The Betel Nut Tree Mystery

by Ovidia Yu

  ‘It’s difficult for him,’ Parshanti said, ‘having his best friend die and having to do his best to look after his friend’s lunatic fiancée. And, of course, being suspected and spied on by the police.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I didn’t want to fight with her. Luckily, she didn’t ask me what I was sorry about.

  ‘That’s all right.’ Parshanti gave me a quick hug. ‘Don’t worry. I know you’re only uncomfortable with Kenneth because you don’t know him yet. He explained everything to me. He’s not just here as a journalist. That’s just his excuse to cover up the real reason he’s here and what he really is!’

  Kenneth had told her some spy story, I thought. After the Great War, every man with something to hide called himself a spy. ‘I don’t trust Kenneth. Even if he didn’t kill Victor I think he’s hiding something,’ I said. ‘You can’t trust a liar.’

  ‘You lied for me,’ Parshanti pointed out.

  ‘That’s not the same thing at all.’

  Tennyson wrote that a lie that is half truth is the darkest of all lies. Maybe I should have spent more time reading poetry instead of novels.

  ‘Look.’ Parshanti bent and pulled a box on wheels from beneath the counter. ‘I know how much you hate lying. Take these, so you’ll really have magazines in your room. And Kenneth wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Why? What about?’

  ‘He wants to clear a few things up. He’s got to talk to someone else first. Just to do the decent thing, he said. He’s going to come clean about everything but it’s not just about him. Once he’s sorted things out fair and square, and he’s come to talk to my parents . . .’ Parshanti’s eyes were shining with tears of pride ‘. . . he’ll explain everything to you. He promised.’

  Kenneth Outside

  I slipped out of the Shankars’ house with my head so full of thoughts that I didn’t see Kenneth Mulliner till he reached out a hand and touched my arm as I passed.

  ‘Oh! What are you doing here?’

  The answer was obvious as soon as I asked. He was waiting for Parshanti, of course. ‘She won’t be coming out to meet you,’ I told him. ‘She won’t be able to get out of the house. Her parents know she was at the hotel with you and they’re furious.’ I was furious too. ‘It’s too bad of you to fool around with her and get her into trouble.’

  ‘I’m not, and we’re not fooling around. I’m serious about Parshanti.’

  He looked as though he meant it. There, in the dim yellow light spilling onto the five-foot way where we stood, he looked earnest and pleading. I could almost see why Parshanti trusted him. ‘But you’re skulking out here while my friend is getting yelled at inside.’

  ‘I want to make it right. But I’ve got to sort out some other things first.’

  ‘What other things? Other women?’

  ‘No! Writing assignments. You may as well know. You’ll find out, anyway, when it all comes out. I did write those pieces but not the last one. I wasn’t going to write it, I had all my research done and they were pushing for it, but I decided not to. He must have taken my notes. I didn’t send that piece in.’

  ‘Who?’ I was getting an idea of what he was talking about. ‘What research? Who took your notes?’

  Just then Parshanti slipped out. To my surprise, she seemed glad to see me still there. Well, that was a nice change.

  ‘Tell her, Kenny! I promise you, if you tell Su Lin everything she’ll fix it. You will, won’t you, darling? Su Lin will understand and she’ll make other people understand too. She’ll make it all right. Please trust her.’

  Kenneth didn’t look as though he trusted anybody, but he wasn’t hostile.

  ‘What does Parshanti want you to tell me?’

  ‘It’s no use my telling you. I have to show you,’ Kenneth said. ‘But there’s someone I have to talk to first. Just so it’s all above board.’

  ‘Just tell me quickly now. I won’t say anything till you’re ready.’

  He shook his head, his eyes going back to Parshanti. ‘Come to the hotel tomorrow morning and meet me there. I’ll pass you all my notes and you can decide whether to believe me.’

  ‘Notes about what? Are you talking about Victor?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, but indirectly. It’s bigger than Victor. I know you don’t trust me now but what you see tomorrow will change your mind. I shan’t come out of this mess looking good but you’ll see me for what I am. You’ll see all of us for what we are. And if you can accept that, then . . .’ That last was to Parshanti.

