Singapore Sapphire

by A. M. Stuart

  “Well . . .” Harriet considered lying but ultimately prevarication would look worse than the truth.

  “I heard the body had been mutilated. Is that true?” Mrs. Wilson interrupted.

  “They said his head had been completely severed,” Mrs. Bryce took up before Harriet could answer.

  Harriet stared at her.

  “Mercy! We could all be murdered in our beds if this villain is not found,” the excitable Mrs. Chatham declared, her hand flying to her throat.

  “I heard that Robert Curran is in charge of the investigation,” Mrs. Bryce said with the faintest note of disapproval in her tone.

  “Is he not a good policeman?” Harriet inquired.

  “Oh, very good, from what I hear,” Mrs. Wilson said. She leaned in closer. “But, my dear, he’s a little odd. Gone native, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t,” Harriet lied. She had lived in India for nearly ten years and knew very well what going native meant but the good ladies of Singapore assumed her to be a newcomer so she might as well play on it.

  “Lives by himself with only a . . . female servant,” Mrs. Bryce said with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow that put the words female servant in quotation marks.

  “I heard,” Mrs. Chatham put in, “that he’s a grandson of Lord Alcester. Terrible scandal. His daughter married”—she paused for dramatic effect—“the son of the groom. A stableboy, my dears! Eloped, they say.”

  “No!” Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Bryce chorused. “Do tell more.”

  Primping herself with the importance of having such juicy gossip to impart, Mrs. Chatham took a breath. “Well, according to Chatham, she died in childbirth and Curran’s grandfather took him in and brought him up with his cousins. He got sent down from Cambridge after a scandal of some sort and joined the army, the Military Mounted Police.” Mrs. Chatham, the wife of an army major, sniffed.

  “But how does he come to be in Singapore?” Harriet asked.

  “Cuscaden recruited him from the London constabulary a couple of years ago,” Mrs. Chatham continued, her tone even more disapproving.

  Harriet considered this piece of information. She had met men of Curran’s type during her time in India. Independent loners with little or no time for the niceties of society. He certainly carried himself as a gentleman, not like the rough bobbies it had been her misfortune to encounter in London.

  It was at this point that Louisa Mackenzie sailed into the conversation.

  “My poor Harriet,” Louisa declared. “There you are. You promised to lend me that new book by Baroness Orczy.” Louisa smiled sweetly at the other mamas. “I did like her Scarlet Pimpernel but her later works are not so engaging.”

  “What about Rodney?” Harriet protested, referring to Louisa’s eight-year-old son.

  “I’ve sent Roddy home with Ashok and told Ashok to come back and fetch me in an hour. You need tea, my dear.”

  Linking her arm with Harriet’s she steered her across the playing fields to the little gate in a wild hedge that stood between the school and St. Tom’s House.

  “Thank you for saving me.” Harriet sank into the cushions of her favorite rattan chair on the wide verandah while Louisa dispensed orders to Huo Jin to fetch tea.

  Harriet had few friends in Singapore, but Louisa Mackenzie, the wife of Dr. Euan Mackenzie, had proved her worth as a trusted confidante. She had first met Louisa in India, when Euan Mackenzie had brought her to stay with Harriet and her husband, James. The two women were much of an age and the four had got on famously. The Mackenzies’ presence in Singapore had been one of the lures that had drawn Harriet back to the East.

  Louisa was, of course, equally agog to hear all the gruesome details.

  “My dear, how perfectly frightful for you,” she said after Harriet had finished recounting the events of the previous day. She leaned forward and, lowering her voice, said, “Confidentially—and Euan will be terribly cross if he thinks I’ve told anyone, but you’re not just anyone—Euan told me at lunch that Sir Oswald had over a dozen stab wounds on his body and one of his fingers had been almost completely severed.”

  Harriet looked at her friend with wide, horrified eyes. “Louisa, what on earth do you and Euan talk about?”

  Louisa sat back and shrugged. “Don’t tell me your James didn’t share the details of his occupation with you?”

