by A. M. Stuart
“Do you think it reasonable to conclude that the perpetrators intended for the body to be carried out to sea or found?”
Singh shrugged. “Often the simple solution is the correct one.”
Curran huffed out a breath. “The question is how this death is tied to Sir Oswald’s. If at all.”
Singh’s moustache twitched. “That is indeed the question, sir.”
* * *
* * *
Curran paused at one of the street stalls in Chinatown and bought a simple breakfast of rice and vegetables, washed down with tea, before entering the impressive portals of the Police Headquarters. As he walked into the office, Ajiad, the Malay administrative clerk assigned to the division, looked up.
“Inspector, General Cuscaden wants to see you, tuan,” he said.
“He can wait,” Curran said, flinging his hat onto his desk. “I have work to do.”
The clerk stood up, his eyes widening. “Now, tuan. He was most insistent. ‘As soon as Inspector Curran arrives.’”
Curran took a moment to brush the dust off his boots, collected his hat and made his way to the inspector general’s grandiose office at the front of the building. Cuscaden had recruited him from the London Metropolitan Police and he had the greatest respect for Tim Cuscaden, as he was known to his friends. Curran only ever called him sir.
Cuscaden had introduced a number of excellent reforms to policing in the Straits Settlements but he had a weakness for minutiae and Curran knew what the peremptory summons concerned and he suspected he would not like it.
The inspector general looked up from behind his enormous teak desk that occupied an equally impressive office overlooking South Bridge Road and scowled as Curran entered the room. Curran saluted and stood rigidly to attention, his hat under his arm.
“Where have you been?” Cuscaden snapped. From the man’s florid, sweating face and knitted eyebrows, Curran’s guess had been right. The inspector general of police in the Straits Settlements was in a vile temper.
“Investigating a murder, sir,” Curran responded in a sharp military tone. “Another murder. A body was found this morning.”
Cuscaden snorted. “You missed the meeting about the Anderson Bridge yesterday afternoon.”
“Sir, with respect, I had been interviewing witnesses all day,” Curran protested. “An autopsy—”
But Cuscaden was clearly in no mood to listen. “This bloody bridge opening will be the death of me. I need everyone on board for it, Curran, and that includes you and your men.”
“Sir, we are the Detective Branch, not the Traffic Branch,” Curran ventured, and instantly regretted his words.
Cuscaden’s luxurious moustache bristled. “You are policemen, every single one of you, and if I say you will be at a meeting or your men will be on duty on Saturday, then they damn well will be. Understood, Curran?”
Curran opened his mouth to argue but, seeing Cuscaden’s thunderous expression, thought better of it.
“And while you’re here”—Cuscaden waved a sheaf of papers— “the paperwork coming from your department is not up to standard. Damn it, man, I can’t even read this report.” He peered at a single page. “Looks like the scratchings of a drunken spider. Didn’t you go to a decent school, Curran?”
Curran recognized the handwriting as his and felt the heat rising to his face.
“Sir, we need more administrative—”
Cuscaden cut him off by slamming the papers back on the desk. “Dismissed, Inspector.”
Curran snapped a sharp salute with an acknowledging “Sir!” and turned gratefully for the door.
As his hand touched the doorknob, Cuscaden said, “Did you say ‘another body’?”
Curran turned back to face his superior. “Yes, sir. Dragged from the Stamford Canal this morning.”
“European or native?”
“European. I think it is the missing hotel clerk, Hans Visscher.”
Cuscaden sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. “Brief me.”
When Curran had finished his report, Cuscaden huffed out a breath and leaned back, smoothing his thinning hair with his hand.
“Is this boy’s death related to Sir Oswald Newbold’s murder?”
“Early days, sir, but I think so, yes.”
“Damn it, we can’t just have respectable English gentlemen being stabbed to death in their own homes. People will get worried.” Cuscaden’s eyebrows furrowed. “Find who did it and find them fast and, Curran, I want the report on Chin Lee’s stolen vases on my desk by five this evening. If he rings me one more time . . . Oh, and make sure I can bloody well read it this time.”
“Sir.” Curran turned again for the door, this time making it out into the corridor without further delay. He took a deep breath and composed himself before making his way through the rabbit warrens of corridors back to the office of the Detective Branch.
He strode across the wooden floorboards, his bootheels sending an echo around the cavernous room. The clerk appeared to be catching up with his filing, while Tan must have been out following up on this morning’s discovery. Sergeant Singh stood in front of the Newbold murder case board, lost in rapt consideration of the growing information that had been added to it since the previous morning.
He looked around as Curran joined him. “Did you see the IG?”
Curran pulled a face. “Every member of the Detective Branch is to report for duty on Saturday in ceremonial dress. See to it, Sergeant.”
It is good to know we have our priorities, he thought as he stomped into his office and closed the door.
TEN
Julian had woken with one of his migraines, and long experience told Harriet that nothing would relieve it except complete immobility in a darkened room for the day. She brought him a wet compress and laid it across his brow.
“Tell Pearson to hold the fort today,” he murmured.
