De Silva pulled out his handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth. It was dusty in the cupboard, but he couldn’t afford to sneeze or cough. It was obviously going to be unwise to move around either if the mysterious visitor, or visitors, came into the study.
Voices and footsteps grew louder. He guessed there were two men, maybe three, with Coryat. The one who was talking spoke English with a strong accent. De Silva frowned. Wasn’t it familiar?
When Coryat answered, he talked fast, as if he was nervous. De Silva struggled to make out what he and the man were saying but only managed to catch something about an agreement to hand over money. Coryat’s agitation was even more apparent as the conversation went on. There were other noises. It sounded like the room was being searched.
De Silva only just stopped himself from recoiling when the door of the cupboard in which he was imprisoned shook.
‘It’s locked, boss,’ said a rough voice, very close to his ear. His stomach churned. Any minute now, Coryat would have to open the door. From what he’d said earlier, thought de Silva, after that, it will all be over for me.
‘Open it,’ the man with the accent barked. His name suddenly came to de Silva. It was Joseph Edelman.
‘There’s nothing that would interest you,’ Coryat said sharply.
De Silva heard the sneer in Edelman’s voice. ‘Then why lock it?’
‘My servant. He’s untrustworthy. I keep important academic papers there that I don’t want him meddling with.’
Edelman laughed. ‘An illiterate peasant? Do you really expect me to believe he’d be interested in your tedious outpourings, or have the faintest idea how to find anyone who’d give him a handful of rupees for them? Open it!’
‘I don’t remember where I put the key.’
‘Then break it open.’
‘Okay, boss.’
The voice was a new one. Edelman must have two men with him.
A heavy blow shook the cupboard door, swiftly followed by a second and a third. De Silva wondered which of the men would kill him, not that it really mattered. He just hoped they carried out their task quickly.
His breath caught in his throat, and the roar of blood filled his ears. He watched the slit of light around the door as it widened. Then suddenly, the blows stopped. There was a thud, as if a body had fallen to the floor, and a long, low groan of pain that sent a shiver down de Silva’s spine.
‘Ah, I see you decided to keep this intriguing statue for yourself.’
The voice was Edelman’s, oily with sarcasm. ‘You should have asked me, my friend.’
‘Take it! And take back the money.’
Coryat spoke so fast that his words tumbled over each other. ‘It’s in my safe. Take it, it’s yours. I don’t want anything more to do with this.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t come to that conclusion earlier.’
De Silva heard a blow and a muffled scream.
‘Get him out of here,’ Edelman said coldly. ‘One of you can finish him off outside.’
De Silva heard sounds of a struggle; they must be dragging Coryat away. There was nothing he could do to help him. He’d be lucky to save his own skin. How much time did he have before the men came back? Presumably they’d want to finish the search.
He waited until the sounds died away then, with a gasp of relief, allowed himself to move and clear his throat. He studied the door in the dim light. It was well made, but Edelman’s gorilla had succeeded in making some impression on it. It was a pity his lock-picking kit was still in his jacket though. He slid to the floor and put his feet flat against the wood, pushing as hard as he could, despite the twinges in his still-weak ankle. The door didn’t budge. No escape that way after all. He scrambled up awkwardly and winced. He’d put his hand on one of the boots. There was something sharp there. He picked it up and explored it with his fingers. His luck hadn’t entirely deserted him: the sole was heavily studded.
Pulling off his shoes, he tugged on the boots then slid down to the floor again. After a few minutes of kicking at the area of the lock, he took off one boot and hauled himself to his feet. Using the studded sole like a can opener, he worked away at the gap, stopping every few minutes to listen for sounds of the men returning.
At last the lock gave way. He was free, but what now?
Chapter 25
There was no sign of his uniform jacket or the Webley in the study. Coryat must have had time to hide them before he went to let Edelman and his thugs in. It was too risky to spend time looking, but his raincoat was over the back of a chair. He donned it and turned up the collar then grabbed his car keys before stepping out into the rain.
