Singapore Sapphire

by A. M. Stuart

  “You are being ridiculous,” she said out loud.

  “Is everything all right, mem?” Huo Jin asked.

  “No, it’s not,” Harriet replied. “Tea . . . no . . . make it a whisky, please, Huo Jin.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday, 15 March 1910

  On Curran’s return to St. Thomas’s in the morning, accompanied by Tan and Greaves, he found an air of unnatural calm hung over the school. Harriet Gordon met him at the door. Her hair had been coiled into an uneven bun on top of her head and the dark circles that ringed her eyes spoke of a restless night. All her confidence seemed to have been drained from her.

  She ushered him into the headmaster’s study. Constable Greaves followed.

  A neatly folded blanket and pillow on the sofa indicated that Julian had followed through with his promise and spent the night at the school.

  “Where is the headmaster?” Curran asked.

  “Teaching,” Harriet replied. “He said it was important to appear normal.”

  “Can you fetch him?”

  Harriet nodded and slipped out of the room. The brisk tapping of her heels on the floorboards was followed by a rapping on a distant door and then silence. She returned with her brother. If Harriet looked haggard, Julian Edwards looked like a man twice his age.

  “Any news?” Edwards asked.

  “My search party confirmed that they found fresh wheel tracks and evidence of a horse on a track a hundred yards from the school. A closed carriage was sighted on River Valley Road about the time Will went missing.” He took a breath. “We can assume that whoever took the boy had him well away from here before the alarm was raised.”

  Julian sunk into the chair behind his desk, his mouth set in a grim line. He leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair and ran a hand across his chin as he looked up at Curran. “There’s more, isn’t there? I haven’t heard from Lawson. I would have thought he would have been here as soon as your chaps passed on the news.”

  Curran steeled himself. “It would appear Lawson is missing as well.” Julian shook his head and Curran continued, “The local constables went out to the plantation the moment they heard from me. They would have got there close to midnight and reported to Headquarters when they returned to the post. The plantation was deserted. I have men at the docks and the station all on the lookout for the child. What I need is a description of his father.”

  Julian tugged at his moustache. “Not quite six feet, sandy thinning hair, blue eyes. When we saw him yesterday it didn’t look like he’d shaved for a few days.”

  Greaves jotted down the description in his notebook.

  “Thank you, I will add that to the bulletin about the boy,” Curran said.

  Julian’s lips twitched. “You don’t suppose that the boy could be with his father, after all?”

  “I don’t suppose anything, Headmaster. I am going out to Kranji now. If anything should happen here, please advise one of the constables on duty. He will know how to get in touch with me.”

  “Thank you, Curran.” Julian’s face relaxed into a wry smile. “In my profession, all I can do is pray that the boy is with his father and all is well.”

  “Amen to that,” Curran said.

  He clapped his hat on his head and turned for the door. As he opened it, he glanced back. Harriet stood with her back to the window, her arms wrapped around her body.

  “Mrs. Gordon, can you be spared?”

  Harriet glanced at her brother. “Julian?”

  “Of course, but what on earth for?” The headmaster frowned.

  “It might be useful if Mrs. Gordon comes out to Kranji with me.”

  “Why?” Harriet asked.

  “Because you are an observant woman and you can tell me what, if anything, has changed since your visit yesterday.”

  Harriet nodded. “Meet me at the house. I must fetch my hat.”

  Curran paused to give instructions to the two constables he was leaving on duty at the school, and by the time the motor vehicle turned into the driveway of St. Thomas House, Harriet waited by the front steps, a practical pith helmet secured to her head with a scarf and an umbrella clutched in her hand. Tan opened the door and she slid into the back seat next to Curran.

  The morning rain had turned Bukit Timah Road and the country tracks into a muddy trap for motor vehicles and Tan and Greaves had to stop and dig the motor vehicle out of the mud on two occasions. Neither of Curran’s constables were in a good mood when they arrived at the Lawson plantation.