She assured her brother that George Pearson was more than capable of holding the fort, and stopping only long enough to give the cook, Lokman, orders to prepare a light soup for Julian, if he felt up to eating, Harriet strode through the garden and the small gate that led into the school grounds.
The boys were in class and she could hear the tedious repetition of Latin conjugations issuing from one of the four classrooms. “O, as, at, amus, atis, ant . . .”
In the headmaster’s study she found Ethel, the wife of the senior master, George Pearson, seated in one of the chairs, her foot tapping impatiently on the rug. The Pearsons occupied a suite of two rooms upstairs and Ethel, a large, motherly woman, fulfilled the role of surrogate mother and matron to the boarders. Before her marriage, Ethel had been a nurse, and despite a predilection for reading them religious tracts before bed, the boys adored her.
The older woman stood up, peering around Harriet. “Headmaster not with you?” she said, her accent betraying her North Country origins.
“No, I’m afraid he’s down with a migraine today.”
Ethel shook her head sympathetically. “Poor man. I’ll pop in later and check on him for you if you like?”
“Thank you, but I think he will be fine. Is there anything I can help you with?”
Ethel heaved a sigh, her massive bosom constrained even in the heat by formidable stays, rising and falling. “I am afraid we have a case of thieving, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Oh dear, what has been taken?”
“Someone has been pilfering food from the kitchen. Nasim saw a boy running from the kitchen this morning.”
“One of our boys?”
Ethel’s lips pursed. “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Gordon. Growing boys—they’re like bottomless pits, but still, you wouldn’t think they’d take to thieving.”
“Did Nasim see who it was?”
Ethel shook her head. “No, it was dark. He just saw fair hair.”
“I suppose that narrows the suspects a little. What was taken?”
“A cup of milk and some of last night’s leftover shepherd’s pie.”
Harriet considered for a moment. “You’re right, Mrs. Pearson. He was probably hungry.”
Ethel pursed her lips. “Stealing is still stealing, Mrs. Gordon.”
Before the godly Ethel could remind her of the eighth commandment, Harriet said, “Leave it with me, Mrs. Pearson. I’ll try and flush out the culprit.”
Ethel sniffed. “And when you do be sure to tell Mr. Pearson and ensure the proper punishment is administered.”
The “proper punishment” being a few righteous strokes of the cane, something Julian loathed inflicting and generally delegated to his senior master.
Harriet waited until the bell rang for lunch and the boys were seated at the long tables in the large room at the back of the old house that served as assembly hall, gymnasium, dining hall and wet-weather play area. They recited the grace, but before Mr. Pearson gave them permission to eat, Harriet stepped forward.
“May I have a word with the boys?”
Pearson deferred to her and she looked around at the young faces, eager for their lunch.
“Boys,” she said, “it has come to my attention that someone is sneaking into the kitchen and taking food. Now, we all know that is wrong. It is stealing. If there is a good reason for this pilfering, the boy concerned can come and speak to me in absolute confidence. He won’t get into trouble.” She paused, looking down the tables, searching out the guilty face.
She spotted it immediately.
Ignoring the quiet rumble of disapproval from George Pearson, she continued. “But if the boy doesn’t come forward by tomorrow morning, you will all be kept in for double prep on Monday.”
Pearson cleared his throat. She had no authority to issue such dictates and supervising double prep would probably be as much a punishment for one of the masters as the boys.
With a beatific smile at Mr. Pearson, Harriet swept from the room. As the boys were released into the grounds to play, she lingered in the garden at the front of the school, with a pair of pruning shears, tending to the orchids lovingly cultivated by the last headmaster’s wife. Harriet had no talent for gardening and if the orchids survived it was despite her care, rather than because of it.
“Miss?”
Without looking up she said. “Yes, Lawson. Shall we take a little stroll?”
In the shelter of a bright-pink bougainvillea, Will Lawson looked down at his scuffed shoes. “How did you know it was me?”
She smiled down at the bowed fair head. “Because, Will, you have a face like a book. Now, are you going to tell me why you’ve been stealing food?”
Will stuck his hands in the pockets of his shorts, still not meeting her eyes. “I didn’t think anyone would notice. It was just a little, tiny bit and it wasn’t for me.”
Now he looked up at her, his blue-gray eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“Then, who was it for?”
He hesitated.
“Will, you can trust me. I promised you wouldn’t get into trouble.”
He nodded. “If you come with me, Mrs. Gordon.”
Skirting around the side of the schoolhouse so his fellow students would not see them, Will led her to the shed at the back of the oval where the cricket pitch roller and sports equipment were kept. The shed itself was locked but Will went behind it to a pile of old boxes, overgrown with creeper.
“Careful of snakes,” Harriet warned.
Will nodded, apparently unconcerned. “There’s a big old python around here. I think it ate the mother and the other babies.”
He reached into a box and pulled out a kitten, of indeterminate color, probably five or six weeks old. It mewed, its little paws paddling at the air. Harriet’s heart melted as she took the tiny creature from him.
“Oh, Will, is this why you were taking the food?”
Tears started in the boy’s eyes. “It drank a bit of the milk but I couldn’t get it to eat anything. I’m afraid it’s going to die, miss.”
