‘Nothing important, sir.’
‘Ah well, make me a cup of tea, please. After that I’ll get off and see if Prasanna has had any luck.’
Half an hour later, he arrived at the bazaar and started to look for Prasanna. It wasn’t usually difficult to spot his young sergeant; he was half a head taller than most of the locals. He had been walking for ten minutes, however, when someone else caught his attention.
Walking towards him was Charles Crichton. It was impossible not to meet and Crichton stopped and nodded awkwardly. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector. I thought I’d have a change of scene and visit the bazaar I’ve heard so much about. Hotel rooms don’t take long to lose their appeal.’
‘I’m sure they don’t.’
‘May I ask if there’s any progress with your investigations?’
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential, sir.’
Beads of perspiration glistened on Crichton’s brow. He took out a handkerchief and mopped them away. ‘I’ll be glad when I can move on. I don’t suppose you can tell me how much longer you intend to keep us here.’
‘Regrettably, I can’t, sir.’
‘It’s not easy for me, you know. I’m not really “one of the gang”. Never have been, although Alexander was always good to me. With him gone…’
The corners of Crichton’s mouth sagged, in fact the whole of his fleshy face made de Silva think of a melting pink jelly, the features were so blurred by fat. If he felt like an outsider in the company, it might be worth probing for anything new he could divulge, albeit it would need to be treated with circumspection.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Times like these tend to bring out the worst in people.’
Crichton shrugged. ‘Oh, on his own, Morville’s a decent enough fellow, and I keep out of the way of Mayne and Raikes, but Sheridan…’ Crichton came closer and de Silva smelt sweat and cheap cologne. ‘He’s always been an awkward customer, and now he’s going completely off the rails. I should look into him if I were you.’ He tapped the side of his nose with a podgy finger. ‘A few gaps in his life it might be interesting to fill in.’
De Silva maintained an imperturbable expression. ‘Thank you for the advice, sir. I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Do that. Well, I won’t detain you.’
Watching him walk away, de Silva wondered whether to take this seriously. It might be worth another visit to Sheridan. It would be interesting to know if he was as secretive about his past as Crichton claimed.
As he resumed his search for Prasanna, he passed a stallholder who pressed his hands together and bowed, a cheerful grin on his face. ‘Welcome, sahib!’ He gestured to the sweetmeats on his stall. ‘Please accept something. It is all very delicious.’
For a moment, de Silva didn’t recognise the man then he remembered he had helped him a few months ago when his stall had been damaged by a rival. He inhaled the aromas of cardamom, cloves, and honey. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, studying the wares on offer before choosing a deep-fried confection shaped like a rosette. He bit into it appreciatively; it was crisp and still warm from the bubbling pan of oil it had been cooked in.
‘Very good,’ he said between mouthfuls. ‘Thank you, again. No more trouble here, I hope?’
‘None, thanks to you, sahib.’
The man grinned again showing stumps of betel-stained teeth. He jerked a thumb at the direction Crichton had gone in. ‘The fat Englishman is fond of kokis too, but today he does not buy from me.’
De Silva frowned. ‘You’ve seen him here before?’
‘Yes.’
That was interesting. Why had Crichton been at pains to make out this was his first visit to the bazaar?
‘Another koki, sahib? Or something else? I have many good things.’
It was tempting but de Silva shook his head. The waistband of his trousers was already snug enough. ‘Have you noticed where else he goes?’
‘That way,’ the man said and pointed. It was the area where, among other things, you found most of the metalworkers.
Interesting.
**
The sun was going down in a lake of fire as he drove home to Sunnybank. By the time he arrived, darkness had fallen with the suddenness of the tropics.
Jane was in the drawing room, a book in her lap. ‘Hello, dear, how did you get on this afternoon? Any news?’
He shook his head. ‘Prasanna and I have scoured the bazaar, but no one remembers anything helpful.’
Jane sighed. ‘How frustrating for you.’