  “Well, yes, of course he did, but he wasn’t the police surgeon and didn’t deal with mutilated corpses on a regular basis.”

  Louisa took a decorous sip of her tea. “Neither does Euan. That’s what makes it so interesting when he does.” She set her cup down and the two women turned their conversation to more innocuous topics.

  “You have a visitor,” Louisa remarked as a ricksha turned into the drive, carrying a solitary male passenger. The man jumped down and told the ricksha wallah to wait. He bounded up the stairs, pulling an incongruous bowler hat from his head.

  With mixed feelings Harriet rose to her feet to greet the journalist Griff Maddocks.

  “Mr. Maddocks, what brings you here again?”

  Her cool greeting did not deter the journalist, who smiled. “I came to tell you that Sir Oswald’s funeral is set for Thursday. St. Andrew’s at eleven.”

  “Thank you. Do you know if the boy has turned up yet?”

  Maddocks shook his head.

  “What boy?” Louisa inquired.

  Maddocks turned to Louisa. “Mrs. Mackenzie, how lovely to see you.”

  “Mr. Maddocks, you can take your charm and your ricksha and leave us in peace. I have never met a journalist without an ulterior motive for everything they did,” Louisa scoffed. “News about the funeral, indeed. Now, what boy are you talking about?”

  “I thought I heard voices.” Julian came around the side of the house and joined the party on the verandah. “I’m gasping for a cup of tea. Maddocks, will you join us?”

  “Mr. Maddocks was just leaving . . .” Harriet began, but Maddocks had already joined them, sitting down unbidden in one of the rattan chairs and crossing his legs.

  “Griff, you are incorrigible,” Harriet said. Giving in, she sent Huo Jin for fresh tea.

  “What’s the news on the Newbold case?” Julian asked.

  Griff shook his head. “None. Funeral’s Thursday at St. Andrew’s. It will probably be the social event of the month.”

  “Surpassing the opening of the Anderson Bridge?” Louisa inquired, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  Griff pulled a face. “The editor has put me on reporting the frills and furbelows of that little event, Mrs. Mackenzie. Me! An investigative reporter who would rather have his nose in Sir Oswald’s murder.”

  “Give me frills and furbelows!” Louisa declared, with a quick conspiratorial glance at Harriet. “What about you, Harriet?”

  Harriet shook her head. “I’m afraid as the daughter of a crown prosecutor, I would much rather spend my evenings discussing Father’s cases than my sister’s wardrobe.”

  “Hopeless!” Louisa said. “I think after this week we all need a little fun. How about we make up a party for the musical evening at the Van Wijk this Saturday night? The Austrian Ladies’ Orchestra will be playing.”

  Julian pulled a face. “Not that dreadful oompah band.”

  Louisa tapped his arm. “It’s not an oompah band.” She paused. “Well, it is, but I assure you it’s great fun. The food is good and there will be dancing.”

  Harriet did not miss the quick glance Maddocks cast in her direction. An unfamiliar thrill of excitement ran down her spine at the thought of getting dressed up in the maligned frills and furbelows and being in the company of well-dressed and charming men like Griff Maddocks.

  “I think that sounds like an entertainment not to be missed, particularly after the unalloyed excitement of the bridge opening,” Griff said.

  “Ex
cellent. I shall book some tickets. Julian, Harriet?”

  “You know how I love that band,” Julian groaned. He looked at his sister and smiled. “But you’re right, Louisa. We need some fun. Of course we’ll come.”

  The Mackenzies’ carriage turned into the driveway and Louisa rose to her feet, securing her hat with a long pin. “We shall see you on Saturday night and just to make quite sure you don’t miss a minute of the Austrian Ladies’ Orchestra, I will send the carriage to collect you. Do walk me out, Harriet,” she commanded, and took her friend’s arm, bending her head close to Harriet’s so they would not be heard by the men on the verandah.

  “So, Mr. Maddocks is paying you court?”

  “He is not!” Harriet declared, feeling the heat rushing to her cheeks. “I’m a story, that is all. He wants information on Sir Oswald’s death.”

