‘There,’ Jane whispered as Madeleine Renshaw and her son walked away. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it? She’s a perfectly pleasant woman. I feel sorry for her with that husband of hers.’
They packed away the remains of the picnic and de Silva stowed the hamper in the Morris’s trunk. Down on the lakeshore, he paid the boatman for an hour’s hire and he and Jane were soon out on the water. Rowing was harder work than it looked, he thought, as he pulled on the oars, trying to dip them in the water without splashing. Jane sat back on the cushioned seat opposite him, holding her blue parasol over her head for shade.
‘This is really very pleasant.’ She smiled.
‘Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’
A gaggle of pygmy-geese landed nearby and honked around in a circle, their heads bobbing. ‘Hoping for bread, I expect,’ Jane said. ‘What pretty little birds they are with that black and white plumage and their bright eyes.’
‘I’m afraid they’re out of luck.’
They lapsed into silence and de Silva’s thoughts drifted back to Madeleine Renshaw. If it had been Tagore she was talking with, did she know about his feud with her husband? Surely if she did, she would avoid the fellow? Or perhaps if she knew Tagore from her old life, she might have some idea she could influence him to drop his complaint?
He looked at the sun. Their hour must be almost up.
‘Shall we start back?’ asked Jane.
‘I suppose we should.’
‘I’d like to stop at St George’s on the way home if you don’t mind. I want to see the kneelers that have been completed. We needn’t stay long.’
‘Very well.’
**
The church was cool inside; the dark wood of the beamed roof gleamed richly against the white of the walls. In the apse, the late afternoon sun made the stained glass windows glow with particular intensity but the recessed windows flanking the nave were glazed with plain glass letting in plenty of light.
De Silva sat in one of the pews while Jane walked around studying the new kneelers and occasionally holding one up for him to admire.
When he had proposed to her and she accepted, he had soon realised that she would be deeply disappointed if their marriage was not recognised by her church and he came to the conclusion that it would not be impossible to accommodate his Buddhist philosophy with Christianity. He had never discussed this view outright with the vicar who conducted the service of blessing after the civil ceremony, but the man had the air of being someone who understood that the human spirit need not, necessarily, be confined by one creed. Man is capable of worshipping in many ways.
In any case, he had come to find his visits to this church very soothing. He enjoyed singing the hymns and the vicar kept his sermons short. However he still preferred the profusion of flowers in the Buddhist temple; the stiff arrangements favoured by Florence Clutterbuck and her entourage weren’t quite the same. He also loved the aromas that intoxicated the senses and the tom-toms that set your blood racing, so he continued to go to the temple when he felt the need. He was pleased that, on occasion, Jane came with him.
The entrance door to the church creaked and he turned to see a wedge of lemon light fall across the floor. To his surprise, the man who came in was Ravindra Tagore. He seemed preoccupied and at first gave no sign of realising that he wasn’t alone.
A circular metal stand for candles stood under one of the aisle windows. Tagore went over to it, put some money in the box underneath and took a candle. He touched the wick to one that was already alight and put his candle in one of the sconces. For a few moments, he stood with his head bowed.
De Silva was tempted to wait and see if he would leave afterwards. If so, he could avoid having to acknowledge him, but as Tagore finished his moment of silent contemplation, Jane noticed him. ‘Why, Mr Tagore,’ she said warmly. ‘Do you remember me? I was governess to the Macfarlane family in Colombo at one time. You used to visit their home quite often.’
De Silva edged to the end of his pew, hoping she wouldn’t engage Tagore in conversation for too long. Briefly, he looked confused then his face cleared. ‘Miss Hart! Of course I remember you. Is your home in Nuala now?’
‘Yes, my husband and I have lived here for some time.’
‘Ah, I had no idea you were married. My felicitations.’
‘Thank you, so what brings you to our little town, Mr Tagore?’
‘My mother’s death. My father died many years ago and I was their only child so it is my duty to settle her affairs.’
‘I’m so sorry. It’s always a sad business when a parent dies.’
He nodded. ‘But she was very frail in the last few years. Life had become a burden she no longer relished.’
