Dark Clouds Over Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  He picked up his book. ‘Don’t worry. In the morning, I’ll get the gardener to check all the fences.’ It was only later that it occurred to him that the interloper might have been human.

  Chapter 27

  For as long as anyone could remember, the Nuala church fête had been held in the garden at the vicarage. This year was no exception and, as de Silva carried boxes and bags to the trestles set up ready for the Bring and Buy stall, he glanced at the roses and felt mischievously gratified that his were, once again, doing far better than the vicar’s.

  He put down the last of the boxes and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘Phew! Perhaps I was a beast of burden in a former life but I hope I won’t have to be one again.’

  ‘Poor dear. There’s a refreshment stall over there in the shade. Why don’t you fetch yourself a cold drink?’

  ‘I might just do that. Would you like something too?’

  ‘Not yet, thank you. I’d rather set everything up first and I expect the others will be here any moment. I’m expecting Kuveni as well. She’s coming by rickshaw with a few last-minute things.’

  ‘So it sounds as if you won’t be needing me on the stall then.’

  ‘Probably not, but I forgot to mention that Joan Buscott’s husband would be very grateful for some help with the Pin the Tail on the Donkey competition and the coconut shy. He’s such a nice man; I’m sure you’ll enjoy chatting with him.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get something to drink first then go and introduce myself.’

  There were several ladies busying about at the refreshment stall. Among them, de Silva noticed Reverend Peters’ wife, second-in-command to Florence Clutterbuck in Nuala’s social hierarchy. She broke off from what she was doing to exchange a few civil words with him and he paid for and drank his lemonade. Plates filled with tempting-looking cakes and biscuits were already laid out under net covers to keep away flies. He made a mental note to return later.

  Joan Buscott’s husband was hammering a square white post into the ground when de Silva reached the coconut shy. Shading his eyes with one hand, he stopped work for a moment. A tall man with an enviably luxuriant head of greying hair, he had bushy eyebrows that reminded de Silva of the fat caterpillars he had removed from one of his chrysanthemums on his walk round the garden at Sunnybank that morning.

  ‘Ah, Inspector de Silva, I presume! Good of you to help out. I’ve got Doctor Hebden coming along later but he has a patient to attend to first.’ He extended a leathery hand. ‘John Buscott, by the way.’

  Between them, they soon had the rest of the posts in place and coconuts balanced on the top of each one. Prizes were laid out and the venerable cork board set up with a picture of a grey donkey pinned to it. Buscott fished around in a box and found the tail. ‘Excellent,’ he said, putting it on the table next to the blindfold. ‘All shipshape and Bristol fashion. Now we can settle down for a bit and wait for the fun to begin.’

  He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other. The red-and-white striped deckchair gave a small creak of protest. ‘This will be my last fête in Nuala,’ he remarked.

  ‘Ah yes, your wife mentioned at the Residence dinner that you are retiring back to England soon.’

  Buscott nodded. ‘We’re not getting any younger and my wife wants to be near our children and grandchildren. She’s not had much time with the family what with following me round the world for most of my working life.’ He pulled a packet of Passing Clouds out of his pocket – the same brand Archie Clutterbuck smoked, observed de Silva – and offered one. De Silva shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, but I won’t.’

  ‘Not a smoker, eh?’

  ‘No.’

  He excused himself the little white lie. The cigarette he’d smoked a few days ago had been medicinal. Now that everything was back to normal, he could do without one.

  ‘Nice little seaside place called Broadstairs,’ Buscott continued. ‘That’s where my wife’s chosen. It’s near the family and she loves the sea. I’ve toyed with the idea of taking up sailing again, used to be keen as a young man, but it’s probably safest to concentrate on brushing up my golf swing. That’s what my wife advocates anyway, and the ladies usually know best.’

  ‘Indeed they do.’

  ‘We’ll be sad to leave, of course. It’s been a good life here and an interesting one.’

  ‘I understand you’re an engineer?’

