The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  ‘I hope that was satisfactory,’ said the manager as they returned to the hotel.

  ‘Perfectly, and I hope you understand that I rely on your discretion. My visit must remain confidential.’

  ‘Inspector, everything that happens within the walls of this hotel is confidential.’

  So, thought de Silva as he drove back to the station, Leung had arrived back at the hotel at the very least three and a half hours after he left the plantation. How could the journey have taken so long? Even though much of the road was poor and he had been driving in the dark, there were two and a half hours not accounted for. But then if Hebden was right and Renshaw died at about five o’clock, Leung was already back at the hotel by then.

  Rickshaws and bullock carts jostled for space on the road as he neared the bazaar. The Morris came to a stop beside a stall where plucked fowls hung by their feet. The stallholder haggled with a buyer who was prodding a scrawny carcass. De Silva frowned. If it was cyanide that killed Renshaw, he would have died almost as fast as that fowl when its neck was wrung. Even if Leung had returned to the factory and the night watchman hadn’t seen him do so, on Hebden’s analysis, the facts didn’t add up.

  The bullock cart ahead of him pulled to one side and he edged the Morris past it. He needed to know more about Leung’s movements that night. He also needed to talk to an old acquaintance who might be able to help him with Hebden’s estimate of the time of Renshaw’s death.

  Back at the station, he made two telephone calls: one to the most respected hospital in Colombo; the other to the Crown Hotel. His old acquaintance was busy removing the appendix of a well-known Colombo businessman. David Leung was lunching at the Empire Club.

  **

  The Empire Club was housed in a building that was very much aware of its own importance. Constructed of brick as red as underdone beef, its roof was crowned with crenelated turrets that gave it a baronial air. A meticulously clipped, thorny shrub grew up the sides of the deep entrance porch as if to remind non-members that they entered on sufferance.

  A liveried flunkey stepped forward the moment de Silva’s foot landed on the thick, burgundy carpet. ‘May I help you, Inspector?’

  ‘Is Mr David Leung here?’

  ‘I believe he is in for lunch. Is he expecting you?’

  De Silva ignored the question. ‘Please tell him I’d be obliged if he would spare me a few moments of his time.’

  The click of cue on billiard ball and the hum of conversation drifted from a nearby room as de Silva waited. He surveyed the blackened-wood panelling that covered the walls to shoulder height. Above it, they were hung with red paper embossed with a lighter pattern of flower motifs. An impressive chandelier composed of a huge iron hoop fitted with sconces containing the lamps dangled from a massive chain. The air was redolent of unquestioned privilege.

  ‘Please come with me, Inspector,’ the flunkey said on his return.

  De Silva followed him to a room with a sign on the door marked “Private” and went in. David Leung greeted him with a handshake. ‘A pleasure to see you again, Inspector. What can I do for you?’ He nodded to the flunkey. ‘Thank you. I’ll ring the bell if we need anything.’

  The door closed and the smile on Leung’s face vanished. ‘I hate to rush you, Inspector, but I have a guest lunching with me and I expect him at any moment. Can we make this brief?’

  ‘Certainly. Do you recall you told me that you left Charles Renshaw in his office at around midnight on the night of his death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet the night porter at the hotel remembers you returned to the hotel between half past three and four in the morning. The drive back from the plantation would take, say, an hour. Forgive me, but I must ask you what you were doing for the rest of the time.’

  Not a flicker of disquiet disturbed Leung’s impassive expression. ‘There’s no need to apologise, Inspector. The explanation is quite simple. As you know, the road up to Five Palms is very rough in many places. I’d been in a hurry to get my passengers back after the cricket. Charles was in a belligerent mood and poor Madeleine was becoming increasingly distressed. I decided that the best thing to do was separate them as soon as possible.

  ‘I probably took a few too many chances on the bad stretches, especially where the road menders are working. Possibly I went over some broken glass or sharp scrap metal. On the way back to Nuala, I nearly lost control of the car and realised that I had a flat tyre. I stopped and tried to find help, but there was no one about. In the end, I had to change to the spare wheel myself.’

