Offstage in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 3)

by Harriet Steel

  ‘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 round 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 gardener touched the thick hair on his head and grinned. ‘An egg, and his body thin like my mother-in-law’s dahl.’

  It sounded like Michael Morville.

  ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘And how long was he here?’

  The gardener shrugged and de Silva realised he had no watch. ‘Was the caretaker on duty?’

  A grin cracked the man’s weathered face. ‘It was after lunch and he likes a nip of arrack.’

  ‘Ah.’

  De Silva handed over a few coins. ‘If you see or remember anything else, come to the police station and there may be more. You can get back to your work now.’

  Leaving the gardener to his watering, de Silva led the way to the Morris. A useful encounter. The picture was becoming a little clearer. Now he wanted to find out what Michael Morville had been up to at the theatre.

  **

  Back at the station, a message from the Residence had been delivered. Archie Clutterbuck required an update on the investigation before he left for official business in Kandy.

  De Silva’s brow furrowed. He wanted to find Morville as soon as possible but he’d better postpone that. He wondered what the urgency was on Clutterbuck’s part. His frown deepened. Was he going to be leant on to bring the investigation to an end? If so, it was proof that the British were at the bottom of this murder. But using the evidence would be as risk free as rolling over the precipice at World’s End in a barrel. As the Morris purred along the sunlit road to the Residence, his suspicions, and his apprehension, mounted.

  It was past midday when he arrived. Apart from some gardeners working in the shade, no one was about. Today, the pristine white classical portico that fronted the house seemed to have a Roman severity to it: a symbol in stone of Imperial order and power. For a moment, it daunted him.

  He swallowed and mustered his resolve. He was becoming fanciful; it wouldn’t do. The interview that awaited him was going to need a cool head. He parked the Morris then ran up the steps and rang the bell. The sound pierced his ears like the last trumpet.

  ‘The master is down at the lake, sahib,’ said the servant who answered the door. ‘Do you need me to show you the way?’

  ‘No, I can find it myself.’ He walked round the house and set off across the croquet lawn feeling grumpy. Clutterbuck could spare a morning for his beloved fishing, but he expected other people to jump when he wanted them.

  Beyond the croquet lawn, a path through laurels and rhododendrons led to a rougher lawn that sloped down to the lake. Where the water wasn’t shaded by overhanging willows, it glittered in the sunshine. On the far side, where the water was deeper, he saw a rowing boat moored at the end of a jetty. Nearby on the bank, Clutterbuck was casting for fish.

  De Silva waved as he drew closer and Clutterbuck raised a hand in acknowledgement and put down his rod.

  ‘You’re just in time to share a spot of lunch,’ he said, but although the tone was affable, his expression was oddly wary. ‘The kitchen put me up some sandwiches and pork pies. Mrs Clutterbuck’s out for lunch at one of her clubs.’

  Two folding chairs and a camp table were already set up in the shade of a tree. Clutterbuck led the way and they sat down. He gestured to the hamper on the table. ‘Help yourself. I hope you’re hungry.’

  The prospect of sandwiches never thrilled de Silva and he expected Jane would have a much more appetising lunch for him at home but, to be polite, he took a triangle of egg and cress.

  ‘Oh, I forgot the drinks. You’ll have a beer with me, I hope.’

  Before de Silva had a chance to answer, Clutterbuck heaved himself out of his chair and went to the bank. He pulled on a rope that hung down into the water and reeled it in to reveal several bottles of beer tied on at the end. He untied two, carried them dripping to the table and found a bottle opener. The first cap levered off with a pop. A little plume of froth rose to the lip of the bottle and slid down the side. De Silva was no more a fan of beer than he was of sandwiches, but he decided that, in the circumstances, he had better accept the offer.

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s very kind.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Clutterbuck opened the second bottle, took a swig and leant back in his chair. ‘Nectar after a hard morning’s fishing, eh, de Silva?’ A strained silence fell. ‘India Pale Ale,’ Clutterbuck remarked after a few moments. ‘You know the story perhaps? Scotsman by the name of McEwan invented the process. Made him a millionaire. Only beer in the world that travels well to the tropics.’

  ‘I have heard something about it, sir.’

  Clutterbuck took a pork pie and gestured to the hamper. ‘These aren’t bad. Try one. Not quite up to Fortnum and Mason standards but the cooks do their best.’

  Taking a pie, de Silva wondered how long it was going to be before the assistant government agent got to the point. The suspense was killing him.

  Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of Clutterbuck munching his pork pie. He swallowed the last morsel and wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Good of you to come at such short notice, de Silva.’

  ‘It wasn’t a problem, sir.’

  ‘But I expect you’re busy with this blasted Danforth business.’

  Already apprehensive, de Si
lva’s mood sank even further.

  Clutterbuck shot him an odd look, almost imploring. ‘Look, I’ll come to the point. I asked you out here today to clear something up. It’s dashed tricky. But I hope I can rely on your discretion.’

  The words were out before de Silva could stop them.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I will not close down my investigation. If the British government does not like it, then I must ask you to relieve me of my post.’

  Clutterbuck stared at him, open mouthed. ‘The British government? What has the British government got to do with anything?’

  De Silva felt as if he had slid off the nearby bank and was descending irrevocably into deep, muddy waters. ‘Alexander Danforth was Irish,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘What of it?’ Clutterbuck looked puzzled.

  ‘I understand there is sympathy between the rebels in India and the Irish, and I appreciate this is a difficult time for Britain that they may try to take advantage of. If Danforth was involved in anything underhand on their behalf, anything that might prejudice the peace of Ceylon, I agree he should be brought to justice, but murder is the law of the jungle. I do not want to believe it is the British way.’

  He stopped, unsure how to read the expression on Clutterbuck’s jowly face. Was it relief or embarrassment?

  A sound like the bark of a spotted deer escaped Clutterbuck’s throat. De Silva wasn’t sure at first whether it was a laugh or an expression of annoyance.

  ‘And I hope you’ll believe me,’ Clutterbuck said solemnly, ‘when I assure you that I would never ask you to condone such an action. Entirely between ourselves, I’m afraid there’ll almost certainly be bad news from England in the not too distant future.’ The flush on his cheeks deepened. ‘But no, you’re barking up the wrong tree, de Silva. What I have to say has nothing to do with politics. It concerns an entirely different matter.’

  Chapter 18

  ‘The fact is, the fellow the caretaker told you about – the one he saw lurking outside the theatre – that man was me.’

  He paused and de Silva looked at him blankly.

  ‘I trust you to keep this to yourself, de Silva. Not that anything improper occurred, but you know what people are like, and if it came to my wife’s ears—’ Clutterbuck took out his handkerchief and dabbed his brow. ‘Mrs Clutterbuck’s a fine woman. She’s been my rock through all the years we’ve been married. I wouldn’t want her upset.’

  De Silva stared as the assistant government agent rambled on.

  ‘She might not understand. You know how women can be. Least said and all that. It was just I had this damn fool idea about delivering those dratted roses to the stage door myself, like in the old days, but then that bloody caretaker! Poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted.’

  Slowly, light dawned. The uncharacteristic yellow tie Clutterbuck had worn; the faded yellow roses in Kathleen Danforth’s dressing room; the note in the wastepaper basket signed “Bunnikins”. Archie Clutterbuck was Bunnikins! De Silva almost choked as he suppressed a gurgle of mirth.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clutterbuck uncomfortably. ‘It was a very long time ago. I expect you find it hard to imagine. As the years go by, I find it well-nigh impossible myself – but I was a young man once.’

  De Silva pulled himself together. ‘Believe me, sir, it is a difficulty many of us experience.’

  Clutterbuck’s face relaxed in an awkward, curiously touching grin. ‘But you might not have been such a fool as to lose your head over an old flame, eh?’

  ‘Never having been in the predicament, I can’t say, sir.’

  ‘Very diplomatic of you.’

  Clutterbuck took a gulp of beer and wiped the froth from his lips.

  ‘I met Kathleen Danforth when I was first in London. I’d grown up in the country. One of those rural backwaters that poets like to rhapsodise about. A Quaker meeting would be livelier. Anyway, an uncle helped me to get my first post in the Colonial Office. I had good prospects, money in my pocket, and I was determined to enjoy life.’

  A faraway look came into his eyes and de Silva waited.

  ‘I took to going to the theatre and that was where I saw her. She was playing the juvenile lead in a comedy that was very popular in those days. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.’

  He fell silent and the faraway look returned. De Silva had never suspected that Clutterbuck’s bluff, sometimes abrasive, exterior hid a romantic soul. Nervous of stepping out of line, he waited.

  ‘Her name was Kathleen O’Connor then. It was later that Danforth came along. In the meantime, we had a glorious summer, but I think she knew before I did that it wasn’t meant to be. A colonial wife needs certain qualities and Mrs Clutterbuck possesses them in abundance. The life wouldn’t have suited a woman like Kathleen. Going back to those roses, the incident reminded me, if I needed reminding, that it all worked out for the best and I should be grateful. After my ignominious departure, I found a rickshaw boy to deliver the flowers and went home to the Residence.’

