Offstage in Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  The young men exchanged glum glances. Obviously, searching for a lost dog was not what they had hoped for from police work. De Silva frowned. ‘I trust I do not need to remind you that police work is rarely glamorous and often painstaking.’

  ‘No, sir,’ they chorused.

  He relented a little. ‘But I’m sure you’ve done your best today. Tomorrow I’ll join you and we can search together.’

  **

  ‘We had no luck,’ he said, pouring himself a shot of whisky. The soda syphon hissed. ‘Goodness knows where the little fellow is.’

  ‘Oh dear, poor Florence. She must be so upset. That dog is like a child to her. But perhaps now she’ll listen to advice. This isn’t the first time he’s run away and male dogs do have a tendency to ramble off in search of female company, if you take my meaning. Several of our sewing ladies who have experience of dogs have suggested she’d be wise to have him done. She protests that would be cruel but it’s really for the best and we have a good vet in Nuala who would do the job well, I’m sure.’

  De Silva shuddered. He rather hoped he could avoid being a dog in his next life. Sinking down in his armchair, he took a sip of his drink. ‘It was hard not to feel sorry for her. She was almost in tears on the telephone.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But you British. Is anything more important than dogs and tea?’

  Jane chuckled. ‘I must admit, nothing comes to mind. But seriously, you will search again in the morning, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. And we’ll keep trying to find out about the key and the scissors.’ He linked his hands behind his head and stretched. ‘Is dinner ready soon? I’m hungry.’

  Jane glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘About ten minutes.’

  He drained his glass and stood up. ‘I’ll go and wash my hands.’

  As he passed the table in the hall, the telephone rang. Automatically, he picked up the receiver. A familiar voice greeted him on the other end of the line.

  ‘De Silva? David Hebden here. Hope I’m not interrupting your meal.’

  ‘No, we haven’t eaten yet.’

  ‘Then I’ll be brief. I hear the autopsy on Alexander Danforth revealed the presence of barbiturates in his body.’

  A glimmer of caution entered de Silva’s mind. How did Hebden know that, and why was he interested enough to call?

  ‘De Silva?’ The tone of voice was more impatient now.

  ‘May I ask whether your interest is purely professional, sir? If so, I see no problem in making the report available to you when I receive it, but I would be interested to know why you want to see it.’

  ‘Professional? What else would it be?’

  What indeed? De Silva smiled to himself. Hebden was a decent chap and, after a few false starts, their professional encounters had been amicable, but it was tempting to twist his tail a little.

  ‘I rather thought you might tell me, sir.’

  There was a splutter from the end of the line and de Silva hoped he hadn’t overstepped the mark.

  ‘Very well,’ the doctor resumed after a brief pause. ‘If you must know, I’m concerned about the implications some people might draw from the result.’

  ‘Do you mean that if Alexander Danforth was already unconscious, the murderer would not have needed as much strength and could, consequently, have been female?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking you have a difficulty with that?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’

  ‘Doctor Hebden, I’m afraid I cannot change the facts.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s true! There were drugs present.’ Hebden delivered the words like a cat pouncing on a mouse and de Silva reproached himself. A point to the doctor; still it was too late to retract now.

  ‘I assure you, sir,’ he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone, ‘I and my men will have no time for gossip and unfounded allegations. Proper procedures will be followed and I will take no steps without good evidence.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Inspector.’ Hebden sounded slightly mollified. ‘Distressing the ladies must be avoided at all costs. The assistant government agent’s views on the matter are as strong as mine. Both Mrs Danforth and Miss Watson have taken the tragedy very hard.’ There was a slight hesitation as he cleared his throat. ‘I understand the latter lady has confided in you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you know that she must be blameless, quite aside from the fact that it’s impossible to credit that such a gentle, defenceless creature would commit such a heinous crime.’