‘It is. But a new lead has come up. Maybe I have been barking up the wrong tree all along.’
‘Charles Crichton,’ Jane said pensively when he had described their meeting in the bazaar. ‘Do you really think the fact he seemed to be lying about it being his first visit there is so important?’
‘Not on its own but added to the fact he seemed very keen to throw suspicion on Frank Sheridan, there may be something worth investigating.’
‘Or his warning might simply be genuine.’
Going to the sideboard, he picked up a decanter. ‘Sherry?’
‘Thank you, just a small one.’
He smelt the rich, fruity tang of amontillado as he poured out a glass and carried it over to her.
‘That’s possible,’ he said, going back to make himself a whisky and soda. ‘But of all people, Sheridan and Raikes seem the least likely to want Danforth dead.’
‘Why would Crichton be any different?’
‘That’s what I don’t know. I’d like to find out more about him. Tomorrow, I’ll go up to the hotel where the cast are staying and see who’s around. Morville might be the best person to talk to. If Sheridan is guilty, anything he says is likely to be untrustworthy and, anyway, I don’t want to tip him off. He and Raikes go back a long way, so I’d have to approach him cautiously too.’
‘From what you say about Charles Crichton, he wouldn’t be agile enough to negotiate any tight corners to get to Alexander Danforth’s dressing room.’
‘Definitely not, but I still haven’t ruled out the possibility that the caretaker isn’t telling the truth. Or Crichton’s job could have been obtaining the key.’
There was a knock at the door and a servant came in. ‘Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes, memsahib.’
Jane nodded. ‘Thank you.’
As the door closed, de Silva drained his whisky and stood up. ‘I’ll go and get out of my uniform. As usual, it was dusty in the bazaar.’
‘Leave it out and I’ll tell one of the servants to launder it and put you out a clean one for tomorrow.’
After dinner, he went into the garden for his evening stroll, enjoying the freshness after the heat of the day. The air was alive with the rustle of nocturnal creatures and the squeak of bats hunting for food. Clouds drifted across the moon, partially hiding the stars. He smelt rain on the air. A shower would be welcome.
At the bottom of the garden, he paused to gaze down at the lights glimmering in the town. Off to one side, where the Residence stood, they burned brighter. He wished he knew what was going on in Archie Clutterbuck’s mind tonight. If he could arrange a meeting with him tomorrow, by nightfall he might know the truth, but would it bring an end to the investigation?
Turning a few degrees to the west, he picked out the lights of the Crown Hotel, queening it over the small huddle of other establishments where Europeans liked to stay. The one where Crichton and the others lodged was among them. He wished he could see into their minds too.
Unconsciously, he snapped off a fading flower head from the frangipani tree that leant over the hedge. Peeling the petals away one by one, he ran over the facts of the case. Where were the gaps in his investigation? An image of the theatre rose in his mind, the sumptuousness that the public saw contrasting with the dank, gloomy cellar and the bare yard.
The problematic key still bothered him but, gradually, he began to wonder if he was on the wrong track. What about the window overlooking the yard? Possibly it had been
a mistake to dismiss it. If the murderer was agile enough to use it to reach the yard, they would have no need for a spare key. There were no footholds one could see, but a rope would do the job.
He remembered the beam across the stage and the system of ropes, pulleys and weights for lifting and lowering scenery. The place the British called the flies. Would anyone notice if one of the ropes was removed and later put back? It was another task for the morning. He hoped Prasanna or Nadar had a head for heights.
As he turned to go back to the bungalow, something drifted into his hair. He brushed it off and smelt again the sweet, intense fragrance of frangipani. The flower’s pale yellow gleamed against the dark lawn. He remembered his mother saying that if a frangipani flower fell on your head, you would have good luck. He hoped she was right.
Chapter 17
There was no sign of Prasanna when de Silva arrived at the station the following morning, but Nadar was typing at his desk in the public room. He scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘I hope it will be. Are you on your own? Where’s Prasanna got to?’
