Waiting for Venus - A Novel

by Robert Cooper

  ‘Not surprising if he were dead,’ says Wong. ‘I’ll be interviewing everybody, but thanks for that. It’s always good to confirm who was where, when and why, and fit it in with the time of death when we know it. Now, could I ask you to sit where you were last night when you came in to get Barnaby? Put the professor’s dog on your lap if she’ll come.’

  Barnaby comes readily enough. Wong slumps tiredly in the other armchair. He explains quietly that his men left everything exactly in place as they found it and asks me if anything looks different to the way it normally looked when the professor was alive.

  We sit in eerie silence. Bernard’s shoes are still at the back door. He always slipped them off when coming into the house and usually used the back door. His typewriter is at his desk, a blank sheet of paper inserted. The way he left it when going to bed – ready in case inspiration or insomnia drove him to the machine during the night. The chair is pushed back from the desk as if he has just risen from it.

  ‘The fan,’ I say and turn it on at the switch by the front door. ‘Bernard always had it on lowest. He used to say that its slow creak matched the turn of his mind.’ The super says nothing and we sit on. Barnaby cocks her head from side to side as if the familiar sound of the fan will bring Bernard out of the kitchen. I look along the old prints of the Straits Settlements on the wall and linger on a fading black and white photograph of Bernard in his mid-twenties and the anti-Japanese leader Chin Peng in their wartime jungle hideout. ‘Apart from the fact that the shutters are closed in the daytime, I would say everything is as it usually was.’

  ‘Take your time please, Doctor Haddock. We’ll leave the shutters closed, the way they were last night. Something might come to you. In the meantime, perhaps you can tell me about Professor Fox; I knew him but not as you knew him.’ The superintendent’s manner is friendly, as if we are working together to solve the mystery of Bernard’s death; clever, that.

  ‘Where shall I start? There really was so much more to Bernard than our shared years at SU. I got to know Bernard well during these last two years but I have only a faint idea of his early years.’ Better, I think, to stick to the idea of Bernard as close friend of two years than go into our lifelong secret relationship.

  The super speaks gently. ‘Start anywhere. I don’t take notes or use a recorder. A failing of mine. I often have to return and ask the same questions. It helps me build up an overall picture. Start anywhere you like. Did he, for example, as a pessimist about the human race, exhibit any prejudices himself?’

  ‘Certainly, no racial prejudices. At worst, he might be accused of a dislike of the Japanese – but not all Japanese – and a paternalism towards Malayan aborigines. He spent three years with them during World War II and, until his health deteriorated, now and again went back into the Perak jungle to spend time with them.’

  ‘How did he get to Singapore in the first place?’

  ‘He came down from Oxford in 1940, age 21, and was declared unfit for the armed forces. Probably his eyes. He always wore thick glasses to read. There’s a pair beside you on his desk. He usually left them there, next to his work. He passed his civil service exams, was given a Malay dictionary and packed off to colonial service in Malaya. He’d just about got settled in when the Japanese invaded and Bernard found his bit of the Empire had changed emperors.

  ‘Bernard told me he passed the war in the jungle of Perak with Chin Peng, his anti-Japanese guerrillas and the local aborigines. He was surprised at the end of the war to be given three years’ back pay and – like Chin Peng himself – receive an OBE for his time with the stay-behind forces. Bernard developed a great respect for Chin Peng. After the war, he stayed on throughout the Emergency, but asked to be placed in a position that would not require him either to support or betray Chin Peng, who by 1948 was leading the communist forces against the British; so he was offered a job in Singapore U at that time.’

  ‘So that’s how he got here,’ the super punctuates my monologue. ‘But do continue. Everything you can tell me about the professor might be relevant.’

