Dark Clouds Over Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  ‘He lies! And he has lost nothing worth selling anyway. It was all rotting produce no one wanted. Nothing else was touched.’

  The first man lunged at his adversary’s throat. ‘I do not lie,’ he hissed.

  De Silva brought his fist down hard on the desktop. ‘Enough!’

  Both of the men stopped, resentful expressions on their faces. ‘I’ll come and see for myself,’ said de Silva. ‘Wait for me outside.’ Muttering, the men went out to the public room and de Silva waited for a few minutes before following them. It would do them no harm to have a little time to cool off. He took out the letter that had been delivered that morning and read it once more then put it in one of his desk drawers. Perhaps it was as well that he didn’t have time to decide how to act on it straight away. He’d think about it when this squabble was resolved.

  **

  ‘What a morning,’ he said when he returned home for lunch. ‘At one point the whole bazaar must have been involved and of course everyone had an opinion.’

  ‘Really, dear? What was the matter?’

  ‘Oh, a bullock ran amok and turned over a fruit and vegetable seller’s stall. The bullock’s owner was denying the damaged goods were worth anything.’

  ‘Did you manage to resolve it?’

  ‘After an hour or so, but it was hard going and I’m not sure either of them are really satisfied. Still, it can’t be helped.’

  ‘What a pity. Come and have your lunch. Cook has made your favourite.’

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘Pea and cashew curry. Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Jane as they ate. ‘I managed to find out what you wanted to know about Ralph Wynne-Talbot and Doctor Hebden.’

  ‘That didn’t take you long.’

  ‘It was easy. Joan Buscott’s a charming lady but she doesn’t have a suspicious bone in her body. Apparently she heard it from Florence and told her husband.’

  ‘And did you find out who Florence heard it from?’

  Jane gave him a triumphant smile. ‘I did. It was from Ralph Wynne-Talbot himself.’

  De Silva gave a low whistle.

  ‘It does seem odd, doesn’t it? But then after the tragedy he’s suffered, perhaps he needed to prove to himself and everyone else that he did everything he could to prevent it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s it.’ He scooped up the last of his curry and rice and ate it then pushed the plate away. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Will you have some more?’

  ‘Better not.’ He patted his stomach.

  ‘How sensible of you, my dear. Can you stay for a while?’

  ‘No, I’d better get back. I’ve paperwork that needs dealing with and this morning held me up. Oh, I forgot to tell you, I’ll be late home this evening. I have to see someone down in Hatton, so don’t keep dinner waiting for me.’

  ‘Alright, dear.’

  As he went out to the Morris, he felt guilty about not telling her the truth but it was better that way. Nevertheless, a knot tightened in his stomach.

  At the station, Nadar was alone. De Silva frowned. ‘I don’t recall sending Prasanna out for anything today. Where is he?’

  Nadar fiddled with a pencil. ‘He didn’t come in, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I think he has some problems, sir…’

  De Silva’s frown deepened. If Prasanna and Kuveni had argued, surely Jane would have known about it?

  ‘It is his aunties, sir. They tell him he will be the death of his mother and he must mend his ways.’

  So that was it. To be frank, he was surprised this hadn’t happened sooner. He hesitated: best not to mention Jane’s scheme to Nadar for the moment. ‘Hmm. In the circumstances, if you see him, you may tell him I excuse him today, but I expect him in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Nadar unhappily.

  In his office, de Silva took the letter from his drawer and studied the hand-drawn map and brief instructions one more time. Jane’s news clinched it; Ralph Wynne-Talbot’s admission might have been the outpouring of a troubled mind but it might have been less innocent. He had to know for sure. Distractedly, he applied himself to his paperwork. There were several hours to go before the rendezvous.

  Chapter 29

  Matthew Claybourne waited for him at an unremarkable guest house on the road that led north out of Nuala. De Silva wasn’t surprised he hadn’t thought to search it before. He found a place where the Morris wouldn’t be too conspicuous and promised the guest house owner a generous tip to keep an eye on it.