  Louisa gave her a knowing glance. “Oh, Harriet. Why not? You’re still young and he is fun and charming and quite good-looking.”

  Harriet’s eyes widened. “Louisa Mackenzie. I will not be matchmade, not by my mother or my sister and certainly not by you.”

  But as she waved her friend off, she admitted to herself that Louisa was right, there were times she had to remind herself that she was still a comparatively young woman and she had every right to have fun and enjoy being treated as a lady, rather than as an unpaid skivvy.

  She turned back to rejoin her brother on the verandah. That last thought had been unworthy. She had chosen to come to Singapore and it was not Julian’s fault that the board of governors did not think her deserving of being paid. That was what she had been fighting for when she had joined the WSPU back in London and, God willing, one day it would come, but for now, she had to be content with her choices in life and what little she could make from her private clients, not that she had any that were not recently deceased.

  Griff jumped to his feet, his hat in his hand, as a growl of thunder shook the house. “It looks like we’re in for a storm. I’ll bid you farewell too,” he said. “Shall I see you at the funeral?”

  Harriet glanced at Julian and nodded. “I think it would be right to pay my last respects,” she said, and held out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Maddocks.”

  He shook her hand and clapped his hat onto his head. “Good evening, Harriet, Reverend.”

  Harriet stood watching him until he had turned out of the drive and onto St. Thomas Walk. The dark, lowering clouds of the evening thunderstorm closed in overhead with a sharp crack of lightning, followed closely by a rumble of thunder.

  NINE

  Wednesday, 9 March 1910

  Death, exacerbated by a tropical climate, had its own sickly pungency, and the stench hit Curran even as he pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered in the still, pale early-morning light on the banks of the Stamford Canal. Owing to the early hour, the crowd comprised mostly dhobis.

  This stretch of the canal was one of the dhobis’ favorite spots. They had easy access to the water and could set their washing to dry on the open land that ran up from the bank of the river toward the Indian community, clustered around Serangoon Road and Bencoolen Street. Now they jostled against the restraining arms of a small cohort of police for a better view of what looked like a pile of wet, stinking rags that had been pulled from the canal and lay amidst the bundles of laundry.

  Curran had been woken at first light by a depressingly bright and eager Constable Tan. He had time to shave and dress but had to eschew breakfast, a fact of which he was glad as he crouched down and turned the corpse over. He composed his own expression to one of professional neutrality as he considered the bloated, mottled face, the hair darkened to anonymity by the water. Male, European and fully dressed in the clerical uniform of once-white linen jacket and trousers. One shoe was missing, the stockinged foot looking strangely pitiful as it lolled to one side.

  Fighting back his natural aversion that even after all his years in the military and policing he could not quite overcome, he probed the trouser pockets, producing a soggy notebook and a wallet. He would have to wait until the objects dried before they would be of any use, but he suspected the immersion in the water would have destroyed anything of evidentiary value. Nothing about either object confirmed the identity of the corpse but he knew he was looking into the ravaged face of Hans Visscher.

  He handed the notebook and wallet to Singh and indicated to Greaves that he should take his photographs. The young man busied himself with his tripod and plates.

  “Is it the missing boy?” the sergeant asked.

  “I fear so.” Curran rose to his feet with a sigh.

  In a rare show of emotion, Singh tutted and shook his head. “So very young,” he said.

  With his hands on his hips Curran surveyed the scene. The rain of the previous night had caused the river to rise and it had brought with it the usual rubbish and detritus from farther upstream. Singapore conspired against good policing on every level.

  “Who found him?” Curran inquired of the crowd.

  The dhobis clamored for attention, pointing fingers at one another. The discovery of a body was not all that unusual and it probably provided them with the most excitement they would see in weeks.

  Singh indicated a dhobi of indeterminate age, clad in a short sarong and so thin Curran could count his ribs beneath his threadbare tunic. Singh nodded and one of the constables pushed the man forward. He dropped at Curran’s feet.

