by A. M. Stuart
Curran agreed with that sentiment.
“How long have you been secretary here?”
“Not quite a year.”
“And how did you get on with Newbold?”
“Well, it came as something of a shock when I found out he was a member. Not just a member, the president. Of course, he knew who I was. Spoke very highly of my father and to be honest I probably have to thank him for the post.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Curran prodded.
“He could be very demanding. A man used to getting his own way.” Carruthers’s neat moustache twitched. “Mind you, that probably describes most of the membership.”
Enough chat. Time for the business at hand.
“When did you last see Sir Oswald?”
“Saturday night. We have a monthly members’ dinner.”
“What time did Sir Oswald leave?”
Carruthers shook his head. “It would have been well after midnight. He takes a room at the Van Wijk on the nights we have these dinners.”
“Walking distance?”
“Precisely.”
“You didn’t see him on Sunday?”
“No. It is my day off, Inspector.”
“What were you doing on Sunday night?”
The man started, his hand going to his high, starched collar. “You don’t think I . . . ? That is quite impossible . . . Actually, I was here until midnight.”
Curran held up his hand. “It is just a routine question, Carruthers. If it was your day off, why did you come in to the club?”
“I had paperwork I wanted to get out of the way by Monday. Since you’ll find out from the other committee members, Newbold had raised a concern over the accounts and I wanted to ensure I had all the figures correct before the committee was due to meet on Monday.”
“Anyone who can confirm your presence?”
“At least half a dozen members. The club doesn’t close, Inspector, and life in Singapore can be . . . lonely.”
“I would be grateful if you can give me their names and I will send someone to take statements and to take your fingerprints.”
Carruthers’s eyes widened. “Fingerprints?”
“Yes, it is a new technique we have introduced.” Curran looked at his hand. “Every person in the world has different fingerprints, did you know that, Carruthers? And whenever you touch something”—he picked up the cup—“you leave traces of those fingerprints that can be seen with the right techniques.”
“Really?” Carruthers said without enthusiasm. He glanced at the fingers of his right hand. “How interesting.”
“It is,” Curran said with a reassuring smile. “Back to Newbold. Did he have any enemies in the club?”
Carruthers shook his head but there was the faintest hesitation before he said, “Not at all. He was respected by everybody.”
Respected but not liked?
“Could you supply me with a membership list and indicate on it those who were particular friends of Sir Oswald?”
“Friends?” The concept seemed strange to Carruthers.
“Members he spent more time with than others,” Curran clarified.
Carruthers shifted in his seat. “We are very exclusive. I’ll have to ask the committee. The members won’t be happy.”
“One of your members died violently, Carruthers.”
“Of course, but I will have to clear it with the committee and the incoming president.”
“Who is?”
“Colonel Augustus Foster.”
Curran brightened. He knew Foster from the cricket club. The colonel never missed a game and he had enjoyed some good chats with the man on one of his own favorite subjects—cricket.
Carruthers pushed his chair back from the desk, signaling that in his opinion the interview was over. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Inspector?”
“One last thing.” Curran patted his pocket, remembering the bag with the knife he had retrieved from Mackenzie that morning. He pulled it out, holding the knife carefully with his handkerchief. “Have you seen this before?”
Carruthers recoiled, his lips drawn back against his teeth. “Is that the . . . the . . .”
Curran ignored the question. “Can you tell me what sort of knife it is?”
“It’s a dha,” Carruthers answered without hesitation. “A Burmese weapon.” He squinted and peered closely at the knife. “Of some antiquity,” he added.
“Have you seen it before?”
Carruthers straightened. “Yes. Sir Oswald kept it in his study in his home. He used it as a sort of paperweight.”
“You’ve visited Newbold’s house?”
“Yes, several times, on club business, you understand.”
“When were you last there?”
Carruthers shrugged. “Two, three weeks ago?”
“Were you aware Newbold had written his memoirs?”
Carruthers’s moustache twitched and he nodded. “Everyone knew. In fact, I was rather looking forward to them. Sort of hoped he showed my father in a good light. I suppose they will be published posthumously now?”
Curran crossed his arms and after a pause, he said, “If we can find the manuscript.”
Carruthers’s graying eyebrows shot up. “It’s missing?”
“Would there be anything in that manuscript that would be worth killing for?” Curran asked, fixing the man with an unblinking gaze.
Carruthers frowned. “Inspector, I’ll be honest with you. I knew Newbold well and I doubt that the memoirs are anything more than the boastful ramblings of an old man. He was given to exaggeration. I didn’t have any great hopes of it.”
Curran kept his gaze on Carruthers. The bitterness in the man’s voice had not escaped him. Carruthers’s father had died on Newbold’s expedition to northern Burma in 1876 while Newbold had returned a hero and a wealthy man. He could understand the man’s curiosity in the portrayal of his father.
Carruthers stood up and faced Curran. “Is that all, Inspector?”