  He splayed the well-manicured fingers of one hand. ‘Unfortunately for the occasion, my abilities don’t lie in that direction, so it took me quite a while.’

  ‘Do you remember what the time was when you stopped and where you were?’

  ‘About half past twelve, and I was still a good five miles from the outskirts of town. I’m afraid I can’t be more precise than that, there were no particular landmarks to distinguish the spot from any other around there.’

  Inwardly, de Silva acknowledged that was true of much of that road.

  ‘You may recall it rained heavily that night. I decided against trying to walk back to town and leave dealing with the car until morning. By the time the rain stopped, no other cars had come by. As I say, it took me quite a while to change the wheel after that. I was too tired to notice precisely what time I reached the hotel, but more likely nearer half past three than four o’clock.’

  ‘Which tyre was it?’

  ‘I hope I’m not being interrogated, Inspector?’

  ‘Just getting the facts straight, sir.’

  ‘The offside rear.’

  He glanced at the gold watch protruding from the cuff of his immaculate white shirt.

  ‘One last thing, which garage did you use to repair the tyre?’

  Leung’s eyes narrowed then the smile returned. ‘Gopallawa Motor Repairs. They were recommended by the manager and I found them satisfactory.’

  De Silva thanked him and left. On the way back to the station, he mulled over what Leung had told him. It would be easy enough to check with the garage that they had mended the punctured tyre. Leung had given the reason for the delay without hesitation, and it was plausible that the car would have been hard to control. On the other hand, the chances of verifying that there were skid marks at the spot were virtually nil.

  At the station, Constable Nadar was eating a large bowl of dahl. He quickly swallowed his mouthful. ‘Sorry, sir, my wife is visiting her mother today, so I brought in my lunch.’

  ‘That’s alright, I’ll be going home for mine in a moment. Have there been any calls?’

  ‘Only one, sir, the assistant to Doctor Van Bruyn. He said the doctor is available now until five o’clock if you wish to call back.’

  He pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘I wrote down the number.’

  De Silva folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He would go home to Sunnybank for lunch and ring Van Bruyn from there. Before he left the station, he telephoned Gopallawa Motor Repairs, but the manager was out. He left a message that he would ring again later.

  He ate a solitary meal on the verandah at Sunnybank and washed it down with a stiff whisky and soda. He rarely drank alcohol during the day, but today he needed something to sharpen his brain. Could Hebden be wrong about the time when Renshaw died? If so, was it possible that Leung had returned to the factory unbeknown to the night watchman and got in, quite possibly in the way Prasanna had demonstrated?

  A woodpecker landed on the jacaranda tree and started to hammer at the bark searching for insects. The beautiful, flame-backed bird was one of de Silva’s favourites, but he hardly glanced at it.

  Why would Leung want to kill Renshaw? They were, apparently, friends. Close enough for Renshaw to ask for Leung’s help with his financial problems. In one of Jane’s detective novels, Leung might have planned his friend’s death with a view to stepping into his shoes with his widow and the plantation,
but this wasn’t one of her novels. Leung seemed to be aware of the burden of debt on the plantation. Why would he see any advantage in taking it over? Jane was convinced that Madeleine’s professed dislike of Leung was genuine too. The likelihood that they were involved in a conspiracy to murder her husband was very remote.

  He pondered Madeleine’s state of mind. She had been unhappy with her husband, but that wasn’t automatically a motive for murder. If it were, half the husbands in the world would be in danger sometimes.

  But what if Leung had nothing to do with it? What if Madeleine and Tagore were lovers? Jane might be right that there was more between them than they were admitting. It was the most plausible explanation that the poison had been administered to Renshaw while he was in his office. Drunk and half asleep, he probably hadn’t realised what was happening.

  Yet even if Madeleine had been responsible for making him drink the tea – pretending it was a restorative for example – how had he got to the withering tank? He remembered the bruising and scratches on Renshaw. His body had probably been dragged along the passage before being bundled into the tank. A slight woman like Madeleine would never have the strength to do that. Tagore, however, would be capable of it.

