by A. M. Stuart
“Further details will be released after the surgeon has examined the body.”
“Who found the body?”
Curran hesitated. “The scene was discovered this morning by an Englishwoman.”
Maddocks fixed Curran with an inquiring look. “Who?”
“I’m not revealing the lady’s identity.”
The blue eyes gleamed. “Was she Sir Oswald’s mistress?”
“God, no!” Curran blurted out. “You have a prurient mind, Maddocks. A thoroughly respectable lady who was assisting Sir Oswald with writing his memoirs.”
“Not Mrs. Gordon, by any chance?”
Caught by surprise, Curran let his hesitation give Maddocks the answer he sought and he scribbled in his notebook. Curran took a step toward him. “On no account are you to publish her name, Maddocks. How do you know her?”
Maddocks leaned back against the rail as if he thought Curran would hit him. The rotting wood groaned ominously and he held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Harriet and I came out on the same ship three months ago, Inspector, and we have mutual friends. She mentioned she was taking up a bit of shorthand and typing work. I don’t think that the school pays her a penny for being the headmaster’s assistant. You have my word, I won’t mention her name, but surely it will come out at the inquest if not before.”
Curran relaxed and Maddocks stepped away from the verandah rail, snapping his notebook shut.
“Any chance I can see the crime scene?”
“None,” Curran said. “Now, go and write your story.”
Maddocks touched his fingers to his damp hair and hurried down the stairs to jump in the ricksha he had arrived in. Curran spared a sympathetic thought for the thin, wet and dispirited ricksha wallah who now had to trundle the three miles back into town.
Curran returned to the study, gave orders that the papers and the statue were to be boxed up and taken back to South Bridge Road, where the Detective Branch had their headquarters.
“What about the typewriter?” Greaves inquired.
Curran picked up Harriet Gordon’s typewriter. No reason why she should not have it back tomorrow.
He thought of her cool demeanor toward him and decided to make a few discreet inquiries of colleagues in London. In the meantime, the typewriter made a good peace offering.
FIVE
So much blood,” Harriet murmured.
Julian placed his hand over Harriet’s. “You should never have gone alone,” he said. “I blame myself. I should have gone with you.”
She glanced up at him, seeing the loving concern in his eyes but instinctively bridling at the implication that she needed his protection. Not that this gentle man of the cloth would have been any use to her had the murderer been lying in wait for her.
“I only went to collect my typewriter. I wasn’t to know that Sir Oswald would be lying in a bloody heap on the floor of his study.” She forced a smile and patted his hand. “I saw plenty of dead bodies in India.” She paused and took another sip of the brandy, her second since arriving home. “But I must admit what I saw today was horrible.”
Julian huffed out a breath, which Harriet recognized as both exasperation and remorse.
“I know you told me Sir Oswald bound you to confidentiality but I think his death releases you from that obligation. Can you tell me now why he had contracted your services?” Julian asked.
She laughed. “I was only typing his memoirs. It was hardly a work of literary merit and in fairness I had not got terribly far. I was still in his nursery reminiscences.” She frowned. “Although I find it somewhat disquieting that the only thing I could see that had been taken was the manuscript.”
Julian’s eyebrows shot up. “Odd thing for an intruder to take?”
Harriet stared at her empty glass. “Julian, what really worries me is that the . . . business in London will come out. What if the school governors find out?”
Julian gripped her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Harriet, my dear Harriet. The bishop knows. He will look after you.”
“I have a police record, Ju.”
“You were hardly a criminal. There is a world of difference between a suffragette and an out-and-out felon.”
She gave his hand an answering squeeze. “I hope you’re right.”
She drew her bare feet up onto the chair, letting the warmth of the tropical night wrap around her like a cloak. Normally this would be her favorite time of day but now the thick darkness hid a thousand watchful eyes, and she couldn’t help the feeling that the murderer of Sir Oswald Newbold lurked in the dark, like the bogeyman of her childhood nightmares. Over the repetitive rasp of insects and the distant cries of monkeys, the sharp unmistakable crunch of gravel underfoot cut through the night, and she started, her breath catching in her throat as she reached for Julian.
“What was that?” she whispered, her fingers tightening on his as the sound came again.
Julian stood up, peering into the damp darkness. “Who’s there?”
A ghostly apparition moved beyond the light thrown by the kerosene lamp and Harriet fought for breath as her heart raced. Not that she believed in ghosts or, what had Curran called them . . . ? Hantu daguk?
“Come forward, whoever you are,” Julian said in his best headmasterly voice.
The apparition took the solid form of a slight young man in sodden white clerical ducks, who stood in the rain at the foot of the steps, his arms wrapped around himself.
“Mrs. Gordon? Do you remember me?” he inquired, his accent immediately catching at the corners of Harriet’s memory.
“Mr. Visscher, isn’t it?” Harriet rose to her feet. “Come up here, out of the rain.”
The boy, for he couldn’t have been much older than eighteen or nineteen, stood at the top of the stairs, dripping and shivering under the shelter of the wide verandah roof.
