by A. M. Stuart
“Halfway up the drive,” Carruthers said.
That accounted for the vehicle tracks Curran’s men had found.
“What time did you get there?”
“About nine thirty. I saw a light in Newbold’s study and found the front door open. I knocked but no one came so I walked in. He was . . .” Carruthers mopped his brow again, pressing the linen to his mouth. “. . . lying on the carpet with that, that thing in his throat.”
“Why didn’t you summon the police?”
Carruthers’s inadequate moustache quivered. “I know I should have done and I thought about it but then I realized that you might think it was me.”
Curran could not prevent one of his eyebrows lifting in sarcastic surprise.
Carruthers noticed the gesture and turned a deeper shade of crimson. “I saw the safe behind the desk. It was unlocked so I took a look. Couldn’t believe my luck when I found the manuscript. I thought maybe if I took it, the answer would be in there.”
“And?”
“I left, Inspector. It was raining when I got outside and I got wet trying to raise the canopy on the motor vehicle. I left the vehicle a little way from the club and entered through the back. No one saw me. Not even the servants. I tried to dry myself as best I could but I feared my hair might still be damp.” His mouth drooped. “I just hoped no one would notice.”
“That was naive in the extreme,” Curran observed. “Do you still have the manuscript?”
Carruthers bent down and a key clicked in a lock. The rasp of wood indicated a desk drawer being opened and Carruthers lifted out a large packet of papers, bound together with string, and set it down on the table in front of him.
He laid a hand on the packet and sighed. “This is it. I swear it’s all I took.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Curran inquired.
Carruthers shook his head. “No. The whole damned thing is written in shorthand. May as well be written in Sanskrit.” He pushed it across to Curran. “Take it.”
“I intend to.”
“Are you going to charge me?”
Carruthers looked so miserable that Curran felt inclined to believe his story.
“Not right now. I’ll continue to make inquiries, Mr. Carruthers. In the meantime, please attend at Central Police Station tomorrow and give a written statement to Sergeant Singh. We will consider any criminal culpability for theft, if for nothing else.”
Carruthers looked up at him with watery eyes. “I’ll never forget seeing him there, Inspector. It was horrible . . . horrible . . .”
As he stood up, Curran said, “One last thing, Carruthers. Where did you get the money to purchase your motor vehicle?”
Carruthers’s eyes widened. “My uncle Cyril died and left me something in his will,” he said.
So much for the mother who died in penury, Curran thought. That was a question that could wait for another day.
“Please give all the details of Uncle Cyril’s will to Sergeant Singh tomorrow,” he said.
He tucked the parcel under his arm and left the man blowing his nose on his handkerchief.
NINETEEN
Sunday was the servants’ day off and Harriet was on kitchen duty, making scones to go with the chicken soup Lokman had left for their supper. In a corner of the kitchen, a small domestic altar had been sent up by Huo Jin, presided over by the faded photographs of an elderly Chinese couple in stiff robes and an even stiffer pose. The burnt-down stubs of the incense sticks placed on the altar before the ancestors left a lingering sweetness that mingled with the kitchen smells. The honored ancestors scowled at Harriet, while at her feet, Shashti chased a scrap of paper around the tiles. Aziz sat in a corner, polishing boots and humming to himself, even though he too should have been enjoying some free time.
“Have you no family to visit?” Harriet inquired.
Aziz looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “No, mem. No family. You give me time to go to the mosque on Friday. That is all I need.”
Beyond the kitchen door, the heavy leaves of the tropical foliage that fringed the school dripped with moisture from an evening rainstorm, and hidden in the canopy the ulu resonated with the shrill cries of the macaques, birds and the chirrup of myriad insects. When she had first gone to India it had surprised her to find that the jungle was such a noisy place.
“Mrs. Gordon?”
At the sound of a boy’s voice, she poked her head out of the kitchen. “In here, Will.”
Will Lawson hesitated, looking around the unfamiliar room. “Can I come in?”
“Of course. It’s only a kitchen.”
The boy entered the room, his nose twitching at the pleasant baking smells. Aziz looked up from his task and, seeing Will, grinned broadly.
Will raised a hand to acknowledge the other boy. “Hello, Aziz.”
Aziz ducked his head and returned to his task.
“Good evening, Mrs. Gordon.” Will stood very straight, his hands behind his back. He seemed a very well-brought-up young man. Annie Lawson had done a good job.
“Good evening, Will. Did you come to visit Shashti?”
Harriet placed a second batch of scones on a tray and thrust it into the oven.
Shashti appeared from under a kitchen cabinet and Will’s face lit up. He picked up the kitten and sat down on a kitchen stool.
“She’s getting fat, Mrs. Gordon.”
Harriet looked at the little round kitten tummy and smiled. “She’s doing just fine, Will. How’s school?”
“It’s all right,” the boy said but his shoulders slumped and he turned all his concentration to the cat in his lap.
“Something wrong?”
“Papa says I have to go to school in England.”