‘I am, sir. He has been here but went straight out to look in some more places in town. He had some ideas in the night about where he might go to find out about the key.’
‘Ah, right. Then you’ll have to be my assistant. Have you a head for heights?’
Nadar looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure, sir. I climbed to the top of the helter-skelter when the circus came to Nuala last year. Will that be high enough?’
‘It should be. Lock up, please, and then we’ll be off.’
It was strange to think that, less than two weeks ago, he and Jane had arrived at the theatre in such different circumstances. Alexander Danforth had been very much alive then, full of vitality and giving a mesmerising performance as Shakespeare’s tragic hero.
Danforth’s body was still at the morgue in Colombo, but there was no reason why his funeral needed to be delayed any longer. It would be interesting to see if Clutterbuck stepped in and offered to arrange it. If all his consideration for Kathleen Danforth and Emerald Watson was just a smokescreen behind which the British were hiding, would it extend that far?
Nadar looked admiringly at the theatre façade as they drove up.
‘Have you ever been inside?’ asked de Silva.
‘No, sir, but my wife and I go to the pictures sometimes if my mother or hers will look after the baby. My wife likes the Indian films with much singing and dancing and happy endings.’
De Silva smiled. Once, he had taken Jane to an Indian film and she too had enjoyed its exuberance. The happy ending, however, had been a little too contrived for her practical nature.
One of the main doors to the foyer looked to be open, so de Silva decided to give his constable a more exciting introduction to the theatre than an entrance through the stage door offered.
He drew to a halt in the front parking area then got out and strode up the steps with Nadar following. Inside, two women in shabby blue work dresses with their hair tied up in scarves were busy polishing the brass balustrades of the staircases that led to the Grand Circle. The air smelt strongly of Brasso and cheap tobacco. Lounging by the foyer bar was the caretaker, smoking a roll-up cigarette and making the women laugh with a story he was telling. He stopped abruptly when he saw de Silva and Nadar.
‘Inspector!’ The caretaker stood to attention and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to hide his cigarette. ‘I only came to see if the cleaning is being done properly.’
The older of the two women sat back on her haunches and shook out the cloth she had been using. She shot the caretaker an acerbic look then refolded her cloth and resumed her vigorous rubbing. A stifled snort of laughter came from the younger woman.
‘Well, since you’re here, you can save us a walk and take us backstage through the auditorium.’
‘Yes, sahib,’ said the caretaker, hastily stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bar and heading for one of the entrance doors.
As de Silva went to follow him, he glanced over the bar counter, noticing the crates of bottles piled up behind it. Behind them, the space receded into shadow. ‘What’s down there?’ he asked, more out of habit than anything else.
‘Only the place where glasses are cleaned and alcohol is kept, sahib, and the side door I told you of.’
‘I see.’
Nadar’s eyes widened as the caretaker unlocked a door and led them into the auditorium. Hushed and shadowy, to de Silva it didn’t look as splendid as it had done on the evening of Danforth’s last performance, but it was still impressive. The rows of empty, red-plush seats rolled out of the shadows like crimson waves. The cream and gold of balconies and walls brightened the gloom. De Silva smiled to see how tentatively Nadar walked down the carpeted aisle. He thought of Prasanna’s reaction the first time he had seen the magnificent lobby at the Crown Hotel.
Through the wings, they were back in the shabby reality behind the theatrical glamour.
‘What do you wish to see, sahib?’ asked the caretaker.
‘The window that overlooks the courtyard you showed me, where is it inside the building?’
‘I think it is in one of the storerooms, but I am not sure which one, sahib.’
‘Take me up there first, then I want to go above the stage.’
The caretaker led them up several flights of stairs to a shabby landing with two doors painted a shade of green that closely resembled the colour used in railway stations and government buildings. Some British factory must have produced rivers of it over the years.