  He put his head in his hands and pressed his fingers against his temples. One thing at a time: when, and if, David Leung was eliminated, that would be the time to turn his attention to Ravindra Tagore.

  The sound of the telephone bell drifted from the hall. It stopped and a few moments later, a servant came to the verandah doors. ‘Gopallawa Motor Repairs, master.’

  The wicker chair creaked as de Silva hauled himself out of it and went to take the call. He explained what he wanted to know and waited while the manager consulted his invoice book.

  ‘Yes, Mr Leung’s Daimler was here for a repair at the beginning of the week, sir.’

  ‘What was the work you did?’

  ‘A repair to a punctured tyre.’

  De Silva thanked him and replaced the receiver. Now to speak to Henry Van Bruyn. So far, Leung’s story rang true, but it would be valuable to know what Van Bruyn thought of Doctor Hebden’s conclusions on the time of Renshaw’s death.

  **

  ‘Shanti de Silva! This is an unexpected pleasure. It’s been too long since we met. Tell me, what can I do for you?’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, Doctor Van Bruyn. If you have no objection, I’d be grateful for your professional advice on a matter I have in hand.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Briefly, de Silva described how Renshaw’s body had been found and the conclusion Hebden had come to about the time of his death.

  The characteristic rumbling laugh de Silva remembered rolled out of the receiver. He pictured Van Bruyn’s broad, genial face under the mane of grey hair. The doctor came from Dutch Burgher stock and had an imposing presence that endeared him to his privileged patients.

  ‘I aim to keep my patients alive, de Silva. Fortunately, more often than not I succeed, so I don’t have a great deal of expertise in that area, but then again, most medical men have even less. It doesn’t surprise me that your Doctor Hebden’s analysis is somewhat crude.’

  De Silva reached for a notepad and pen as Van Bruyn continued. ‘This is very new science. Most of the work done so far has been in America. The academic papers I’ve read indicate that, in cases where no one else was present to confirm it, it’s not enough to take the rectal temperature and apply a linear formula in order to establish the time of a death. After death, bodies cool – or indeed warm – until they reach the temperature of the air around them. The rule of thumb is that this process takes place at the rate of one and a half degrees per hour, but that takes no account of many influential factors.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘The deceased’s physique for one. An overweight person cools more slowly than one who is thin. Fat is an excellent insulator. The presence of alcohol in the body may have a bearing on the rate of cooling as well. You also need to consider where the body was found. If it was in a cool room, but wrapped in excessively warm clothing, the rule of thumb is less helpful than if the body was naked or lightly clothed. Of course, once the body has reached ambient temperature, none of this is any use.’

  Van Bruyn paused. ‘Does that help?’

  ‘Indeed it does. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. I doubt there’s any more light I can shed, but if anything occurs to you, I’d be happy to try.’

  De Silva thought quickly. On his principle of checking every detail, there was one more thing and it was a matter a doctor might be able to help with. Namely that if the bloodstained shirt didn’t belong to Gooptu, who did it belong to? It was a long shot but if the blood type or even just the length of time the shirt had been stained could be identified, it might help in some way.

  ‘By all means send it down to me,’ Van Bruyn said when de Silva asked him. ‘I’m not sure if it will be possible to tell anything. It may depend on how old the stain is, but the boys in the lab will know. I must say, you intrigue me, de Silva. I won’t ask you to divulge any secrets now but one day you must tell me what this is all about.’

  De Silva thanked him again and they said goodbye. He went back into the garden and paced the lawn. Precision might still elude him, but the conversation had been very useful. It had exposed Hebden’s diagnosis as simplistic, and very possibly wrong.

  He consulted his watch. It was only three o’clock. There was plenty of time to visit the Five Palms plantation. Even if he could rule out David Leung, it would be interesting to find out anything Madeleine knew about him, and her husband’s financial affairs in general

  In any case, he missed Jane.

