Dangerous Inheritance

by Dennis Wheatley

  The others agreed, so that evening after dinner Douglas was consulted. He deplored the state things had reached, praised Sir Oliver Goonetilleke for the strong measures he was taking, then agreed that for the time being they would be much happier at Nuwara Eliya and said he knew that his father would gladly let them have the use of his bungalow there.

  Although he did not say so, de Richleau was averse to accepting prolonged hospitality from the Rajapakses, so he enquired of Douglas the number of rooms available. On learning there were only three bedrooms, apart from servants’ quarters, he pointed out that three would not be sufficient for Douglas to come up to stay and be with Fleur during weekends; then asked him to find another house with more ample accommodation that they could rent for two months.

  Eager to please the Duke, Douglas returned next day with the news that he had found a large furnished house that should prove suitable. De Richleau at once instructed him to take it, and on June 4th the Duke and his party moved up to it.

  Many of the British officials who had habitually spent their summers at Nuwara Eliya had long since left the island, so there was little society at the Club, except for tea planters and their wives who occasionally dropped in. There were fishing, tennis and golf, and the Duke was content to sit placidly in the sunshine; but, with few companions available to join them in their sports, after a week Fleur and Richard became distinctly bored.

  As Ceylon abounded in game Richard would have liked to go on safari, but it would have been poor fun to go on his own; so on most days he haunted the Clubhouse in the hope of picking up a partner for a game of golf.

  Fleur, meanwhile, grew daily more moody. She could now see Douglas only when he came up for week-ends, could find nothing to interest her at Nuwara Eliya and was longing to get married. At the end of a fortnight she tackled her mother and asked that her engagement should be shortened by a month.

  Marie Lou took the opportunity to plead with her again to reconsider if she really wanted to make her home in Ceylon, where there was endless trouble, a Socialist government that at any time might become Communist, and the British, except by a minority and the Sinhalese upper class, were heartily disliked.

  To all this Fleur turned a deaf ear. She was madly in love with her handsome Douglas, and her one desire was to become his wife.

  Postponing the issue for the moment, Marie Lou privately consulted the Duke. On the advice of the Rajapakses his case against d’Azavedo had been put off until the autumn session, in order to give them a chance to trace Mrs. Fernando, so that she might be produced as a witness; and he was now anxious to get home. But he would not have allowed that to influence him in his advice to Marie Lou.

  After some thought he said to her, ‘My dear; the object of persuading Fleur to agree to a three months’ engagement was so that seeing the conditions under which she would have to live if she made her home in Ceylon, she might find them so uncongenial that she would break off her engagement. But while she remains up here at Nuwara Eliya we are defeating our object. If she lived here a year she would still know little more about life as the wife of a Ceylonese. Either you must let her go down to Colombo and stay with her prospective mother-in-law, or accept the situation and allow her to marry Douglas in a few weeks’ time.’

  Faced with this dilemma, Marie Lou pondered for a while, then she said, ‘The saying that “absence makes the heart grow fonder” is nonsense to my mind. If I let her go down to Colombo and she sees Douglas every day she’ll become madder about him than ever. I think … yes, I think now we’d better let them marry and be done with it.’

  Fleur was naturally delighted. A large quantity of linen that Marie Lou had already ordered from England was due to arrive any day and, Marie Lou having once taken her decision, mother and daughter found a new camaraderie in getting down at once to planning the trousseau.

  The following day was a Friday and Douglas arrived for the week-end. Glowing with happiness Fleur told him her good news, then said, ‘We must set about finding a house at once.’

  He looked blankly at her and replied, ‘But, darling, we don’t need a house. We shall naturally live with my parents.’

  Fleur’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you mad?’ she exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it! I must have a house of my own.’

  ‘But it’s the custom here,’ Douglas protested. ‘It’s a large house. There is ample room. What do we want another house for? You are being absurd.’

  ‘Live in the same house as your mother!’ Fleur cried angrily. ‘Be overlooked in everything I do and dictated to morning, noon and night by that old … old lady. Never! Never! I’d sooner give you back your ring.’

