by A. M. Stuart
“It’s no good,” Will admitted, sinking to the ground with his back to the wall. “It’s stuck.”
Harriet swore volubly and slammed her hand impotently against the door.
“I didn’t think ladies knew words like that,” Will said with a look of mingled shock and admiration.
She allowed herself to smile. “I know worse,” she replied.
Sinking down beside him, she pushed the damp strands of hair away from her face. She made an attempt to coil her heavy locks into a knot at the base of her neck but her hands shook with the effort she had expended in hoisting Will up to the window and the resultant mess did little to alleviate her discomfort.
Lacking any thoughts about what to do next, she clasped her hands together and, closing her eyes for a moment, she prayed. Dear Lord, please keep us safe.
As she opened her eyes, the world tilted and spun. It had been hours since she had last eaten and Harriet never did anything without a decent breakfast. She tried not to think about fresh coffee and toast with marmalade.
“I’m awfully hungry,” Will said, echoing her own thoughts.
“So am I,” she admitted, and poured another cup of water to share with the boy.
He took a sip and looked up at her. “What do we do now?”
“Do you know any good games?”
“You could test me on my French vocab,” Will said.
“Your French vocab?” Harriet asked in astonishment. She would have thought French vocab would be the last thing on the boy’s mind.
“Please. If I am going to go to Papa’s big school in England, I don’t want to be behind in anything.”
Harriet laughed.
“Very well, Master Lawson. French it is. Let’s begin with aller—‘to go.’”
THIRTY-ONE
Curran sat down at his desk to drink the lukewarm cup of tea the elderly servant, allocated to the detectives, had brought him. Van Gelder and Cornilissen were in custody—in cells as far apart as they could be to discourage any collusion. As he contemplated his next move, he pulled his pipe from his desk drawer and carefully filled it with tobacco from the leather pouch Li An had given him.
He rarely smoked a pipe and only on occasions when he needed to think. He sat back in his chair, watching the puffs of smoke floating up toward the ceiling, his feet on his desk.
“You look bloody relaxed for a man with three missing people and three murders on your hands.”
Curran brought his booted feet back to the floor with a thump and jumped to his feet, expecting Cuscaden, but it was James Carruthers who stood at the door, his pith helmet in his hand, his face flushed with heat and anger.
“Mr. Carruthers, who let you in? This is none of your business—”
“Yes, it bloody well is,” Carruthers responded in a tone that oozed with an authority he had not shown before.
Unbidden, he stepped into the office and shut the door with a thump that rattled the partition. “Sit down, Curran, and hear me out.”
Curran remained standing while Carruthers fumbled in his pocket and produced a letter, which he handed across the desk. Curran unfolded the letter, noting the embossed letterhead bearing the imprimatur of the Home Office. He read the contents and, with mounting anger, carefully refolded the letter granting the bearer immunity from prosecution and free carriage in any investigations he wished to carry out.
He handed it back to Carruthers and, keeping his annoyance in check, said in a low, controlled voice, “If I had known this when I first came to see you, Carruthers, we could have worked together and three people would not now be hostages.”
Carruthers restored the letter to his pocket with a casual shrug that had the effect of making Curran want to launch himself across the desk and shake the man. “I couldn’t give my cover away,” he said. “I’ve been working too long and hard on this case to risk involving a clod-footed policeman.”
Curran’s jaw clenched hard and he said between gritted teeth, “So, if you are not James Carruthers, who is Archibald Symes?”
“As the letter says, I’m an agent of the Burmese Ruby Syndicate, employed to investigate the appearance on the Dutch gem market of rubies of the same geological composition as those found in the Mogok mines owned by the syndicate.”
“And the real James Carruthers?”
The man shrugged. “Died in Bognor in 1895, five years after his mother.”
Curran took a steadying breath and controlled his anger by casually tapping the contents of his pipe into the ashtray. Carruthers or Symes? It didn’t matter. He would continue to think of the man as Carruthers. “And I take it your prime suspect was Oswald Newbold?”
“After Newbold moved to Singapore, the new chap at the mines picked up on stories going around the mine workers of the best stones mysteriously not making it into the inventories. Thousands of pounds’ worth of rubies had disappeared over a number of years preceding Newbold’s departure. Problem was, Newbold’s reputation was unimpeachable and the BRS wanted to be sure that this wasn’t just a fabrication. After all, there was no real evidence. Two years ago, rubies of the quality of the Mogok stones began appearing on the Amsterdam market. Rubies with no known provenance. I was sent to keep an eye on Newbold.”
“And what did you discover in your time in Singapore?” Curran could barely keep the ice out of his voice.
Carruthers’s mouth tightened. “To be honest with you, Inspector, very little. The operation was a tight one. I have been unable to discover how Newbold smuggled the stones into the country. I do know a man called Cornilissen seems to have been involved in the Amsterdam end of the operations but again I don’t know how he got the rubies out.” He paused. “I’m also fairly certain that Newbold’s former mine engineer, John Lawson, was also involved, a fact that seems to now be confirmed by the disappearance of Lawson and his son.”
