As he emerged onto the sunlit drive, he noticed one of the Clutterbucks’ servants walking Florence’s dog, Angel. The man looked apprehensive, as well he might. Angel was a feisty little creature with a reputation for nipping ankles, although, on their occasional meetings, he had given de Silva no trouble.
His path to the Morris crossed with that of Angel and his minder. The little dog wagged its tail uncertainly and then held up a paw. The servant gave de Silva a lopsided grin.
‘Would you like to take charge of him, sahib? I believe he is happy to see you.’
‘I can’t imagine why he should be.’ Then he remembered the cheese straws. Perhaps a few crumbs still lingered on his trousers. He brushed his hands down his legs and the little dog strained forward, its black, button nose snuffling about on the ground. When it finished, it gazed up at de Silva, tail wagging once more. De Silva bent down to pat its fluffy head. ‘I haven’t anything else,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I’m sure you’re well fed here.’
The servant rolled his eyes. ‘Like a prince, sahib. The memsahib says everything must be the best.’
‘I’m sure she does. Well, enjoy your walk.’
‘Thank you, sahib. I will try.’
De Silva watched for a moment as they walked away, Angel darting about on the lead in a manner that would surely not have been approved of at the famous Crufts dog show. But then it was generally known that the little creature was like a child to Florence Clutterbuck, and one that was never told off.
At home, Jane was already ensconced on the verandah, a book open in her lap. She smiled up at him, shading her eyes against the sun. ‘Hello, dear, you’re early. Do I gather that it went well at the Residence?’
He bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘Yes, very well. Archie was in an unusually cheery mood.’
‘That’s good.’
He yawned. ‘But he kept me sitting there while he talked about fishing when I would rather have been home with you.’
‘Well, you’re here now. Shall we have some tea?’
‘Excellent idea. And a slice of butter cake would go down nicely as well.’
‘There should be a fresh one. Cook was baking this morning.’
She rang the bell on the small table at her side and a servant appeared. De Silva settled down in pleasant anticipation of his favourite sweet treat.
‘I’ve had a very quiet afternoon,’ Jane remarked. ‘I’d planned to get on with that altar cloth I’m stitching for the church, but just the thought of all those folds of material in my lap made me feel too hot. I shall have to tell Florence it won’t be finished for another week. Did you see her at the Residence this afternoon?’
‘There was no sign of her, but she must have been about. I escaped from my meeting with Archie thanks to a servant reminding him he was expected at the tea table. I did see one of the servants walking her dog though.’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘She must be suffering from the heat; she and Angel are usually inseparable. She even brings him to the sewing circle. I could see that poor Mrs Carterton who was hosting us last week didn’t like it at all. Angel barked so much at her cat that it fled into the garden and didn’t come back for two days.’
He told her about his encounter with Angel.
‘You’ve obviously made a new friend,’ she said when he came to the end of the story. ‘Most dogs adore cheese. Anything else to report?’
‘I came across the famous Alexander Danforth in town. He nearly ran me down in his expensive Lagonda.’
‘Goodness, are you alright?’
‘Oh yes, he missed. He did stop and apologised profusely.’
‘I should jolly well hope so.’
‘But it would have been even better if he’d offered me a spin in his car.’
‘I do believe you’re a little envious, Shanti.’
‘Well… No, I wouldn’t part with the Morris for anything.’
‘Was Mrs Danforth with him?’
No, he was with Miss Watson, the young lady who played Ophelia. They were off to the caves to do some sightseeing.’
‘How nice. I expect his wife isn’t interested in caves and statues. Or with that lovely creamy skin of hers, she probably prefers to keep out of the sun. Redheads have to be so careful of burning and I don’t expect she wants to spoil her complexion with freckles.’
‘The niceties of the female complexion and the magic potions used to preserve it are a closed book to me,’ he said with a smile.
She shot him a glance of mock reproof over the rim of her reading glasses. ‘You’re very provoking.’
He grinned. ‘It’s part of my charm.’