  Douglas was a man of character and convictions. He felt that he had every right to insist that Fleur should accept the same conditions of marriage as other Ceylonese wives. And he said so in no unmeasured terms. They had a blinding row, which ended in Fleur flinging her ring at him and running upstairs in floods of tears to her mother.

  As she sobbed out this awful situation Marie Lou’s heart was deeply touched; but she could not help but feel a secret elation.

  After having consoled Fleur as best she could she helped her to undress and go, still weeping, to bed. Returning to her bedroom she found Richard had come up and with a heavy sigh she said:

  ‘Poor Fleur. The child is heartbroken. But we’ve won, darling. Douglas wants her to share that big house with her mother-in-law; and, quite rightly, she’s flatly refused. So the whole thing is off.’

  But it was not off. Next day Douglas gave way and agreed that Fleur should have a house of her own. They were married three weeks later.

  10

  Enter Simon Aron

  It was more than two years later and autumn in Corfu, but in that favoured island there was no sign of approaching winter. As was usual, during the long hot summer, drought had dried up the few shallow streams and the lush vegetation had been burned to a brittle pale gold, yet within a week of the first rains an amazing transformation had taken place.

  At first only a faint sheen of green appeared beneath the dried-up leaves of spring; a few days later thousands of buds were bursting on stems and branches, then a new glory of colour pervaded woods and meadows. By the third week in September bushes and plants on every side were gay with their second blossoming; broom, incense plants and wild narcissi scented the air, clusters of marguerites, autumn crocuses and sea-lavender sprouted like weeds through the recently parched grass, and amongst the crisp, russet leaves of the vines hung tight clusters of grapes ranging in colour from greenish gold to bluish black.

  Like every estate owner, large or small, de Richleau had his own vineyard, and on this sunny morning he had walked the half mile to it on the arm of his old friend Simon Aron, who was now staying with him.

  To those who knew the old Duke and the middle-aged Jewish financier only slightly it might have appeared a strange friendship. But, despite their difference in age and race, appearance and tradition, they had many tastes in common. Both loved beauty in its many forms and could linger happily over a jade carving or a page of prose; and for well over a quarter of a century they had enjoyed a pleasant rivalry in producing for each other meals that were masterpieces of the culinary art and classic wines of the finest vintages. It was as lovers of wine that they derived a special pleasure from watching for an hour the vintaging that had begun the previous day.

  A line of girls and women in gaily coloured clothes laughed and chattered as they swiftly cut the bunches of grapes from the vines and dropped them into big baskets; then, splendidly erect, carried the baskets balanced on their heads to tip the cascades of grapes into deep panniers on the sides of patiently waiting donkeys. Young boys led the donkeys back to the cool dark ‘magasin’ which lay below the terrace of the villa, and there the men took over. For several days past they had been working on the vats and butts, repairing and scouring them in readiness for making the wine.

  Knowing the intense prejudice of a backward peasantry against mod
ern scientific methods, de Richleau had refrained from importing any machinery; so the grapes were pressed in exactly the same way as they had been for three thousand years and more. A strong young man, naked except for a shirt, the tails of which were knotted between his legs, worked his way down through the grapes in a vat that was taller than himself. As he trod the fruit, must gushed out of a spigot into jars standing in a long wooden trough, until nothing could be seen of him except his juice-stained hands clutching the rim of the vat.

  Having watched a pressing, the two friends went up on to the terrace. There, on a table under the striped awning, a bottle in an ice-bucket had been set ready for their refreshment; but it did not contain a wine of Corfu. The Duke had the wine made for his dependents, only sampling each vintage when it was ready to drink; although he did occasionally enjoy one byproduct of it. This was mustelevria, a delicious jelly made from boiling down fresh must with a little semolina and spices, then sticking the paste so made with almonds.

  Simon took the bottle from the bucket, glanced at the label and poured the wine. It was a rich golden Anjou from a famous vineyard that made only a limited cuvée. Lowering his bird-like head with its thin, Semitic nose over his glass, he sniffed the wine appreciatively and said in his jerky fashion:

  ‘Good to drink this again. Don’t often see fine Anjou. Favourite wine of Athos, wasn’t it?’

