Cold Case in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 10)

by Harriet Steel

  He polished off the last of his snack then crumpling up the soiled paper bag, found a place to throw it away and walked a little further along the promenade. At one stall, a man prepared slices of mango and sprinkled them with pepper and salt, another dish that de Silva found hard to resist. He bought some and ate as he walked along, wondering what news Charlie Frobisher would have for him in the morning.

  Eventually, he started to think of the hotel and the comfortable bed that awaited him. Strolling back along the green, he passed the grand façade of the Galle Face Hotel, its lights twinkling like a million candles. He and Jane had stayed there once, but tonight the Lotus Flower Hotel would be perfectly adequate.

  **

  Morning found him back at Galle Face Green a little before ten o’clock. It was even busier than it had been the previous evening with rickshaws darting in all directions and covered wagons and pack animals transporting goods. The city’s port and its largest market, the famous Pettah, was a little to the east of the northern end of the Green.

  People crossed the grass, intent on their own business or pausing to chat if they met a friend. Children flew kites decorated with coloured streamers that fluttered brightly against the blue of the cloudless sky. In several areas, boys had set up stumps and were playing cricket. He watched one of the taller ones whack the ball and run like the wind between the stumps. Maybe he was a Sergeant Prasanna in the making.

  ‘Good morning!’ a voice called out. De Silva looked up to see Charlie Frobisher hurrying towards him. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been enjoying the view.’

  ‘Pretty different to Nuala, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said de Silva with a smile. ‘It’s pleasant to come back for a while, but I know which I prefer. I hope your stay with Ruth’s uncle and aunt is going well.’

  ‘I think I can safely say that it is. Her uncle and I hit it off pretty quickly and her aunt’s a charming lady.’ He grinned. ‘They seem to like me as much as I like them, which is a relief. Between ourselves, I’m hoping Ruth might agree to marry me, and it would help if they approved. Her parents are both dead, and her uncle and aunt are the closest thing she has to family.’

  ‘Then prospects look good.’

  Charlie laughed. ‘Of course, it’s Ruth who has to decide.’

  From what de Silva had seen, that wasn’t likely to be a problem. He was sure Jane would be pleased to hear of Charlie’s intentions.

  All at once however, Charlie’s expression clouded. ‘The only problem is that our lives are not our own at the moment. I’ve got my wings now. If I’m not needed in this part of the world, there’s a chance of being sent back to England to help with the war effort in Europe. I hope Ruth would wait for me, but—’

  A shiver crept up de Silva’s spine. The war seemed very far away. If he was honest, he had to admit that he didn’t often think about it, but inevitably, it would be more to the forefront of the Britishers’ minds. ‘I hope your fears are unfounded,’ he said gravely.

  ‘So do I, but we shall see. Now, to business. I managed to get some time alone with Ruth’s uncle and asked him about Harold Dacre. He remembered him, but he remembered Dacre’s wife, Isobel, far more vividly. He said she made quite an impression when they were stationed here.’

  De Silva wasn’t surprised.

  ‘But Ruth’s uncle says Dacre was only a middle-ranking official, and he doubted he earned a lot. Isobel was always stylishly dressed and behaved as if they had money, but they lived in a very modest house that wasn’t in a smart area of town. So, what’s your interest in the Dacres?’

  De Silva hesitated, then decided that as Charlie had helped him, he was owed an explanation even if he wasn’t directly involved in the case.

  ‘After she was widowed, Isobel married Victor Moncrieff, a wealthy man and father of Donald. We know for sure now that they’re Donald’s remains we’ve found.’

  ‘How does the information about Harold Dacre help your investigation?’

  ‘Perhaps only indirectly, but it’s useful to know what Isobel’s financial situation was before she married Victor. She claims that when he died, he left her well off. We know that her stepson Donald spent money very freely. When he disappeared, the story was that he’d left Nuala with a lover. Isobel claims she wanted to hide some of the profits of the plantation so that he couldn’t get his hands on them and fritter them away if he returned. In the meantime, some of the profits could also be put towards improvements.’

  ‘But why hide profits if they were being used for improvements?’

  ‘According to the plantation manager, Peter Flint, Donald usually blocked improvements. It may be true that Isobel and Flint though it best to do them on the quiet. In any case, Flint helped her and falsified the accounts. He turns out to have been romantically involved with Donald’s widow, Marina. It’s not clear whether Marina knew about the money, but certainly Flint held on to some of the hidden profits. He described it as a running away fund for him and Marina, and Isobel agreed to it. She took the rest. Who knows whether her motives were as disinterested as she claims? Now that we know Donald was never coming back because he was dead, it raises the question of whether all or any of Isobel, Flint, and Marina were responsible for his murder. Flint claims he and Donald had a fight, and his death was an accident, but I’m not sure I believe that. He may have killed Donald deliberately, possibly with the connivance of one or both of Marina and Isobel, or be covering for one of them if they’re the murderer.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘And whether or not Marina was aware of it, all of them benefitted financially from the fiction that Donald was missing rather than dead. But after someone has been missing for as long as Donald was, I believe it’s legally possible to declare they must be dead. Surely if Marina or Isobel were innocent and stood to inherit, wouldn’t it suit them better to go down that route?’