‘Is she buried in the churchyard here?’
‘Yes. She was a Christian as was my father. I do not have their faith,’ he added.
‘Yet you light a candle for your mother. I’m sure that would have made her happy.’
He shrugged. ‘I hope so. I’m afraid I wasn’t always the most attentive of sons.’ There was a pause. ‘Well,’ he resumed, ‘it’s a pleasure to see you again, but if you’ll excuse me…’
‘Of course, I’m sure you have a great deal to do. I was on the point of leaving myself.’
‘May I escort you somewhere?’
‘Thank you but there’s no need. My husband is with me.’ She gestured to the pew where de Silva sat and Tagore stiffened. Wishing that Jane had not embroiled him in this meeting, de Silva stood up. He might as well be civil to the man. Snubbing him was likely to make him harder to deal with.
He extended a hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Tagore. I telephoned your hotel this morning and they told me you were out. I left a message saying I would be back at the police station on Monday if you wished to speak to me.’
Tagore flushed slightly. ‘That won’t be necessary now, Inspector. I return to Colombo in the morning. As you indicated, the matter we discussed needs to be dealt with in the proper manner. I feel I’ve done my part by reporting it to you. From henceforward, I’m content to rely on your judgement.’
De Silva frowned. This was a turn up for the book, as the British said. What had happened to the zealous young firebrand who confronted him yesterday?
‘Oh, what a pity you have to go,’ said Jane, breaking the silence. ‘We have our annual cricket match against Hatton tomorrow. Surely you can be spared for another day? There must be a lot of people who would like to see you before you leave.’
Tagore shook his head. ‘Apart from yourself, Mrs de Silva, I have no friends in Nuala. I visited infrequently when my mother was alive and then only to spend time with her.’
‘He looks troubled,’ Jane said as the door of the church closed after Tagore. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd he denied knowing Madeleine Renshaw? And he doesn’t appear to be much bothered about Gooptu anymore. That’s a real change of tune since yesterday, isn’t it?’
De Silva wasn’t sure what to think, but if Tagore was leaving in the morning and made no contact before he went, it was a reasonable assumption that he wasn’t just loath to discuss the subject with Jane present: he definitely didn’t want to pursue his complaint. Strange when he’d seemed so passionate about it. And now he, de Silva, was saddled with this application for a warrant and the prospect of explaining himself to the assistant government agent. Had he been right about Madeleine Renshaw’s intervention? If so, she was a wilier creature than he’d thought.
He took his wife’s arm. ‘Odd, I agree, but don’t start reading too much into it, my dear. It won’t stop me pursuing the investigation either. Now, if you’ve finished here, shall we go home?’
Chapter 8
Saturday dawned clear and bright. As de Silva waited in the garden for Jane to come out, he breathed in the perfume of the rambling rose that smothered the trellis separating the garden from the driveway.
‘Here I am.’ Jane twirled to show off her new dress – a navy silk with white polka dots. A navy picture
hat with a matching trim and wrist-length white gloves completed the outfit.
He kissed her cheek. ‘You look very charming.’
‘Thank you, dear. You look very smart too.’
When he wasn’t in uniform, de Silva often wore Ceylonese dress for comfort but today he had chosen western-style clothes – cream trousers, a lightweight navy blazer and a white shirt. He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’
Jane tied a scarf around her hat; the Morris purred down the drive and headed in the direction of the cricket ground.
A lot of people had already arrived and the refreshment tents and stalls were busy. They moved through the crowd for a while, pausing to greet friends and acquaintances, then Jane pinched his sleeve. ‘Here come the Clutterbucks.’
De Silva chuckled. ‘You must think of something nice to say to Florence.’
‘So must you.’
Florence Clutterbuck sailed towards them, her ample figure encased in a flowery dress topped off by a hat in a shade of fuchsia pink that fought with her flushed cheeks. ‘Good morning,’ she fluted. ‘Such a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
De Silva smiled. ‘Indeed it is, ma’am. And even better if we win the match.’
