‘I doubt that stage trap’s been used for years. I didn’t even know the theatre had one. Do you remember the friend I told you about in London? The lady I used to go to the theatre with.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, she had a cousin who worked at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane and he invited us to go behind the scenes once.’
‘I imagine that was right up your street.’
‘I’m sure you would have found it fascinating too. They had all sorts of clever ways of creating effects. Some of them used hydraulics – water pressure.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Here in Ceylon, we’ve understood how to tame water for thousands of years.’
‘I’m sorry, dear. I know you have.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, feeling a little guilty for being tetchy. Perhaps Florence Clutterbuck’s remark earlier in the evening had annoyed him more than he liked to admit. ‘Go on.’
‘Let me see… Oh yes, there was a special trap made of triangular wedges of leather. My friend’s cousin called it a star trap. An actor has to stand on a circular platform below it and then be hauled up very fast using counterweights so that, as the trap opens, he shoots into the air at great speed. Apparently, it was very popular in pantomimes when the story called for surprise entrances.’
‘It sounds dangerous.’
‘Yes, he admitted there were quite a few mishaps.’
The Morris turned into the drive and the gravel crackled under its wheels as they drew up at the front porch. De Silva turned off the engine and applied the handbrake. ‘Home at last.’
He got out and came round to Jane’s side of the car to open the door for her; she climbed out and planted a kiss on his cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘For being so patient with Florence.’
He grimaced. ‘If I’m honest, I’m not sure I am.’
‘Well, we’re home now, so you don’t need to be any longer.’
She bent down and picked up a pebble from the drive. ‘And if it will make you feel better, you can pretend this is her and throw it into that prickly bush over there.’
‘Mm, it’s tempting.’ He took the pebble and weighed it in one hand before dropping it back on the ground. ‘On second thoughts, I think a nightcap might be the better solution.’
‘Whisky and soda?’
‘What a good idea.’
Chapter 2
‘Do you have a busy day planned, dear?’ asked Jane as they breakfasted a few mornings later.
De Silva raised a forkful of string hoppers to his mouth. The noodles were just as he liked them, steaming hot and coated with fresh curry sauce and fiery coconut relish. ‘Not particularly. Why do you ask?’
‘I forgot to order some of the spices Cook asked for. If you have time, would you mind going to the bazaar and buying them?’
‘Not at all. I’ll drop in on my way to the station.’
He found a place to park the Morris just outside the shop Jane favoured and went in. The interior was cool as very little sunshine filtered through its only window. Sacks of dried chillies leant against the wall to the right of the counter and wooden boxes and copper bowls displayed every kind of spice from cumin seeds and coriander pods to turmeric and rose-gold threads of saffron. Powerful aromas tickled de Silva’s nose. He handed over Jane’s list and chatted to the owner while the spices were weighed out and the packages neatly wrapped with brown paper and twine.
Coming out of the shop, he paused to let his eyes readjust to the brightness of the sun. A moment later, he was glad he had done so; the roar of an engine made him jump and the silver-grey Lagonda swept by a few feet from where he stood. His heartbeat quickened at the narrow escape but he soon recovered and gazed after the car in admiration. It had the elegance of a leopard and, given an open road, it could probably approach the speed.
The Lagonda halted abruptly a little further down the street and the tall figure of Alexander Danforth got out.
Danforth strode back to where de Silva stood. ‘My dear sir, my apologies! No harm done, I hope. I was distracted by the beauty of the morning and your charming town. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, but am I right in thinking I’m addressing Inspector Shanti de Silva?’
There was a lilt to Danforth’s voice that de Silva couldn’t place. He hadn’t noticed it when Danforth was playing Hamlet. Regaining his composure, he smiled. ‘You are, sir, and no harm is done.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
Danforth held out his hand. ‘Alexander Danforth, at your service.’
‘You need no introduction, sir,’ said de Silva, shaking the proffered hand. ‘I’m glad to have the opportunity of telling you how much my wife and I enjoyed the play the other evening.’