  ‘Archie mentioned that, but they obviously didn’t try it. Whether it indicates guilt or lack of knowledge is hard to say. Donald’s will – assuming he left one – may help us. I’ll have to think of a way of locating it sooner rather than later. Isobel was sure he wouldn’t leave anything to her as they got on so badly, and she reckoned everything would go to Marina, but she may be wrong. For example, Donald might change his will if he knew his wife didn’t love him and was having an affair with his employee. In the meantime, it shouldn’t be hard to get hold of a copy of his father’s one. As he’s been dead for many years, it ought to be filed at the Probate Registry here. There may be something in that too. Now Ruth’s uncle has helped us to establish that it’s very unlikely Isobel brought money into her marriage with Victor, I’d like to know how well off he really left her.’

  ‘Are you going over to the Registry now?’

  ‘I suppose I should. It may take a while to obtain a copy, but once I’ve ordered it, I can spend the time visiting the lady who used to be Isobel Moncrieff’s companion. She was the one who told Archie she’d heard Donald making plans to leave Nuala with his lover. With luck it won’t be too late by the time I’m ready to drive home. I might even pay a visit to Johnny Perera.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s involved!’

  ‘Most likely not, but I haven’t formally ruled him out given the circumstances in which Donald’s remains were found.’

  Charlie looked at his watch. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll order the copy of the will for you and you can get on with your interviews straight away. Ruth’s aunt has taken her shopping and her uncle’s busy, so I’ve the morning to myself. A friend of mine works at the Registry. I might even be able to hurry things along for you.’

  ‘I’d be most grateful.’

  **

  The convent was in a peaceful square to the south of the city centre. The noonday sun glinted on its terracotta roofs and high, whitewashed walls. A few clumps of weeds and grass grew in the gutters and below them, the whitewash was stained with brownish-grey streaks; the gutters must overflow in the mons
oon rains, he thought. Iron bosses studded a solid-looking wooden door with a small grille in its centre. De Silva went up and knocked.

  A few moments passed then, with a scraping sound, the shutter behind the grille slid open to reveal a nun with eyes as sharp as chips of flint.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m looking for a lady called Rosamund Collins. I believe she resides here.’

  ‘She is one of our lay sisters. May I ask why you wish to see her?’

  ‘I’m Inspector de Silva, head of police in the town of Nuala in the Hill Country. Miss Collins used to work there for a lady called Isobel Moncrieff. It’s recently come to light that Mrs Moncrieff’s stepson, Donald, died just before Miss Collins left her employment. I hasten to say there’s no suggestion Miss Collins was involved, but his death has given rise to questions. I hope Miss Collins will be able to help me with answers to some of them.’

  ‘Wait here, please.’ The nun closed the grille.

  De Silva sighed and settled down to wait. This being left on doorsteps was getting to be a habit. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and the bridge of his nose. He hoped that if he managed to get in, he would find it cooler on the other side of the nunnery walls. He wondered if the rest of the place was as plain as the exterior. How different it was from the religious buildings indigenous to Ceylon: no gold or brilliant colours, no carvings, no images. In his own Buddhist faith, monks wore saffron robes, the colour of the rising sun, not sombre black.

  The minutes ticked by, and he wondered if he had been forgotten. A rickshaw trundled into the square and he hoped it would halt at the convent for its passenger to gain admittance. Perhaps he would be able to slip in along with them, but the rickshaw didn’t stop. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Maybe it would be best to leave a message and go to the Registry to see if the copy of Victor Moncrieff’s will was ready. He was still debating whether to do so when heard the rattle of bolts and the convent door opened.

  The nun was short and plump and far less intimidating than her eyes had suggested she would be. ‘Follow me, please,’ she said. ‘The Mother Superior wishes to see you first.’

  A paved courtyard with a well at its centre met de Silva’s eyes; the buildings that enclosed it on three sides looked as plain as the convent had from the square. The nun tucked her hands into her habit and walked in the direction of the porch opposite them, gliding so smoothly that she looked as if she were on wheels. They went inside and she led him down a narrow, high-ceilinged corridor. The air felt pleasantly cool to de Silva after his hot wait in the sun, although the austere atmosphere had a subduing effect. The place had a different smell from a Ceylonese religious building too: strong bleach with an undertone of boiled vegetables, rather than the aromas of spice and incense.

  The nun knocked at one of the doors then stood aside to let him enter the room. From behind the large desk, the Mother Superior examined him. She was elderly with an angular, deeply lined face and shrewd, but not unfriendly, eyes.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector de Silva. Sister Claude tells me you wish to see Sister Rosamund. Before I agree, I would like to know more about the business you have with her.’

  Carefully, de Silva gave her a more detailed version of Rosamund Collins’s involvement in the events surrounding Donald Moncrieff’s death. He took extra pains to stress that although she might have valuable information, there was no question of her being held responsible.

  The Mother Superior heard him out then nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll have her brought here. I think it will be more appropriate for me to be present while you have your conversation.’