At the front door, he waited a moment to check there was no one to see him then set off. He was almost across the drive, heading for the trees to work his way back to the car when he heard a shout. His heart hammering, he realised he’d been spotted. He sprinted the rest of the way into the trees. When he reached them, he leant against the trunk of a coconut palm to catch his breath. He wasn’t as fit as he had been in his Colombo days. Luck needed to be on his side if he was to outwit Edelman and his thugs.
He thought quickly. The route he had taken on the way in had been near to the edge of the tree cover. It would be better to go deeper, where it was easier to conceal oneself. Already, his pursuers were likely to be close behind him. His only comfort was that the rain was slackening. The moisture it had created was evaporating in the heat, wreathing everything in a misty vapour that might give him an advantage.
Waterlogged soil squelched beneath his feet as he pressed on, scrambling over fallen trees and edging through undergrowth. Behind him, curses and the crack of breaking branches told him that his pursuers hadn’t given up. The noise grew louder as the minutes ticked by. His heart pounded against his ribs. To be caught meant certain death.
A few more yards and a new terror gripped him. The jungle was always a confusing place, even when you weren’t being chased by murderous thugs. In his agitation, he hadn’t been going in the direction of the car; he was at the edge of the plateau where Coryat’s house stood.
His feet shot away, and he only saved himself from falling further by grabbing one of the thick lianas snaking down from a nearby tree. The rough bark scraped his palms. He stifled a cry of pain as his arms were almost wrenched from their sockets. Bile surged into his mouth. He’d already lost a considerable amount of height, but ahead the ground fell away in an even more abrupt descent to the floor of the jungle. Stars exploded in front of his eyes as he clung to the liana, blinking frantically. He had to control himself. If he panicked, there was no hope.
Peering down, he saw that fifty or so feet below him there was a flattish ledge, probably made by a landslide. It was impossible to see how far it extended around the flank of the hill, but it looked to project out at least fifteen feet into the void. If he reached it, it would give him a place to rest and gather his wits. It might also provide a route towards a gentler slope he could climb to regain the plateau.
The descent to the ledge was, however, a perilous one. His hands burned from clutching at lianas and bushes to slow his progress. Sometimes he clung like a limpet, letting himself down as gently as possible by using tree roots as a crude stairway. His palms sweated as he fumbled for handholds on the slimy wood. With every slip and slither, the sickness of fear increased, threatening to overwhelm him.
A crow landed on a branch above a fallen tree trunk where he had briefly stopped to rest. It fixed him with a mocking eye. It was all very well for the wretched bird. It could fly.
The need to concentrate on every move had so consumed him that he had almost forgotten about his pursuers, but a shout from above brought back the full force of the danger he was in. The shout was followed by an eerie scream.
A figure fell down the almost sheer face of the plateau, tossed and buffeted as it glanced off the jungle’s unforgiving vegetation. It looked like a ragdoll, but de Silva realised it was a man. His fall was broken by the ledge. There he
came to rest, sprawled across a rotting tree trunk, his head thrown back as if he was gazing up at the sky. There was no movement. De Silva didn’t recognise him. He must be one of Edelman’s thugs who had lost his footing in the chase.
Voices were still shouting. Edelman and his remaining henchman? What if they tried to climb down? They might not risk it, but he was probably within range of their guns. He edged closer to the tree trunk and wormed his way into the gap between it and the ground. As the voices rose and fell, he closed his eyes and waited for what seemed like an eternity. At last silence descended.
Wriggling out from under the trunk, he slid the rest of the way down to the ledge. The man was indeed dead. A trail of blood leaked from one side of his mouth. From the way his head lolled, de Silva guessed that his neck was broken. He was taller than de Silva, and far more powerfully built. De Silva was glad he hadn’t had to face him in a fight. Now that he posed no threat, he felt a twinge of pity for him. All violent ends were difficult to witness.