Curran stood up and set the forged Buddha statue on the desk. “This is Lawson’s involvement or part of it—there may be a longer, more heinous involvement but until I can find Lawson I can’t confirm it. What I know is Lawson packed these forgeries on his property and brought them into Singapore with the rubber shipments. Cornilissen then exports the statues to Amsterdam. I believe he has a brother in the gem industry. There you have it, Carruthers.”
Carruthers let out a low whistle. “We knew Lawson was in Newbold’s pocket over some indiscretion Newbold had covered up for him. Lawson was a gambler and a drinker. Easy prey.”
Curran’s eye drifted to the larger, original, antique statue that had stood on Newbold’s desk. He carried it over to his own desk and set it down on its back. At first glance the underside seemed to be solid, natural stone. Curran scratched the bottom with his penknife but, unlike the forgeries that betrayed themselves immediately, his knife encountered only solid stone. He ran his fingers across the base, with its pits and imperfections, his nail catching in what looked to be a natural indentation.
He grunted and inserted the blade of the penknife in the indentation and, with a grating of stone, a circular piece of the base worked free, revealing a large cavity in the pedestal of the statue. The breath stopped in his throat as he thought of the other statues still at the Bukit Timah house. How many of them had been similarly doctored?
He swung it around to face Carruthers.
“That is how Newbold brought the rubies into Singapore,” Curran said.
The rubies and the sapphire. His mind flashed back to the scene of the crime. Newbold’s bloodied fingerprints on the statue. Had he died trying to save his precious sapphire?
Carruthers shook his head. “Ingenious.”
Curran sat down and surveyed Carruthers from over his steepled fingers. “The question I want answered is why you went to Newbold’s home the night he was murdered?”
“I genuinely went on club business.” Carruthers spread his hands. “I often went out on a
Sunday night with invoices to sign off. I used it as an excuse to look over his place, if I got the opportunity. But this time I found him dead, exactly as I said.”
“It was you who ransacked the room?”
The man shook his head. “Someone had already done that. I had some notion that if I took the manuscript it would look like a burglary gone wrong and it was consistent with my cover story.” Carruthers spread his hands in an unconvincing apology.
Curran regarded him without humor. “All you did was muddy the waters, Carruthers . . . Symes . . . or whatever your name is . . .”
He drew the VOC symbol on a piece of paper and turned it to face the man.
Carruthers picked it up, frowning. “Isn’t this the old Dutch East India Company?”
“A little joke by our conspirators. Assuming O stands for Oswald, the provider of the rubies, and C for Cornilissen, the contact in Amsterdam. V is the contact here in Singapore. Do you have any idea who V is?”
Carruthers shook his head. “Van Gelder?”
Curran took the paper back and squinted at the V. It dominated the insignia. V was the key who held the whole plot together. Instinctively he felt Van Gelder did not have the intelligence—no, the rat cunning—to coordinate the plan.
He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping on the polished floorboards. “I have Van Gelder in custody. Shall we go and ask him?”
“We?” Carruthers rose to his feet.
Curran shrugged. “Why not?”
THIRTY-TWO
As the heat in their prison rose with the sun, it sapped Harriet of energy and hope. Will curled up with his head on her lap and slept. Absently she stroked the boy’s soft fair hair and closed her own eyes, allowing herself to doze, conscious that she needed to rest in order to have the strength to face what lay ahead.
The sound of a motor vehicle cut through her torpor and she sat bolt upright, her heart thudding. Every nerve in her body strained but she could hear nothing useful, beyond the rattle of insects, through the thick walls of her prison. Her watch told her it was now midday.
Will sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
“I thought I heard a motor vehicle.” Harriet rose to her feet and banged on the door. “Is anyone out there?”
But no one came and she leaned her head against the door, fighting a sudden terrible fear that she and the child may have been abandoned and that their decomposing bodies would be discovered in months to come. Dead from starvation and thirst.
She considered the contents of the jug. Even if she eked out the water, it would be gone within twenty-four hours. Stupid, weak tears sprang into her eyes. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be safe in St. Thomas House with Julian and Shashti and Huo Jin, Lokman and Aziz.
She sank down against the wall and put her head in her hands as the tears began to flow. Pointless to try to be brave. She would need whatever courage she had for later. A small hand touched her shoulder.
“It will be all right, Mrs. Gordon. They won’t kill us. They want the sapphire.”
She sniffed and looked up at the boy. “What do you know about the sapphire?”
He shrugged. “I heard them talking.”
Adults forget children have ears, Harriet thought. She patted Will’s hand. “You’re right, Will. They do want the sapphire. Did you see them at all?”
Will shook his head. “I was blindfolded until I got here and then that man took the blindfold off just before he opened the door and I saw you and Papa. I heard them talking. There was a man and a woman.”
Harriet’s heart jumped. A woman? The woman she had heard last night?
“What did they say?”
Will frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know. They were not talking in English. Sorry, Mrs. Gordon.”
The man would have been Paar but the woman . . . ?