Many of the children of planters and officials got sent to school in England from the age of eight so Will had been fortunate he had been spared for at least a couple of years. She wondered how John Lawson could afford the school fees for a school in England when he struggled to pay St. Thomas.
“I don’t want to go to England. Papa says it means I will have to stay there and live with my aunt and uncle during school holidays.”
Although she couldn’t see his face, the quaver in his voice told her he was crying and a large tear plumped onto Shashti’s soft fur.
She squatted down in front of him and lifted his face with her floury finger.
“You will still have next term here, Will. Plenty of time to get used to the idea.”
His face crumpled. “You don’t understand. He’s sending me away this week.”
“This week?”
Harriet sat down on the nearest stool. This seemed completely at odds with her conversation with John Lawson. He had paid until the end of the school year. They had talked about scholarships.
“He wrote me a letter.”
“Do you have it?”
Will stood up and, still clutching a compliant Shashti, dug in the pocket of his shorts with his spare hand, producing a crumpled and stained envelope. Harriet wiped her hands on her apron before pulling out the equally crumpled and stained letter.
“Dear boy,” she read. “Sorry to break this news to you by letter but I may not get a chance to get down to town to tell you myself. I have decided the best place for you is in England with your mother’s family and I have booked a passage for you on the Europa, which sails on Thursday. Mr. and Mrs. Banks will be looking after you on the voyage and I have telegraphed your aunt and uncle to expect you. They will be at Portsmouth to meet the boat. You will live with them while I sort out the school for you. I have written to my old school, Winchester, and I know you will like it there and make lots of good chums. I will ring the school and try to speak with you before you leave. Be a good, brave little chap. This is for the best and it won’t be long before I will be in England to visit you and we will ma
ke a new home together. Much love, Papa.”
Another large tear dripped down Will’s face. “I don’t want to go.”
Harriet stared in disbelief at the letter. “Oh, Will, I don’t know what to say. He hasn’t said anything to the school about this.”
Will wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Harriet rose to her feet and handed him her clean handkerchief. He looked so woebegone she just wanted to take him in her arms and tell him it would be all right.
“Let’s go and speak to Reverend Edwards,” she said, laying a hand across his shoulder and propelling him out of the kitchen. She paused to look back and issue strict instructions to Aziz about the scones.
They found Julian on the front verandah, reading Virgil.
“Hello, Will.” Julian’s smile died at the sight of the boy’s bereft face. “I say, what’s the problem?”
Harriet handed her brother John Lawson’s letter. Julian read it in silence and handed it back to her.
“First I’ve heard of this,” he said. “What say, if your father’s too busy to come down to town, then I go up and see him tomorrow and see what this is all about?”
Will’s lip trembled but hope gleamed in his eye. “Will you?”
Julian smiled. “Of course I will. Doesn’t seem any point sending you away with only one term left of this year. I’ll see if he can’t be persuaded. I say, we’ve got another visitor, Harri. Inspector Curran is becoming an evening institution.”
Robert Curran drew his chestnut horse to a stop and dismounted, looping the reins over a carved Chinese lion at the foot of the steps. He was not in uniform, favoring an open-neck shirt, riding breeches and highly polished boots.
“Good evening, Reverend Edwards, Mrs. Gordon and who do we have here?”
Will shrank back, clutching Shashti tightly to his chest.
Julian gently but firmly pulled him forward. “One of my boarders, William Lawson. His father manages a rubber plantation up near Kranji. Lawson, this is Inspector Curran of the police. Lawson is a rescuer of small animals, Curran.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Curran smiled and stooped to scratch the kitten’s head. “And how is Shashti tonight?”
The boy grinned. “You know her name?”
“I do indeed.”
“It was Will who saved the kitten from the python,” Harriet said. “I consider him a part owner.”
“I saw you bat today,” Will said, undisguised admiration in his eyes.
Curran’s face softened. “Not one of my better innings. Do you like cricket?”
“I do.” The boy’s face brightened. “I’m opening bat for St. Tom’s against the Raffles Institution next week . . .” He trailed off, his face falling with the realization he would not be in Singapore to play the rival school.
“Perhaps when he is a little less busy, we could prevail on the inspector to come and do some coaching,” Julian said.
A distant bell clanged, announcing the boarders’ supper.
“Give me Shashti.” Harriet held out her hands to take back the kitten. “Off you go and don’t worry about the other matter. We will speak to your father.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gordon.” The boy handed the kitten back to Harriet and scampered down the stairs and around the corner of the house, back to the school.
“Will you join us for a preprandial drink, Inspector?” Julian asked.
“That would not be unwelcome,” Curran replied.
“Take a seat and I shall see what I can organize. Being Sunday, we’ve been left to our own devices.”
Curran sat down on the top step, resting his forearms on his knees.
“Pretty part of Singapore, this,” he said, looking out over the still-unspoiled jungle that fringed the house.
“Where do you live, Inspector?” Harriet asked.