  A local police constable waited for them on the verandah. He came down the steps to meet them, sparing Harriet no more than a cursory glance as Tan held the door of the motor vehicle open for her.

  “The place is deserted, sir,” the local man said in Malay.

  “What about the house servant?” Harriet asked.

  Curran repeated the question in Malay and the constable shook his head.

  Curran turned to Harriet. “Shall we look inside?”

  As they stepped through the front door into the gloom of the living room, she recoiled, turning to look at him, the color draining from her face. “It was a shambles but it was nothing like this.”

  Curran surveyed the room. Furniture had been overturned, lamps and ornaments lay smashed on the floor and papers had been pulled from the desk. Every drawer and cupboard had been opened and rifled. His nose twitched at the dusty smell of mold, neglect and unwashed human.

  “Sir.” Tan crouched by the doorway to the main bedroom. “I think we have blood.”

  Curran crouched down and looked at the dark stains and spatter. He nodded. “Definitely blood.”

  Harriet leaned over him. She carried with her a soft scent of sandalwood. He hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Is he . . . dead?” He detected a tremble in her voice.

  Curran straightened. “No, I don’t think there’s enough blood. Greaves, get your photographic equipment out and photograph the bloodstains. Tan, take the local boys, and I want you to search every outbuilding.”

  “And you?” Harriet asked.

  “I’m going to see what I can find among Lawson’s papers.”

  “Can I help?” she asked. “I saw a note yesterday that I would swear was Oswald Newbold’s handwriting.”

  Curran frowned. “What did it say?”

  “Consignment 6: 5 March.”

  He nodded and the two of them gathered the scattered papers up from around the living room, setting them out on the dusty dining table. It was all that he would have expected: personal letters from family in England, letters of condolence on the death of Lawson’s wife and business correspondence relating to the plantation. The latter confirmed Harriet’s earlier observation. The letters from the managing company expressed great dissatisfaction with the returns and the running of the plantation.

  “Nothing,” Curran said aloud. “Not a damned thing. No sign of that note you saw. He must have destroyed anything incriminating.”

  “Or taken it with him,” Harriet responded.

  “Sir. I think you should come.” Constable Tan appeared in the doorway, puffing and sheened with sweat as if he had run some distance.

  “Lawson?”

  Tan shook his head. “No. Something odd.”

  Curran turned to Harriet. “Wait here.”

  She glared back at him and he knew his directive would be disregarded. Ignoring her, he followed the young constable down to the water. This was not the Sungei Kranji itself but a narrower creek. A path led through the undergrowth along the bank, culminating in a small wooden hut, half-hidden by creepers. Here the foliage had been cleared from the bank of the river and a rope tied around the bough of a nearby tree to provide mooring for a boat, no doubt.

  Harriet crashed through the undergrowth behind them, swatting at the mosquitoes that rose in her path.

&nbs
p; Tan pushed open the door to the hut and the men stepped inside, taking a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  At first the hut appeared to be empty except for a rickety table against one wall. Several paint pots and brushes lay on the table along with an almost-empty paper sack of grayish powder and a metal container in which something had been mixed. Curran touched the dried scum around the edge.

  “Plaster of paris, I think,” he observed, crumbling it in his fingers.

  “What’s this, sir?”

  Tan crouched down and from a pile beneath the table retrieved a lump of what looked to be stone.

  “It appears to be a piece of a statue,” Tan said.

  He handed it to Curran, who carried it over to the doorway. His breath caught as he recognized the long, elegant carved fingers.

  “Any more?” Curran asked.

  “Quite a few pieces, sir.” Tan carried out more bits of broken statue, laying them on the ground in front of the hut.

  “It looks like a Buddha statue.” Curran turned a piece over in his hand, the tight curls of Buddha unmistakable. “But this isn’t stone. It’s some sort of concrete. See, the interior is a different color to the exterior. It’s been deliberately aged.”