  ‘Bernard placed friendship above anything else, even above his country. Chin Peng and Bernard became close friends when the Raj left him to the mercy of the Japanese. And Bernard did not make friends flippantly; he spoke Malay fluently but could not befriend Ra’mad – I suppose because of their opposing sides in the war. Bernard knew my family – my father was in the colonial police.’ I do not mention that Bernard was my mother’s brother and my only uncle. We kept our relationship secret when alive and I can think of no good reason to announce it now he’s dead. ‘My parents spent the war in Ceylon but came back when Japan surrendered. I was born in Malacca but went to the UK for school in the 1950s, so I never really knew Bernard until I got the job here.’

  The super is studying the picture of young Bernard with Chin Peng. ‘I wonder what Acting Dean Chin’s father made of Chin Peng.’ Now, why, I think, bring my department head’s dead father into an investigation of Bernard’s death?

  ‘Your guess, Superintendent, is as good as mine. I heard Chin’s father died just after the Japanese surrender, so you can’t ask him. There are rumours he prospered during the Japanese years through collaboration and other rumours he was really working against the Japanese, passing information and funds raised by the Chinese in Singapore to Chin Peng in the jungle. I don’t suppose we will ever know the truth. Does it really matter? It was so long ago.’

  ‘Do you think Harry Chin would know?’ Clearly, Wong attaches some importance to knowing.

  ‘Harry would have been a baby when his father died, he’s not that much older than me. But if he knows, I doubt very much he will admit to either version of his father, collaborator or communist. Singapore is still a place where the sins of the father carry over to the son.’

  ‘But wasn’t Chin senior more a nationalist than a communist? He made substantial donations to the Chinese University here.’

  ‘But some say the money he gave was only part of the money he took from Singaporeans during the war and that most never found its way either to the university or to Chin Peng.’ Why are we talking about Chin’s father?

  ‘Who’s some?’

  ‘Well, one might be a better word. Li Fang.’

  ‘Would Professor Fox have known the truth of the matter?’

  ‘If you had asked that question to Bernard, he might have replied: “It all depends on what you mean by truth.” Bernard accepted that a person could be more than one thing but I rather gathered he saw Chin senior as a collaborator and didn’t look any further. Not that he ever discussed Chin or his father with me.’

  ‘Yes. But … the money? Would Bernard Fox have known if Harold Chin’s father diverted funds meant for anti-Japanese forces to the Japanese?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, wondering how the super has hit the nail on the head so quickly. ‘Do you think it important?’

  ‘It might be. At this early point in enquiries, everything about Bernard Fox and his past could be important. We might get around to approaching Chin Peng quietly but I don’t see how he or Professor Fox could have known in the jungle what was happening here in Singapore.’ If the super doesn’t see, I’m not about to tell him.

  We fall into silence. Next to the typewriter, a glass of water stands half full, half empty. I look around again, searching for any detail that might give the super something to work on. A mental picture of Bernard at his desk forms and dissolves in my mind, reforms and turns to look at me. Bernard’s lips are moving. Is he telling me something? No, he’s eating! That’s it, Bernard’s eating.

  ‘Bernard ate late. Either Li Fang would bring him something over from Guild House or his housekeeper would make something and leave it in the fridge for him. He almost always ate at his desk. Any time between 7.00 and 10.00 in the evening. He was a nibbler and he wasn’t too fussy about cleaning up. He would leave his plate on the desk for Norsiah – that’s the housekeeper – to clean up in the morning. She’s devoted to Bernard and
would never have suggested he change his ways to save her the trouble of clearing away the ants. She also cleans for me; she didn’t come yesterday or the day before, so she must be away.’

  ‘Norsiah,’ the super says to himself as if making a note in his mind. He looks tired. ‘Please go on. Detail is what catches criminals.’

  ‘Well, if Bernard died before 7.00, he would probably not have eaten first, but any time after that and he would have nibbled at something, but I see no plate.’

  ‘In the sink perhaps? To save ant trouble with the housekeeper away?’

  ‘I’m sure you know exactly what is in the sink, Superintendent.’ Of course he knows.

  ‘Perhaps the professor planned to go out to eat somewhere?’

