The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  The lunch party broke up and de Silva and Jane found seats in the front row of the stand and waited for the match to begin.

  A polite ripple of applause greeted the players as they came onto the field. ‘Who’s our captain?’ de Silva asked, not recognising the tallish man with a neatly clipped moustache who led out the Nuala team.

  ‘He’s the new doctor. His name is Hebden. Apparently, he’s a first-class batsman and an Oxford Blue so that should help us. That means he played for the University,’ she added.

  ‘I know what it means. You forget that I know many of your strange English expressions. You call ladies “bluestockings” when their stockings are not blue; you say something happens “once in a blue moon”, but the moon is never blue, and when my roses flower well, you tell me I have a green thumb.’

  Hatton won the toss and elected to bowl first. A surveyor from the Forestry Department and Doctor Hebden went in to bat.

  Hebden made an impressive beginning, confidently driving the balls that Hatton’s best bowler sent down and hitting a four and a six in the first fifteen minutes. A rumble of approval animated the Nuala stand, but on the next ball, it turned to a gasp of dismay. A googly took him unawares and he was given out lbw.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jane sighed as the doctor walked to the pavilion, his eyes firmly fixed on the ground. ‘How disappointing and his first match here too.’

  ‘Perhaps he was overconfident.’

  Jane tapped his sleeve. ‘Hush, dear. Play’s beginning again.’

  The rest of the Nuala team battled on but runs came slowly and the loss of their hoped-for star showed. The heat of the afternoon intensified, and Jane peered at the sky. ‘Not a single cloud. I should have brought my parasol. I think it must be in the car. Shanti, would you be a dear?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stepping down from the stand, he set off in the direction of the car park. The sound of leather on willow and desultory clapping followed him.

  He was nearly at the track leading to the car park when he noticed two men lounging outside one of the refreshment tents, smoking and drinking whisky. Deep in conversation, they didn’t see him, but he recognised Charles Renshaw and the driver of the Daimler. Renshaw threw down the butt of his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and lit another one. He smoked with jerky movements, staring at the ground. The Daimler driver appeared to be doing most of the talking.

  Best to move on before they see me, de Silva thought. He felt a twinge of pity for Madeleine Renshaw. She seemed more anxious to find her husband than he was to find her.

  In the car park, he passed the black Daimler and stopped for a moment to admire it. A fine car and almost new. It was a pity a few of the metal spokes on the offside rear wheel were slightly bent. Renshaw’s friend must have clipped something.

  The parasol was in the Morris as Jane had guessed. He had got it out and turned to go back to the cricket ground when he saw five of the ponies from the lake ambling out of the trees that fringed the car park. He wouldn’t put it past the little ruffians to chew off a few wing mirrors. He walked towards them, clapping his hands and shouting at them to be off, and they turned and trotted away. It was then that he noticed a tall man disappear into the trees and, hurrying in the other direction, a woman wearing a pale-green dress.

  By the time he returned to the cricket pitch, play had stopped for tea and the Nuala side had declared at ninety-six for eight.

  ‘Disappointing performance from that fellow Hebden,’ growled Archie Clutterbuck as they walked to the tea tent. ‘After all the talk about him being a Blue, seemed very rusty to me. I hope your sergeant’s on good form. It looks like we’ll need him to save the day.’

  In the refreshment tent, as they waited to help themselves to cups of tea and finger sandwiches, de Silva noticed that Madeleine Renshaw had returned and was talking to Florence Clutterbuck and some of the other planters’ wives. He steered Jane over to them, and while she joined in the conversation, he checked Madeleine’s outfit surreptitiously. Yes, her dress was the right shade of pale green. He was sure she was the woman he had seen among the trees.

  Play resumed with two hours to go before sunset. De Silva put work concerns out of his mind and concentrated on the game.

  ‘Hatton are a formidable foe,’ he remarked to Jane. ‘Prasanna and the others will have to pull out all the stops now.’