  “A forgery?” Harriet came to stand beside him.

  “A very good one.”

  “I’ve seen it before.” Harriet crouched down beside him and turned over a shard. A fragment of a benign face smiled up at them.

  “Where?” Curran asked.

  “Two places. Sir Oswald Newbold’s study and in a trunk belonging to Will Lawson. His father sent it back to Singapore with us yesterday. We were to ensure it went on the boat with Will.”

  Curran could have kicked himself. The very same statue, only twice the size, currently occupied shelf space in his own office.

  “Well spotted,” he said. “But may I ask how you know what was in the trunk?”

  Harriet had the grace to look a little shamefaced as she said, “I had to open it to put something in and when I saw what his father had packed, I thought I should sort it out and repack it properly. I found the statue in a wooden box at the bottom of the trunk.”

  “You didn’t think to mention this before?” Curran inquired.

  “I didn’t think it was important. Not until I saw this.” Harriet had begun methodically piecing the shattered statue into a cohesive whole. “There is something strange about this, Curran. Look. The center appears to be hollow.”

  Curran joined her, running his finger around the hollowed space in the pedestal of the statue. “It wouldn’t hold much,” he observed. “The statue in the trunk, was it the same?”

  Harriet shook her head. “It was well packed in sawdust so I didn’t take it out of the box, but I would say yes, from what I could see, it was identical.”

  Curran stood up. “You . . .” He indicated the local constable and, addressing him in Malay, said, “I want every piece collected and packed back in boxes and sent down to Singapore, along with the other contents of that hut.”

  The man saluted and nodded. “Yes, tuan. When . . . ?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Curran turned to Tan. “I want you to stay here and make inquiries of the neighbors and locals.”

  “Any particular line of inquiry?”

  Curran surveyed the river that snaked through mangroves. As he watched, a sleek furry head broke the water, looked around and disappeared again. An otter. Despite the circumstances, a surge of wonder flashed through him. Seeing one in the wild like this was a privilege.

  “Inspector?” Greaves’s voice shook him out of his reverie.

  “This creek runs into the Kranji River and out into the Straits of Johor. With the mangroves and mudflats, a boat can enter easily without being seen,” Curran said.

  “Are you thinking that this is some sort of smuggling operation, sir?” Greaves asked.

  Curran drew in a deep breath. The heavy air smelled of decay. He gave an involuntary shiver. “There is something very wrong here, Greaves, and to answer your question, yes.”

  “What would they be bringing in?” Harriet asked.

  That, Curran couldn’t answer. The police had been working hard to cut out the opium importation into Singapore but it didn’t feel like an opium operation. Was it something to do with the rubies Maddocks had talked about? If illegal goods came in here, it would be easy for Lawson to carry them down to Singapore in rubber consignments. No one would check until the shipment reached the dock and by then the boxes of statues, if that’s what they were, would be gone. Like the shattered statue itself, the pieces of the picture were spread out before him. He just had to put them back together in the correct order.

  He glanced at Greaves and Harriet Gordon, who stood back from the group, her eyes heavy with fatigue. “I’ve detained you here long enough. We’ll get going, Mrs. Gordon. Greaves, get us back to town in one piece.”

  As they settled back into the car, Curran glanced at Harriet. “I think the first thing we need to do is have a look at that statue you found in Lawson’s trunk.”

  She nodded and after a little while he noticed that despite the jolting car she had fallen asleep, her hat slipping awry. He moved closer to her, allowing her head to rest against his shoulder. She wouldn’t thank him for the unwanted physical contact but he wasn’t going to wake her.

  Harriet sat up with a start as the motor vehicle jerked to a halt in the driveway of St. Thomas House. Greaves lacked Tan’s touch with the vehicle.

  Julian was already hurrying down the stairs to greet them, his face pale and drawn.

  “Any news?” he asked, holding the door open for Harriet.

  Harriet shook her head. “Not really. I’m desperate for something to eat and drink. Inspector?”