  I still didn’t trust Kenneth but his words made me want to. They also made me uneasy. When you stir up mud looking for crabs you may disturb snakes.

  Mrs Shankar’s voice rose inside, calling for her daughter, and Parshanti winced. ‘I must go.’ She slipped back in, not without giving Kenneth a quick kiss on the cheek.

  ‘I have to clear things up in there first,’ Kenneth Mulliner said. ‘Remember, come to the hotel tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. in the Bachelor Room. All my notes are there. You’ll see I didn’t write that last piece. I wouldn’t have.’

  I watched him knock on the pharmacy door, then push it open and enter before I left. I would have liked to go up to the window to listen, but these were my friends, not murder suspects. Though, of course, Kenneth Mulliner was halfway between the two categories. I wanted to like him more. I didn’t have high hopes of his smoothing things over with Parshanti’s parents, but at least he was trying and I respected that.

  I was tired, and not in the mood for anything except going up to my little room and getting some sleep. But Le Froy, de Souza and Pillay were still in the Detective Shack with Dr Leask when I got back.

  ‘Mr Glossop must have poisoned himself when he used the lipstick to draw patterns on his face, arms and chest. The reaction would have begun in under thirty minutes but he might have thought it was an allergy or heat rash. Perhaps the Japanese woman drew patterns on his back when she was with him at the hotel. He must have given her the lipstick. Or she took it when she left. She didn’t realize it was poisoned and it killed her. But where did he get it?’

  ‘Her visit wouldn’t have lasted long. Mr Glossop’s skin would have started swelling, itching and bleeding quickly. He would have been in no mood for her services.’

  ‘Miss Chen, your suggestion to test the lipstick paid off handsomely,’ Dr Leask cried, on seeing me. ‘For once I seem to have my results before Dr Shankar.’

  He looked so pleased I didn’t have the heart to say I knew why Dr Shankar was preoccupied.

  ‘Good idea,’ Le Froy said to me. The approval in his voice meant a lot.

  ‘Maybe Mrs Covington poisoned her own lipstick and gave it to Mr Glossop,’ Sergeant Pillay suggested.

  ‘Nicole said she lost a lipstick in a fancy case,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think much of it at first because she’s always losing things. But maybe . . .’

  ‘The poison may have been meant for her.’ Le Froy said.

  I knew that didn’t clear Kenneth Mulliner. He could easily have taken Nicole’s lipstick and passed it to Victor for his stag party fancy dress. Though that, of course, meant Nicole was the poison’s target.

  The Proposal

  I missed seeing what happened when Kenneth went to the Shankars’ shop house but this was how it went, according to what I was told later.

  ‘Mam, Dad, this is Kenneth Mulliner.’

  Parshanti had not known for sure when Kenneth was coming to talk to her parents. Even if she had, she could hardly have warned her mother. So, the first time Kenneth met Mrs Shankar she was flustered not just by him but because a stranger was seeing her in the house dress she did her sewing in, with pins stuck into the dupatta scarf thrown around her neck.

  ‘You were with this man at the hotel?’

  Parshanti nodded. ‘Mam, Kenneth wants to—’

  ‘You lied to us! What that woman’s note said was true!’

  ‘What woman?’ Kenneth asked. ‘What note?’

  ‘Oh, that my own child w
ould lie to me!’

  ‘Mam, Kenneth has something to say to Dad. And to you.’

  ‘I want to ask your daughter to marry me. But I want to do it properly. I’m going to—’

  ‘What’s that?’ Dr Shankar said sharply. Mrs Shankar was suddenly silent, stuffing a handful of her scarf into her mouth.

  ‘I want to marry your daughter, Dr Shankar, sir. I know this is not a good time. When this nightmare of accusations is over, I will get a good job and come back with a ring, go down on one knee and propose properly. But until then I want you to know my intentions are good.’

  Mrs Shankar burst into tears.

  ‘Mam, please don’t cry! He’s a good man, really he is! He’s not a murderer!’