  The afternoon wore on. Denied the clear margin for victory they had anticipated, some of the Nuala team had lost confidence but luckily, Sergeant Prasanna wasn’t among them. Inventive and skilful, he bowled a variety of leg spin, googlies and top spinners that tested the Hatton team and kept them guessing. Interesting, thought de Silva. He was usually such a diffident young man, but when you put a cricket ball in his hand, he blossomed.

  As the shadows lengthened, the occupants of both stands fell quiet. ‘Ninety-two runs against us,’ Jane whispered. ‘We might just make it. The light’s going fast.’

  De Silva took his eyes off the pitch. Swallows were swooping through the air after insects. High above him, a flock of egrets flew in perfect arrow-head formation towards the setting sun. It was a time of day he loved.

  An exclamation from Jane and a sharp tug on his sleeve snapped his attention back to the match. ‘Shanti! Why aren’t you watching? Your sergeant is about to become a hero.’

  A moment later, the Hatton team was all out for ninety-four. The Nuala stand erupted, even Florence Clutterbuck was on her feet. ‘Magnificent!’ her husband boomed, slapping de Silva on the back. ‘Never have done it without your sergeant. Remarkable player!’

  De Silva glanced over to where Prasanna was being mobbed by excited admirers who had rushed onto the field. The Hatton team and the rest of the Nuala players were shaking hands and chatting. As players drifted away towards the pavilion or to greet friends and family, Doctor Hebden detached himself from one of the groups and came over to where de Silva and the assistant government agent stood.

  ‘Ah, Hebden!’ Clutterbuck shook his hand. ‘Not your day, eh?’

  Hebden smiled ruefully. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. All the credit goes to Sergeant Prasanna.’

  He held out his hand. ‘I’m David Hebden, and I believe you’re Inspector de Silva. You must be proud of your sergeant.’

  De Silva shook it. ‘Shanti de Silva, and yes, I am very proud. I knew Prasanna had talent but not quite the extent of it.’

  ‘Well,’ said Clutterbuck, still beaming, ‘if you gentlemen will excuse me, my wife and I have an engagement this evening and I mustn’t keep her waiting. Please tell Prasanna I’m sorry not to congratulate him in person.’

  They watched him stride away to where his wife waited. Madeleine Renshaw and her son were once more with her.

  Hebden frowned. ‘Charles Renshaw’s wife left on her own again. I wonder where Renshaw’s got to. He’s a strange fellow. With such a charming wife, most husbands would be more attentive.’

  ‘I’ve only a slight acquaintance with Renshaw, but he doesn’t seem a ladies’ man to me.’

  ‘Quite. Have you met Mrs Renshaw?’

  ‘Only briefly. My wife knows her better.’

  ‘I’ve come across her several times in my professional capacity. That boy of hers is a source of anxiety.’ With a grin, he gestured to where Hamish was playing with Darcy. ‘Although to see him running around with the Clutterbucks’ dog, you wouldn’t think there was much wrong with him. I’m afraid some mothers do tend to translate their own unhappiness into worries about their children.’

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes on Madeleine Renshaw as if he had forgotten de Silva was there, then he collected himself. ‘Forgive me. I find people’s minds an interesting study. But as you are a policeman, I imagine that’s something we have in common.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and talk to the Hatton captain before he leaves. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I hope all our meetings will be purely social.’

&nbs
p; ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Doctor Hebden seems a charming man,’ Jane remarked as they returned to the Morris. ‘Poor Madeleine Renshaw, I don’t think she enjoyed the day much. That husband of hers is as boorish as you said. He turned up with his friend just as the Clutterbucks were offering their official car and chauffeur to take her home and he barely thanked them for looking after his wife.’

  They joined the queue of cars leaving the car park. Several vehicles ahead of them, de Silva spotted the black Daimler weaving from left to right as if trying to overtake the slowly moving line. After a few minutes, a series of parps from the Daimler’s horn made heads turn then the car veered off the track onto the grass and was soon out of sight.

  ‘What bad manners.’ Jane sniffed. ‘I expect that man driving’s had too much to drink.’

