His heart hollow, the dark-haired man turned away and stared at the figure on the bed. In spite of the commotion, he was asleep. He turned back to view the display, his clenched fists resting on the windowsill.
Then fear seized him: was it his imagination or had something deep in the earth moved?
Chapter 2
April 1935
Ceylon
It was the day of the Empire Cup, one of the most fashionable events in Nuala’s racing calendar. While he waited for his wife, Jane, to get ready, Inspector Shanti de Silva strolled around his garden. Rain overnight had revived the red earth and freshened the trees and flowers. His beloved roses were in full bloom and the grass under his feet was a springy, emerald carpet.
He turned to see Jane walking across the lawn towards him. ‘Do I look suitable?’
‘Of course you do, you always look lovely. Is that a new dress?’
She shook her head. ‘Shanti dear, I’ve worn it dozens of times.’
‘Well, it’s very nice.’
‘But I have bought something new for the dinner at the Residence tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘As long as we still have the money to eat,’ he said with a grin.
She pinched his sleeve. ‘You know I don’t spend extravagant sums on dresses and this is very pretty - a sea-green silk with a bolero jacket. I think you’ll like it. I plan to wear it with my pearls.’
‘I’m only teasing, and I’m sure I’ll love it.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we be on our way? It would be a pity to miss the first race.’
The Morris Cowley waited for them on the drive. One of the houseboys had washed and polished its smart navy paintwork and chrome fittings until they gleamed in the sun. De Silva started the engine and the car crunched over Sunnybank’s gravelled drive and emerged onto the road.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,’ Jane remarked, putting up a hand to hold her hat in place as they speeded up. Sunshine filtered through the green tunnel of trees above them, dappling the road with light and shade.
‘Florence Clutterbuck says William Petrie and Lady Caroline will be there today. They’re bringing Lady Caroline’s nephew and his wife.’
‘Mm.’
The arrival of Ralph and Helen Wynne-Talbot, accompanied by the Central Province’s government agent, William Petrie, and his wife, had acted like a stone tossed into the quiet waters of the de Silvas’ sleepy little hometown. It was being treated as the most exciting thing to have happened to Nuala for many months. He hoped the couple were not going to disappoint everyone.
At any rate, Florence Clutterbuck, the assistant government agent’s wife, and self-appointed leader of Nuala society, clearly intended to make the most of the visit. It wasn’t every day that her husband’s superior and his wife bestowed their company on Nuala, let alone brought prestigious relatives with them. Among other things, she was organising a grand dinner to which everyone who was anyone in Nuala had been invited. De Silva supposed he should be flattered that he and Jane were on the list although he wasn’t fond of having to dress up for formal occasions.
Jane sniffed. ‘Well, aren’t you curious to see them?’
He chuckled. ‘If you want me to be, then I am.’
His wife reached across the steering wheel and gave his knuckles a brisk rap. ‘You’re very provoking.’
De Silva smiled and changed gear as he slowed the Morris to negotiate a bullock cart lumbering towards them. It surprised him to find that his down-to-earth wife was so excited about the whole business. He concluded that it must be an English trait to take such an interest in the aristocracy, in which the Wynne-Talbots were, apparently, about to play a notable role.
Jane had explained to him several days previously that they were in Ceylon en route for England where Ralph’s grandfather, William Wynne-Talbot, 13th Earl of Axford, was not in the best of health. His death, when it unfortunately occurred, would make Ralph the fourteenth earl and master of a large tract of the English Midlands. He would also inherit Axford Court, generally considered to be one of the finest houses in England. In the days of Henry VIII, it had replaced the draughty, medieval castle built by Guillaume de Wynne, a Norman knight who had come over to England with William the Conqueror.
Henry VIII had rewarded Guillaume’s Tudor descendant with the earldom for his services to the Crown. The first earl had the good sense to keep his king’s favour by building a house that was large and magnificent enough to eclipse those of his peers but not so grand that it overshadowed the king’s palaces.