  De Silva refrained from remarking that he knew nothing of the sort. He could think of several women in the annals of crime whose feminine charms hadn’t stopped them from having murderous inclinations. In fact, from what he’d read of history, the one had often masked the other. But there wasn’t a great deal of point arguing with a man as smitten as Doctor Hebden clearly was.

  In any case, his instincts told him that Emerald Watson was innocent. She appeared to have nothing to gain from her father’s death and, despite the past, her affection for him seemed genuine. He wasn’t sure he would have described her as defenceless though. She struck him as being a rather robust young woman who knew her own mind. It was, however, hard to imagine her being less than candid. In the circumstances, he was glad Bert Raikes’ malicious remarks about Miss Watson hadn’t come to the doctor’s ears. On the evidence of his sporting abilities, he probably had a useful right-hook.

  **

  ‘Who was that, dear?’ asked Jane when he returned to the drawing room.

  ‘Doctor Hebden.’

  ‘Oh? What was he calling about?’

  ‘The autopsy report. He’d got wind of the result somehow, and taken it upon himself to defend Miss Watson.’

  ‘Goodness, what did you say?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I let the cat out of the bag before I realised that he was on a… what do you call it? A fishing expedition?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Anyway, once I’d confirmed the rumour, he spoke very hotly on her behalf.’

  ‘They’d be very well suited,’ Jane mused when he recounted the rest of the conversation with Hebden over dinner.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Feminine intuition.’

  ‘Ah, that infallible knack.’

  ‘It didn’t serve me too badly when I met a certain police sergeant in Colombo.’

  De Silva grinned. ‘And there was I in despair, thinking you would forget me in no time.’

  She took a sip of water, smiling as she set down the glass. ‘It wouldn’t have been ladylike to be too encouraging. But I did think you were very heroic the way you chased those thieves who tried to rob me.’ She reached over and patted his hand. ‘And you looked very dashing in your uniform, even though you were a little out of puff when you came back with the purse they’d dropped.’

  He pulled a face. ‘That’s slanderous! I ran like a leopard.’

  ‘I’m only teasing. I was very impressed. And you were so assiduous about keeping me informed of how the hunt for them was progressing.’

  ‘Purely in the line of duty, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Shall we have coffee on the verandah?’

  ‘That would be nice. I don’t feel like reading this evening.’

  ‘Poor dear, you’ve got too much on your mind, but I’m sure it will all come together in the end.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I feel there’s still a long way to go.’

  He pushed back his chair as she rang the bell for a servant to clear the dishes.

  ‘Perhaps a breakthrough is closer than you think.’

  ‘Thank you for your optimism, my love.’

  **

  The cloudless night sky had sucked up the heat of the day, making it pleasantly cool in the garden. Gazing up at the glittering map of stars, de Silva wished he felt the peace their mysterious beauty usually instilled in him, but it eluded him. Mentally, he went o
ver the dramatis personae in the real-life mystery that faced him. The grieving widow and daughter – or were they? The old friends, Bert Raikes and Frank Sheridan. The young, would-be rival, Paul Mayne. Michael Morville and Charles Crichton, who seemed the most detached members of the company, and Olive Reilly, who was indubitably the most forbidding.

  ‘Drink your coffee and try not to brood, dear,’ said Jane. ‘It’s a shame to spoil such a lovely evening.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He brought his coffee cup to his lips and inhaled the fruity, caramel fragrance. ‘This is excellent coffee too.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve.’

  She gave a start as a large flying creature blundered against the glass shade of the outside lamp then flew off in a wide arc to land on the wooden corner post nearby. De Silva observed it with interest. An Atlas moth, the biggest moth in Ceylon, perhaps in the world, and broader than the span of a man’s hand. The moth settled, fanning wings whose shades of russet, ochre, buff, and dusty pink looked as if they had been laid on by the most skilful of painters. The contrast with the splashes of white, shaped like arrowheads, on each wing heightened the diaphanous effect.

  ‘What a beauty,’ said Jane, recovering. ‘So sad they have no mouths to eat with and live only a few days.’