  Chapter 15

  The sun glinted on the surface of the lake as he drove by. For a change there were no ponies about. Maybe Prasanna was having some success after all. He put his foot down and the speedometer needle crept up.

  He was still resolved not to burden Jane with his suspicions for the present. She had enough to do consoling Madeleine Renshaw, and anyway, numerous questions remained unanswered in his own mind. Smiling, she came to meet him across the bungalow’s lawn. ‘Shanti, dear. I’m so glad to see you.’

  They exchanged a kiss. ‘And I you. How’s everything going here?’

  ‘She’s started to talk a little more, but oh dear, Shanti, she’s so worried about the future. She keeps saying she doesn’t know how she can stay on here and, if it’s not possible, where will she and Hamish go?’

  ‘I’m afraid she has good reason to be worried. Does she have any family?’

  ‘Only some distant relatives in England. She doesn’t relish the prospect of appealing to them.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘Shanti, I’d like to tell her that if she has to go, she and Hamish are welcome to stay with us for a while. I’ve grown very fond of both of them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He hoped his voice didn’t betray the uncertainty he felt. If Madeleine Renshaw was a conspirator, her future would not be in her own hands.

  ‘Has she said anything about the financial troubles here? I noticed some old photographs in Renshaw’s office. It looked from those as if the plantation was a prosperous concern once.’

  ‘Madeleine said there was a long-drawn-out legal dispute over who was to inherit. The deceased owner was Charles’s distant cousin. Eventually, the case was resolved in Charles’s favour, but the plantation was neglected while it went on. When they came here, there was so much to do. Old tea bushes needed to be grubbed out and the fields replanted. A lot of the machinery was rusting or needing repair.’

  They heard footsteps and Hamish ran down the stairs from the verandah. He stopped when he saw de Silva who smiled encouragingly. ‘Have you forgotten me already? How’s that bird of yours?’

  Hamish came the rest of the way and took Jane’s hand. This whole business was bound to shake the boy’s confidence, thought de Silva.

  ‘He has to live in his c
age,’ Hamish said sadly. ‘Mamma says she doesn’t like him to be free.’

  ‘But you can go and see him as often as you like, can’t you,’ said Jane kindly.

  Hamish’s face brightened. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘So Jacko had to be banished after all, did he?’ asked de Silva as the little boy scampered away.

  ‘Yes, he did. His language really is appalling and it seems to set Madeleine’s nerves even more on edge than they already are.’

  ‘Where has he been banished to?’

  ‘A cage in the kitchen yard.’

  ‘Perhaps a spell there will reform him.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Jane said acerbically. ‘If he has to come to us, he might end up in the pot.’

  De Silva chuckled. ‘That’s not very charitable of you, my love.’

  ‘It’s not meant to be. Ah, here comes Madeleine.’

  As she greeted de Silva, he thought how frail she looked. ‘It’s so kind of you to spare Jane,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without her these last few days.’

  ‘You and Shanti sit down. I’ll go and tell the servants to bring us out some tea.’

  Madeleine squeezed Jane’s hand and gave her a sad, self-deprecating smile. ‘Thank you. I’m not a very good hostess at the moment.’

  ‘No one expects you to be, my dear.’

  Jane went inside. Madeleine hesitated then she spoke in a low voice. ‘I imagine Jane’s told you about our situation, Inspector. Charles left me with a pile of debts. I’ve no experience of business and I shall probably be forced to sell the plantation.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it. Jane and I were talking just now. You and Hamish would be most welcome to stay with us at Sunnybank until you decide what to do.’

  ‘You’re both very kind.’ She blinked and wiped her eyes.

  ‘Did you have any idea of your late husband’s financial problems?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I guessed all wasn’t well.’ She gestured to the bungalow’s shabby exterior and the garden’s unkempt shrubs and trees. ‘Charles would get so angry if I suggested making any improvements. But I didn’t realise how bad the situation was.’ She dabbed her eyes again. ‘If only he’d talked to me, but then Charles and I didn’t talk very much.’