Curran shook the man’s hand. “For now, Carruthers.”
“Let me see you out.”
As Carruthers shepherded his unwanted visitor out of the front door, they encountered Colonel Augustus Foster coming up the front steps.
“Curran!” Foster exclaimed. “Good to see you, man. What brings you here?”
“The inspector was just leaving, Colonel,” Carruthers said.
“Leaving? Nonsense. It’s nearly lunchtime and the man must be starving. We do one of the best curry tiffins in Singapore, Curran. Come and join me. My guest.”
Curran, conscious that Carruthers was all but hopping from one foot to the other in his anxiety to be rid of his unwelcome visitor, extended his hand to the colonel and said, “I’d be delighted.”
Foster guided Curran into the dining room, a timber-paneled room lined with framed maps, each one surmounted with an embossed brass plate.
Curran wandered over to one wall and inspected the maps closely. Each brass plate bore a name and a date.
The colonel laughed. “Every new member has to present the club with an official map proving their eligibility for membership.” He pointed to one particular map that, on closer inspection, appeared to be a part of British East Africa. “River Foster. That’s mine. Now, do take a seat, dear boy.”
As Curran settled himself the colonel returned to his favorite subject. “Big game this weekend, old chap. Johor Cricket Club. You’ll be opening for the SCC?”
The annual Johor cricket match. He’d forgotten all about it. Curran cursed to himself. “I doubt it, Colonel. I have Sir Oswald’s murder investigation . . .”
“Oh yes, rum business,” the colonel said. “But before we start on that, as I’m sure you have questions for me, let’s order. Abdul”—he summoned one of the wh
ite-clad club servants—“two chicken curries and beers.”
With an afternoon of interviews stretching ahead of him, Curran wasn’t sure a heavy curry meal and a beer . . . or two . . . would help much, but while he had the colonel’s ear, he might as well take advantage of it.
“How well did you know Sir Oswald?” he asked, after the servant set down the huge platters of meat and rice.
“Well enough. Met him a few times when I was posted to Rangoon, but only really got to know him through the club.” Foster tore a piece of naan bread and dipped it into the fragrant sauce.
“When were you in Rangoon, Colonel?”
Foster chewed on his naan. “Moved around a bit between Burma and India. Never in one place for very long. Decided to retire to Singapore about three years ago. Had enough of the wandering life.”
“Were you there around the time of Newbold’s exploration of northern Burma?”
Foster finished chewing his mouthful. “No. I was posted in a bit later. You can imagine the natives weren’t too pleased about the annexation. Had to spend a few months up there myself dealing with a bit of insurrection. Did Carruthers tell you his father was one of the party that went with Newbold?”
“He did.”
Foster frowned. “Good chap, Carruthers. Newbold did pretty damn well out of the ruby syndicate. Between us, from what I gather nothing much flowed the way of Carruthers’s widow and child.”
That seemed to contradict what Carruthers had told him.
“Why didn’t Newbold retire back to England?” Curran asked, changing the subject.
“Good God, man. You of all people to ask that question. Nothing in England except miserable weather and miserable people. Told me he decided to retire to Singapore and write his memoirs. Now, they’d make interesting reading.”
They would if we could find them, Curran thought.
“Have you read any of his writing?” Curran ventured.
Foster shook his head. “He was being very close with it.”
“Did the memoirs contain anything that would cause concern?”
Foster’s sharp eyes fixed Curran in a hard glare. “Do you mean was there anything in his memoirs that may have led to his death?”
Curran left it to Foster to answer his own question.
“Look, between us, the man was a crashing bore and prone to exaggerating his own importance, but would anyone kill him for it? You’ve got the manuscript; you can read it and tell me.”
“We don’t have the manuscript. It was the only thing taken from the bungalow.”
Foster’s fork fell back onto his plate, causing drops of yellow sauce to splatter on his pristine linen suit. “The manuscript? Who would take that?”
“That’s what I would like to know,” Curran replied, sopping up the last of his curry with a piece of bread. “Was he greatly liked by the club membership?” Curran lowered his tone as a group of men entered the dining room.
“Not that sort of place, Curran.” Foster also lowered his voice. “You don’t have to be loved to be president of the Explorers.” Foster leaned forward. “Frankly, all he had to show for his record was that one expedition in Burma and any expedition where good men are lost is not successful, whatever riches you may find.”
“You were in the army. What became of the other man . . . Kent?”
Foster shrugged. “Died of fever a few years later, I believe. Didn’t know him myself. Another beer?”
Curran shook his head and thanked the colonel for the meal. He had left his chestnut gelding, Leopold, tethered at the front gate and the horse gave Curran a reproachful glance as Curran swung himself into the saddle.
“Sorry, old chap, didn’t mean to be so long,” he said to the horse as he turned back toward South Bridge Road to write up his notes and check on the progress of the rest of the investigation.