‘Did you find out anything else?’
‘About what?’
‘The Danforths, of course.’
‘Umm… Let me see… Ah yes, he told me he’s Irish, although he hasn’t lived there for a long time. I didn’t ask if his wife is as well.’
‘He didn’t sound Irish when he played Hamlet. He must have lost the accent.’
‘I don’t think so. I noticed a difference straight away when we met. But I expect that is what acting is about.’
Jane sniffed.
‘It was very pleasant to listen to,’ de Silva said. ‘Gentle like an old song.’
‘Then he must be from the south. The accent in the north is quite a harsh one. Well, perhaps we’ll come across him again before they leave Nuala. I must say, I’d love to hear about his adventures.’
**
After dinner, they sat in the drawing room and read in companionable silence. Inspired by the performance of Hamlet, de Silva had decided to try more of Shakespeare’s work and, at Jane’s suggestion, had chosen to read some of the sonnets. He started with the one that Jane said she liked the best. It began Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment…
He paused on that final word, liking its feeling of weight and the way it enhanced the meaning. It appeared also in the words the vicar had used when he and Jane married four years ago. If any man knows any just cause or impediment why these two people should not be joined together, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.
For a moment, his nerves had jangled. Because the vicar at the church Jane attended was a man of liberal views, out of kindness, he had agreed to perform a service very close to the traditional one. But what if a voice boomed down the aisle of that cool, quiet church, forbidding the union of an Anglican Englishwoman and a Sinhalese Buddhist? Fortunately, the service passed uninterrupted and they and the small congregation drawn from the family where Jane had been employed as a governess, and the colleagues in the Colombo force he counted as friends, had departed happily for a celebration at a nearby hotel.
He read on but his eyelids began to droop. ‘I think I’ll take my usual turn round the garden before bed,’ he remarked.
Jane looked up from her book. ‘I just have one more chapter. I know I won’t sleep until I find out who did it.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to finish.’
He was at the top of the stairs leading to the garden when he heard the telephone ring in the house. He frowned. At this time of the evening?
‘Oh dear, I hope it’s nothing serious,’ said Jane. A servant came to the door. ‘It is Sahib Clutterbuck, sahib. He says it is urgent.’
The authoritative tone had returned to Clutterbuck’s voice. ‘De Silva? You’d better get over to the theatre straight away.’
De Silva frowned. ‘Now, sir?’
‘Yes, now. It can’t wait until morning. I wasn’t here when they called or I would have rung you sooner. Alexander Danforth was found dead in his dressing room a few hours ago.’
The furrow between de Silva’s eyebrows deepened. The man had looked as fit as a fiddle that afternoon.
‘Dead? Was there an accident?’
‘An accident? No, we have a murder on our hands. Now, hurry up, de Silva. I’ll meet you there.’
Strange, thought de Silva, as he replaced the receiver. Why was it that the Re
sidence had been informed before the police?
Chapter 3
De Silva parked the Morris in the dusty, treeless parking area behind the theatre and walked over to join Clutterbuck who waited for him at the stage door.
‘I’m afraid this is bound to get out sooner or later,’ Clutterbuck said over his shoulder as he led the way inside. ‘But I’d prefer it to be later. At the moment, apart from Doctor Hebden and ourselves, only the members of the company and the caretaker on duty are in the know.’ He indicated a booth to their left. ‘That’s his place if we need him.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘Not Mrs Danforth, thank goodness. It was one of the men – that fellow Sheridan.’
De Silva remembered the name. Frank Sheridan was the actor who played the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and Ophelia’s avenging brother, Laertes.
Unlike the public areas, the corridor they walked down was shabby and the rooms he glanced into as he passed looked no better, although the smell of sawdust and new paint assailed his nostrils. Presumably, it came from recent construction and painting of the scenery for Danforth’s performances. He wouldn’t have any need of that now. Briefly, de Silva wondered what the company would do without its leader.