  They took Claybourne’s car and drove for half an hour until the road became too broken up to go on. Setting off on foot, de Silva felt uneasy. There had been rain the previous night and the reddish-coloured mud on the narrow track soon coated his shoes and the bottoms of his uniform trouser legs. The trees crowded in on them, the smell of humid, burgeoning vegetation mingling unpleasantly with the stench of decay. A film of sweat soon covered his face and a million microscopic insects made the air hum with the vibration of their wings.

  A nasty suspicion grew in his mind that Johnny Randall – if that was who the man calling himself Ralph Wynne-Talbot really was – would not show up. Realistically, he held all the cards. Even if there was truth in Claybourne’s accusation, William Petrie and Archie Clutterbuck were unlikely to believe him. If I were in Wynne-Talbot’s place, thought de Silva, I’d keep away and, if necessary, deny everything and rely on people thinking Claybourne was a crank, and a malicious one at that.

  He yelped as, preoccupied with his thoughts, he stumbled over a tangle of roots snaking across the path.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Claybourne sharply.

  ‘I tripped over one of these damned roots.’

  ‘You’d better be more careful. I’m not planning on carrying you if you break anything.’

  De Silva’s fists clenched then he reminded himself of his resolve. They had started and, whatever the hazards, he would finish this crazy expedition. If it proved a waste of time and Claybourne still wouldn’t see sense, he’d arrest him for wasting police time.

  By the time they reached the spot where the jungle thinned, the sun was slipping below the tree canopy. It grew harder to see the way, but de Silva realised they were walking through what remained of an old coffee plantation. The area once under cultivation looked to have been quite small – a reminder that not all the planters who had come to Ceylon had been wealthy men.

  In places, skeletons of coffee bushes clawed up from the brushwood and weeds, desolate evidence of Hemileia vastatrix. Coffee rust: or as it was more commonly known, Devastating Emily. The terrible blight had ravaged the coffee fields nearly seventy years ago, in most cases bankrupting those who had previously profited from Ceylon’s fragrant black gold. It had taken years for the hill country to recover as the more tenacious planters developed the tea trade.

  They headed for a low, L-shaped building in an advanced state of dilapidation that crouched at the western end of the fields. Even in the fast-fading light, the years of neglect were all too evident. Much of the roof had fallen in and through gaping holes, trees thrust their way to the sky. There was no glass in the windows but most of the bars fixed across them to deter burglars still looked intact.

  De Silva followed Claybourne up the wooden steps to the porch. The front door hung precariously by a single hinge. It opened with difficulty, making a grating sound that set de Silva’s teeth on edge.

  The room they walked into stank of damp; rubbish and dead leaves littered the floor. The remains of a meal stood on a table: a few scraps of bread and a melon rind that were providing a feast for a pair of common tiger butterflies. Through a door to the right, he caught a glimpse of a dimly lit room with a low bed in it. From the rumpled covers, it seemed that Claybourne had been sleeping in this godforsaken hole.

  ‘How did you find this place?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘I spoke to some of the locals; they knew about it. I come here sometimes when I want s
ome peace and quiet.’

  ‘You certainly found it. What do you do for water and supplies?’

  ‘There’s a well at the back. As for the rest, I pay a local man to bring in what little I need.’

  De Silva shuddered inwardly. How cheerless and lonely the place was. It was no wonder the fellow looked so grim.

  ‘I don’t expect Randall will be here for a while,’ said Claybourne. ‘I told the guide what time we would arrive and stressed that we wanted to be here first.’

  ‘Always an advantage.’ Surreptitiously, de Silva touched the Webley in the shoulder holster tucked under his jacket. If it came to a fight, he hoped the gun would be an advantage too.

  Claybourne permitted himself a rare smile. ‘I thought we might be glad of something to steady our nerves before the fun begins.’ He went to a cupboard made of dry, cracked, wooden panels. The shelves held a meagre stock of packets and tins of food as well as a few mismatched tumblers and a bottle of whisky. Claybourne poured them each a generous measure then gestured to the verandah. ‘It’s stuffy in here. We can probably risk staying outside while we drink these.’