‘Absolutely.’ Archie Clutterbuck joined them. He too looked hot in a linen suit and Panama hat. De Silva recognised the MCC tie. Clutterbuck bowed to Jane. ‘What a pleasure to see you, Mrs de Silva.’
They talked for a few moments then de Silva found that Clutterbuck had contrived to edge him out of earshot of the ladies. ‘Any progress with the Renshaw business?’ he asked quietly.
De Silva took a deep breath. This was a conversation he would rather not have today. He would eventually have to disclose that Tagore had backed off but that left him in a tricky situation. Clutterbuck might well use that as a reason for turning down his application for a warrant. He’d need to explain as diplomatically as possible why he still wanted one and if the conversation went wrong, he’d rather it happened in private. He temporised.
‘Some progress, sir, but if you have no objection, I’d rather give you a full report on Monday.’
‘Certainly. Not a subject to discuss with the ladies around, eh? But no cause for serious concern?’
‘I trust not, sir.’
Clutterbuck glanced at his wife. ‘Good man,’ he muttered and turned to her as she and Jane joined them again.
‘Your wife and I have been talking about books, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Are you fond of detective novels too?’
‘I like to read, ma’am, but Jane is the expert on them. I prefer the classics.’
‘Ah, Miss Austen, Mr Dickens and so forth. Of course one read them all at school.’
‘Never been much of a reader myself,’ the assistant government agent remarked jovially. ‘Wisden and The Field more in my line.’
The Clutterbucks moved on to talk to someone else and Jane giggled. ‘Florence Clutterbuck never likes to be outdone.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘I know that, but she didn’t.’
She shaded her eyes. ‘Look, there’s Sergeant Prasanna. We must go and say hello and wish him luck. The poor fellow looks anxious.’
Indeed he does, de Silva thought. Dressed ready to play in his cricket whites, the sergeant looked like nothing so much as a tethered deer that has just sighted a hungry leopard. A moment later, a bevy of middle-aged ladies dressed in splendid saris engulfed him.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector, sir. Good afternoon, Mrs de Silva.’
De Silva turned and saw Constable Nadar, also dressed in cricket whites, with his wife and baby son. Nadar introduced them then nodded in the direction of his colleague. ‘Sergeant Prasanna has many aunties,’ he grinned.
De Silva chuckled. ‘Perhaps you ought to rescue him. I expect you’ll both be needed soon at the pavilion.’
Nadar nodded.
‘Do stay and talk to us, my dear,’ said Jane to his wife as he hurried away. She stroked the baby’s cheek, ‘What a dear little boy. I hope he’s good?’
The girl smiled shyly. ‘He cries a little, but not too much.’
‘Is your husband looking forward to the match?’
‘I think so, ma’am, but he is afraid he will let the side down. He is not so good at cricket as Sergeant Prasanna.’
‘Never mind that. The important thing is to take part.’
‘I hope so, ma’am.’
They chatted for a few minutes then Mrs Nadar took the baby and went to join her family.
The Clutterbucks had invited the de Silvas to join their party for lunch and it would have been impolite to refuse although it wasn’t the company de Silva would have chosen under the circumstances. Neither did he relish the prospect of another meal of British food. Dubiously, he studied the slices of ham and gelatinous pork pie on his plate. Tied up to his master’s chair leg, Darcy the Labrador licked his lips and snuffed the air. De Silva wondered if there was some way he could convey the contents of his plate to the dog without being noticed. Clearly, Darcy would enjoy them far more than he was going to.
He heard a scraping of chairs and realised that the assistant government agent and the other men at the table were standing to greet someone. Hastily, he jumped up and saw that it was Madeleine Renshaw with Hamish beside her.
‘Is your husband here?’ Florence Clutterbuck asked when greetings had been exchanged. ‘You must both come and join us.’ She beckoned to one of the attendants who had served the meal and were now hovering to receive further orders. ‘Fetch more chairs.’
‘Please don’t trouble,’ Madeleine Renshaw said - awkwardly de Silva thought. ‘I’m not sure where my husband has got to. Hamish and I were just going to look for him.’