  The Duke nodded. ‘And of myself, except for Hock. But I doubt whether the Musketeers ever had the good fortune to taste German wines.’

  ‘Appropriate though. I mean that you should rate it high. Remember the old days? How we used to rag one another—joke about being modern Musketeers with you as our noble Athos?’

  ‘Indeed I do. And a fine team we made! The mighty Rex as Porthos, level-headed Richard as D’Artagnan and yourself as the subtle-minded Aramis; pitting our wits and weapons against every variety of rogue half-way across the world—from Russia to Haiti and Poland to Spain. What marvellous fun we had.’

  ‘Fun?’ echoed Simon, giving a little titter and raising a slim hand to half-cover his full-lipped mouth. ‘May have been fun for you, but I was scared stiff most of the time.’

  ‘Nonsense, you were as brave as any of us. Of course, we did get into a tight corner now and then …’

  ‘Now and then! For months on end I thought I’d never live to dig a spoonful of foie gras out of a Strasbourg Pie again.’

  A gentle smile lit up the Duke’s fine aristocratic face, then he sighed, ‘Well, we survived, and it’s all over now. It is getting on for two and a half years since I was last in danger of coming to a violent end; and I don’t suppose I ever will be again. I count Father Time no enemy, and now that I’m eighty-five his coming for me cannot be very long delayed.’

  ‘It’s you who’re talking nonsense now. You’ll see a hundred, I’d bet a dozen of my Cognac des Tuileries on it. But you were referring to that nasty business when the Tamils nearly got you, Richard, Marie Lou and Fleur. How’s your mine out there doing?’

  ‘Far from well. As you may recall, it was only after seventeen months of appeals and legal wrangling that I got possession of the estate; and I don’t think the man who’s been running it for me since is much good. His reports are full of excuses about labour difficulties and other troubles. Anyhow I’ve seen no money from it yet. I expect I told you, too, that I lost the stock of cut gems that were in d’Azavedo’s workshop in Colombo, and which were said to be worth thirty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Ner.’ Simon used the curious negative habitual to him. ‘Didn’t know about that. How? Did the old crook make off with them?’

  ‘I think it highly probable, but there is no way of proving that he did. It was just about this time last year that they should have been handed over. Then on September 25th Mr. Bandaranaike was assassinated. A Buddhist monk with a grouse emptied the contents of a revolver into him at point-blank range, and he died the following day. As there were half a dozen political factions intriguing for power, both inside the Government and out, the Prime Minister’s sudden death provoked an open clash. Agitators incited the mobs to violence and a number of buildings were looted and burned. That in which d’Azavedo’s workshop was situated was one of them.’

  ‘But the jewels,’ Simon objected. ‘Must have been in a safe. Salvage people should have recovered it. Couldn’t have melted in the fire—only fallen into the basement.’

  ‘It did; but was found to be open and the gems had gone. D’Azavedo’s explanation was that the looters had forced his foreman cutter to give away the combination, then rifled its contents before setting fire to the building. That may be so, but it’s equally probable that the whole thing was a put-up job.’

  Simon’s dark eyes narrowed behind the heavy tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles he always wore. ‘As you knew the approximate value of the stock, must have been a list. When he comes out of prison and starts disposing of the stones, police should be able to identify them.’

  ‘He never went to prison. At least only for a few weeks.’

  ‘But the fact that you got a verdict. That proved him to have forged the will. I’d have thought he’d get three years at least.’

  ‘He might have, had his crime been a recent one and there had been a cast-iron case against him. But I got my verdict only after several juries had disagreed, and then only on the evidence of handwriting experts sent out from England. Moreover he was being tried for an act committed over twenty years earlier. He pleaded “not guilty” and continued to protest his innocence. Naturally the Sinhalese were biased in his favour, and there was quite an agitation on the lines that, guilty or not, he had suffered quite enough by losing the results of his life’s work. So, although the court had to find him guilty, he was given only a nominal sentence.’

