The dusty parking area was deserted when de Silva drove up, except for a pair of spotted doves foraging for food among the dry leaves that had collected in one corner. He parked the Morris in the only patch of shade and went in. The caretaker looked up warily from a newspaper that lay open at the racing page and rose halfway from his seat.
De Silva nodded to him. ‘Don’t get up. I’ve just come to take another look round.’
‘Do you need me, sahib?’
‘No, you may carry on.’
De Silva’s footsteps echoed as he walked down the linoleum-floored corridor. Passing Danforth’s dressing room, he thought they would probably have been audible inside. If the actor had been awake, he must have realised that a visitor was on the way. He moved on to Kathleen’s room; the same thing applied.
A few days of being closed up with no fans working had made the place unbearably hot. Beads of sweat formed on de Silva’s forehead and trickled into his eyes. He mopped them away with his handkerchief and threw the window open as wide as it would go before surveying the room.
He had looked through the makeup on the dressing table before but perhaps he had missed something. He picked up a round green tin decorated with the name Max Factor above a picture of a professorial-looking gentleman and prised off the lid. A smell that was both fatty and metallic rose from the parchment-coloured greasepaint inside. More pots and tins contained lighter and darker shades as well as rouge. Another held a black, sulphurous compound that he guessed was kohl. There was a box of face powder and a cut-glass dish in which rested a large swansdown puff. He explored it with his fingertips but only released a dusting of palest pink as fine as icing sugar. He turned the receptacles over one by one, looking for evidence that they might have a false base, but he found none.
The mix of scents and the fine powder that rose into the air made his nose itch. Sniffing, he scrubbed at it with his knuckles before combing the contents of drawers, shelves, and cupboards once more. They yielded nothing. His hopes that he might find a cachet missing a small amount of its powder receded.
With a sigh, he sat down on the dressing table chair and stared absently at his reflection in the mirror. Once more he asked himself who had wanted revenge on Alexander Danforth so badly that they had been prepared to kill him.
When he was ready to start again, he made another search of the room where Olive Reilly had done her work. After everything that had bothered his sensitive nose in Kathleen Danforth’s room, he was glad the air was a bit fresher, but again he found nothing. He would have to admit defeat. Either Kathleen Danforth had used up the Medinal that Van Bruyn had prescribed, or she had taken it with her to the Crown Hotel.
A surge of annoyance swept over him, mostly directed at himself. Why had he wasted precious time coming up to the theatre today when he had already searched the place? In his heart, he knew that he was putting off the moment when he had to decide if he was going to tackle Archie Clutterbuck about the British government’s hand in Danforth’s murder.
Conflicting thoughts warred in his mind on the way back to the station, but by the time he arrived, he was no nearer to a decision. In the public room, he found Nadar alone.
‘Sergeant Prasanna still at home, is he?’
‘No, sir. He is back but he has gone to the bazaar. One of the stallholders came in complaining that someone has been damaging his goods.’
‘Anything of importance?’
‘Some packets of food, sir, but the thief left a great deal of mess.’
‘I see.’ That sounded like it would ease Prasanna back in gently. ‘Anything else to report?’
‘There was a call from Colombo about the autopsy, sir. They asked if you would ring them back.’
‘Get them on the line for me, would you?’
He went into his office and tossed his cap onto the hat stand. This might be the conversation that resolved his dilemma. If some drug other than Medinal was found, or even no drug at all, Kathleen Danforth was a far less likely suspect. Medinal was the obvious drug for her to use as she probably still had some in her possession, so why pick a different one? And if Danforth hadn’t been drugged, he was extremely doubtful she, or any woman, would have had the strength to overpower such a big man.
The telephone rang. He lifted the receiver and wished the pathologist good morning. ‘Or rather good afternoon,’ he added, looking at the clock.
‘I hope I’m not delaying your lunch, Inspector?’
‘Not at all. I’m eager to hear what you have to tell me.’