  “I have done nothing wrong, sahib,” he wailed in Tamil.

  “No one is accusing you of anything,” Singh responded in the same language.

  “How did you find the body?” Curran asked. His own Tamil was basic but sufficient for the purpose.

  The mention of “body” set the dhobi howling and wringing his hands to emphasize his horror, and he began, “Oh, sahib. I will never forget this terrible thing. Not to my dying day.”

  “Just tell us what happened,” Singh said.

  “I came early to get the best spot.” The dhobi cast a baleful eye at his fellows. “And I saw what I thought was a pile of washing caught on that log.” He indicated a half-submerged tree that had become snagged across the canal as the water level had fallen. “I used my hook.” He pointed at a long stick with an evil-looking hook on the end that lay on the ground beside the body. “And as it came closer I realized it was, it was . . .” Here he burst into rapid speech, accompanied by eloquent gestures that left Curran in no doubt about his reaction to coming face-to-face with a rotting corpse. The dhobi sank to his haunches, his arms over his head, rocking as he wailed, “I swear to you, sahib, it gave me such a fright, I nearly let it go.”

  “Was the body floating faceup or facedown?” Curran indicated with the palm of his hand.

  “Facedown as you found it, sahib.”

  Curran looked around at the other dhobis, about two dozen of them, listening in on the testimony with ghoulish grins on their faces.

  “Ah, sahib”—one of them swept the length of the canal with a dramatic gesture—“if it had not been for that log, the poor man would have been swept out to sea.”

  Curran thanked the man for the observation and gestured at the corpse. “Have any of you seen this man before?” he inquired without much expectation of an answer.

  Glancing from one to the other, they shook their heads. Further questioning of the dhobis led to the inescapable conclusion the body had not been in the water the night before. Someone had dumped Visscher like a piece of refuse into the Stamford Canal at some time during the night, probably in the expectation that the flow of water and tide would carry the body out to sea.

  He forced himself to look down at the corpse again. Decomposition had already begun to set in, indicating Visscher had been dead at least twenty-four hours, if not longer. His eyes were wide open and already turning opaque, like a fish too long out of water, his mouth wide in the rictus of death.

  C
urran did not need Mac to tell him how the boy had died. A gash across the young man’s throat, washed clean of blood by the water, revealed a severed windpipe. The wound gaped like a second mouth. Curran shuddered and turned away.

  “Finished, Greaves?” he inquired.

  The young constable nodded, already folding the legs of his tripod.

  Curran indicated for the canvas sheet to be put over the body, reducing the hideous sight to an anonymous lump.

  “Get him straight back to the morgue. Leaving him here won’t give us any more information and we don’t need any more sightseers,” Curran said to Singh, glancing at the crowd, which had swelled considerably since his arrival.

  Singh signaled for the men with the handcart to come forward. Three of the regular constabulary had the unpleasant task of manhandling the flaccid corpse onto the back of the cart, pulling up a greasy, stained tarpaulin.

  One of the younger regular constables turned away, his face green. He hurried behind a bush, from where the sound of vomiting could be heard. Curran cast a sympathetic glance at the man’s pasty face when he reemerged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  After the cart had trundled off, bearing its grim occupant, Curran and Singh remained at the scene, wandering up the canal to see if any obvious signs of a struggle or blood or Visscher’s missing shoe could be located but they found nothing. Curran had not expected they would. It seemed far more likely that the boy had died somewhere else and been dumped.

  Several bridges crossed the canal. The body could have been dumped off any one of them. Curran stood on the Bencoolen Street bridge and looked around at the now-peaceful sight. To his right was the grand, new museum and behind it the Explorers and Geographers Club. Downstream, just visible behind the vegetation, the Hotel Van Wijk.

  “It would have taken only a moment to stop whatever vehicle he had been conveyed in and slip the body into the water, but why here?” he said aloud. “Why in the boy’s own neighborhood?”

  Singh stroked his moustache. “Coincidence? The water flow in the canal here is stronger than other rivers in Singapore.”