“You’re soaked, young man. Sit down and I will fetch a towel,” Harriet said.
Julian shot his sister a questioning glance.
“Julian, Mr. Visscher is a clerk from the Hotel Van Wijk.”
“Can I get you a drink, old chap? You look like you could use one,” Julian said.
Visscher shook his head and raised his hand to detain Harriet, who had turned to go into the house.
“No, I cannot stay. I didn’t know who else to ask. You seemed like a lady I could trust. Is it true? Is he dead? They said his head had been severed . . .” The young man’s voice rose in his agitation.
Harriet placed a hand on his arm. “Was Sir Oswald a friend of yours?”
Visscher looked at her and his eyebrows drew together. “No, but he came to the hotel often. I went to his house last night and you were there.” The boy blinked. “I . . . I was working on reception today when some people came into the hotel talking about a terrible murder on Bukit Timah Road. When I heard the name Newbold mentioned, I panicked. I went up to his house but there were police at the gate so I dared not go in. I came straight here. Is it true?”
Harriet nodded. “I’m afraid so. Sir Oswald was attacked last night by an intruder and stabbed to death.”
The boy flung his head back. “I tried to warn him but he would not listen.” Visscher looked from one to the other. “Did you tell the police I was there last night?”
“Of course I did. I had to tell them,” Harriet said, “and I am sure Inspector Curran will want to speak to you.”
Visscher took a step back, nearly falling down the front stairs. He righted himself and ran a shaking hand through his damp hair. “The police? If they know I have talked to the police, then I too will be a dead man.”
“Mr. Visscher, really. You have nothing to worry about,” Julian said in the sort of soothing tone of voice he used with his students.
“No, you don’t understand.” Visscher looked from one to the other. “It is the VOC.” He
pronounced it as V-O-C.
“The VOC?” Julian frowned. “What is the VOC and why are you so frightened of it?”
Visscher shook his head. “I cannot say or you will be next. They are dangerous.” He straightened and glanced out into the darkness. “I must go.”
He gave an odd, stiff little bow and hurried down the stairs to be swallowed up in the darkness before Julian or Harriet could say another word.
Julian shook his head. “What a peculiar young man.”
“A very frightened young man.” Harriet looked up at Julian. “What do you suppose the VOC could be?”
“I don’t know but I am beginning to have a bad feeling about this, Harri.”
“So am I. It’s inevitable that my name will come out. There will be a coronial inquiry,” Harriet pointed out, “and possibly a trial . . .” She reached out for the reassuring solidity of the verandah post. “Oh, Julian. I can’t . . .”
Julian laid a brotherly hand on her shoulder. “Harriet Jane,” he said fiercely, “you are not the one on trial. All you will have to do is give your evidence and that will be it. No one is sending you back to Holloway.”
* * *
* * *
Curran returned home late in the evening to the little bungalow off Cantonment Road that he called home.
He knew Li An waited for him on the verandah, as much a part of the night as the monkeys in the trees and the background drone of the myriad of insect life that inhabited the jungle surrounding his house. A creature of the dark, his Broken Bird.
Leaving his horse with the syce, Mahmud, Curran approached the bungalow. The scent of the frangipani tree Li An had planted by the front steps filled the air, banishing the pall of death that had surrounded him all day, and he sensed rather than saw her rise from her chair, graceful and silent as a pontianak, the spirit of a beautiful woman sent to lure him to his death.
“You are very late, Curran,” she said. A statement, not a reproof.
He took her in his arms, twining his fingers in her thick, dark hair, which hung loose around her face.
“It’s been a long day, Li,” he murmured into her hair. “You smell good.”
Her shoulders lifted in a silent laugh and she wriggled out from his grasp.
“You must eat,” she said, “and you can tell me what it is that keeps you from me.”
She took him by the hand and led him into the house, where a single candle burned on the table. Curran poured himself a whisky and collapsed into his favorite armchair, tearing at his constricting collar. He knew the disapproving gossip that circulated among the English population about their senior detective. Curran has gone native, they whispered, but he paid them no heed.
Mesmerized, he watched Li An as she busied herself around the room, lighting the kerosene lamps that cast a soft glow and filled the room with the scent of the fuel. A visitor to the bungalow during the day would find her in a simple “uniform” of black trousers and a white tunic top, with her hair tied back in a long, simple plait. The picture of a compliant native housekeeper transformed at night.
The flowered cotton cheongsam she wore tonight accentuated, rather than disguised, her slim, lithe body, and her hair tumbled in dark shining waves almost to her waist. At night she wore it loose, swept up over her right ear with a single frangipani flower. The simple trick of the flower in her hair distracted the eye of the beholder from the long, ugly scar that transected her left cheek from the corner of her eye to her mouth. Her brother’s parting gift.
She called herself Broken Bird.
It continually amazed him that Li An stayed. He had told her that she was under no obligation to him and that her life was her own but she would lay her long fingers on his chest and kiss him and tell him she stayed because she chose to stay.
She poured herself a whisky and turned to seat herself in the other armchair, swirling the amber liquid in the crystal glass.
