The Inspector de Silva Mysteries

by Harriet Steel

  The man waggled his head and went away. A few moments later, the vicar emerged from his study. He looked rather bemused. As well he might, de Silva thought. He rarely accompanied Jane to church. He might as well get straight to the point.

  ‘Ravindra Tagore,’ the vicar said thoughtfully when asked the question. ‘He was in Nuala recently to attend his mother’s funeral, but I only met him at the service. All the arrangements were seen to by the undertakers. But come in, come in. I may have something in my records. If not, I’ll give you the undertakers’ name and you might like to enquire there.’

  De Siva followed him into a dimly lit, cluttered room that smelt of peppermints and waited while the vicar riffled through papers. At last he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, but the undertakers were Baileys in Hatton.’

  ‘I know them. Thank you.’

  ‘Are you a friend of Mr Tagore’s?’

  ‘An acquaintance. I have some legal business I would like to discuss with him.’

  ‘His mother was a charming lady. She came to church every Sunday until her final illness. I was very glad to be able to visit her in hospital several times before she died.’

  He accompanied de Silva to the door. ‘A sad business about Charles Renshaw,’ he observed. ‘I understand your wife is a friend of his widow’s. I don’t know Mrs Renshaw well myself. She comes to church, but rarely takes part in our other activities. I suppose their plantation is rather remote.’

  De Silva thanked him and returned to the station. When he tried to telephone the undertakers, however, the line to Hatton was down. He looked at his watch. There was time to drive there if he left straight away.

  **

  The drive was a pleasant one, but to his annoyance, when he arrived, he found the premises closed. He waited for ten minutes in case someone returned then another idea occurred to him. The Registry of Births and Deaths in Nuala would issue him with Mrs Tagore’s death certificate which would show her last address. Tagore might have gone there or there might at least be something – a letter or an address book perhaps – showing where he lived. He wished he had thought of that before driving all this way.

  He reached the Town Hall in time to fill in the two forms required and pay the fee. The clerk handed him a receipt and suggested he return the next day. Feeling irritable, de Silva went back to the station. It had been a wasted day. Another evening alone stretched before him.

  He was on the station doorstep with his key in the lock when there was a squeak of brakes and Prasanna jumped off his bicycle.

  ‘Did you find anything out?’

  Prasanna shook his head. ‘No one there has been spending more money than usual, sir. In fact, they were all very subdued. The manager is still sending pluckers out into the fields, but no one knows whether the leaves they collect will ever go to the auctions. Some of the workers have left to find other jobs.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Prasanna. You may as well get off home.’

  Chapter 18

  Jane returned home later than she had expected from Florence Clutterbuck’s musical evening – the string quartet had played several encores – so, luckily for de Silva, it wasn’t hard for him to hold to his resolve to keep his own counsel.

  Overnight, an idea for checking whether the story of Jacko’s death was true had come to him. After breakfast, he left for the police station as usual then drove out to Five Palms with Prasanna. Just before the last stretch of the road to the bungalow, he turned into a narrow lane he had noticed on his last visit. As he hoped, it brought them close to the rear boundary of the bungalow’s garden.

  A belt of jungle separated it from the lane. He went ahead of Prasanna, picking his way carefully, lifting ferns and creepers with a stick as he walked, watchful for any slithering movement that would indicate there was a snake. The air buzzed with the sound of insects; the sun beat on his back.

  Their tramp ended at a dense stand of king coconut palms and a broken-down wire fence. They climbed over it, edged past the tall tree trunks, and began to comb the ground, looking for a patch that had been recently disturbed.

  ‘I think it’s here, sir,’ Prasanna called softly after a few minutes.

  De Silva went over and studied the place. Brushwood and creepers had been cut back from an area a few feet square, exposing the densely packed red earth. In a smaller square in the centre, the earth was more powdery.

