it was her, she had discarded the distinctive crocodile-skin dressing case.

  Her small amount of luggage assembled, the nun followed the porter out of the station and de Silva followed them. Dozens of rickshaws waited in the forecourt beyond the station’s curved, modern façade, their drivers competing for trade with the hawkers trying to sell the arrivals food and offerings of flowers for Kandy’s famous temple.

  At one point, he was afraid he would lose sight of his quarry, then, to his relief, he saw her stop beside a rickshaw and speak to the driver. As the porter loaded her luggage and she stepped into the cab, de Silva beckoned to the driver of another rickshaw that waited nearby and told him to tail them. The man looked uncertain but the flash of a few rupee coins brought a smile to his face. De Silva only hoped the journey wouldn’t be longer than he could pay for.