‘Ah, excellent. I must say, it was something of an occasion for me, it being my one hundredth performance of the part of Hamlet. But I forget my manners; let me introduce you to our Ophelia, Miss Emerald Watson.’
The young woman had climbed out of the car and was walking towards them. De Silva admired her graceful air. Now she was dressed in modern clothing that didn’t obscure her figure, he saw that it was very trim. The hair that had been concealed by Ophelia’s veil framed her piquant face with a mass of dark curls. Her full lips were rosy and her hazel eyes sparkled.
Danforth held out his hand to her. ‘Emerald, my dear, come and meet Inspector de Silva. He’s something of a celebrity in these parts, I understand.’
‘I’m not sure I can lay claim to that, ma’am.’ De Silva made a bow. ‘I’m merely a local policeman doing his job.’
‘You’re too modest, Inspector,’ said Danforth. ‘I hear you’ve pulled off quite a few coups.’
De Silva was puzzled. How did the actor know anything about his career in Nuala?
Danforth laughed. ‘I like to know what goes on in the places we visit, Inspector. Our new colleagues from your Amateur Dramatic Society have proved to be a mine of information about local affairs.’
Then Danforth was unusual, de Silva reflected. In his experience, most of the British who came to Ceylon were only interested in what went on in the country insofar as it impacted on their plans to govern or profit.
A twinkle came into Danforth’s eyes, as if he read de Silva’s mind. ‘You may have realised from my accent that I’m not an Englishman, Inspector. My ways and opinions are not necessarily the same as theirs.’
Ah, that accounted for the accent. ‘What is your nationality then, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’m Irish; but it’s many years since I set foot in the Emerald Isle.’
An Irishman: that was interesting. In his schooldays, history lessons had focused on the achievements of the British Empire and England’s glorious past. The brief mentions of British rule in Ireland had not portrayed the Irish in a favourable light. But looking at it from the standpoint of another occupied land, his own, he suspected that the Irish might feel much the same about the British as the British did about them. Still, politics was a subject best avoided with a man who was little more than a stranger to him. He cast around for something neutral to say.
‘A charming name,’ he came up with. ‘Sometimes people call my country the Cinnamon Isle.’
Danforth smiled. ‘Equally charming. From now on I shall imagine I smell the spice on the breeze. Our great Irish writer, James Joyce, likened Shakespeare’s wife to sweet, fresh cinnamon until she grew old and ceased to be comely.’ He clapped de Silva on the shoulder. ‘But I don’t expect you read Ulysses. Why should you? Tell me now, what did you think of our play?’
‘I liked it very much. So much fine language and your sword fight at the end with Ophelia’s brother, Laertes, was most dramatic.’
‘Ah, the sword fight. Have you ever tried that kind of thing yourself, Inspector?’
‘When I trained in Colombo, I had the chance to attempt it and found the experience most enlivening. Of course, we were mainly instructed in the use of firearms and defending ourselves a
gainst knife attacks.’
‘Very good, sir. Mind you, it’s just as well that the text allows for me not being as fit as I once was. Frank Sheridan, who plays Laertes, is very accomplished. He learnt to fence as a schoolboy and won several cups.’ Danforth tucked Emerald Watson’s arm into his. ‘Unlike me, this is the first time Emerald has appeared in Hamlet. She did a tremendous job, don’t you think?’
‘I do.’
‘She’s only been with the company for a few months,’ Danforth added.
‘In fact,’ Emerald chimed in, ‘this is the first time I’ve ever been away from England. It’s all so exciting.’
De Silva wondered how old she was. Not much more than twenty if he was any judge. ‘I’m honoured that you chose to visit Ceylon for your first venture, Miss Watson.’
‘Emerald, please.’ She favoured him with a warm smile.