  ‘She’s in shock. Your mother may be upset with you for finding yourself a man because she regrets marrying me,’ Dr Shankar suggested.

  ‘Yer bum’s oot the windae, ye fuckin’ bampot!’

  Now Parshanti saw her mother was laughing as well as crying. ‘Mam, please!’

  ‘Mo chridhe, my dear foolish man, I was angry because I know what boys are like. I grew up around boys like Kenneth Mulliner. Why do you think I dropped them for you? I know what they’re like, but our silly, precious little girl doesn’t.’

  ‘Mam!’

  ‘A man doesn’t buy a cow when he can get milk for free.’

  ‘Mam, don’t!’

  ‘But I may have misjudged this young man. I am sorry, my dear girl.’

  When her mother released her from a big hug, Parshanti saw that Kenneth and her father were grinning.

  ‘Kenneth may change his mind now that he’s seen us,’ Dr Shankar said.

  ‘If he does, better before than after.’ Mrs Shankar patted Kenneth’s arm affectionately.

  ‘I’ll not change my mind. Look, when all this is settled, I’ll take you up-country and we can spend a few weeks in the Malayan highlands. It’s too hot to rest and talk in Singapore. Even with the fan on, the sheets are damp with sweat. There are some lodges up in the tea-growing highlands. I’ll find a respectable guesthouse and book us separate rooms. All of you, of course. I’ve not got much to offer your daughter but I will take care of her.’ He looked at Parshanti. ‘I’ll have something coming in once I’ve sorted out some business, and I’ll get down to that tonight. And once that’s done I’ll pass all the papers to your friend. And when this nightmare is over, we’ll get married.’

  An approaching thunderstorm woke me early the next morning. I lay awake in my room above the Detective Shack, feeling the electricity in the air. It was no longer late at night but early in the morning, though far too early to get up.

  I thought about what Parshanti had told me and wondered what Kenneth thought he had to clear up. It hadn’t occurred to me he would jump ahead and propose. If I had known, I would have thought him reckless and impulsive . . . and maybe I would have trusted him a little more.

  It was not yet raining but the wind rattled the windows and made a door slam repeatedly somewhere in the next building. Birds that should have been asleep at this hour were calling warnings and I could sense insects and other creatures trying to find ways into the shelter of the house.

  I looked around the small, sparsely decorated room with eyes accustomed to the dark and tried not to think about going down the external steps to the outdoor WC. If I had to go, though, it would be best to go now, before the storm came. I could already hear distant thunder and smell the plants anticipating the coming rain. I was wishing I could go back to sleep because I felt as if I had been tired for ever and it would only get worse tomorrow. But all my instincts were on alert against the coming rain and where the roof would start leaking.

  Help Parshanti.

  The words, in Kenneth Mulliner’s voice, sounded so clearly in my head that I sat upright in bed, knocking my pillow onto the floor. It was more than just words. I felt a presence in the room with me. It was like being inside a WC cubicle with someone quietly standing outside. Even if neither of you says anything, you can almost feel each other breathing.

  Comfort Parshanti, the same voice said. And then, just as suddenly, the presence was gone.

  ‘I’m going mad,’ I said aloud, as much to shake myself out of it as to distract whatever hantu might have been stirred up by the coming storm. ‘I’m going to be as mad as Nicole if this keeps up.’

  If something really was haunting my room, I hoped it would believe me and look for someone more receptive.

  A house gecko burst into a string of chirps in a corner of the ceiling, startling me. The blinds flapped and tapped. Nothing replied.

  I didn’t believe in ghosts. I put food in front of altars, lit joss sticks and left offerings on graves, just like everyone else at home, and I took communion and offered prayers and my ten-per-cent tithe, just like everyone else at the Mission Centre. That suited me fine, but when it came to middle-of-the-night apparitions I wasn’t sure which set of gods to appeal to.

  My grandmother always said our ancestors and the gods watched over us, but could not be counted on to deliver gambling wins. Hard work was what they rewarded. And the mission ladies said that although the Holy Trinity heard our prayers it was as important to show your faith by working hard.