  ‘That’s right, man and boy. Railways mainly, so of course there’s been plenty to keep me busy in Ceylon. I moved to the administrative side in my early fifties. Much as I enjoyed it, working in the field’s a young man’s game. My wife tells me you moved up here from Colombo for similar reasons.’

  ‘Yes, I wanted a quieter pace of life.’

  Conversation languished as Buscott puffed on his cigarette and they watched the trickle of early arrivals to the garden. ‘I hear Lady Caroline won’t be attending today,’ Buscott remarked after a while. ‘I think my wife was disappointed. They’re old friends. But it’s understandable. Terrible business about that niece of hers.’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘I suppose the nephew will rally, he has youth on his side, but that kind of thing knocks a man about a bit. Never really got to talk to him as much as I’d have liked. I’d hoped to hear about his involvement with the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Quite a feather in the old cap being associated with a project of that magnitude, but he wasn’t very forthcoming when I asked him about it at the Clutterbucks’ dinner. I suppose he had a lot on his mind even then. Probably shouldn’t have expected him to spare the time to talk shop with an old buffer.’

  He looked up. ‘Ah, here come the hordes. Right de Silva, best foot forward!’

  Best foot indeed, thought de Silva as he umpired excited children and gimlet-eyed fathers. An hour passed before David Hebden arrived, dressed in the ubiquitous cream linen suit and Panama hat of the Englishman abroad.

  ‘Sorry not to be here before,’ he said, shaking hands with Buscott. ‘I’d promised to call in on one of my patients down near Hatton.’

  He gave de Silva a curt nod and the inspector was taken aback. This was very odd. Even if their past history had not always run smoothly, their last meeting at the Clutterbucks’ dinner had been perfectly amicable.

  ‘That’s quite alright,’ said Buscott cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the awkwardness between his companions. ‘Duty first, eh? Good to have you here now.’ He gestured to the queue. ‘As you see, we’re a popular attraction. You might like to start by finding my wife and asking her if she’s got anything extra tucked up her sleeve that we might use for prizes. We’re in danger of running short.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Decent chap, Hebden,’ Buscott observed as the doctor walked away to find Joan Buscott. ‘Sound too, but unfortunately he wasn’t able to help Mrs Wynne-Talbot.’

  De Silva’s ears pricked up. So that was it. He’d presumed that Hebden had told him in strict confidence about Ralph Wynne-Talbot’s visit to him and he had respected that confidence, but Buscott’s remark opened up a can of worms. How many other people knew of the visit and from whom had they learnt of it? And more to the point, who did Hebden think had talked out of turn?

  Buscott’s attention was diverted by the need to find a prize for a little boy who had just dislodged a coconut with each of the five balls his father had paid for. ‘I think we’ve made it too easy,’ he sighed when he returned. ‘Ah, capital! Here comes Hebden with reinforcements.’

  The queue dwindled as teatime approached and people descended on the refreshment tent. Buscott mopped his brow with a large white handkerchief. ‘Tea be damned,’ he said. ‘I need a proper drink. Beer, gentlemen?’

  Hebden nodded. ‘Excellent idea.’

  ‘What about you, de Silva?’

  Although de Silva had developed a taste for whisky, beer was a beverage whose appeal still eluded him. ‘I would prefer lemonade, if you don’t mind. Shall I come and help you?’ he added, not keen to be left alon
e with Hebden.

  ‘No need, I can manage three glasses. You and Hebden keep an eye on things here.’

  As Buscott went off in the direction of the refreshment tent, de Silva wondered what he should say. Hebden was bound to be offended if he thought that people in Nuala were questioning his professional ability. If he believed de Silva was the source of the story, he would inevitably direct his anger at him. One option was to say nothing and hope any animosity Hebden bore him would blow over. On the other hand, it would be interesting to know how Buscott had learnt that Hebden had been consulted over Helen Wynne-Talbot.

  Hesitantly, he glanced sideways and found the doctor’s grey eyes studying him grimly. There was no point dissembling.