  ‘Still, if he did make off with the stones—police should have been able to trace them as soon as he started to unload.’

  De Richleau shook his head. ‘No. My estimate of the value of the stones is theirs of the reserve stock they offered me as a compromise before inviting me up to Olenevka, and somewhat vague confirmation extracted from their foreman cutter after the fire. Even if d’Azavedo were caught with a bag of jewels, it could not be proved that they came out of the safe. After all, for many years he worked as Count Plackoff’s manager at quite a handsome salary. In such a situation a thrifty man who could buy uncut gems at source might well have accumulated a private hoard to which his right could not be questioned.’

  ‘You’re stymied, then. Doubt if you’d stand much chance of winning a case against him anyway, now. Whole island’s going to pot. The Bandaranaike election started it. Then his death really sent the balloon up. Although he’d already ousted his Communist colleague Philip Gunawardena, the rest of them fought like a pack of alley cats. Fellow who took over as caretaker P.M. either sacked or arrested half his Cabinet. Even so, he didn’t last long.’

  ‘No, but long enough to suppress the freedom of the Press and start stealing British businesses under the guise of nationalisation. That was W. Dahanayake. At least, though, he had the sense to repeal the Act by which they had suspended capital punishment.’

  Simon violently shook his narrow head. ‘Taking life’s wrong in principle.’

  ‘Yet sound in practice,’ smiled the Duke. ‘That is when the person concerned has been proved to be a dangerous enemy of society. Whether it is actually a deterrent to crime is, just possibly, arguable; but it is unreasonable that a part of the taxes paid by law-abiding citizens should be used to keep alive for years brutal or unscrupulous men, who have either murdered others or have been instrumental in provoking riots that have caused the death of innocent people.’

  ‘We’ll never agree on that. Anyhow, reverting to Ceylon. The electorate threw Dahanayake out and Dudley Senanayake, the grand old man’s son, was brought back for another term of office. Poor fellow didn’t have a hope against such a gang of crooks. He did manage to set up a Bribery Commission, though, that convicted some of the ex-Ministers.
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  ‘Had that in mind just now when I said I didn’t think you’d stand much chance even if you had grounds for bringing a case against d’Azavedo. Not since the election last July, when Senanayake’s brief term ended and Bandaranaike’s widow became P.M. She’s the perfect figurehead for the crazy crooked gang who’re ruining the country. Maybe she doesn’t realise what’s going on, but ousting the last of the British and the Dutch burghers from the Civil Service and Police has left openings for scores of unscrupulous clever-dick Sinhalese. They’ve got their chance now to make a real killing. Under Mrs. B. the place has become virtually a dictatorship. We all know what that means: corrupt officials taking bribes to do all sorts of dirty work; and a Lalita d’Azavedo is in a position to pull pretty well any strings he wants.’

  De Richleau gave his friend a puzzled look. ‘I had no idea you knew that d’Azavedo had a son, let alone that he was mixed up in politics.’

  Simon’s full lips parted in a wide grin. ‘D’Azavedo is an unusual name. Saw it in a secret report sent me a week or so ago. Thought he must be some relation to your old forger. He is now a Colonel in the Security Service.’

  ‘Is he indeed! May one enquire the reason for your interest in Ceylon’s Secret Police; and, for that matter, how you come to be so well informed about political developments there?’

  ‘Well now, I’ll tell you. For many years my firm has financed one of the biggest tea planters when they needed additional capital to buy estates that came into the market. Quite a lot of properties on offer now. Owners getting cold feet about what may happen if Mrs B. continues her ultra-Socialist activities. Our friends maintain that no Ceylonese Government would be quite so crazy as to take over Tea; so they want to buy. But Ceylon is in a muddle—a really nasty muddle. And the possibility of an immense loss of income has never yet prevented a dictator Government from cutting off its nose to spite its face if it’s set on living up to Marxist ideals. So it was decided that I should go out and take a look at things personally before we agreed to risk our mun.’