De Silva glanced at Hamish who was crouching on the floor petting Darcy. The dog seemed to be enjoying the attention, rolling onto his back with a happy groan for his stomach to be scratched. ‘Fond of dogs, eh, lad?’ Archie Clutterbuck asked genially.
Hamish nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked at his mother. ‘May I stay and play with him?’
‘Do let him, Mrs Renshaw,’ Florence said kindly. ‘Why don’t you sit down too?’ She fanned herself. ‘It’s very hot to be rushing around. I’ll send one of the servants to look for your husband and tell him where you are.’
‘Thank you, but I’d like to walk about for a while. But if Hamish won’t be a nuisance, it would be very kind if he could stay.’
‘No trouble at all. The cricket will be starting soon and he can sit with us until you come back. He might like to take Darcy for a little walk before then.’
Hamish beamed.
As he watched Madeleine Renshaw walk away, de Silva wondered why she was so reluctant to be saved a walk in the midday heat.
The servants brought out dishes of wobbly pink blancmange decorated with glacé cherries and slivers of angelica. To de Silva’s taste buds, the pudding was as bland as the rest of the meal but at least it was sweet.
The lunch party broke up and de Silva and Jane found seats in the front row of the stand and waited for the match to begin.
A polite ripple of clapping greeted the players as they came onto the field. ‘Who’s our captain?’ de Silva asked, not recognising the tallish man with a neatly clipped moustache who led out the Nuala team.
‘He’s the new doctor: his name is Hebden. Apparently he’s a first-class batsman and an Oxford Blue so that should help us. That means he played for the University,’ she added.
‘I know what it means. You forget that I know many of your strange English expressions. You call ladies “bluestockings” when their stockings are not blue; you say something happens “once in a blue moon”, but the moon is never blue and when my roses flower well, you tell me I have a green thumb.’
Hatton won the toss and elected to bowl first. A surveyor from the Forestry Department and Doctor Hebden went in to bat.
Hebden made an impressive beginning, confidently driving the balls that Hatton’s best bowler sent down an
d hitting a four and a six in the first fifteen minutes. A rumble of approval animated the Nuala stand, but on the next ball, it turned to a gasp of dismay. A googly took him unawares and he was given out lbw.
‘Oh dear,’ Jane sighed as the doctor walked to the pavilion, his eyes firmly fixed on the ground. ‘How disappointing and his first match here too.’
‘Perhaps he was overconfident.’
Jane tapped his sleeve. ‘Hush, dear. Play’s beginning again.’
The rest of the Nuala team battled on but runs came slowly and the loss of their hoped-for star showed. The heat of the afternoon intensified and Jane peered at the sky. ‘Not a single cloud. I should have brought my parasol. I think it must be in the car. Shanti, would you be a dear?’
‘Of course.’
Stepping down from the stand, he set off in the direction of the car park. The sounds of leather on willow and desultory clapping followed him.
He was nearly at the track leading to the car park when he noticed two men lounging outside one of the refreshment tents smoking and drinking whisky. Deep in conversation, they didn’t see him but he recognised Charles Renshaw and the driver of the Daimler. Renshaw threw down the butt of his cigarette, ground it out with his heel and lit another one. He smoked with jerky movements, staring at the ground. The Daimler driver appeared to be doing most of the talking.
Best to move on before they see me, de Silva thought. He felt a twinge of pity for Madeleine Renshaw. She seemed more anxious to find her husband than he was to find her.
In the car park, he passed the black Daimler and stopped for a moment to admire it. A fine car and almost new. It was a pity a few of the metal spokes on the offside rear wheel were slightly bent. Renshaw’s friend must have clipped something.
The parasol was in the Morris as Jane had guessed. He had got it out and turned to go back to the cricket ground when he saw five of the ponies from the lake ambling out of the trees that fringed the car park. He wouldn’t put it past the little ruffians to chew off a few wing mirrors. He walked towards them, clapping his hands and shouting at them to be off, and they turned and trotted away. It was then that he noticed a tall man disappear into the trees and, hurrying in the other direction, a woman wearing a pale-green dress.
Trouble in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 1) Page 6