In his gravelly voice, the pathologist embarked on a lengthy explanation of his proceedings, finally arriving at the point de Silva was really interested in.
‘The barbiturate we found in the stomach, combined with alcohol – and you say the victim had been drinking brandy – would certainly have caused him to sleep. As for how much further matters would have gone, I think it’s highly likely he was unconscious but still alive when he was stabbed. Do you know if he was a habitual user?’
‘No, but would that make a difference?’
‘Undoubtedly. Prolonged use of barbiturates results in the body metabolising them faster, with the result that there’s an increase in tolerance. Which means that larger and larger doses would be necessary to achieve the same effect of making a user sleep, and thus the risk of overdose is higher. Alcohol is also a factor in increasing the potency of a dose and, in a drowsy state, patients have been known to take additional doses by mistake. But here, the amount was small. It’s my belief that there was no intention to kill the victim by using the drug, merely to sedate him.’
‘Was the barbiturate Medinal?’
‘It’s a widely marketed form, so the assumption is reasonable, but identifying the different types of barbiturate is problematic. The methods available aren’t as sophisticated as we would like them to be.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said de Silva, politely trying not to sound disappointed. ‘I appreciate your help.’
The pathologist laughed. ‘Such as it is. Well, I’ll be off for my meal now and leave you to yours.’
De Silva wished him goodbye and put down the receiver. Why would someone give Danforth a minute dose and then go to the trouble of stabbing him? Were they simply afraid that a fatal dose wouldn’t work swiftly enough and Danforth would be resuscitated? Or was the writing on the mirror in Danforth’s blood a grand gesture they had been determined to make? Could it be that the British wanted him to believe there was a connection between Danforth’s death and the play, Hamlet, leading him to conclude that the murderer must be one of the actors?
**
Jane came out of the house to meet him as he turned off the Morris’s engine and put on the handbrake.
‘I was listening out for you,’ she said smiling. ‘I have good news.’
De Silva rolled his eyes. ‘I could do with some of that today.’
‘Oh dear. Is the case still going badly?’
‘I’m afraid so. I went up to the theatre again and completely wasted the morning. When I got back to the station, the pathologist at Colombo telephoned about the autopsy report. He confirms Danforth had taken, or been given, a dose of barbiturate on the day he was murdered, but a small one. He was sedated, but it was the stabbing with the scissors that finished the job.’
Jane held out a hand. ‘Come and have lunch. It’s gone one o’clock and you must be hungry.’
‘I am.’
Seated on the verandah, he told her more about the morning and his conversation with Van Bruyn.
‘To sum it up,’ he finished, ‘I’m fed up with all this shilly-shallying and getting nowhere.’
‘You have made some progress, dear. There’s the result of the autopsy and Henry Van Bruyn’s information.’
‘Hmm. In the circumstances, I’m not sure there’s enough there to risk arresting Kathleen Danforth. It would mean breaking Henry Van Bruyn’s confidence too.’
‘You mean Archie won’t like it?’
‘I’d say that’s an unders
tatement, and past experience tells me he’s capable of ordering me off the case.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, then he rallied. ‘You haven’t told me the good news yet.’
Jane beamed. ‘Kuveni and Prasanna are going to have a baby.’
‘Ah, that’s good news indeed.’
‘It was Prasanna’s mother who guessed. She was rather amused it wasn’t an explanation for Kuveni’s sickness that they’d thought of, but very relieved, of course. Poor Kuveni’s still suffering with morning sickness but hopefully it won’t last too much longer.’
De Silva chuckled. ‘So, I’ll soon have two family men on my hands. Parenthood certainly seems to have bucked Nadar’s ideas up. If the effect on Prasanna is the same, it can only be a good thing. Apart from the sleepiness when the baby has given them a bad night,’ he added.
‘That’s better. It’s good to see you more cheerful.’
Ruminatively, he chewed a piece of naan bread and swallowed. ‘Only on Prasanna and Kuveni’s account. I’m still not sure what to do about Archie. What would you advise?’