  De Silva thought of what he’d seen outside the refreshment tent but decided not to mention it, or his sighting of the woman he was sure was Madeleine Renshaw.

  ‘Probably.’

  They reached the road and by the time they arrived home, darkness had fallen. He looked up at the sky. Rags of cloud had moved in, hiding some of the stars. Lucky it had been dry for the match. The weather might not be so good tomorrow.

  Chapter 9

  It rained in the middle of the night. Great waves of water that lashed the roof and smacked against the windows. Listening to the downpour, he groaned at the thought of how it would be ruining his roses, but in the morning the damage was less than he had feared.

  Mist filled the valley; a few trails of it drifted across the bungalow’s lawn. A feeling of well-being filled him as he inhaled the smell of damp vegetation mingled with flower scents intensified by the warm rain.

  In the dining room, breakfast waited. He rubbed his hands at the sight of tureens of string hoppers, hot rice and curries.

  ‘You look cheerful, dear,’ remarked Jane. ‘Did the roses survive better than you expected?’

  He ladled curry onto a mound of string hoppers. ‘I was pleasantly surprised.’

  ‘Do you have plans for the day?’

  ‘Nothing in particular.’

  The telephone rang in the hall and they heard one of the servants answer it. De Silva frowned. Calls on a Sunday morning were unusual, especially so early. The servant came to the dining room door. ‘It’s for you, master. Doctor Hebden wishes to speak with you.’

  De Silva wiped his lips with his napkin and went to the phone. ‘Good morning, Doctor Hebden. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry to call so early, Inspector. Can you get up to the Renshaws’ place straight away? I’d be grateful if your wife would come with you.’

  ‘Of course, but why do you need us?’

  ‘It’s Charles Renshaw. He’s been found dead.’

  **

  Hebden’s car was parked in the yard at the Five Palms plantation, but otherwise the place seemed deserted. Where workers had sorted leaves outside the factory on de Silva’s previous visit there was only tea dust and a few empty wicker baskets. The silence had an eerie quality.

  The door to the factory building was open so they went in and followed the murmur of voices to the first floor. Doctor Hebden stood at the far end of the withering room beside one of the long tanks. He looked up and raised a hand in greeting. De Silva went over to him and looked down into the tank. Renshaw lay among the drying leaves as if he was asleep. His barrel chest was bare but a loose pair of cotton trousers with a drawstring waist covered the lower part of his body. Only the waxy pallor of his face and the tinge of grey around his lips betrayed that he was dead. The random thought drifted into de Silva’s mind that he wasn’t going to need that warrant now.

  Jane let out a gasp and gripped the side of the tank. Hebden put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry to expose you to such a shock, Mrs de Silva. Would you like to sit down somewhere? I’ll send for a glass of water for you.’

  She shook her head mutely.

  ‘Who found him?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘The night watchman. He says Renshaw came back late yesterday with his friend in the black Daimler. They carried on drinking in Renshaw’s office. The friend – the night watchman says his name is David Leung – called him up to the first floor at about midnight. He told him his master wasn’t feeling too well and would sleep on the camp bed in his office. He wasn’t to be disturbed, so the watchman should make his last round of the factory right away. Leung waited while he did so then they left together. The watchman locked up and went back to his quarters.

  ‘The next morning, around dawn, he was on his early round when he heard the noise of something battering against one of the windows. He unlocked the main doors, went in and found a big fruit bat. He’s no idea how it got in; he was sure all the doors and windows were closed when he left the previous night. He tried to shoo the bat out – those damn things leave droppings everywhere – but it flew up to the first floor. He chased it into the withering room where he found Renshaw’s body.’

  ‘Who else knows he’s dead?’

  ‘Renshaw’s manager. The watchman went to him rather than going down to the bungalow. He called me and I came straight up. I haven’t spoken with Archie Clutterbuck yet. I’m afraid that once his wife knows, it’ll be all round town. Can’t be helped, of course, but I thought we ought to break the news to Madeleine Renshaw first. That’s why I asked you to come, Mrs de Silva. It will help to have another woman here.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but it’s bound to be a terrible shock for the poor lady.’