He crouched beside the dead man and closed his sightless eyes. There was nothing he could do but leave him to the jungle. It would deal with him in its own way.
Now he was alone, he was aware of it returning to its secret life. Mostly unseen, or seen only in flashes of vivid colour, birds hooted and whistled. Leaves rustled and small creatures going about their business disturbed the undergrowth. He hoped there were no snakes nearby. Well, if there were, there was nothing for it now but to carry on along the ledge and hope it would eventually bring him to safety.
It was slow going scrambling over loose rocks and fallen trees. He wiped the grime from the dial of his watch and checked the time. Nearly half past three. In less than three hours, the sun would go down; the last thing he wanted was to be marooned on this hillside at night. So far, he had encountered nothing more dangerous than a few monkeys who had skittered off at his approach, but far more alarming creatures might emerge to hunt after sunset.
The ledge had become a rocky cleft in the plateau’s wall. Soon, it cut such a steep diagonal that his arms ached from hauling himself up it. Then he felt a jolt of fear. Beyond an outcrop of rock, his path vanished into thin air.
Horror overwhelmed him. Even if he had the strength to go back to the ledge where Edelman’s thug lay dead, he faced a very long climb and, possibly, Edelman and the other man. But the climb ahead of him was no more inviting and to miss his footing would mean certain death.
He had to decide quickly. Every minute he delayed, his knees felt weaker. In a few moments, the temptation to give up, step over the side of the cliff and be done with it would be irresistible. He rubbed his sweating palms on the back of his trousers and reached for the first handhold.
Gradually, he fell into a rhythm: move one hand, move one foot; creep slowly upwards, one step at a time. Sometimes a rock gave way, or a liana wasn’t strong enough to hold his weight, and he lost height, but he surprised himself by how calmly he managed to focus on the task in hand. He wondered whether he might even find that he had conquered his fear of heights.
But the top was still fifty feet away when his newly found confidence evaporated like early morning mist. A tree root that had seemed solid enough to take his weight snapped. In the nick of time, he grabbed another root and it held, but then he was stuck. The old paralysis seeped over him. The drop beckoned.
The sun had started to sink behind the tree line. A distant rumble of thunder warned of rain. Soon it pattered on the leaves around him. If it was heavy, and it was likely to be, it would be impossible for him to climb any higher. Even if he found handholds, they would be too wet to grip.
It was over.
He turned his head and saw the sky was streaked with crimson. Light-headed with hunger and thirst, a profound weariness swept over him. If only he could tell Jane one last time that he loved her.
Then from above, a voice called his name. He glimpsed a halo of golden curls. There was a cry, and wings buffeted his face. Out of the dusk, a figure descended towards him, bathed in light. Was it one of those angels the congregation sang about in Jane’s church on Sundays? Was he saved?
His body sagged as strong arms enfolded him. He closed his eyes and let himself be borne aloft.
Chapter 26
‘De Silva! Wake up, man!’
With a struggle, de Silva opened his eyes to see Archie Clutterbuck standing over him, hurricane lamp in hand and rain streaming off his coat and hat. Beyond him, more hurricane lamps illuminated the concerned faces of Prasanna and Nadar. In their glistening, dark raingear, they looked uncannily like a pair of crows.
‘That’s better.’ Archie turned to Prasanna and Nadar. ‘Don’t just stand there! Help him up.’
Prasanna hurried forward and, with his and Nadar’s help, de Silva struggled to his feet.
A face framed by yellow, curly hair, swam into view. No angel: it was attached to the body of Charlie Frobisher.
‘I’m sorry about the cuts and bruises, Inspector. It wasn’t as easy to pull you up as I’d hoped, and when I disturbed that bird from its roost, I thought I wasn’t even going to be able to hold onto you.’
‘It was you,’ de Silva said wonderingly.
Frobisher looked puzzled as he untied the rope that had been anchoring him to a nearby tree from round his waist. ‘Why yes, sir.’