  ‘Please believe me when I say that I’ve never spoken to anyone of what you told me about Mr Wynne-Talbot’s visit to you. And even though I trust her with my life to be discreet, I include my wife in that.’

  Hebden didn’t answer for a moment and de Silva’s pulse quickened. At last the doctor nodded. ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid someone did talk.’ He thrust out his chin. ‘Nevertheless, I stand by the advice I gave Wynne-Talbot. Tragic as the outcome was, his wife would have been no better off if I’d agreed to prescribe the drug he wanted. In fact it might even have increased her sufferings with the side-effects it causes.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘What he asked me for was a drug called Nembutal – a barbiturate. Among other things, it’s used for the treatment of anxiety and insomnia. In small doses it induces a feeling of wellbeing and sociability in the same way that alcohol does. Increase the dose, however, even by a small margin, and the patient becomes hostile, irritable and frequently exhausted. Co-ordination is impaired, falls and accidents become a grave risk. A patient may suffer from hallucinations. In this confusion, the risk of a fatal overdose is also high.’

  ‘In other words, a drug to be approached with great caution.’

  ‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t want a patient of mine prescribed it unless they were under continuing medical supervision.’

  ‘So if people were somehow given the impression that you refused to help Mrs Wynne-Talbot, even though there was a viable treatment available, that would be misleading?’

  ‘Extremely misleading.’

  Hebden’s brow furrowed. ‘If it wasn’t you, de Silva and, I hasten to add, I accept your assurance, who was it? I’ve had comments from all kinds of quarters, most of them harmless enough but I don’t like it. The trust between doctor and patient is meant to be sacrosanct.’

  De Silva looked up and saw John Buscott coming across the lawn with two glass tankards of India Pale Ale and a tall glass of lemonade.

  ‘Enough said for the moment,’ Hebden muttered. ‘I suppose Buscott knows too?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  An interesting exchange, de Silva thought as he sipped his lemonade and listened to the two Englishmen discuss cricket scores. If the opportunity arose, he’d like to find out where John Buscott had got his information from. It was also tempting to speculate why Ralph Wynne-Talbot hadn’t wanted to talk to the older engineer about the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Was it simply because he didn’t have the time, or was there more to it than that?

  The afternoon drew to a close and people started to drift away. De Silva helped to dismantle the coconut shy and the donkey then went to find Jane who greeted him with a broad smile.

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a better time of it than I have,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  De Silva cast a glance at the other ladies still packing up unsold items and put a finger to his lips. ‘I’ll explain on the way home.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Jane as the Morris bowled along in the direction of Sunnybank.

  ‘Buscott was no problem. It was Hebden.’

  ‘Doctor Hebden? But he seems such a charming man.’

  De Silva frowned. ‘There’s something I didn’t tell you about Ralph Wynne-Talbot. Something Hebden told me in strict confidence. I suppose he thought he could trust me as I’m a policeman and, of course, if I had questioned him formally, he would have been obliged to tell me. Anyway, I kept the information to myself, then, to be perfectly honest, I forgot about it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Wynne-Talbot came to see Hebden a few days before his wife’s death, asking him to prescribe a drug called Nembutal.’

  Jane nodded. ‘I’ve read about it. It’s for the treatment of depression, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Where did you hear about it?’

  ‘I forget. It might have been an article in one of my film magazines.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, that was it. There was a film made in America about a doctor who illicitly experimented on his patients with different drugs and it was one of them.’

  ‘Well, the point is, Hebden declined to prescribe it because he thinks it often does more harm than good.’

  ‘That does rather bear out what I believe happened in the film.’

  ‘Wynne-Talbot apparently accepted his decision and that would have been the end of it except somehow word of their meeting got out.’

  ‘Surely you didn’t say anything, dear?’

  ‘Certainly not, but there was a bit of an awkward moment while Hebden thought I was the one to blame. Luckily, he accepted my word that I wasn’t.’