  There was no furniture on the small verandah so they remained standing while they drank in silence. De Silva ran their agreement over in his mind. He was to conceal himself in the bungalow while Claybourne offered to throw in his lot with Randall. Claybourne was convinced that Randall would then say enough to incriminate himself and de Silva would pounce.

  But a chill crept down de Silva’s spine. Was he mad to have agreed to this? He imagined the scene if he’d been duped and had to explain that to Petrie and Clutterbuck.

  Claybourne drained his glass and set it on the ground. ‘Drink up. We’d better get ready for our visitor.’

  The last of de Silva’s whisky was still in his mouth when the blow hit him squarely in the diaphragm. With a gasp, he doubled over and alcohol splattered the boards. The glass dropped from his hand and shattered. He just had time to lift his head when Claybourne punched him again, this time between the eyes.

  His legs gave way and the floor rushed up to meet him. Through a fog of pain, he realised that Claybourne had grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands behind his back. He tottered, blinking as he felt the sticky warmth of blood. A length of coarse rope went round his wrists, binding them together. He felt a boot nudge him in the ribs. He groaned and fought down the desire to retch.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘You bastard. Untie me.’

  ‘Can’t do that, old sport. You’ve an important part to play in my plans.’

  De Silva struggled feebly as Claybourne dragged him to his feet and hauled him to the nearest window. He was surprised to find the man was so strong.

  ‘You’re going to be my decoy,’ Claybourne said coldly, producing another rope with which he tied de Silva to one of the bars. His stomach turned over. Why hadn’t he foreseen this? The man was mad and he had walked straight into his trap. He should have brought Prasanna or Nadar with him, not just left a note saying where he had gone. But he mustn’t show he was afraid.

  ‘You’re crazy if you think this will work, Claybourne. If it is Randall, he’s bound to see I’m not you. He’ll realise something’s up and make a run for it.’

  ‘If it was light and he could see you, I agree, but you know as well as I do that darkness falls quickly here. I told the guide to take a detour and make sure they arrive after sunset.’

  He patted de Silva down and found the Webley. Removing it from its holster, he nodded. ‘Reliable weapon this; better than mine. Good range too. I should be able to stop Randall with the first bullet.’

  De Silva’s blood roared in his ears. Suppose Claybourne wasn’t as good a shot as he thought he was? If the man coming really was Randall and not Ralph, it was unlikely he would be unarmed. And even if Claybourne succeeds, he thought, where does that leave me? The answer stared him in the face: an inconvenient witness.

  Claybourne pulled a roll of tape from his pocket and fixed a strip across de Silva’s mouth. More tape trussed his ankles. Claybourne went back inside and emerged with a kerosene lamp which he hung from a beam. ‘That should give Randall a bit of light but not enough to see your face. You and I are about the same height so that ought not to be a problem.’

  The matter-of-fact tone filled de Silva with despair. Even if he had been able to talk, he doubted there was anything he could have said to change Claybourne’s mind. He wanted vengeance for the wrong he believed had been done to his friend. Nothing was going to stand in his way. A suspicion crept into de Silva’s mind that Claybourne’s feelings for Wynne-Talbot might have gone beyond friendship.

  Dusk quickly turned to darkness as they waited. At first, de Silva’s arms throbbed then they became numb. The tape over his mouth made it impossible to take in air, but he forced himself to suppress the surges of panic he experienced and breathed steadily through his nose. He thought of Jane and faced the possibility he would never see her again. His heart ached at the prospect but he saw no way out.

  A fatalistic calm settled on him as he listened to the sputter of the kerosene lamp and the sound of insects banging monotonously against its glass. The crescent moon threw a lurid light over the vista of ruined bushes and dry scrub. A breeze got up, rustling through the matted creepers that shrouded the old bungalow. He fancied he heard voices calling to him. Were they the voices of the dead?