  Her tone brooked no argument, so he thanked her.

  A few minutes later, there was a tap at the door and Rosamund Collins arrived. She was a small woman with a face almost as pale as her coif; it was set in an anxious expression. ‘You sent for me, Mother Superior,’ she said timidly.

  The Mother Superior’s expression softened a little. ‘You have a visitor, Sister Rosamund, but there’s no need to be alarmed. Just answer his questions as fully as you are able.’ She turned to de Silva. ‘Carry on, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He tried to smile reassuringly at Sister Collins whose pale cheeks were now flushed. ‘I understand that you were working for Mrs Isobel Moncrieff in Nuala in 1932.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’ Her words were almost inaudible.

  ‘In January of that year, her stepson left town and, since then, has not returned. When you were questioned by Assistant Government Agent Mr Clutterbuck about his departure, you claimed to have heard him speaking to a woman who wasn’t his wife; you said you believed they were making plans to leave Nuala together.’

  ‘I did. At least I thought that was what they were doing.’ There was a tremor in Rosamund Collins’s voice, and she glanced desperately at the closed door.

  ‘You thought?’ De Silva frowned. ‘I appreciate that several years have passed, but I’ve been led to understand that your testimony was unequivocal at the time. Why was that?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ stuttered Sister Rosamund. The flush deepened and her eyes looked moist.

  ‘Can you recall anything specific that you overheard?’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Please, take your time,’ he said quietly. There was a long pause. The Mother Superior sat with her hands folded on the desktop, the personification of patience. De Silva wondered what was going through her mind.

  ‘Not his words exactly,’ Sister Rosamund said at last. ‘It just sounded as if that was what they were talking about.’

  ‘How many times did you hear them talking together?’

  She hesitated again. ‘Twice… or perhaps it was more than twice,’ she added lamely.

  The Mother Superior gave her a severe look. ‘Sister, I hope I don’t need to remind you of your vows. You know that you must answer truthfully.’

  Now the colour drained from Sister Rosamund’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Please tell the inspector what really happened.’

  Sister Rosamund’s hands twisted in the folds of her habit. She reminded de Silva of a frightened deer that has just seen a leopard crouching ready to spring. ‘I never heard anything,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Then why did you claim that you had?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘When Mr Clutterbuck asked me if I knew about Mr Moncrieff’s disappearance, I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘You could simply have told the truth. What stopped you?’

  ‘I… I did know something. It would have been wrong to pretend I didn’t, but—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I was afraid Mrs Moncrieff, my employer, would be even angrier with me,’ Sister Rosamund said meekly.

  De Silva was puzzled. He knew that Isobel had been angry at having the family’s secrets aired, but what circumstances could there have been to increase that anger?

  ‘I never overheard Mr Moncrieff talking about leaving Nuala, but I did see a letter that my employer was writing to him. I didn’t want to lie to Mr Clutterbuck, but I knew Mrs Moncrieff would be furious if she found out I’d read her private correspondence.’

  ‘What was the letter about?’

  ‘She told him that he had disgraced the family by leaving with this woman. She never wanted to see him again and he was not to contact Marina either.’

  ‘Did you see where the letter was addressed to?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Think hard, Sister,’ intervened the Mother Superior.

  A look of misery came over Sister Rosamund’s face. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘I’m sorry. I only looked quickly. I was afraid I’d be seen.’

  ‘So, you invented these telephone calls.’

  She bowed her head. ‘Yes, Mother Superior,’ she said in a small voice.

  **

  As he left the convent, de Silva felt some pity for Rosamund Collins. She had helped a murderer to go free, but he was sure
that had never been her intention. The conflict between the dictates of her conscience and her fear of her employer was to blame. Briefly, he considered whether Isobel had really believed Donald had eloped, and her sentiments were genuine, or whether the letter had been a ruse. Presumably in that case she had intended Collins, or someone else who would pass the information on to Archie, to see it. To de Silva, that was the most plausible scenario. He decided it was not a priority to call on Perera. Indeed, he asked himself why Perera kept popping back into his thoughts. Could it simply be that Perera didn’t even consider, still less worry about, the consequences of being discovered looking for the Bugatti? Was he simply an arrogant young playboy who believed he could charm his way out of any situation? De Silva had to ask himself if he was not just a little bit jealous of the dashing young driver.

  He glanced at his watch. So, yes, just the copy of the will to get now. He hoped Charlie had managed to hurry things along for him. If he had, there might be some chance of getting part of the drive back to Nuala done in daylight. All the same, he doubted he would be home in time for dinner, so he ought to telephone Jane.

  First he went to the hotel to collect his overnight bag, then on to the main post office. He found a free booth and dialled the operator, asking for a reverse charge call to Sunnybank. As he waited for Jane to accept the charge, he looked at the advertisements stuck up around the booth. Two of them were for Camel and Lucky Strike cigarettes, the latter showing a man in a white doctor’s coat extolling their mildness and lack of harmful effects. There were advertisements for Brylcreem and Lucky Tiger hair tonic too. From the distinctive barber-shop smell in the booth, recent occupants had been liberal users of both.