  Prasanna pushed the sharp edge of the spade he had been carrying into the ground. After two shovel loads, he struck something solid. He loosened the soil round about then knelt down and scooped it away until he had unearthed a wooden box of the kind used to store tea. He opened it and lifted out a bundle.

  Wrapped inside was Jacko, his plumage bedraggled and his eyes closed. De Silva picked him up. Apart from the blood caking the feathers on his breast, there was no sign of injury. If he had been caught by a predator, it must have been scared away before it had time to do much damage. He held the bird up to the light and checked him over again. The blood looked thicker on one part of the breast. ‘Do you have a knife, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  De Silva crouched down and laid Jacko on the ground. Carefully, he parted some of his feathers and felt for the flesh, then he took the knife and put the tip of the blade into the gory mess. A small twist, and a shiny piece of flattened metal popped out.

  ‘That’s the first time I’ve come across a wild animal that knows how to use a gun,’ he remarked. He put the bullet in his pocket. ‘Wrap him up and put him back, Prasanna. Try to fill in the hole as if nothing’s been disturbed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They drove back to Nuala, threading through bullock carts and rickshaws as they neared the centre of town. Stopping at the Town Hall, he collected the death certificate then dropped Prasanna at the station and set off for the address where Tagore’s mother had lived.

  **

  The lane up to the late Mrs Tagore’s home was steep with high banks on either side. He put the Morris into second gear and the car crawled up, protesting. Ferns grew on the banks with a sprinkling of wild flowers among them. Butterflies flitted from one bright clump to another.

  Weeds had colonised the gravelled splay in front of the bungalow. At the gate, the perfume of a magnificent angel’s trumpet shrub met him. There were roses under the bungalow windows: in sore need of pruning but still producing a good show of crimson flowers. A border to one side of the building displayed some of the rarer shrubs and plants de Silva knew. A lover of gardens had lived here once.

  On the opposite side to the shrub border stood a garage. He glimpsed a black Austin parked inside and immediately remembered Tagore’s mother. He had seen her sometimes on his occasional visits to church with Jane. A grizzled Tamil chauffeur, almost as elderly as she was, had always driven her up to the lych-gate and dropped her off: a petite, elegant lady, dressed in the western-style fashions he recalled seeing in his youth. Whatever the weather, a fur tippet had always been draped around her neck. Her outfits were usually complemented by numerous ropes of pearls.

  No one answered when he rang the bell, so he walked round to the garden side of the bungalow. At first, he thought that the man hacking dead branches off an old apple tree with a machete must be the gardener, then he realised it was Tagore. He wore the traditional sarong and his chest was bare. De Silva observed the broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Tagore was also considerably taller than he was. If it came to a fight, he hoped he wouldn’t regret not bringing Prasanna or Nadar.

  He was a few feet away before Tagore heard him. He turned and pushed a lock of wavy black hair out of his eyes.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. This is a surprise. What can I do for you?’

  The words were civil, but Tagore’s expression was wary and unsmiling. De Silva glanced at the keen edge of the machete and his mouth dried. ‘I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, Mr Tagore.’

  ‘Then you’d better come inside.’

  The bungalow’s interior
was attractive and filled with light. Elegant brocade curtains hung at the windows of the room into which Tagore took him. The furniture was rosewood and there were watercolours of Mediterranean landscapes on the walls.

  Tagore picked up an old towel draped over the back of a sofa and wiped the sweat from his face and torso. ‘Will you excuse me while I fetch a shirt?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  While he waited, de Silva looked round the room. There were a few papers out on a desk, but they were merely letters of condolence and the undertakers’ bill, nothing of any interest.

  He studied the silver-framed photographs on the rosewood piano. In one of them, Mrs Tagore stood beside a distinguished-looking man. From the resemblance he was, presumably, Tagore’s father. They were both smiling, their heads almost touching, dressed for some special occasion. Other photographs showed a handsome little boy, who must be Tagore, playing with a variety of large dogs. There were also photographs of racehorses, and one of the Austin in the garage.