  ‘He hadn’t been off campus for ages. He was fanatical in his working routine. He was coming to the end of what he said was the best thing he’d ever written and stayed close to his work. He was on the final lap of his marathon and almost finished.’

  The superintendent interrupts. ‘Perhaps, Doctor Haddock, there is no plate because the professor did not feel like eating. If you were plucking up courage to end your life, would you call Li Fang to bring an egg fu-yong?’ I would probably call for a lot more than egg fu-yong if I get to the point of suicide, but I say nothing; the super has a point. ‘The detail of Professor Fox’s eating habits is noted in my mind,’ the super says tiredly, leaving me to think my observation of the missing plate is not a likely case solver. ‘Any other anomalies with the professor’s normal routine?’

  We are in the same room but in different worlds. For me, Bernard’s sitting room is a place of sacred memory, a temple to things past, for Wong it is a source of pendent discovery, a treasure-trove of hidden clues. We sit again in silence. Eventually, the superintendent offers a prompt. ‘Was the professor’s chair normally there at the desk?’

  ‘Yes. It’s exactly as if he just stood up. As if he will be back any minute. When Bernard was not at his desk, he would sit in this armchair, at least he would when I was here. His working chair would remain just at that angle, just the way it is now. It’s as if he had finished his work for the day and stood up to go to bed.’

  ‘Or to welcome a friend?’ The point is a little too sharp for comfort but the super does not pause for an answer before continuing. ‘And no other chairs are normally in the room?’

  ‘No. Only the two we are sitting in and his work chair.’

  ‘Please think carefully. When you came in here last night to get the dog, did you move any piece of furniture?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ the super insists. ‘Nothing? Not even a cardboard box or something?’ I realise where the superintendent’s mind is leading.

  ‘It was dark. If anything got moved, I am unaware of it. Superintendent, there was nothing between Bernard’s feet and the floor and nothing near his feet that would have held his weight.’

  ‘I think you understand, Doctor Haddock. If Professor Fox hanged himself, he would have had to step off something.’

  ‘So, suicide is ruled out?’

  ‘No. Perhaps the cleaner’s not away at all and she put the chair back and cleaned away the plate after he hanged himself – or for that matter after she hanged him. Or there might be an explanation so far not evident … Or you might be lying.’

  ‘Do you suspect me, Superintendent?’

  ‘You must be considered a suspect. You live next door, you have no alibi, you had the habit of dropping in and you could get past the dog.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘At the moment, Doctor Haddock, motive unknown. There is no indication of a struggle and however well a killer – or a housekeeper – tidies up, it is difficult to hang a man against his will and leave no trace. The fan might not have held his weight if the professor had been struggling.’

  ‘From what you say, it sounds like you suspect suicide.’

  ‘It’s the most likely conclusion to an investigation like this. A man kills himself and that’s an end to the matter. Had you told me you moved a chair from near the body, that could be the answer that would satisfy everybody.’

  ‘I did not kill my best friend.’ I get in an early plea of innocence.

  ‘I said moved a chair, not pulled a chair. There is a compromise scenario between suicide and murder that at this early point in investigations appears to encompass the facts we know so far – assisted suicide. You knew the professor was sick, you knew of his problems with the university authorities and how much they depressed him. If the professor had asked you, would you have helped him rig the noose? Helped him onto the chair. Watched as he kicked away the chair? Perhaps held his hand as he allowed himself to be strangled with as little struggle as possible? And then you put the chair back in its place. Like a Samurai assisting his friend at the end.’

  I have just met the superintendent yet he seems to know me and Bernard only too well. It’s a bit spooky. As if he has been listening in on our private conversations. Is he just fishing or can he read me so easily? I don’t know.

  ‘And then turned on the fan, Superintendent?’

  ‘A bit ghoulish. But, why not? Maybe you wanted to deflect a conclusion of suicide.’

  ‘By leaving the front door open?’