  De Silva leant over the tank. A strong smell of whisky rose from Renshaw’s body.

  ‘What’s your view on the cause of death?’

  ‘There’s no sign of external injury apart from some minor bruising and abrasion to the face and body. He might have stumbled on the way between the Daimler and the factory building or inside it. These concrete floors are rough enough to do that level of damage. The watchman found him half hidden under the leaves in the tank, so there’s a possibility he asphyxiated while under the influence of alcohol, but it seems remote. If he was drunk enough not to notice that he’d fallen into the tank, I don’t see how he would have been agile enough to have hoisted himself up those.’ He pointed to the set of wooden steps close by.

  ‘I think it’s more likely that he was half sober and had some idea about testing the moisture content of the leaves. The exertion brought on a seizure and he collapsed into the tank. He’s not consulted me since I’ve been here, however I glanced at my predecessor’s notes on him before I came up. About six months ago, Doctor MacCallum diagnosed a heart problem. It’s not conclusive evidence but the grey tinge around the mouth and at the ends of the fingertips are usually reliable indications of a heart attack. Also the way the body is contorted, particularly the clenching of the right hand. In heart seizures, the first symptom would normally be excruciating pain in one or both of the arms.’

  ‘What about the time of death?’

  ‘I arrived here at ten past eight and took the body’s temperature shortly after that. My estimate is that Renshaw hadn’t been dead for more than a few hours, so five o’clock or thereabouts.’

  ‘Hmm. Thank you, doctor.’

  Hebden looked at his watch. ‘If you’re in agreement, I’ll use the telephone here to make arrangements to have the body removed to the morgue. After that, I think we should inform Madeleine Renshaw.’

  De Silva nodded.

  **

  Bee-eaters darted among the trees in the plantation bungalow’s garden; the raucous cry of a peacock splintered the quiet. The sound of the doorbell died away before they heard shuffling inside and the grating of bolts being drawn back. A drowsy-eyed servant peered at them.

  ‘Tell your mistress that Inspector de Silva and Doctor Hebden are here to see her,’ said Hebden.

  ‘What is it, Asha?’ Madeleine Renshaw appeared in the hallway. Not dressed for visitors, in a plain, grey dress with a Kashmiri shawl thrown around her shoulders, she looked tired. At the
sight of de Silva and Hebden, her eyes widened.

  Hebden went to her and took her hands. ‘We need to talk in private, ma’am.’

  She dismissed the servant. ‘Has something happened to Charles?’ she asked when the man was out of earshot. ‘He was drinking far too much yesterday, but it’s a waste of time telling him. Has he had an accident? Please tell me quickly.’

  She noticed Jane and turned pale. A tremor came into her voice. ‘It’s serious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Come and sit down.’

  Hebden led her into the drawing room and the de Silvas followed. She sank into a chair. ‘Has he been taken to hospital?’

  Jane and de Silva looked at each other. There was never an easy way of breaking bad news to the family of the deceased.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m the bearer of very bad tidings,’ Hebden said quietly.

  Madeleine Renshaw seemed to curl in on herself. Like a caterpillar alarmed by the touch of a human hand, de Silva thought. ‘Charles is dead, isn’t he?’ she whispered. ‘That’s what you’ve come to tell me.’

  Jane came forward and put an arm around the young woman’s rigid shoulders. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  A low, keening sound swelled, and Madeleine started to rock to and fro. Hebden went to the door and shouted for a servant. ‘Bring some brandy,’ he barked at the startled man.

  When it came, he raised her head and held the glass to her lips. ‘Drink it slowly. Small sips, that’s it.’

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks and swallowed a little brandy then went into a paroxysm of coughing and pushed the glass away.

  ‘Hamish is with his ayah in the garden. I don’t want him to know yet,’ she gasped. ‘I need to think of what to say.’

  Hebden nodded. ‘It might be best if you go and lie down. The servants can tell him you’re resting for the morning.’