  ‘I should hope so too. But who do you think it was?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. John Buscott mentioned it while we were waiting for Hebden to arrive but I didn’t have the chance to find out how he knew.’

  ‘That’s easy. I’m sure I can make discreet enquiries. I’ll see Joan tomorrow. She and I are going to the orphanage with Florence Clutterbuck. We need to take them the money we made at the fête.’

  ‘It might be very useful if you can find out.’

  Jane tilted her head to one side. ‘Does this mean you think there’s something suspicious about Ralph Wynne-Talbot asking for Nembutal? It could have been perfectly innocent, you know. After all, he’s not a medical man so he might not be aware of the disadvantages. In any case, he didn’t get his prescription and you said he didn’t argue with Doctor Hebden about that.’

  ‘I agree that there may be nothing in it, but you know me.’

  ‘I do, my dear. Never leave any stone unturned.’

  ‘So tell me about your afternoon. Why so cheerful?’

  ‘I do believe I’ve made a little bit of progress with Sergeant Prasanna’s problem.’

  ‘Really? That is good news.’

  ‘I saw his mother near the stall looking as if she wanted to come over.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘After a while, yes. She thumbed through those film magazines I donated. Except I was sure she was only pretending to read them. I went over and talked to her. The atmosphere was rather awkward at first, but I’m convinced it was all a ploy. She wants to find out more about Kuveni.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘Female intuition, dear.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I suddenly had an idea, so I steered the conversation round to the orphanage.’

  ‘You’re going too fast for me.’ De Silva grinned, amused by his wife’s energetic tone. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Because it occurred to me that I might be able to interest her in doing some kind of event to help us with raising money. An afternoon of beauty treatments or demonstrations perhaps, I’d need to work out the details. Anyway, that’s not so important. What is, is that she’s coming to have tea with me to talk about it.’

  ‘And Kuveni will be there?’

  Jane beamed triumphantly. ‘Of course, and once Mrs Prasanna gets to know her better, I’m certain she’ll take a favourable view of her son’s choice.’

  He laughed. ‘My head is in a whirl with all this matchmaking.’

  ‘But you do think it will work, don’t you?’ she asked, suddenly anxious.

  The Morris turned into the drive at Sunnybank and came to a stop a
t the front door. He applied the handbrake then leant across to kiss her cheek. ‘It sounds like an excellent plan. Well done, my love.’

  Chapter 28

  At breakfast on the Monday morning, de Silva found an envelope beside his plate. It was much too early for the post to have been delivered. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked the servant who brought his eggs.

  ‘It was on the front door mat at dawn, sahib. No one saw the messenger.’

  ‘Strange.’ He looked at his plate. ‘Good, the yolks are still soft. You can bring my coffee now, but tell Cook not to send the memsahib’s eggs out yet, she won’t be ready for another ten minutes at least.’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  The door closed behind the servant and de Silva slit the envelope with his knife – Jane would tell him off for that. He took out the letter and scanned it quickly then folded it up again and put it and the envelope in his pocket. How to deal with this? He wasn’t sure yet. He picked up his knife and fork and attacked his eggs on toast.

  **

  The commotion at the police station greeted him the moment he walked through the door. A perspiring Constable Nadar looked up with palpable relief at the sight of him, and the two irate, gesticulating men in front of the desk, surrounded by their noisy gangs of supporters, fell to grumbling quietly.

  ‘What’s going on, Constable?’ asked de Silva, ignoring them all for the moment. Nadar started to speak but, finding a second wind, the crowd started talking and shouting once again. De Silva raised a hand. ‘Silence! Or I’ll have the lot of you thrown out.’

  With resentful looks, the crowd went quiet. De Silva pointed to the main protagonists. ‘The two of you may come into my office. Nadar, show the rest the door.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The two men trooped into the office behind de Silva and stood with downcast eyes while he settled himself behind his desk and took up paper and pen. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  ‘He let his bullock knock over my stall. Everything is ruined – mangoes, bananas, everything. Nothing can be sold – all trampled in the dust.’