  ‘That,’ says the super, ‘is more likely to support the idea of suicide than conclude against it. No murderer would leave the very public front door open on his crime. A suicide, however, might be considerate of those who find the body. In the dark, the scene would not be visible from the road unless, as happened, a bright light is shone inside. In the morning light, on the other hand, a passer-by could see the body and call those more used to dealing with such things. You said the professor’s housekeeper is away; perhaps he did not want her on return to be the one to find the body, so he left the front door open. By the way, do you know where she has gone and when she’s coming back? We need to talk to her. You say she was your cleaner too, so do you have a telephone number or address for her?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t even know she was going. She has a servant’s room just behind Bernard’s back door; there might be an indication in there. Maybe she’s gone back to her village in Perak for some family reason, but it’s odd Bernard never told me. It’s near where Bernard was during the big war and he occasionally went back there. It’s mostly aboriginal and I doubt there’s a telephone. I don’t know the name of the village. I don’t even know the housekeeper’s full name. Admin will have it – she’d have an identity card to work and live on campus; she’s been here for years. And as for Bernard’s front door, last night it was closed at 10.00, if we can believe the German at my window; he said he knocked hard on Bernard’s door and got no answer.’

  Superintendent Wong has set out a reasonable hypothesis of assisted suicide. I am aware that once the super has read Bernard’s Social History of Suicide, he will have a clear idea of the sympathy and at times admiration with which Bernard wrote about those who kill themselves and those who assist suicide.

  * * *

  Where is my work? It’s Bernard, back in my mind and now talking loud and clear. Am I supposed to have destroyed it and then killed myself or what?

  ‘There is indeed something different in the room now,’ I say.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Wong says.

  I walk to Bernard’s desk and open the cupboard below it. It is empty. ‘Where did you put his manuscript?’

  The super’s expression sparks as I continue. ‘Bernard had been working on The Social History of Singapore University for over a year. He always worked at this desk and kept the manuscript pages in the desk cupboard. Just one copy, he never made carbons, too much trouble. He did not talk directly about his work in progress but I got the feeling that some people would be wounded by what he wrote. Bernard was a very moral man but he did not set himself up as judge; he said he could not self-censor but was more than a bit bothered about his work being used for purposes other than those for which he intended it.’

  �
��Which were?’

  ‘As an academic work of history it was his child, his way of extending his life after what he thought a cruelly brief span; he was after all only 62, but with his heart problem he didn’t expect to enjoy old age. It would also, he hoped, serve as a memorial to what will be lost if there is no Bukit Timah Campus. Over the past year, his life was this book. He had finished it and was checking, changing and polishing. I have never seen him as happy as over the last couple of weeks. The university establishment was treating him like a leper for opposing the relocation but he was in no way driven to despair. His heart obliged him to rest in the afternoons but this was not a reason to end his life. He knew he had written a powerful book. He told me this book was what he wanted to be remembered by.’ The super raises his eyebrows at my last ambiguous words, as if still waiting for a sound argument against the suicide hypothesis and not finding it.

  Get to the point! Bernard hisses in my ear.

  ‘The point is,’ I continue hurriedly, as Barnaby follows the super towards the front door, ‘Bernard would never have killed himself before seeing his work published. You asked me if I noticed anything different about the room. Yes, I do. Bernard’s manuscript is gone.’

  The super stands in the doorway and turns off the fan. ‘How many people knew the professor was writing this book?’

  ‘Everybody knew he was writing something. Probably a lot of people knew he was writing a history of the university.’

  ‘A history of the university …’ Wong muses, looking very tired again as he moves out into the sunlight. ‘Those words don’t sound too threatening. There is a history of the Raffles Hotel about to be published and there must be a hundred histories of Raffles and Singapore but not one of the writers was murdered – although it might be tempting to conclude justifiable homicide if one or two had been.’ The superintendent’s ability to joke dryly about the deadly serious is something Bernard would have appreciated. I am caught off guard as the super slams straight back into a logical line of enquiry. ‘Tell me. Apart from you, who regularly visited the professor? Who might know the book was … what shall we call it? Something of a rendering of accounts?’