Yes, Ralph Wynne-Talbot’s prospects were bright: a great landowner and a belted earl with the surety of a welcome in the highest echelons of society.
When they arrived, the course was already bustling with chattering, laughing racegoers. A few had arrived by car but most on foot. The sport was popular with all classes of Nuala’s society and visitors in saris and sarongs mingled with those wearing floral frocks, western-style suits or even morning dress and top hats. As they passed one of the refreshment tents, de Silva’s famously acute nose picked up an appetising aroma of cashew and pea curry. He and Jane had eaten lunch at home, but he must remember where the tent was. He could always find room for his favourite curry.
They made their way to the paddock where the horses entered in the first race were already collected, circling and fidgeting as if they knew that the race was imminent and were keen to be off. Their jockeys, mostly gentlemen amateurs, looking smart in their shining boots, breeches and colourful silks, chatted to owners and trainers.
‘I always think it’s most ingenious that they find so many different combinations of colours and patterns,’ remarked Jane. She pointed to one of the jockeys. ‘I like the look of the gold stars on the blue ground.’
De Silva glanced at his card and then over to the rails where the bookies had set up their pitches. ‘He’s riding number 12, Firefly. The odds are a hundred to eight.’
‘Oh dear, not much chance of winning then.’
He shrugged. ‘You can never tell, although I agree it seems unlikely.’
‘Oh, it’s a pretty name, maybe I’ll put a few rupees on each way.’
‘Well,’ de Silva laughed. ‘I suppose it’s as good a reason as any. We’d better get over to the bookies then. The race will start soon.’
Unfortunately, Firefly finished second to last but the de Silvas’ choice in the next race fared better coming fourth. They were nearing the paddock to see the horses entered in the third race, the Empire Cup itself, when Jane shaded her eyes and pointed to a group standing inside the ring.
‘Oh, look over there! The Petries, and Florence and Archie Clutterbuck with them. The young couple must be the Wynne-Talbots. My, but she’s lovely, isn’t she? What beautiful blonde hair she has, and so slim. He looks very handsome too.’
De Silva studied the young couple without a great deal of interest but he had to admit that his wife was right: Mrs Wynne-Talbot was a stunner. Tall and slender as a birch sapling, she had hair like spun gold, regular features that would not have been out of place on a Greek statue and delphinium-blue eyes. Her husband was equally striking but in a more robust way with dark-brown, wavy hair, a strong jaw and an athletic build.
At that moment, Archie Clutterbuck noticed them and beckoned.
‘Ah, my love,’ said de Silva, ‘here’s your chance to meet this famous couple.’
‘Oh dear, I wish I’d worn something smarter, and whatever shall we say to them?’
‘Nonsense, you look extremely smart. And as for what to say to them, there’s never a gap in the conversation with Florence Clutterbuck around.’
Jane giggled. ‘That’s very true.’
‘Splendid afternoon, eh?’ Archie Clutterbuck boomed genially as the de Silvas joined the little group that had formed around a fine chestnut filly. ‘Mrs de Silva! A pleasure to see you.’ He turned to the Petries. ‘Do you remember Inspector de Silva and his wife?’
Lady Caroline smiled. ‘O
f course we do,’ she said. ‘We often tell people about your triumph in the Renshaw case, Inspector. I hope life has been a little more restful for you recently? But I forget my manners - may I present my nephew, Ralph Wynne-Talbot, and his wife, Helen? ’
Helen of Troy: how apt, thought de Silva. He hoped she would stop at being a beauty, and not go on to cause a catastrophe.
They shook hands and exchanged polite murmurings; Helen Wynne-Talbot gave them a fleeting smile. Although she was tall for a woman, her hand was small and delicate and felt as insubstantial as a feather in de Silva’s. In contrast, her husband’s grip was firm and his smile all-encompassing. To de Silva’s way of thinking, however, the charm was just a little too practised.
Jane stroked the chestnut’s neck and the filly snorted and nuzzled her hand.
‘You’re fond of horses, Mrs de Silva?’ asked William Petrie.