* * *
* * *
Harriet had been unable to settle into any serious work and she stood in the shelter of the porte cochere of the school building, her arms folded, watching a group of sweat-soaked boys playing rugby on the playing fields. A curiously inappropriate game for the climate, she thought.
As she turned to return to the office, a ricksha trundled through the gates and she heard her name called.
An Englishman in neat flannels and a white shirt waved at her and jumped down from the ricksha. He paused to give the ricksha wallah orders to wait, and the man set down the conveyance and squatted in the shade of the porte cochere, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed on his betel nut. The Englishman turned to Harriet, whipping the hat from his head.
“Mrs. Gordon, how are you this afternoon?”
It took a moment for Harriet to recognize John Lawson, the parent of one of their boarders. They had only met once, briefly, at the end of the previous term but she knew the name well enough. It headed the list of tardy fee payers.
“Mr. Lawson. Have you come to see Will?”
“Yes, but first I need to settle some outstanding school fees with you.”
She smiled at the man and gestured at the rugby players. “Will’s out there getting hot and muddy. Do come in. You’ve saved me the trouble of writing you a letter.”
She opened the door to the study to admit him into the relative cool of the room, seated herself behind her desk and opened the ledger. “You are now two terms in arrears and the board of governors are not”—she paused, searching for the right word—“always inclined to be charitable.” She looked up, seeing the frown creasing his brow. “We would hate to lose Will. My brother tells me that he is one of our brightest students.”
Lawson beamed with paternal pride. “He is a smart little chap. I wanted to send him to England to school but Annie, my wife, wouldn’t hear of it, and after she died, well, I couldn’t bear to be parted from him.” Beneath his straggly moustache, the corners of his mouth turned down and the lines of his face lapsed into heavy folds that belied his age. Even accounting for the heat, he had a high color and the whites of his eyes were shot with an unhealthy red. “Sorry for the delay. The price of rubber, y’know . . . To be honest, it’s a struggle sending him down here to school.”
She recalled that Lawson managed a rubber plantation in the north of the island not far from Kranji. As the price of rubber seemed to be a main preoccupation of the Straits Times, even she had not failed to notice the dire prognostications for the price of the commodity.
“Unfortunately, schooling for English boys beyond the age of eleven is very limited in Singapore, Mr. Lawson. You may have to consider some options in England.”
“I know, but I’ve two years to think about that . . . and save the money,” he said with a sigh.
“There should be every chance he could win a scholarship if money were short, Mr. Lawson,” Harriet said. “You should talk to my brother.”
He looked at her and grinned again, his lugubrious features brightening. “He’s that smart?”
Harriet nodded. “I’m not a teacher, of course, but I hear them talking about him and I see the school reports.”
He nodded. “Annie would be proud.”
From what Harriet knew of the family, Lawson’s wife had died about twelve months earlier. Grief still leached from him, and in the confines of the room a fug of alcohol hung over him, which might have accounted for his high color and bloodshot eyes.
She named the outstanding amount and Lawson reached into the jacket of his crumpled linen suit and produced a bulging leather wallet. He counted out the notes, adding in the fees for the following term, and as Harriet wrote a receipt she asked what had brought him into town.
“I brought a load of rubber down on Sunday and then I had a meeting with the board on Monday morning,” he replied without enthusiasm. “At least I was paid for the shipment.”
Harriet handed him the receipt, which he tucked into his now much-dep
leted wallet.
He rose to his feet. “Can I see Will?”
“Of course. They must have just about finished their game. Let me see you out.”
She walked with Lawson to the door. The ricksha wallah had dozed off, leaning against the wheel of his conveyance. Harriet crossed her arms and watched as Lawson strode across the field to where the boys were coming off the playing field.
Will broke away from his fellows and came running across to meet his father, who swung him into his arms, even though the boy looked like he had been in a mud bath. Harriet looked away, tears starting in her eyes. Sometimes the most inconsequential action reminded her of what could have been.
She returned to the study and began typing up the letters to fill in the time until the bell rang at four to mark the end of lessons for the day.
The boys at St. Tom’s numbered fifty youngsters aged between five and eleven. Twenty of the boys were boarders; the rest arrived daily, generally collected in the afternoons by their amahs, Chinese women in the ubiquitous uniform of black trousers and white tunics, who waited deferentially with their master’s carriages while their young charges ran out to meet them.
Harriet hurried outside to supervise the collection process to find that instead of the amahs, several mamas had arrived in person to collect their darlings. A gaggle of the good ladies hurried across to her before she could make good her escape back into the house.
“My dear, it’s all over Singapore. Is it true you found . . . the body?” Mrs. Bryce began the cross-examination.
“How did you know?”
Mrs. Wilson laughed. “No secrets in Singapore, Mrs. Gordon. But how simply dreadful for you!” The woman’s eyes were bright with feigned concern.
“Did you see the body?” Mrs. Chatham asked, her gaze sliding around the other women.