  De Silva picked it up and studied it. At the bottom of the picture, the words Austin 10hp 1912 were inscribed in white.

  ‘You take an interest in cars, Inspector?’

  Tagore had come back into the room. Dressed in western-style trousers now, he was tucking his shirt tails into the waistband. He seemed more relaxed, but a glimmer of wariness was still in his eyes.

  ‘Have done since I was a young man.’

  ‘Are you in the market for a new one? I’ll give you a good price. I have no use for a car in Colombo. It’s in excellent condition; my father was a careful driver. He was very fond of horseracing and he and my mother liked to go to the races at Kandy sometimes, but otherwise they only used the car for short journeys. After he died, my mother’s chauffeur took her to church every Sunday. The rest of the time, the car stayed in the garage.’

  He sat down. ‘Well, we’ve got the pleasantries over. I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about my family. Shall we begin?’

  ‘How well do you know Charles Renshaw’s wife?’

  ‘We’re acquainted. I thought it proper to attend her late husband’s funeral where, you may recall, I spoke with you and your wife.’

  De Silva let that pass for the moment.

  ‘You appeared to lose interest in pursuing your complaint about Renshaw’s treatment of his worker, Hari Gooptu, very suddenly. Can you explain why?’

  ‘As I said when we met at the church that day, I had decided to rely on your judgement. I accepted you might have been right and my complaint could do more harm than good. Don’t rock the boat, eh, Inspector? I believe that was your advice.’

  ‘Are you sure it had nothing to do with Madeleine Renshaw?’

  ‘Why ever should it?’

  ‘Because, Mr Tagore, I believe that you and she are far more than acquaintances.’

  Tagore’s expression was unchanged. ‘That’s nonsense, Inspector.’

  ‘Is it? You were seen with her at the lake on the Friday before the Hatton cricket match.’

  ‘Pure chance,’ said Tagore, barely missing a beat. ‘I had forgotten. She was watching her son swim. We spoke for a moment or two.’

  Not how it had looked to him, thought de Silva. ‘When my wife and I met you at St George’s church the same afternoon, you mentioned you would be leaving Nuala the following morning, yet you are still here. Why is that?’

  ‘The case I was due to appear in settled. As I no longer needed to return to Colombo for the hearing, I decided to wrap up my mother’s affairs sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Why did you check out of the Nuala Hotel?’

  Tagore laughed. ‘Really, Inspector, I fear you subscribe to the popular view that all lawyers are made of money. I decided to conserve funds and move here for a few days.’

  ‘As you were unexpectedly here on the Saturday, did you go to the cricket ground?’

  ‘I was too busy.’

  ‘You were here all that day?’

  Tagore nodded.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain? And throughout the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can vouch for that?’

  ‘No, you’ll have to take my word for it.’

  ‘I beg to differ. I saw you myself in the woods adjoining the cricket ground. You met Madeleine Renshaw there. It was clear you didn’t want anyone to see you together. Were you planning how you would get rid of her husband? He’d found out about the two of you, hadn’t he? He and Madeleine had a violent argument over your relationship. You brought me the story about Gooptu’s ill-treatment and that bloodstained shirt, hoping I’d believe Gooptu or one of his co-workers were aggrieved enough to murder Renshaw, when it was you who had an even more powerful reason for wanting him dead.’

  Tagore lurched from his chair. ‘I won’t listen to any more of this nonsense.’

  De Silva was at the door before him, barring the way. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Mr Tagore,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m arresting you for the murder of Charles Renshaw.’

  Chapter 19

  Jane was out again that evening, persuaded by Florence Clutterbuck to attend yet another of her events; this time it was a charitable one. De Silva was relieved, although he was careful not to show it. It would have been a struggle to hide his uneasiness from her.

  Despite his fears that Tagore would become violent, the fellow had gone quietly to the station. Was the dignity he showed evidence of innocence or concealment of guilt? At the station, more questioning had proved fruitless. In the end, he had left him in one of the cells and instructed Prasanna to stay overnight to guard him.