  He sniffed vigorously and took another gulp of beer. ‘So there you have it, de Silva. No skulduggery and espionage. Just an old fool who should know better.’

  Chapter 19

  Jane wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Poor Archie, I can’t help laughing at the thought of him being nicknamed Bunnikins, but it is rather sad too.’

  ‘Why? He said he’s happy with Florence now.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but obviously Kathleen Danforth’s arrival stirred up feelings that hadn’t entirely gone away.’

  ‘Yes. As you say, poor old Archie.’

  Jane rested her chin on her hand. ‘He might have been quite attractive as a young man, you know. He’s not bad looking and I expect he was a lot slimmer than he is now. He’s very charming when he wants to be too.’

  ‘I’ll defer to your opinion on that,’ de Silva said with a laugh. ‘No, to be fair, there have been many times when I’ve found him pleasant company. Anyway, we must forget all about this business with Kathleen Danforth. I promised him I would be discreet.’

  ‘Absolutely. It would be very unkind to embarrass him, or Florence.’

  De Silva raised an eyebrow. ‘To say nothing of the effect on my job.’

  He yawned. ‘There’s been far too much excitement for one morning. I might have a little nap before I go back to the station.’

  ‘A very good plan, dear.’

  **

  At least he had one less suspect to deal with, he thought later, on the drive into town. At the station, he saw Prasanna going in the front door and called out to him. The sergeant turned and hurried over.

  ‘Good news, sir! I found the place at last. The owner of the shop had to go back to his village for a few days because his father was sick and the person he left in charge did not serve the lady, but the owner remembered her. A British lady, tall with dark hair and a fierce expression. She brought a key and wanted a copy cut straight away. He thought it was strange at the time. British ladies do not usually run their own errands in Nuala, but he did not like to ask questions. He was afraid.’

  De Silva’s eyebrows shot up. It had to be Olive Reilly. The question was, who had she been helping or was she acting alone? And if so, how had she got out of the theatre unobserved?

  Then a new possibility dawned on him. It might end in nothing, but that bar in the theatre foyer, had he missed something there? On his usual principle of no stone unturned, perhaps he should have taken the trouble to investigate it.

  ‘I’d better get up to the Crown Hotel. I want to know what Kathleen Danforth’s maid has to say for herself. I think she must be the one who had the key cut. Meanwhile, I’d like you to visit the theatre. Find the caretaker and tell him to show you that bar in the foyer.’

  Prasanna looked puzzled. ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘There may be something that will help us. How many ways to get to it in particular.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Prasanna hesitated. ‘Will you arrest the maid, si
r?’

  De Silva considered this. Kathleen Danforth probably wouldn’t be happy about Reilly being arrested and he still wasn’t sure what her own part in the business was. He should really detain them both and that risked causing problems with Archie. At the very least, he needed to be warned.

  ‘Not yet. I must put in a call to the Residence before I do anything else.’

  Sitting at his desk waiting for the call to go through, he drummed his fingers. This was not likely to be an easy conversation. For once, he had the advantage over Clutterbuck, but the concern he had already shown for his old flame was unlikely to have diminished.

  The telephone shrilled and he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Clutterbuck here.’ The assistant government agent’s voice sounded wary. When de Silva had finished explaining what Prasanna had discovered, there was a long silence.

  ‘I can’t prevent you from questioning Kathleen,’ Clutterbuck said at last. ‘But you won’t find the Reilly woman at the Crown. Miss Watson’s disappeared too. I’ve just had David Hebden on in a terrible state. She promised to meet him at the club for lunch and never turned up. Reaction’s a bit over the top if you ask me, she might have simply changed her mind, but he seems very keen, poor chap. On the other hand, Reilly going missing is strange.’

  A feeling of foreboding came over de Silva.

  ‘I’ve postponed my business in Kandy,’ Clutterbuck added. ‘I’ll meet you at the Crown in half an hour.’

  **

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Inspector.’

  Kathleen Danforth’s face was pale but there were dark shadows around her eyes. ‘Olive has been acting out of character for several days. Normally, she never makes mistakes. In fact, she always insists on doing far more than she needs because she doesn’t trust other people to do things properly. But the day before yesterday, she singed the lace on one of my nightgowns with the iron. She broke a very expensive bottle of perfume too.’