They reached the far end of the corridor and Clutterbuck pushed open a door with his foot. He stood aside to let de Silva enter. The sight that met his eyes reminded him of many of the scenes that he had witnessed in his years in the Colombo force. Violent death had been a frequent occurrence there; something he hoped he had left behind when he and Jane moved to Nuala.
Danforth’s body was slumped over his dressing table. His legs were bare but a loose black robe, patterned with gold dragons, covered his upper half. His head was face down in a soup of creams, liquids and powders that had spilt from the pots and jars scattered randomly over the dressing table’s surface. But the main ingredient in the soup was blood, and it was easy to see where it stemmed from. The blades of a large pair of scissors had been driven deep into the man’s neck, just below the curve of the jawbone. De Silva estimated that the person who had wielded those scissors had found his victim’s carotid artery with lethal exactitude. Blood was also on the mirror where someone had daubed four words in large letters. The flow of the blood had distorted them but they could still be read:
the rest is silence
‘Has anything been touched?’ he asked.
‘I gave strict instructions when I arrived that nothing was to be interfered with, but I can’t vouch for what happened before then. Do you think there’s a chance of getting any fingerprints off those scissors?’
De Silva looked at them doubtfully. ‘It may be possible, but I won’t be able to lift a complete print from the curved surface of the handles and it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve already been wiped, or the murderer wore gloves.’
Clutterbuck nodded sagely. ‘Do your best.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘No evidence of a struggle. It looks as if he went down like a felled tree. Do you think he was knocked out first?’
De Silva bent over the tangled mass of dark hair. His hands became sticky with blood as he carefully parted it in a few places. He noticed a faint aroma of brandy.
‘No,’ he said after a few moments, going to wash his hands in the basin in one corner of the room. ‘There’s no sign of a blow. But I agree it’s very unlikely his assailant would have been able to stab him without a struggle. The most likely explanation is that he was drugged in some way.’
‘Hebden should be able to help us with that. I telephoned him after I spoke to you. He’s on his way.’ He cocked an ear as they heard the approach of brisk footsteps along the corridor. ‘Ah, that might be him now.’
The door opened and Doctor Hebden came in. A tall man, and usually irreproachable in his dress, tonight his suit appeared to have been donned in a considerable hurry and his hair looked hastily combed. Perhaps, like de Silva, he had planned an early night. He stopped in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene, then put his battered black bag on a nearby chair. ‘Good evening, sir.’ He nodded to de Silva. ‘Inspector.’
Clutterbuck stepped forward. ‘As you see, Hebden, we have a problem on our hands.’
Hebden approached Danforth’s body, put a capable-looking hand on the dead man’s ashen cheek and then lifted one of the eyelids. ‘No onset of rigor mortis yet,’ he remarked. ‘When was he found?’
‘At about six o’clock this evening. The professional actors were due to have the dress rehearsal for their next production. The Residence wasn’t alerted for an hour or so – I imagine there was a bit of a fuss.’
De Silva raised a mental eyebrow at the typical British understatement, as if the butler had served burnt toast at breakfast.
‘As bad luck would have it,’ Clutterbuck continued, ‘my wife and I were out at a dinner, hence the delay in notifying you and de Silva. It won’t cause a problem, will it?’
De Silva wondered whether to ask who had raised the alarm but decided to leave that for now.
‘Not at all, sir,’ said Hebden. ‘It just means I won’t be able to make arrangements for the body to be removed and an autopsy arranged until the morning, but I can make a preliminary examination now.’
‘Good man. How can we help?’
Hebden studied Danforth’s body carefully. ‘I’d like to get the scissors out and move him to that bed over there.’ He indicated a low divan in a corner of the dressing room. ‘Do you have any objection, Inspector? If you’re hoping to find fingerprints, I have gloves.’
De Silva nodded. ‘Thank you. If you’ll excuse me a few moments, I’ll go out to my car and fetch the fingerprinting equipment and a bag.’