  De Silva shrugged. ‘That’s nature.’ He chuckled. ‘I hope I am not destined to be one in my next life though; I like my food too much. But if that is what’s in store for me,’ he added ruefully, ‘at least it ought to be an uncomplicated life.’

  ‘Why don’t we have some music? That might take your mind off the case and we haven’t listened to the gramophone for weeks.’

  ‘Good idea. What would you like?’

  ‘You choose.’

  In the bungalow, he went to the gramophone he’d bought for Jane on their last anniversary and studied their record collection. Something classical would be soothing. He found a recording of pieces by Debussy and put it on the turntable.

  As he settled back in his chair on the verandah, the silvery chords of Clair de Lune drifted through the warm night air. Slowly, his buzzing brain calmed. As usual, Jane was right. It was a shame to spoil such a beautiful evening.

  Chapter 16

  Arriving at the station the following morning, he parked the Morris in the shade and went in. In the front office, a Tamil was talking vociferously to Prasanna and Nadar.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ asked de Silva, using his sternest tone of voice. Quelled, the Tamil quietened down.

  ‘Something about finding the dog, sir,’ said Prasanna.

  De Silva raised a hand. ‘Let him tell me in his own words.’ He turned to the Tamil. ‘But slowly this time.’

  ‘The animal is close to my house, sahib. I can take you there right now.’ A crafty look came over his face. ‘I think the English memsahib will be very happy and want to reward me for finding it.’

  ‘That will depend on many things. For a start, how do you know it’s the right dog?’

  ‘There have been men coming with pictures to the bazaar.’

  Ah, Florence must have sent some of the Residence’s servants out with posters. He wondered if a reward had already been mentioned. If so, and this man was telling the truth, it seemed strange he hadn’t taken Angel straight to the Residence.

  ‘Well, you’d better show me what you’ve found. Prasanna, you can come along with us. Nadar, you stay and keep an eye on things here.’

  The Morris nosed its way through the town, and, following the Tamil’s shouted directions from the dickey seat, de Silva took a road that led out in the direction of one of the nearer villages. He had to drive very cautiously as the way became increasingly narrow and rutted. Plantations of rubber and banana trees made a dense wall on either side. Soon, he was heartily wishing that the Tamil had managed the business without police assistance. If he hoped for a reward, de Silva was mystified why he hadn’t.

  When the jungle thinned out, however, and they reached a collection of huts set in a clearing, the reason became clear. A large, lean-to shed with an open front stood at the far end of the clearing. Close by was a muddy pool with a churned-up margin. A little way inside the shed was a fully grown she-elephant, chained by one leg to the wall. A noisy gaggle of villagers crowded around her, retreating quickly when she whacked the air with her trunk or shuffled menacingly towards them on her huge leathery legs. As he got out of the Morris and came closer, de Silva saw the baleful gleam in her small red eyes and smelt the stench of an animal agitated by the proximity of so many excited people.

  Half-hidden by its mother’s great bulk, a baby elephant peered out at the scene, occasionally adding its juvenile squeak to her angry trumpeting. De Silva’s stomach hollowed and his legs turned from flesh and bone to blancmange. He already had a pretty good idea of who else was in the lean-to: Angel.

  The animated black and white household mop who was so precious to Florence Clutterbuck looked considerably less animated than usual. In fact, the little dog was curled up asleep on a pile of dirty straw in one corner of the shed. De Silva marvelled that he had got so far inside in the first place, and then that he hadn’t already been trampled. The question was, how to get him out again in one piece?

  ‘Where’s the owner of the elephant?’

  With a great deal of pointing and gesticulating, everyone spoke at once. The she-elephant added her voice, shivering the air into a million splinters. Angel woke up and began to yap.

  De Silva turned on his heel and went back to the Morris. It took several blasts of the horn to reduce the cacophony to a mutinous grumble.

  He looked at the Tamil who had brought them there. ‘Well? Are you the owner?’