‘My dear,’ intervened Danforth. ‘If we’re to get to these caves that Mrs Clutterbuck recommends, we should be on our way. We have the dress rehearsal for our next offering this evening, Inspector. I decided it was best to allow my cast to rest in the heat of the day and work when it’s cooler.’
‘Very wise, sir. Nothing could be more pleasant than a drive out of town in your very fine car.’
‘I’m glad you approve, although I have to admit, it doesn’t belong to me. I hired it in Colombo for our stay. I thought it would be amusing to have a change of transport.’ He smiled. ‘And the ladies tell me they are enjoying the respite from our old bone-shaker of a bus.’
‘If you intend to visit the Nuala Caves, it is a good choice for a hot afternoon. You’ll find the temperature there more refreshing than in town and there’s a magnificent statue of the Buddha in the main chamber.’
‘So Mrs Clutterbuck tells me. We’re looking forward to seeing it.’
He put out a hand to shake de Silva’s once more. ‘A pleasure to meet you, sir. I hope there will be other occasions.’
Watching the pair of them return to the car and drive away in a cloud of dust, de Silva pondered the little encounter. Alexander Danforth must have plenty of money to be able to hire a car like that. De Silva wondered if he had private means. Surely a travelling theatre company wasn’t all that profitable.
He was undeniably a handsome man too, and Emerald Watson was very pretty. It was probably an innocent friendship but it was rather odd that he had chosen to do his sightseeing with her, rather than his wife. No explanation had been offered, and he gave every indication of being the kind of man who felt no need to justify his actions, but he might be putting Miss Watson in an awkward position. Jane would say one shouldn’t spread gossip, and she’d be right, but there were plenty of people in Nuala, Florence Clutterbuck among them, who liked to indulge in it.
He returned to the Morris, and, with a few brisk words, scattered the crowd of small boys who had gathered round to inspect it while he had been otherwise occupied. They ran off whooping like a troupe of monkeys, and he grinned after them. He didn’t blame them for admiring the car. Its smart navy paintwork and gleaming chrome were looking their best today, freshly washed and polished early that morning by two of his servants.
The drive to the police station was a slow crawl through the usual mêlée of lumbering bullock carts, darting rickshaws, and wayward pedestrians. The hill country had been having unusually hot weather for the past week: weather that was normally reserved for April. As de Silva waited for a cart laden with fruit and vegetables to move out of his way, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
The cart passed and he had just started to edge forward when he noticed a European woman he didn’t recognise hovering at the far side of the road. She wore a dark costume with a high collar that emphasised the ramrod thinness of her figure. The shadow cast by her hat made it hard to see her face clearly, but the general impression he received was one of unbending severity and independence. Nevertheless, it was unusual to see a white woman alone in the bazaar. She might need help. He was just wondering whether he should stop and offer it when she turned briskly on her heel and disappeared into the throng.
At the station, Sergeant Prasanna and Constable Nadar stood to attention when he walked in, both of them swiftly doing up the top buttons of their uniform tunics. They looked as warm as he felt. He nodded as they chorused a good morning.
‘Anything to report?’
Prasanna shook his head. ‘No, sir. It has been quiet since we arrived.’
De Silva glanced at the pile of papers at Nadar’s end of the counter. Something that looked suspiciously like a wooden elephant peeped over the top of them. He reached out and moved them aside to find there was also a small, sharp knife and a little pile of wood shavings and dust. He debated ticking Nadar off but it was too hot, so instead he picked the elephant up and studied it carefully, allowing his constable to stew a little before giving him a friendly smile. ‘For your baby son, I suppose?’
A flicker of relief displaced the look of anxiety on Nadar’s face. ‘Yes, sir. I was only putting the finishing touches. It won’t happen again.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Now get on and find yourselves something useful to do, starting with bringing me my tea. I have a throat full of dust after the drive here.’
‘Right away, sir.’
In his office, he opened the letters on his desk and flipped through them. How much the British liked their paperwork. Orders, reports, regulations – always something to be reading and then filing, never to be seen again. He mourned the waste of trees.