The hinges on the first door protested as the caretaker opened it. De Silva peered into a windowless room, empty, apart from a broken standard lamp with a torn, ruched pink shade; a dilapidated, chintzy armchair oozing horsehair stuffing, and a vase of washed-out dried flowers. Presumably they were props that had outlived their useful life.
The second room did have a window. De Silva went over to it and looked down into the yard. It was a long drop, but the window was big enough for a slim man to climb out. The gauzy cobwebs clinging to the dirty glass gave the impression that it hadn’t been open for some time, then he noticed the spider scuttling into a crevice between the window frame and the wall. An industrious arachnoid only needed a day or two to weave such a web.
A more interesting question was how a rope would have been secured. The only piece of furniture heavy enough to hold a man’s weight was the table standing against the opposite wall. He studied the floor for signs it had been dragged across to the window and found none but it was hard to tell as the floor was reasonably clean.
‘Good, we’ll move on. I’d like to see if there’s evidence that any of the ropes in the flies have been tampered with recently.’
Up in the flies, he marshalled his courage and forced himself to take a cautious step onto the rotting walkway. His stomach churned; the stage was far below, at the wrong end of a telescope. He stepped back quickly.
‘Shall I go, sir?’ asked Nadar. With a lack of perturbation that de Silva envied, the young constable didn’t wait for an answer and set off along the walkway, squatting down when he reached the first group of ropes. Apparently oblivious to the drop only inches from his splayed knees, he studied the ropes carefully, feeling along the coarse hemp, then running his hand along the wood underneath. Even though he was on solid ground, de Silva’s guts heaved.
‘Well?’ he called brusquely. ‘Any sign they’ve been meddled with?’
Nadar stood up. ‘Some of the fibres are frayed, sir. It might be wear and tear, but it could be that someone has taken a sharp implement to loosen the knots. There’s not much dust under here either.’
De Silva felt a tightening in his chest as Nadar bent down and pulled a rope up a little way. ‘It’s heavy, sir. Someone would need to be strong to carry it. Shall I check the others?’
De Silva inhaled sharply. ‘No, that’s enough now. You can come back in.’
‘There is another possibility
though, sir.’ Remaining where he was, Nadar pulled out his handkerchief and picked something up in it. As he returned to safe ground, the muzzy feeling in de Silva’s head receded and he looked to see what his constable had found.
‘Mouse droppings, sir. Their teeth are sharp enough to gnaw at the ropes.’
De Silva sighed. It was certainly plausible.
They followed the caretaker down the stairs and back to the foyer. The man hovered as if he was expecting a tip, but de Silva ignored the hint and dismissed him.
‘Did you find what you were hoping for, sir?’ asked Nadar as they left the theatre.
‘Not really.’
Nadar looked downcast.
‘It’s not your fault, Constable,’ de Silva added hastily. ‘Police work needs patience and good powers of observation and on that score, you did a very good job.’
Nadar beamed. ‘Thank you, sir.’
A gardener came around the corner weighed down on one side by a watering can and proceeded to water the large terracotta pots of geraniums at the top of the theatre steps. Droplets of water gleamed like silver on the velvety leaves and scarlet petals.
De Silva watched the operation for a few moments then beckoned. With a clunk, the man dumped his can on the ground and came over. ‘Yes, sahib?’
‘Have you seen anyone coming or going here over the last few days?’
‘It is hard to remember who comes and who goes, sahib. I am on my own and there is much work to do. For little pay,’ the man added glumly.
From the evidence of the scrubby land at the back and these few pots, the pay might be poor, but the work was hardly arduous. All the same, it was worth a small outlay to get some information.
‘Try and remember,’ said de Silva, chinking the loose change in his trouser pocket.
The man’s eyes glinted. ‘When I was sweeping at the back, one of the Englishmen came.’
‘When was this?’
‘Two days ago.’ He scratched his head. ‘Maybe three.’
A pity he couldn’t be more specific, but it might not be important. ‘What did he look like?’
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 48