He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up on end. “I’ve a small bungalow at the back of Chinatown, off Cantonment Road. I prefer to leave my work behind me at the end of the day.”
“Good match today.” Julian returned with a tray with glasses, whisky and a soda siphon.
Curran took the glass Julian held out to him. “How did it end? I played dismally and then I got called away.”
“Johor took the honors, Curran. You won’t be popular with your teammates.”
Curran shrugged. “They’ve learned to take me as they find me.”
“And what brings you out to River Valley Road tonight?” Harriet asked.
“I’ve a commission for you, Mrs. Gordon.” He rose and returned to his horse, producing a parcel from the saddlebag.
He handed her a heavy package bound with string, which, from its weight and shape, she guessed contained papers. She looked up into Curran’s gray eyes.
“Is this . . . ?”
He nodded. “The missing manuscript.”
“Where did you find it?”
“It was given to me.”
Harriet smiled. “By the murderer?”
A corresponding smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “No . . . or at least I don’t think so. I would like to commission you to continue the task you started. I will pay whatever you would have charged Newbold.”
“Oh, but . . .”
Curran held up his hand. “This is a business proposition, Mrs. Gordon. You don’t have to do the lot. However, it’s evidence in the case and I’m particularly interested in everything involving the 1872 expedition and the establishment of the Burmese Ruby Syndicate.”
“Newbold’s dead. Why do you want it translated?” Julian asked.
Curran shrugged. “There is probably nothing in it, beyond the grandiose imaginings of a self-important man, but there are others who are looking for peace of mind and there may be something in it of interest to them.”
Julian sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. He nursed his whisky and studied the policeman. “So, Curran. You have Sir Oswald Newbold and his servant murdered sometime on Sunday evening by someone Newbold knew. The Visscher boy is seen at the house and then later here, babbling nonsense about a defunct trading company and he turns up dead two days later. What do these crimes have in common?”
“Are you turning detective, Reverend?” Curran inquired.
“I must confess I’m very partial to the writings of Conan Doyle,” Julian replied.
“Unfortunately, I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” Curran replied. “I’m just a common policeman.”
Harriet considered the man and decided there was nothing common about Robert Curran.
“It’s Burma, isn’t it?” she ventured. “Burma and the ruby mines.”
“Possibly, but I’ve nothing to link Visscher to either,” Curran said.
“Except the Hotel Van Wijk, where a Dutch antiquities dealer with an interest in gems just happens to be staying,” Harriet said.
Curran turned his gaze back on the garden. “I’ve probably said enough.” He rose to his feet, setting his empty glass down on the table. “Thank you for the drink. Good evening to you both.”
Harriet and Julian sat in silence for a long time after Curran had left. Harriet told Julian about Mrs. Cornilissen and her expensive jewelry.
“Sapphires, Harri, not rubies,” Julian pointed out.
“They all come from the same place. Burmese sapphires are as sought after as rubies and surely it’s no coincidence that this man Cornilissen is in Singapore.”
“But he wasn’t here when the murder occurred,” Julian pointed out.
“I wonder—” Harriet began, but Julian raised his hand.
“Don’t speculate, Harri, and as interesting as it is, solving murders is Inspector Curran’s job, not ours. I am far more concerned about Will Lawson. Why on earth is his father pulling him out of school and packing him off to England in such a hurr
y? Particularly when the school fees have all been paid up? I will go out to Kranji tomorrow.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?”
Julian considered for a long moment. “I think that’s an excellent idea. You may have more success with the man than me. Now, tell me more about last night. Did you have fun?”
Harriet smiled. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed an evening more. The attentions of two attractive men, both of whom seemed to seek out her company, gave her an unexpected thrill, reminiscent of her first season.
But she wasn’t seventeen any longer and she had learned to appreciate such moments as they presented. She knew that happiness was only an illusion and it could never last.
TWENTY
Monday, 14 March 1910
The train pulled away from the station at Tank Road at nine forty-five sharp and commenced its fifty-minute journey, winding up through the island past kampongs, gambier and rubber plantations and thick jungle. The train line terminated at Woodlands on the north coast, the jumping-off stop for the ferries, imaginatively named Singapore and Johor, which plied the short distance to Johor Bahru on the tip of the Malay Peninsula.
As they disembarked, Julian pointed out the Johor, bobbing peacefully at its mooring on the far side of the railway station, ready to take its passengers onward to Johor Bahru and the train to Kuala Lumpur and Penang. Much as Harriet would have loved to have spent the morning sightseeing, particularly with the Malay Peninsula so tantalizingly close, they were here on business.
Julian had telegrammed ahead and an ancient gharry driven by a local Malay awaited them.
“Very far away,” the driver complained as the old horse plodded along at a snail’s pace down narrow country lanes shaded by jungle and rubber plantations.
And indeed, the Lawson plantation took them well over three quarters of an hour to reach, culminating in a long driveway that wound up through rubber trees, skirting a river edged with mangroves.
“Sungei Kranji,” the driver rasped in answer to Julian’s inquiry about the name of the river.