‘Yes, when I was a governess in England, one of the families I worked for were keen riders and had a large stable.’
‘We hope this one’s in with a chance today. Our trainer tells us she’s been performing very well over the gallops.’ He smiled. ‘But racing’s a funny old game so I don’t suggest you put the family fortune on her.’
Jane smiled back. ‘Perhaps just a little flutter.’
‘Do you have many horses running today, sir?’ de Silva asked.
‘Only two. Kashmir in the second to last race and this one, Carolina Moon.’ He touched Lady Caroline’s arm. ‘A tribute to my dear wife and a favourite song of ours.’
‘And a delightful one, I must say,’ said Florence Clutterbuck. De Silva smiled to himself. Florence probably thought she had been left out of the conversation for quite long enough.
A voice boomed over the loudspeaker calling the horses to the starting post. Carolina Moon tossed her head and showed the whites of her eyes. Her groom, a small wiry man, brought her under control and the jockey mounted. As he gathered the reins and made ready to go, they all wished him luck.
The de Silvas said their goodbyes and walked over to one of the bookies. After a brief deliberation, they put a few rupees on Carolina Moon to win then went to find a space at the rails near the finishing post.
It took several minutes for the stewards to marshal the seething mass of horses into some kind of order then the starter fired his pistol and they were off. The track had softened a little with recent rain but the horses’ hooves still thundered over the cropped turf as their jockeys crouched low in the saddles, urging them on. Slowly, the field separated into two groups, the leading one ten, then twenty yards ahead of the rest.
‘See how her jockey’s holding Petrie’s filly back in fourth place,’ said de Silva. ‘He’ll let the front runners make the pace then come through to win in the last few furlongs.’
Jane squeezed his arm. ‘You’re very knowledgeable all of a sudden. I hope that’s right.’
‘Of course it is. Haven’t we had a tip from the horse’s mouth?’
The noise from the crowd increased as the horses streamed like a multi-coloured river around the final bend and into the home straight. ‘She’s moving up!’ de Silva said triumphantly.
‘I hope the jockey hasn’t left it too late.’
The horses bunched together so that it was hard to see who was ahead then Carolina Moon inched into the lead. A moment later, she was clear and streaking towards the finishing post. A roar went up as she passed it.
‘What a magnificent performance!’ beamed de Silva.
‘The Petries will be pleased. I hope we see them to congratulate them. And how nice to have such an exciting result when Lady Caroline’s nephew and his wife are with them.’
‘We’d better go and collect our winnings.’
‘Oh yes, we mustn’t forget those.’
‘And after that, let’s go to one of the refreshment tents and celebrate. I’m beginning to feel a little peckish.’
Jane laughed. ‘Alright, I suppose it is a special occasion.’
As they left the bookies, they met Archie Clutterbuck who had also been collecting his winnings. ‘Don’t tell my wife,’ he begged. ‘Florence doesn’t really approve of gambling. I left her with the Petries and told her I needed to speak to someone on official matters for a few minutes.’
They walked back together to where he had left Florence with the Petries and congratulated them on the win.
‘Yes, all very gratifying,’ William Petrie said when he had thanked them. ‘I hope Kashmir continues our run of luck. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must go and congratulate our people.’
Florence lowered her voice to a conspiratorial piano as the Petries and the Wynne-Talbots walked away. ‘What a charming couple the Petries are and the nephew will be an ornament to the aristocracy, I’m sure. But the wife!’ Florence rolled her eyes. ‘She’s a funny little thing. Nothing to say for herself at all. I can’t imagine how she’ll manage as chatelaine of a great house like Axford Court. When she becomes Countess of Axford, she’ll be expected to take her place in London society and take the lead in the County when the family’s in residence. She’ll have to stamp her authority on her staff too.’
When he wanted some light relief from his usual reading matter of the English classics, de Silva enjoyed the stories of P G Wodehouse. A vision of Wodehouse’s creation, the stately butler, Jeeves, floated into his mind. Florence Clutterbuck had a point. One would, as Jane would say, need to get up very early in the morning to stay ahead of Jeeves.