  Over his solitary dinner, de Silva analysed the facts with mounting apprehension. Tagore had a motive for wanting Renshaw dead and he had no alibi for the night of the murder but was that enough to prove he was guilty? If he had made a mistake arresting Tagore, there would be hell to pay. The lawyer would want his revenge. Clutterbuck would criticise his precipitant action, and Jane would be angry that he had unjustly implicated Madeleine in a plot to kill her husband.

  He pushed his plate away with his favourite spicy dahl only half eaten. Tomorrow, he would interrogate Tagore again, but it was going to be hard to catch him out. The lawyer was used to examining others and not likely to trip himself up.

  **

  After two late nights, Jane decided to breakfast in her room. De Silva took an early morning walk in the garden before eating alone and driving to the station.

  ‘Anything to report?’ he asked Prasanna when the sergeant emerged from the back room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘No, sir. He’s been quiet all night. Now that you’re here, may I go out and get some food for breakfast?’

  ‘You may.’

  De Silva went down the corridor to the cells. Tagore lay on a narrow bunk bed with his eyes closed. He opened them when he heard de Silva’s footsteps and sat up. ‘I trust this charade is over, Inspector, and you’ve come to tell me I’m free to leave.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘If not now, you’ll be forced to soon. You know as well as I do that you haven’t enough evidence to charge me. Your case is flimsy, based on your ridiculous assumption that, because we have spoken a few times, Madeleine Renshaw and I are having an affair. If a breath of that slur on her name gets out, rest assured I’ll see to it that—’

  ‘I’ve warned you once not to threaten me, Mr Tagore,’ de Silva said with a scowl. ‘I’ll leave you now. My sergeant will bring you some food in a while. Perhaps you’ll feel more like talking later.’

  Prasanna returned with a breakfast of dahl and vegetable curry he had bought at one of the food stalls in the market. For once, the spicy aromas didn’t make de Silva feel hungry.

  ‘Take some to Tagore,’ he said, ‘then when you’ve eaten get back to going round the Ayurvedic shops. Nadar had better stay here this morning in case I need to go out.’

  He frowned. ‘Is something wrong, Sergeant?’

  ‘The bazaar’s full of talk, s
ir. Some of the locals must have seen you bring Tagore in yesterday. I don’t know who recognised him, but people already seem to know his name. They were asking me what’s going on. One woman wanted to know if he had something to do with the death of the English plantation owner. I didn’t say anything, and she laughed and tapped her nose.’

  De Silva groaned. It was his bad luck that Tagore was taller and better looking than most men. Nuala was a small town and he stood out from the crowd.

  Prasanna had left to continue his search by the time Nadar knocked on the door of de Silva’s office. ‘The prisoner is asking if he may wash and shave, sir.’

  ‘Let him wash, but no razor. Clean up his cell and tell him I’ll come and question him again when he’s done.’

  Half an hour later, de Silva walked down the corridor to the cells. Despite Nadar’s efforts, the smell of curry still lingered on the stale air. He turned on his heel and returned to the front desk. ‘Bring him to my office. I’ll question him there. I doubt he’ll try anything but stay close in case I need you.’

  A few minutes later, there were footsteps and Nadar showed Tagore in. The lawyer’s air of cold hostility made the hairs on the back of de Silva’s neck prickle. He was glad that Constable Nadar was within earshot.

  Tagore sat down without being asked. Notwithstanding his crumpled clothes and unshaven chin, he managed to look supremely in control of the situation. ‘Your constable tells me you have more questions for me, Inspector. Fire away.’

  De Silva was about to frame his first question when they heard a commotion outside. A moment later, the door burst open to reveal Nadar. His eyes were on stalks and he was panting.

  ‘There’s an English lady here, sir. I told her you were busy, but she’s insisting on seeing you.’