“Not if I can help it,” Harriet said. “I’ll take it back with me and see if it can be saved.” They both started at the clanging of the bell, signaling the end of the lunch break. “You get back to the boardinghouse and I will tell Mr. Pearson you’re not in trouble.”
“Thanks, miss. Can I come and visit and see how it’s going? I know the house is out of bounds, but I miss my animals . . .” A shaming tear spilled down the boy’s cheek and he manfully sniffed it away. It was all Harriet could do not to fold the child in her arms but she didn’t think he would thank her for acknowledging his weakness.
“Of course you may visit but I warn you this poor little thing is very dehydrated and weak. It will be lucky to survive.”
Back at the house, Harriet made up a bed for the kitten in a cardboard box and with difficulty persuaded Lokman to part with some of the precious milk. This she fed to the tiny animal from the smallest teaspoon she could find. Gratifyingly the kitten took in everything that was given to her.
“Filthy thing,” Huo Jin pronounced from the doorway, a look of utter disgust on her face.
“He is a bit dirty,” Harriet conceded.
Huo Jin clucked her tongue and huffed off back to the kitchen.
Wetting a facecloth, Harriet cleaned the kitten with small strokes like a mother cat would, revealing a patchwork pattern of brindled fur.
“I think I shall call you Shashti,” she said.
Like many of the local cats, Shashti had a tail that was no more than a little stub, which wiggled in appreciation as the tiny creature began to purr, her little paws working against the wool of the cloth.
Holding Shashti close to her chest, she pushed open Julian’s door and found him awake.
“Meet our newest resident,” she said, placing the kitten on the bed beside him. His hand moved, his fingers seeking out the kitten’s soft fur, stroking Shashti’s tiny head with his forefinger and provoking purrs completely out of proportion for the size of her small body.
“And where did this little chap come from?”
Harriet smiled. “I think this little chap is a girl. I have called her Shashti.”
Julian frowned. “Shashti?”
“Shashti is the Hindu goddess of children,” Harriet replied. “There was a temple in her honor very close to where we lived in Bombay with a marvelous statue of her carrying a child in her arms and riding a cat.”
She didn’t add that all the offerings to Shashti laid at her feet during the typhus epidemic had not saved her own son, Thomas, or the hundreds of other children, rich and poor.
Julian said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on her face. He had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly what she was thinking.
“And how has Shashti come to live with us?” Julian returned his attention to the kitten.
“She is the reason behind some pilfering in the kitchen,” Harriet said. “All resolved now. I hope you don’t mind.”
Julian looked up. “And the culprit?”
“I did tell the culprit he wouldn’t get into trouble.”
“Harriet . . . you have no authority . . .”
“It was Will Lawson. He rescued the kitten from a python.”
“Ah, Will,” Julian said. “Just this once, Harriet, I will turn a blind eye . . .”
Harriet smiled. “Will has my permission to come and visit Shashti. We’ll be sort of co-owners.”
Julian smiled and closed his eyes. “Small children and animals will always be your downfall. Do you remember that hedgehog you rescued off the gardener?”
Harriet sat down in a chair beside her brother’s bed and they engaged in an exchange of happy memories of their childhood, a diversion from the nagging concern about young Visscher and the brutal murder of Newbold
and his servant.
ELEVEN
I tell you, there are some jobs that turn even my stomach.” Euan Mackenzie’s professional mask slipped as the first slice of his scalpel expelled a cloud of noxious gas from the stomach cavity.
Curran fought down an acrid wave of nausea and steeled himself. The normally phlegmatic Greaves rushed out of the morgue, abandoning his photographic equipment.
Mac looked up as the door slammed shut behind the constable and shook his head.
“I don’t know, Curran. The lad needs to toughen up.”
Resisting the urge to press his own handkerchief to his face, Curran replied with a noncommittal grunt and stood back to let Mac work. He thought longingly of a strong whisky, which, even at this hour of the morning, would go down very well.
“Do you know who this boy is?” Mac asked without looking back.
Curran coughed. “I’m reasonably certain it’s Hans Visscher, the missing clerk from the Hotel Van Wijk.”
Mac straightened and he frowned as he looked down at the bloated face.
“Hmm. European, right age. Pity. If it’s the lad I’m thinking of, he was always polite and eager to help. A nice lad. He shouldn’t have had to die like this,” Mac said, probing the wound in the neck in a way that made Curran grimace.
“Any similarity with Newbold?” he asked.
Mac shook his head. “The attack on Newbold was frenzied. This is calculated and efficient. One quick slash left to right with a very sharp knife.” Mac demonstrated on his own throat. “Nasty, Curran, very nasty.”
Curran jotted this unpleasant piece of information in his notebook.
“There would have been a lot of blood,” Curran said.
Mac nodded. “A right royal mess.” He lifted one of the boy’s hands and indicated dark mottled bruising circling Visscher’s wrist. “Same on the ankles and there is bruising around the chest. If you are asking me,” Mac continued, without waiting for Curran to voice the question, “he was tied to a chair or something similar for a considerable period of time.”