Archie Clutterbuck frowned. ‘That’s enough, my dear. Given time, I’m sure Mrs Wynne-Talbot will grow used to her duties and discharge them well.’
Florence harrumphed and shot him an icy look. ‘I only meant that one can’t underestimate what hard work it is fulfilling one’s social duties. I can vouch for that myself. The last few days have been so busy with arrangements for tomorrow’s dinner.’
‘And I’m sure it will be a great success,’ Archie Clutterbuck added quickly. ‘Now, would you ladies like a glass of something? I saw Pimms on offer in one of the tents.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Jane. Regretfully, De Silva relinquished his hopes of that cashew and pea curry.
They headed for one of the tents and found a table; Clutterbuck ordered a jug of Pimms. For a while, they chatted over their drinks then he stood up.
‘If the ladies will excuse me, I think I’ll go outside for a smoke. Join me, de Silva?’
‘With pleasure.’
They left Jane to listen to Florence recounting the details of the following night’s plans and to commiserate over all the work involved and went outside to find a quiet corner. Clutterbuck produced a monogrammed gold case and offered a cigarette.
‘No thank you, sir.’
‘Ah, forgot. You’re not a smoker, are you? Good of you to keep me company then.’
‘A pleasure, sir. I’m glad of some fresh air.’
‘I must admit,’ Clutterbuck remarked when he had exhaled the first puff, ‘I agree with my wife about Helen Wynne-Talbot, but it’s not a subject to air in public. You never know who might be listening and Heaven forbid such talk got back to the Petries. It would be bound to cause offence. I hear Lady Caroline’s a great fan of her nephew.’
‘The lady certainly does seem very reserved but, as you say, she’ll probably grow into her role.’
‘She’s a looker there’s no doubt. One sees why Wynne-Talbot was attracted to her. Petrie’s asked me to organise a hunting party up at Horton Plains. We’ve a few others coming along too, a chap from Romania, Count Ranescu, and his wife among them.’
De Silva attempted not to look blank. He had no idea where Romania was and made a mental note to ask Jane. She was bound to know and she would probably know the names of its capital city, its mountains and its major rivers too. Geography was a subject she had particularly enjoyed teaching her pupils in her days as a governess.
Clutterbuck lowered his voice. ‘Romania fought on our side in the Great War and it’s still one of our
allies, but the Foreign Office chaps are worried that Germany’s taking an increasing interest in the country. It has substantial oil reserves and an expanding arms industry. The Powers that Be want to keep an eye on developments and when they heard that Count Ranescu was coming to Ceylon for a spot of hunting, Petrie was told to play host and cultivate him. Apparently he’s got his finger in a lot of pies.’
He tapped the ash off his cigarette onto the ground. ‘Our other guest’s a chap called Aubrey. He approached me not long ago asking if there was a party he could tag along with. He’s on leave from his regiment in Calcutta: came here to see a bit of Ceylon before he goes back to England. Petrie had no objection so I told him he could join us. He seems to have done a lot of hunting in India so he should be a decent shot.’
He paused and looked at de Silva shrewdly. ‘Not a hunting man, are you?’
‘Not really.’
Ds Silva refrained from adding how distasteful he found the habit of slaughtering game in the name of sport. It was an unpleasant fact of life and the British administration was unlikely to abandon its lucrative system of selling hunting licences in the foreseeable future.
‘To tell you the truth,’ replied Clutterbuck, ‘I’m not as fond of it as I used to be. These days I’d be satisfied with shooting for the pot – duck, snipe, that kind of thing. But I expect our visitors will be after bigger trophies.’
He dropped his cigarette end on the grass and ground it out under his heel. ‘Right: time to rejoin the ladies.’
De Silva excused himself to pay a call of nature and was on his way back when he noticed Ralph and Helen Wynne-Talbot walking in his direction. They were alone, deep in conversation, and some instinct made him slip behind the flap of a nearby tent to avoid meeting them. His curiosity was piqued.
Trouble in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 1) Page 16