  A new man separated himself from the crowd.

  ‘Who are you?’ snapped de Silva.

  ‘The headman, sahib. The beast is mine.’

  This gave rise to a rumble of disagreement. Possibly several of the better-off villagers had an interest in the elephant. They were extremely valuable creatures, capable of prodigious amounts of heavy work as well as earning money for their owners from tourists wanting the exotic experience of an elephant ride.

  ‘Did you send this man to me?’ De Silva asked.

  The headman scowled. ‘No.’

  Ah, so by being first with the news, the Tamil had hoped to secure any reward going. He wouldn’t be popular now, but that was his problem. De Silva’s problem was to find a way of removing Florence’s beloved pet from danger.

  He edged forward and studied the situation carefully. The shed was about ten yards deep but only half as wide, leaving very little room between the she-elephant and the wooden walls. De Silva glanced at Prasanna’s tall, lanky frame but then thought better of suggesting he go in. After all, he was a newly married man. But there was even less room for a middle-aged detective who was fond of his food.

  He looked round the villagers who seemed less than enthusiastic about meeting his eye. Well, if no one wanted to go in to rescue Angel, the little fellow would have to be persuaded to come out.

  Just at that moment, Angel got to his feet and shook himself. De Silva smiled. Thank goodness the dog was so small, the she-elephant might not even notice him coming out of the shed. But the relief was short-lived. With an insouciant air, Angel circled twice then flopped down on the straw, tucked his nose under his back foot and went to sleep again.

  ‘What shall we do, sir?’ asked Prasanna anxiously.

  A goat bleated nearby and a lightbulb went on in de Silva’s head. He handed his sergeant a few rupees. ‘Go into the huts and see if any of the women has a piece of goat’s cheese we can buy.’

  Prasanna looked a little mystified but he went off, returning after a few minutes with a small, extremely aromatic, white lump wrapped in a scrap of banana leaf. De Silva’s sensitive nose wrinkled as he took it and peeled the leaf back. ‘Excellent. If this doesn’t do the job, nothing will.’

  Still alarmed by the commotion she had endured, the she-elephant threw up her head and lashed
out with her trunk as de Silva approached. Her short, but sharp, tusks gleamed against the black cavern of her mouth. He waited for her irritation to subside then hunkered down and called Angel’s name softly. The shih tzu stirred and looked up.

  ‘Angel! Look what I’ve got for you, Angel!’

  Angel snuffed the air. A sliver of pink tongue emerged.

  De Silva waved the cheese about encouragingly. He hoped Angel wasn’t such a finicky eater as to refuse anything but the cheesy treats made in the Residence’s kitchens.

  The she-elephant took a lumbering step backwards. Angel’s head jerked round and he let off a volley of yaps. Stars danced before de Silva’s eyes and the sweat that had been collecting under the collar of his shirt trickled down his back. His heart thumped; he wafted the cheese again.

  ‘Angel!’

  This time the little dog got up and took a few steps out of the corner. Passing the baby elephant, he stopped and stretched. Collectively, the onlookers held their breath. De Silva backed away a little and then a little more. To be safe, he must encourage Angel to come right out of the shed.

  At last, a shout went up as the little dog trotted to de Silva and sat at his feet, paw raised and tail wagging. De Silva bent down and, taking the precaution of grabbing him by the collar, presented the cheese.

  ‘Do you think there will be a reward, sir?’ asked Prasanna as the Morris returned to the main road and bowled along in the direction of the Residence, Angel happily curled up on Prasanna’s lap.

  ‘Oh, I expect Mrs Clutterbuck’s relief will make her generous, but we must see to it that it’s fairly distributed. It might be best to give it in the form of food or clothing rather than just money to the headman. You and Kuveni know the sort of trouble that can cause, eh?’

  Prasanna nodded.

  ‘She’s feeling better, I hope?’

  ‘A little, thank you, sir, although she is still sick in the mornings.’

  ‘When’s the baby due?’