“Tell me about your day, Curran,” she said.
And he did. She asked questions, prompting him when he fell silent. Khoo Li An was no stranger to violent death and he knew nothing he said would shock her.
She rose to her feet in one supple movement and crossed to him, taking the glass from his hand.
“This Newbold,” she said. “He is a man of many secrets, I think.”
Curran grunted his agreement.
“There is something not quite right about him. A tuan requiring great respect but he is like the jing in Chinese opera. His is a painted face.”
Curran smiled and caught her hand, pressing her fingers to his lips.
“So wise and so beautiful,” he said.
She laughed and extricated her hand. “Enough of work. You must be hungry. I will cook dinner now.”
He smiled up at her, knowing that after they had eaten they would retire to bed and he could lose himself in her arms and the troubles of the day would be swallowed up by the dark night. For whatever reasons she chose to stay with him, he had allowed himself to break the rule of a lifetime.
He loved her.
SIX
Tuesday, 8 March 1910
Curran arrived at South Bridge Road the next morning at seven thirty to find he already had a visitor waiting to see him. The neat, rotund figure of Mr. Clive Strong of Lovett, Strong and Dickens, a reputable legal firm that had offices off Raffles Place, sat on a bench in the outer office, tapping a well-polished shoe on the floor. Curran and Strong had formed a nodding acquaintance over a burglary matter some months previously, and as Curran’s staff jumped to their feet, Strong in turn rose, coming forward, hand outstretched, to greet Curran. Curran gestured for the man to enter his office and closed the door behind them.
“I beg your pardon, Strong. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. You’re an early riser.”
Strong shook his head. “I’ve been in Johor and only got home last night to the terrible news about Sir Oswald. I thought you would want to see his will as soon as possible.”
Strong opened the briefcase he carried and laid the neatly folded document on the table. Curran picked it up, slipped off the pink ribbon that encircled it and scanned the contents.
“You’re his executor?”
Strong nodded. “Yes, that’s why I didn’t delay. I will need to make funeral arrangements. Where is his body?”
“At the hospital. Dr. Mackenzie will be performing the autopsy at nine. After that it can be released to you for burial.”
Strong pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as if he could smell the decomposing corpse. “The sooner the better. I suppose I should see to poor Nyan as well.”
“That would be appreciated,” Curran observed. “I believe he was Burmese. Did he have any family here in Singapore?”
Strong shook his head. “I doubt it. He was only a servant.”
Curran flinched inwardly. Only a servant and therefore of no importance? As far as he was concerned Nyan was an innocent bystander who had died a violent and unnecessary death. Servant or not, he deserved respect—and justice.
Strong continued. “As soon as I depart here I shall make immediate arrangements for a funeral.”
Curran read through the rest of the document, laid it down and tapped it with a forefinger. “No family?”
“No. Newbold had no close family, Inspector, and his estate is quite considerable. As you can see, there are a few minor bequests, including a generous legacy to his unfortunate servant, but the bulk of his estate is divided between the Explorers and Geographers Club here in Singapore and his old school in England. I regret for your sake that there are no obvious murder suspects among the beneficiaries, Curran.”
Curran allowed himself to smile. “Not unless his old headmaster is anxious for the bequest.” He handed the document back to Strong. “Were you aware Sir Oswald was writing his memoirs?”
“Yes indeed. He h
ad a publisher in London quite eager to publish them. On which subject, do you have the manuscript?”
Curran shook his head. “The manuscript is missing and interestingly I have been unable to locate any reference material, such as diaries or letters.”
“There are none,” Strong said. “All his records were destroyed in a house fire in Rangoon not long before he left to come to Singapore.”
“He was writing from memory? Hardly reliable,” Curran remarked.
Strong shrugged. “I haven’t read any of his work so I cannot comment, Inspector. I believe much of it was written before the fire, during his time in Burma. Did you say the manuscript is missing?”
“It appears to be the only thing stolen from the house.”
“How extraordinary,” Strong said.
“When did Newbold arrive in Singapore?”
“Early ’06, I believe. My initial dealings with him were purely professional. I handled the purchase of Mandalay. Did you find the title deeds to the property?”
Curran inclined his head and Strong let out a sigh. “That’s a relief. Makes selling it much easier if I’m not struggling to find the paperwork.”
“How well did you know Newbold personally?”
Strong sat back in his chair and mopped his face with a large, pristine handkerchief. “He was one of those hail-fellow-well-met kind of chaps. Good company and a generous host. I must admit I enjoyed a couple of pleasant meals at the club. The food there is very good.”
From the way the buttons on his linen jacket strained, Strong looked like a man who enjoyed a good curry.
“Did he talk about his time in Burma?”
Strong frowned. “Of course. It was a large part of his life. He talked about it often,”
“What did he have to say about his exploration of northern Burma?”
“He spoke of that at great length.” Strong dropped an extra inflection on the words great length. The eyes of the two men met in perfect understanding and Strong’s moustache twitched in a smile. Mackenzie was not the only person to find Sir Oswald Newbold a crashing bore.