‘Confronting him won’t get any easier the longer you wait. I think you should just take the plunge. If he knows it’s true that the British are at the bottom of this, he ought to trust you enough by now to give you a hint.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
Jane looked serious. ‘I’m afraid you may have to back off, Shanti.’
He grimaced.
‘I know it would be galling.’
‘So if he denies it, do I give up just like that? Where would I go from there?’
‘You could have one more try. Speak to Henry Van Bruyn again and warn him you need to pass on the information he gave you. I’m sure he’d understand, and wouldn’t he have to disclose it anyway if you made the inquiry in an official capacity? Then tell Archie you need to confront Kathleen with this new evidence. If he’s lying to you, if anything will flush him out, perhaps that prospect will.’
A golden oriole landed in the tulip tree nearby and perched on a branch, whistling its fluting song. Ordinarily, de Silva would have enjoyed seeing the bird so close up, but this afternoon, he was too distracted. On a brief acquaintance, he had liked Danforth and, although he would never resort to violence himself, whatever the cause, he felt some pity if the man had lost his life because of his devotion to his principles.
‘You’re right,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Is there any news about the key?’
‘No, I haven’t given Prasanna and Nadar the job yet and it could be a long one.’
Jane looked thoughtful. ‘You told me you saw Kathleen Danforth’s maid coming away from the bazaar before Danforth was killed.’
‘I still doubt she’d take the risk of going undisguised but I suppose I can’t rule it out. She’s certainly ferocious enough for a stallholder to remember her. I’m hoping any European coming in over the last week or so would stick in their memories.’
‘Miss Reilly does sound such a gorgon. Perhaps she will turn out to be the guilty person in the company.’
De Silva shrugged. ‘At the moment, I’ve no idea. I suppose she could be a government agent. A ladies’ maid isn’t a bad cover. Plenty of opportunity to stay discreetly in the background and keep an eye on what’s going on. She has a military background too.’
‘If Kathleen was asleep that afternoon, Reilly could have gone to Danforth’s dressing room without her noticing.’
‘She said she was reading and writing letters, but she didn’t mention that she slept.’
‘She might feel sleeping in the middle of the day sounds a little elderly,’ said Jane.
He laughed. ‘Yes, even in our climate.’
‘Anyway, she may not have had a choice. Perhaps Reilly knows where she keeps her sleeping tablets.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Or Kathleen Danforth was awake and she and Reilly were in league after all.’
‘Stop! My head is spinning!’
‘One last idea. From what you’ve told me, Reilly appears to be a cold woman, but you know what they say, still waters run deep. Maybe she harboured a secret passion for Danforth and killed him in a fit of jealousy.’
‘You’ve been reading romances again, my love.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not being a help.’
‘Oh, you are. You’ve stiffened my resolve to talk to Archie, and this afternoon I’ll send Prasanna and Nadar down to the bazaar to see what they can find out about that key. If they come up with something, I ought to get the original from the caretaker. Just because someone asks for a key to be cut in the bazaar, it isn’t necessarily the one we’re interested in. But I don’t want to tip him off without good reason, so that can wait.’
**
‘Good to have you back,’ said de Silva, finding Prasanna had returned to the station. ‘And congratulations on your news. Mrs de Silva has just told me.’
Prasanna flushed. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry I missed doing my work. I’ll make up the time.’
‘Good, as it happens I have a job for you straight away. You too, Nadar,’ he added as the constable emerged from the back room carrying cups of tea.
‘I want you to go to the bazaar and find out if anyone remembers a European man or woman bringing in a key to have a spare one cut.’
‘When might it have been, sir?’ asked Nadar.
‘Any time up until the Tuesday that Alexander Danforth was murdered. Oh, and you may as well take the scissors that Danforth was stabbed with too. See if anyone remembers selling them. If you have any luck in either case, get a description of the customer.’
‘We’ll get straight onto it.’
‘You can drink your tea first,’ de Silva said dryly. ‘Bring me a cup while you’re about it.’