Leaning back in his chair, he yawned. He had his regular monthly meeting with Archie Clutterbuck after lunch. He hoped the assistant government agent would be in a good mood. It would be nice to get the business over quickly and go home.
**
The recently ended monsoon rains had given new luxuriance to the Residence’s gardens and, as the Morris proceeded up the drive, de Silva admired the greenness of the lawns and the profusion of the flower borders. A servant showed him straight to the study where Clutterbuck stood behind his desk, caught in the act of loosening his tie. De Silva couldn’t help noticing that the latter was a strong shade of yellow, very different from Clutterbuck’s usual choices of burgundy, brown or muted green. His manner was also more than usually affable, especially in view of the heat. De Silva was well aware that it normally made him somewhat cantankerous. He must have had good news, or perhaps a win on the horses. It was rare for there to be nothing that he wanted to haul one up on, however mildly.
‘Damned hot,’ Clutterbuck observed, unnecessarily. He gestured to the elderly Labrador flopped on the polished floor near an open window. ‘Poor old Darcy feels it too. Now, anything in particular you’d like to discuss?’
‘Only small matters, sir. In general, everything in town has been quiet.’
‘Excellent. Let’s make ourselves comfortable first.’
He walked over to the bay window and sat down in one of the leather armchairs, indicating that de Silva should take the other one. Picking up the dish on the low table in between, he held it out. ‘You must try some of these cheese straws. Mrs Clutterbuck’s cook makes very tasty ones and sometimes I like a snack while I’m at work.’
If Clutterbuck’s ever-expanding girth was anything to go by, de Silva suspected that he liked a snack most of the time.
Ensconced in his chair, de Silva accepted a cheese straw and took a bite. ‘You’re right, sir,’ he said when he had eaten it and wiped his lips. ‘Very tasty, but also crumbly.’
‘Ah, never mind a few crumbs, de Silva. Darcy will clear those up before long. So, fire away then.’
De Silva went through the police matters that had come up since their last discussion, then, business over, listened patiently while Clutterbuck regaled him with tales of his latest fishing trip to Horton Plains. Fishing was a pursuit that troubled de Silva’s Buddhist principles less than some of the other recreations in which Clutterbuck liked to indulge. After all, fishermen usually ate what th
ey caught and the Buddha had not entirely prohibited the eating of flesh. It was harder to forgive the taking of the life of an elephant or a leopard. He had never heard of either of their sad carcasses being destined for the table.
Idly, he admired how the rays of sunshine passing through the stained-glass crests that decorated the bay window cast patches of red, blue, and yellow onto the table and the floor. Darcy grunted and stretched then lumbered to his feet, only to waddle to a cooler area of the room and flop down again. He looked as lethargic as de Silva felt, what with the heat and the drone of Clutterbuck’s voice.
With a superhuman effort, he pulled his attention back to the monologue. Now Clutterbuck was airing his opinions on the fishing flies one should use. Even though de Silva was not interested in fishing, he found the names had a charm of their own. Royal Coachman, Parmachene Belle, Ginger Quill. It was hard to imagine Clutterbuck’s large, meaty hands engaged in the delicate art of tying the requisite scraps of feather and fur to the menacing little hooks that would snare his quarry.
There was a knock and a servant entered. Clutterbuck looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘The memsahib has sent me to say tea is served, sahib.’
Clutterbuck hoisted himself out of his chair. De Silva felt some sympathy for his resigned expression.
‘If there’s nothing more that we need to discuss, de Silva…’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
De Silva rose too, glad he would soon be back at Sunnybank and able to change out of his uniform. Today, it felt as if every piece of it clung to him with unwelcome friendliness.
‘Good, then we’ll wrap this up.’ Clutterbuck nodded to the servant. ‘Tell the memsahib I’ll be with her in a minute.’
Gratefully, de Silva said farewell. He was looking forward to spending what was left of the afternoon at Sunnybank.
Offstage in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 3) Page 2