  Curran nodded, conscious that they had not stopped for anything to eat and it was long past lunchtime.

  As Harriet went in search of her amah, Curran filled Julian in with their discoveries at Kranji.

  “That’s extraordinary,” Julian said, sinking into one of the verandah chairs. “Are you looking at a smuggling operation?”

  “I’m not making any assumptions yet, but I would like to see the trunk John Lawson sent down with you.”

  Carrying a tray with a large teapot and a plate of sandwiches and cake, Harriet came out through the house.

  “It’s in my bedroom, but please, let’s eat first before I start gnawing my arm off.”

  Chafing with impatience, Curran swallowed some sandwiches and a cup of tea and rose to his feet. “The trunk?”

  Stepping into Harriet’s bedroom, Curran genuinely felt like an intruder. Like its occupant, the room was decorated with practical purpose. No unnecessary frills or lace but plenty of books and solid, comfortable furniture embellished with colorful throws and cushions, probably reflecting her years spent in India.

  Harriet indicated the trunk and Curran dragged it out from under the bed, grunting at its weight as he carried it into the small room that appeared to be used as Julian’s study. Julian joined them and Harriet closed the door behind them and handed Curran the key to the trunk.

  It contained books, a set of soldiers and a wooden box about eighteen inches square. Curran extracted this and set it on the table. It had been roughly made and nailed shut.

  “No clothing?” He looked at Harriet, who must have done a little more than just glance at the contents. A fetching shade of pink tinged her cheeks.

  “None of it was suitable for the child. I was going to take him shopping . . .” Her mouth twisted in sudden distress. “We have to find him, Curran.”

  Will Lawson had been missing nearly twenty-four hours and Curran didn’t seem any closer to restoring the boy to safety. He tried not to think about it as he levered the lid off the wooden box with his penknife. He drew a sharp breath as he recogn
ized the smiling face of the now-familiar Buddha nestled in its bed of sawdust and shavings.

  Curran lifted it out and set it on the desk. Through a patina of age Buddha smiled beneficently at the paltry humans.

  Julian let out a low whistle. “That looks old.”

  “It’s a forgery,” Curran said. “A very good forgery.”

  “We found bits of a broken statue on Lawson’s property at Kranji. It’s made of some sort of concrete,” Harriet said. “I would swear it was identical to the one in Newbold’s study, only half-size. Do you think Newbold’s statue might have been used as the pattern?”

  “It seems likely,” Curran agreed. “The Kranji statue was hollow. Let’s see.”

  He picked the statue up and shook it. Nothing rattled. He turned it over. Nothing distinguished the base from the rest of the statue and it was only when he tapped it with the hilt of the knife that he detected a difference in the resonance between the base and the side.

  Harriet let out a breath. He glanced up at her, catching her bright, rapt gaze.

  With the point of his knife he dug into the “stone” of the base. It gave easily, a grayish powder spilling out as he scratched it away. Damping his finger, Curran dabbed it in the dust and held it up to his nose.

  “Plaster of paris, painted to match the rest of the statue. Very well done.”

  Gently he pried the plaster out and all three craned over to see what lay tucked into the Buddha’s pedestal. It appeared to be kapok, the seedpod fluff from the silk cotton tree, commonly used for filling or packing. Curran pulled this out, sneezing as some of the down went up his nose. With it came a small velvet bag.

  Curran weighed it in his hand, feeling something hard and solid, about the size of a quail’s egg. He undid the drawstring and laid a large uncut stone on Julian’s blotter. Julian picked up the stone and held it up to the light, catching the deep-blue heart of the stone in a shaft of sunlight. He let out a whistle worthy of one of his pupils.

  “It’s a sapphire.”

  “A sapphire?” Curran frowned. “I thought I was looking for rubies.”

  Harriet took the stone from her brother and cradled it in the palm of her hand. “It’s huge. Do you know anything about precious gems, Curran?”