He had turned to go into his office when the telephone rang. Prasanna picked up the receiver. ‘It’s a call from the Residence for you, sir,’ he said after a moment.
De Silva’s brow creased. He hadn’t wanted to tackle Archie Clutterbuck quite yet. It would be unfortunate if he’d got wind of something already.
‘Inspector de Silva?’ It was one of the secretaries on the line. ‘I have Mrs Clutterbuck to speak to you.’
The creases in de Silva’s brow deepened. Florence’s calls were fairly frequent and they usually entailed a command to do something that wasn’t entirely within his responsibilities. He wondered what had displeased her this time. Children playing too noisily in the public gardens? Stray donkeys eating the Residence’s flowers? He drew a deep breath and prepared his most mollifying tone.
The voice that came on the line, however, was agitated and close to tears. ‘Thank goodness I’ve caught you, Inspector.’
‘How can I help, ma’am?’
He heard a sob and the sound of her blowing her nose vigorously. ‘My poor little Angel has gone missing again. We’ve searched everywhere – the house, the gardens, the outbuildings – and there’s no sign of him. It’s been much longer than last time. I’m terrified someone has stolen him. One of the servants had taken him for his walk and suddenly, he vanished.’
No doubt the servant had wished he too could vanish before he had been obliged to explain the situation to his mistress. De Silva didn’t relish the prospect of having to mount a search for a lost dog while he was in the middle of a murder investigation but Florence’s distress made her curiously human and it was hard not to feel sorry for her.
‘We’ll do our best, ma’am,’ he said soothingly. ‘Try not to worry.’
He heard another stifled sob. ‘I know you will, Inspector. I’ll stay by the phone. Goodbye.’
With a sigh, de Silva replaced the receiver. ‘A change of plan,’ he announced. ‘We have two jobs to be getting on with.’
Chapter 15
By the time they arrived, mid-afternoon torpor had settled over the bazaar. In the area where fresh food was sold, the crowds of shoppers who came every day to haggle with stallholders had gone, taking with them m
ost of the produce that had been laid out early that morning. Only a few stalls remained open in the hope of late sales, although, to de Silva’s eyes, the leftover fruits and vegetables, and wilting bundles of coriander and curry leaves didn’t look at all appetising.
The sari and cloth shops were a little busier and customers still gathered around stalls where huge copper bowls of spices were laid out for inspection. De Silva’s sensitive nose picked out the fragrances of cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and cumin. Shops selling shoes and sandals were doing a desultory trade; nearby, a vendor presided over a gruesome array of false teeth arranged on a red cotton cloth.
At the corners of some of the alleys, statues of the Buddha sat cross-legged, gazing serenely ahead as if looking into another world. Guttering tealights; half-consumed sticks of incense; flowers; pieces of fruit, and even small bottles of lurid-hued drinks had been laid at their feet. Flies buzzed around, braving the heat of the candles and incense to feed on the fruit. In the metal-working area, the cacophony of cutting, hammering and welding had died down, but the smell of burning kerosene and hot metal lingered.
Delegating the job of finding Angel to Prasanna and Nadar, de Silva started his search among the metal workers and sellers of pots and pans, stalls where one might buy scissors or go to ask for a key to be cut, but he had no luck. Several owners told him that if he came back the next day, more places would be open.
As the sun started to redden in the west and shutters went up on the stalls and shopfronts, he found Prasanna and Nadar.
‘I’m afraid we have had no luck either, sir,’ Prasanna said. ‘There are plenty of dogs around, especially as they like to scavenge at this time of day, but none that fit the description you gave us.’
De Silva felt a twinge of pity for Florence’s little pet. The dog was used to living in the lap of luxury. He hoped disaster hadn’t befallen it.
‘It’s getting too late to make more inquiries about the key and the scissors but you’d better carry on looking for the dog until dark. After that, you may go home. Perhaps he’ll make his own way back. If not, we’ll have to start again in the morning and widen the search area.’
Offstage in Nuala Page 13