Outside, the stars burned with fierce brightness in the night sky; the moon sailed between rags of cloud. De Silva rummaged in the glove compartment for the torch he kept there, switched it on, and found the box where he kept a small selection of items that might come in useful at the scene of a crime. From it, he extracted his fingerprinting equipment, gloves, and an evidence bag.
When he had replaced the box, he locked the car and paused for a few moments. In truth, he was glad to get some fresh air. No matter how many times he witnessed the aftermath of violent death, the ugliness of it still affected him. He thought of that fine-looking, energetic man he had met in the bazaar, so full of vitality and bonhomie. It was chilling to think that his life had been brutally snuffed out. He inhaled sharply then started to walk back to the theatre.
In Danforth’s dressing room, Hebden was still in the process of removing the scissors; the blades had penetrated deeply. ‘Whoever did this must have exerted considerable force,’ he remarked.
‘A man, do you think?’ asked Clutterbuck.
Hebden shrugged. ‘It could be a woman with strength and determination. I wouldn’t rule it out.’
‘De Silva thinks Danforth may have been drugged before the attack.’
‘The autopsy should confirm whether that’s the case.’ He gave the scissors a final tug and held them up in his gloved hand. More blood seeped from the wound. ‘Here you are, Inspector.’
De Silva took the scissors carefully and wiped away the blood, then laid them on a piece of cloth. He took a round, squirrel hairbrush from his kit and dipped it into a box of powder, then rotated it slowly over the uppermost side of the scissors, sifting the powder onto the metal. Finally, he unrolled a length of tape and pressed it neatly over the powdered surface before lifting it off gently. He inspected the underside of the tape. As he had expected: nothing. He repeated the process on the other side of the scissors but to no avail.
He shrugged. ‘It was worth a try, but I’m afraid there’s nothing to help us here.’ He dusted off the scissors and dropped them into the evidence bag.
‘Well,’ said Hebden. ‘If you’re ready, gentlemen?’
It was an awkward job to pull out the chair with Danforth’s weight on it and then carry him to the divan, but, eventually, it was done. Clutterbuck wiped his glistening forehead with
his handkerchief and de Silva felt his own heart beat a little faster than usual. He knew that David Hebden was a keen sportsman. Perhaps that was why his part in the manoeuvre appeared to have left him unruffled. Maybe Jane was right about taking more exercise.
He watched as Hebden went over the body, sponging away blood where necessary, to give it his preliminary examination. ‘I agree with your conclusion,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘When Danforth was attacked, he must have already been in no condition to put up a fight. Apart from the obvious wound to the neck, his body’s unblemished.’
He snapped off his bloodstained gloves. ‘The best I can do tonight is cover him with a sheet. I’ll get the hospital to send an ambulance in the morning and transfer him to the mortuary.’
Clutterbuck glanced at the door and nodded. ‘There’s a key, so the room can be locked.’
A sheet lay folded at the foot of the bed. Hebden shook it out and draped it over Danforth’s body then straightened up. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’
‘Thank you for coming out. Let’s speak again tomorrow,’ said Clutterbuck.
He turned to de Silva as the door closed behind the doctor. ‘Naturally, Mrs Danforth was terribly shocked, so I’ve already sent her back to her hotel with her maid. Miss Watson has gone too. If you have questions for any of them, they’ll have to wait. Where ladies are concerned, I’m sure you’ll agree that every consideration must be given. Fortunately, none of the members of the amateur dramatic group were in the building but the male members of the company are still here. I suggest you see them briefly then let them return to their hotel. You can interview them fully in the morning. A few hours won’t make any difference.’
Gallantry was all very well, but de Silva felt a twinge of annoyance that Clutterbuck had so rapidly taken matters into his own hands. Doubtless the ladies were very distressed but, after a crime, it was always useful to observe the behaviour of anyone who might be a suspect before they had time to compose themselves. Perhaps Clutterbuck wanted to get home to bed himself and that had clouded his judgement, but there was no point in making an issue of it now.
Offstage in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 3) Page 3