  A hiss from Claybourne’s direction jolted him back to a state of full alertness. His heartbeat quickened. ‘It’s Randall,’ Claybourne whispered. ‘He’s coming.’

  For a few moments, two lights bobbed across the open ground then one of them curled away and was swallowed up by the jungle. It was impossible for de Silva’s mouth to grow any dryer than it already was. He forgot to breathe through his nose and suffered another bout of panic that set his lungs on fire. Forcing himself to subdue it, he strained his eyes to make out the approaching figure’s face. A few more paces and the man halted. ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Hello, Johnny.’

  His captor’s voice was so close it made de Silva start.

  ‘I imagine you didn’t expect to hear from me again,’ Claybourne went on.

  ‘So it’s really you. But that’s wonderful! It’s marvellous to see you, old man. When I got your message, I hardly dared to believe it. Your name was on the casualty list. You were on it as missing, believed dead.’

  ‘I wasn’t far off. I spent three months in hospital with severe burns and amnesia. The doctors told me afterwards that they hadn’t expected me to pull through.’

  ‘I can barely make you out there in the shadows. Move that lamp so we can see each other properly.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?’ De Silva heard a note of uncertainty in Randall’s jocular tone. ‘We’ve a lot of catching up to do. Poor old Ralph – I expect you know he didn’t make it. It was a dreadful shock for Helen.’

  ‘Oh, but she had you to console her, didn’t she?’

  ‘Ah. That was a terrible mistake, Matthew. I’ve regretted it ever since. She led me on and I shouldn’t have fallen for it. After the tragedy, the only honourable thing to do was stay with her. It’s not been easy I can tell you.’ His voice cracked. ‘I expect you know how badly it’s all ended.’

  ‘Do you really think I’m gullible enough to believe you care for anyone but yourself?’

  ‘I don’t blame you for mistrusting me, Matthew.’

  ‘And there’s more, isn’t there? You didn’t just want Ralph’s wife, you thought you’d have his life too.’

  De Silva heard Randall’s sharp intake of breath. For a moment, he seemed lost for an answer. In the silence, de Silva tried to make a noise to attract his attention but it was impossible. Then Randall rallied. ‘I can explain—’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I realise some people would say what I’m doing’s wrong, but look at it from my point of view. I wanted poor Helen to have the life that she would have had i
f Ralph hadn’t died. I believe he really loved her at the end, so, if you like, it would expunge my guilt. His family are overjoyed. To them it’s put right all the wrongs of the past. Let them keep that, Matthew.’

  ‘Why did Helen die, Johnny? Did you drive her to it?’

  ‘What the hell!’

  ‘Don’t act the innocent with me.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. It was an accident. I would never have hurt her. I was determined to care for her for Ralph’s sake. You and he were the best friends I ever had.’

  An edge came into Claybourne’s voice. ‘A strange way to treat a friend, Johnny.’

  ‘Helen started it, Matthew. If she hadn’t given me the eye—’

  ‘Don’t keep blaming it all on her.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I admit I was at fault too.’ He groaned. ‘God, what a bloody disaster it’s all been. I’d do anything to be able to go back and put it all right.’

  De Silva squirmed and tried to move. The feeling had gone from his arms and his chest ached but he shifted his head forward and back enough to bang it against the bars. The inside of his skull jangled with the impact and he didn’t try again. The sound was muffled, but Randall must have heard it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Rats, I expect. The place is riddled with them.’

  To de Silva’s despair, Randall seemed satisfied.

  ‘Come on, Matthew. We can’t bring Ralph and Helen back to life but we can still be friends.’

  ‘Can we?’ Bitterness infused Claybourne’s voice. ‘I saw you do it, Johnny.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you kill Ralph. You didn’t realise I was lying nearby, did you? I saw what you did.’

  ‘Matthew, you can’t think…’

  ‘No?’

  ‘He was in agony, Matthew. Almost gone. He begged me to put him out of his misery.’

  The first bullet passed close to de Silva’s ear. Its heat seared his skin. The sound was so loud that it deafened him for a moment.