‘I don’t know how to—’
‘Never mind, never mind,’ intervened Clutterbuck. ‘Plenty of time for thanks when we’ve got you dry and warm. You’re not in good shape. We came out as soon as we realised something might be wrong. Coryat not turning up at the Residence rang the alarm bells. I wish we’d found you sooner, but this place is damned difficult to search. Lucky there are several of us, and that we came in the Hillman because of the bad road. The kit we took into the jungle was still in the boot, and Frobisher had the foresight to bring the rope along. Without it, both of you would probably have been lost over the edge.’
‘Coryat’s been murdered—’
De Silva wanted to continue, but he was too exhausted. He felt the weight of a thick blanket being draped round his shoulders.
‘We know,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘We’ve already been up to the house. His body was in the garden. We found another man dead on the hillside. But you can tell us everything when we’ve got you to shelter. The rain’s coming again. Where’s the Morris by the way? You’re in no fit state to be at the wheel. Frobisher can drive her up for you.’
Teeth chattering, de Silva handed over the keys – miraculously still in his trouser pocket – and explained as best he could where the Morris would be found.
‘Off you go, Frobisher,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘We’ll carry the inspector to the house and meet you there.’
**
By the time they reached the house, the Morris was already parked on the drive next to the Hillman. Charlie Frobisher came forward to greet them.
‘Help us get de Silva inside,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘There must be some brandy around. I think we could all do with a tot.’
De Silva felt powerless to argue as he was helped into Coryat’s study. Frobisher left him with Nadar and went to find where Coryat kept his brandy. When he returned a few minutes later, he put a glass to de Silva’s lips. He drank and immediately started to cough.
‘Steady, old chap.’ Clutterbuck had just come back into the room. ‘Now, are you up to telling us what happened here?’
De Silva struggled to stop spluttering. His whole body ached.
‘Take your time.’
Archie Clutterbuck listened attentively as de Silva recounted the afternoon’s events, only interrupting to ask who Joseph Edelman was. De Silva realised he’d never mentioned the incident on the train when he made his report. He’d been bound up in his theories about Coryat. Quickly, he explained.
‘So, Coryat tried to hide the statue from this man Edelman,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘I imagine we’re too late to recover it. Edelman’s probably taken it with him. I wonder how he found out Coryat tried to cheat hi
m.’
He turned to Charlie Frobisher. ‘It’s worth doing a thorough search in case Coryat had anything else tucked away. Prasanna and Nadar can stay and help you. Oh, and find somewhere safe to put those bodies until the undertakers can pick them up. Whatever they did, I don’t want them torn to pieces by some animal. I’ll drive de Silva back to Nuala. I think he’s done enough for one night.’
**
‘Thank goodness that nice young man Charlie Frobisher’s good at climbing,’ said Jane when Clutterbuck had gone.
De Silva sat on the edge of the bathtub while she sponged his cuts and grazes and applied ointment and plasters. He had resisted her suggestion that they call Doctor Hebden out. He still ached, but, thankfully, his wounds were superficial.
‘According to Archie, he’s very keen and hopes to spend his next long leave in the Himalayas.’
‘How exciting.’
She stood up. ‘There; all done. We’ll have some supper then I want you to rest. It’s a good thing Archie said he doesn’t want to hear you’ve gone back to work for a couple of days. We’ve had quite enough excitement for the time being. No more adventures, please. What if you’d ended up dead like Coryat?’
‘What indeed. But I don’t know about resting. There’s still a lot to be done. There’s no sign of Edelman. Archie’s going to alert the Colombo force and have a watch put on the ports, but there’s far more to this than finding Edelman, and it’s a delicate matter. Now we know Fonseka’s involved and probably Professor Jayakody too, we don’t want either of them tipped off until the picture’s clear.’
He fell silent, and Jane looked at him quizzically. ‘You should be proud of the part you’ve played, dear. Without you, Coryat might never have been exposed, or the statue found. But I can tell something’s troubling you.’
The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 66