Harriet summoned a smile and patted the boy’s hand. “It doesn’t matter, Will.”
Whoever they were, if they were here now, she would find out soon enough.
THIRTY-THREE
Curran let his fingers play over the stones he had set out on the table of the room they used for interviews with the better class of villain. Even uncut and unpolished, the quality shone through, casting a red glow on the blotter. The man sitting across from him followed his movements with curious eyes.
“What are those?” Van Gelder asked.
Curran regarded Van Gelder. Something in the man’s demeanor made him pause. If he was acting, he was very, very good.
“Uncut rubies of the highest caliber. Have you ever seen them before?”
Van Gelder looked up at him. “No. Where did they come from?”
“A shipment of forged antique Burmese statues.”
“Really?”
Van Gelder looked more interested than guilty.
“Your guest Cornilissen had them in his possession.”
The man’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “No!”
Curran glanced at Carruthers, who shrugged.
“How many times has Cornilissen stayed with you?”
Van Gelder considered the question.
“Since I took over as manager, three years ago, he has come at least once a year. On buying expeditions, you understand. He was a generous guest.” The man’s eyes slid sideways and the sweat shone on his forehead. He was a terrible liar.
“How do you know Cornilissen?”
Van Gelder said nothing and Curran let the silence stretch between them. Behind him, Carruthers fidgeted, his chair squeaking as he shifted his weight.
Van Gelder wiped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief and a shaking hand. “His wife is the daughter of my wife,” he blurted out at last.
“Mrs. Cornilissen is your stepdaughter?” Curran struggled to keep the incredulity from his voice. Now he thought about it, he should have spotted a likeness at the Van Wijk on the night of the musical diversion, the two fair-haired women in blue gowns.
Van Gelder shrugged. “She was a grown woman, already married when I met her mother. I do not think of her as my daughter but, yes, she is family.”
Curran’s instincts prickled. At last—a connection. Keeping his face and tone neutral, he asked, “And how did you meet your wife?”
A deep flush colored Van Gelder’s already scarlet cheeks. “It was Sir Oswald Newbold who introduced us, Inspector. I was managing a hotel in Rangoon. He would always stay with us when he came to town and he brought her to dinner one night. Viktoria Klop, she was then.”
Viktoria?
The breath stopped in Curran’s chest and he cursed himself for not making the connection earlier.
He thought of the ordinary little woman he had met during his inquiries, so easily overlooked. Viktoria Van Gelder. Viktoria Klop. V for Viktoria.
“And how did Sir Oswald know your wife?”
Van Gelder frowned. “He told me her husband managed a tea plantation in Burma but he had died a few months previously.”
“And the widow Klop did not wish to return to Holland?”
“That is right. She said she had fallen in love with the Far East. I told her I had accepted a post in Singapore and she . . . we . . . decided it would suit us both to marry. It was a marriage of convenience, you understand.”
Very convenient, Curran thought.
“One last thing.” Curran reached into his pocket and set the uncut sapphire down among the pile of rubies.
Van Gelder’s eyes widened. “Mein Gott, is that . . . ? Is that a sapphire?”
“Do you know anything about it?”
The man shook his head, his eyes riveted by the stone. “It must be a hundred carats, at least. A fortune.”
Curran abruptly terminated the interview and packed away the stones. He wanted to reinterview Cornilissen but there was a greater
urgency in detaining the Van Gelder woman.
Accompanied by Singh and Tan they took the motor vehicle to the Van Wijk.
Greaves had been replaced by a local constable dressed in plain clothes who lingered in the shade of one of the rain trees that lined Stamford Road. The man confirmed that he had not seen any European women leaving the hotel.
Curran gave orders to Tan to take Gertrude Cornilissen to South Bridge Road and he and Singh headed for the manager’s residence. The door was answered by the Chinese maid.
“Mem is not here. She is gone.”
Curran drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the girl.
“What do you mean, ‘She is gone’?”
The girl began to tremble. “She packed a suitcase, changed her clothes and she is gone.”
She began to weep but Curran did not have time for tears. He pushed past her, into the house, throwing open doors until he came to a bedroom. At first glance it looked like it had been ransacked. Wardrobes stood open and drawers had been pulled out. Mrs. Van Gelder’s packing had been rapid. Toilette items were gone and, according to the maid, enough clothes to indicate a journey. A little writing desk contained nothing of interest. No doubt any evidence of her involvement with the VOC had also gone in the suitcase.
“What was she wearing?” Curran rounded on the maid.
The girl licked her lips and she looked at the floor. “She was dressed as a tuan,” she said.
Curran stared at her. “A man?”
The girl nodded. “Often she dresses as a tuan. She tells me it is funny to fool people. She has the . . .” The girl tugged at her chin.
“Beard?” Curran asked between clenched teeth.
The girl nodded and Curran swore under his breath.
Outside he accosted the plainclothes constable he had left on watch.
“Did a short man with a beard and carrying a suitcase leave the hotel?”
The constable thought for a moment and nodded. He glanced up at the sky. “An hour or more ago. He got into a motor vehicle.”