  In other words, you had to pay your respects to the supernatural but you could not count on it.

  I got out of bed, lit the lamp and started getting dressed. If I couldn’t sleep I might as well get up and do something I’d been putting off. I had only glanced with quick distaste through the Pip’s Squeaks piece on Le Froy but now I took out the copy I had put in my bag. Le Froy had said it was not up to the usual standard of writing. I wanted to study and compare it to the previous Pip’s Squeaks articles I had kept.

  Dead Kenneth

  There was no response when I knocked on the outside door of the Bachelor Room at nine a.m. the next day, as arranged. I went into the hotel and tried the door leading from the carpeted hallway. No answer there either. I waited for half an hour but there was no sign of Kenneth Mulliner.

  Well, he might have changed his mind but I would get it out of him.

  This time the Eurasian general manager didn’t look up as I walked to his desk between the two grand, curved marble staircases. This was a definite improvement on his attempts to direct me to the staff service stairs on my previous visits to Nicole.

  For now, at least, Darwin Van Dijk had elevated me to the level of Discreet Visitor.

  If I had been truly discreet, I would have walked on quietly and unobtrusively and asked one of the service boys for help. But, then, if I was discreet, quiet and unobtrusive, I would still be squatting outside a back kitchen pounding sambal instead of inside the Farquhar Hotel by request, on semi-official police business.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Van Dijk.’ His face whipped up. Several people in the foyer looked round, which made him incline his head and straighten his mouth into what was almost a smile.

  ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Mulliner in his downstairs room, but he is not answering.’

  ‘It is possible he doesn’t wish to see visitors, madam.’

  ‘Mr Mulliner may be unwell,’ I said. ‘If you would send someone to check on him?’

  Darwin Van Dijk’s expression remained impassively regal as he dithered over this. I knew he was considering putting me off. What if Kenneth Mulliner was merely avoiding me? But what if he was lying sick or injured and unable to communicate in his room?

  The Farquhar preferred guests to leave the premises by taxi rather than hearse.

  ‘It’s important,’ I stressed. Last night I had believed Kenneth was in earnest. But perhaps he had been playing with me. What if he had changed his mind and was even now destroying what evidence he had left?

  Van Dijk must have sensed my anxiety. ‘William, take the desk. I am going to see if Mr Mulliner is in his room.’

  As things turned out, I was very glad to have Van Dijk with me.

  This time, standing in the corridor outside Kenneth’s room, I
smelt a faint odour of fresh offal that stopped me thinking about anything else.

  Darwin Van Dijk knocked and called, ‘Mr Mulliner?’ softly at first, then louder. His face was fixed, steely intent under the polite mask. I saw he had smelt or sensed something too. After three tries and finding the door locked, he applied his own key and pushed the door open.

  At his gasp, I rushed past him to look.

  It was eerily reminiscent of how Victor Glossop had been found. Only this time I knew from the rich, sweetish smell familiar from the buckets of pig blood in the wet market that the blood was real, not betel juice. And beneath that, the stink of dead fish bloat that said Kenneth was dead.

  ‘Aiyoh!’ One of the skinny messenger boys had followed us. They were like shadows, always on the alert to make a few cents. ‘Alamak! Another white man mati!’

  ‘Boy! Go to the Detective Unit and get Chief Inspector Le Froy!’ I shouted.

  He hesitated until Van Dijk nodded and said, ‘Go, Tanis.’ He ran off.

  I liked the man more for knowing his message runners by name and because of their respect for him. ‘Lock the door. Don’t let anybody inside until the police get here,’ I said.

  ‘That may be a suicide note.’ Van Dijk was looking slowly around without stepping further into the room. ‘There. In his typewriter.’

  I went over and looked, careful not to touch anything:

  I killed Victor out of jealousy and tried to frame Nicole. But Nicole has a new lease on life and no time for me. I have nothing left to live for and I’m ending it the way I ended it for my best friend. Sweep me under the rug and forget me.

  No, I thought. Kenneth hadn’t written that. What the Kenneth of my dream – had it been a dream? – had said was more authentic than this.