Prasanna pulled himself up and clambered through the window. ‘Why do you think someone would have wanted to get in, sir?’ he asked, brushing the dust from his trousers with his hands. ‘Burglary?’
‘Not burglary, Sergeant: murder.’
Prasanna stopped brushing and goggled.
‘In spite of what Doctor Hebden says, I’m not entirely convinced Renshaw died of a heart attack.’
‘Why not, sir?’
Briefly, de Silva explained about Hari Gooptu.
‘Then you think it might be a revenge attack?’
‘I’m not sure about anything yet, but we can’t rule it out. The timing’s very close and that makes me suspicious. The signs on Renshaw’s body might indicate suffocation rather than a heart attack. There was no serious bruising but if he was in a drunken stupor, a murderer wouldn’t have needed much force to subdue him. There were the grazes but they might have been caused by a fall. They could, however, also be evidence that someone dragged his body from his office to the withering tank.’
‘Could it be Gooptu come back?’
‘Maybe. It’s not clear to me yet how badly he’s injured, or even if he’s still alive. If not him, it might be one or several of the other workers wanting revenge on his behalf.’
Prasanna’s expression had grown more solemn by the minute.
De Silva chuckled. ‘We may have more excitement than we expected, eh? I think it’s time we paid a visit to the labour lines.’
**
A dusty track led from the factory yard to the area where the tea workers lived in squat huts built of mud brick and roofed with dried palm leaves. Pot-bellied children wearing nothing but dirty loincloths stopped their games to stare at the interlopers. A few women sat outside their huts making pieces of rough cloth on rudimentary looms. Their menfolk, huddled in small groups on the red ground, watched with anger or wariness in their eyes. Even if it wasn’t because they had a murderer in their midst, it was understandable, thought de Silva. Their lives were hard but at least when Renshaw was alive, they had shelter and some wages. His death threw their futures into doubt.
‘It’s going to be hard to get any of them to talk, sir,’ muttered Prasanna.
Out of the corner of his eye, de Silva noticed that one of the older boys held a flat piece of wood. There was a ball at his feet. ‘See if you can persuade the children to play cricket with you, Sergeant.’
Prasanna walked over to the boy and pointed to the ball. Hesitantly, the boy handed it to him. The sergeant took a few strides backwards and prepared to bowl, indicating to the boy that he should be ready. His face relaxed in a grin as the improvised cricket bat made contact and the ball flew up and away raising a little cloud of dust where it landed. Another boy ran to fetch it back then one by one, more joined in the game. Some of the women stopped weaving and watched with toothless smiles. One of the men started to laugh and soon, the atmosphere had lightened.
De Silva studied the men. He picked one who only glanced at the game and spent more time covertly studying him. Probably he was the most likely to give him the information he sought in exchange for a few rupees.
He beckoned the man over and asked a few questions eliciting the information that he had noticed no one missing from the labour lines on the night Renshaw died. It was true that Gooptu had been flogged before his dismissal but the man hadn’t witnessed it and wasn’t sure how serious his injuries were. He did, however, know that Gooptu had gone to his village in the jungle.
De Silva produced some more coins. ‘Can you take us to it?’
The man nodded and took the money. ‘When do you want to go? It is far to walk. About a day from here.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Down into the lowland. There is a road until the last hour maybe.’
‘We’ll come for you just after dawn. Be at the factory yard.’
The man waggled his head.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Akash.’
‘Thank you, Akash. There’s be more money for you when you bring us back safely.’
The cricket game had reached fever pitch, the children jumping up and down with excitement and shouting encouragement while the adults watched smiling. Prasanna was in to bat now. It seemed a pity to tear him away but the light would be going soon anyway.
When de Silva called him over, he held out the ball. ‘It’s a cheap one from the market. Not much life left in it, especially after today. I’ve got a better one at home I can bring them.’
‘We’ll be back in the morning,’ de Silva nodded.
The Morris jolted down the rutted track towards the public road. As they passed the gate to the bungalow, he wondered whether to stop to see Jane as she was still with Madeleine but it might be hard to explain his reasons for being at the plantation. He would telephone her later on.
Approaching Nuala on the road that ran along the side of the lake, he had to stop suddenly as he came out of a bend, narrowly avoiding a group of ponies that stood there, drowsing in the evening sun. He honked the Morris’s horn but none of them moved.
‘You’d better get out, Prasanna.’
The sergeant opened the door and clapped his hands but it took a few minutes before the ponies wandered back to the grass. As one ambled past the Morris, de Silva saw how the damp streaks on its cheeks were encrusted with black flies. The poor creatures should have fields to live in, not the dusty roads.
Prasanna got back into the Morris. ‘When this business with Renshaw’s over,’ de Silva said, ‘we’d better step up our efforts to find the owners. Otherwise sooner or later there’ll be an accident.’
**
Later on, he telephoned Jane from home.
‘How are you getting on? How’s Mrs Renshaw?’
‘Oh, I’m alright. Madeleine’s been resting in her room most of the afternoon so I’ve played with Hamish. He’s a dear little chap. He’s been telling me about what he learns with his tutors. He’s obviously a bright little boy. That wretched bird of his though, it’s a terrible nuisance.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t imagine where it’s learnt so much foul language. It curses like a stevedore.’
He chuckled. ‘Perhaps you should send for Florence Clutterbuck to lecture it on the error of its ways.’
‘That would be even worse. Seriously, poor Madeleine is so upset by the bird. If it wasn’t for the fact Hamish is so fond of it, I think it would have gone long ago.’
‘Has she said much about her husband?’
‘Not really. It’s hard to tell how she feels. It’s as if everything’s dammed up inside her.’ She sighed. ‘Twice a widow and she’s still very young. And with the responsibility of the plantation on her shoulders now.’
De Silva didn’t like to mention the letter he’d seen from the loan company. If they foreclosed, the plantation wouldn’t be Madeleine’s concern for long.
‘When are you coming home?’ he asked instead.
‘I’d like to stay a few more days, at least until after the funeral. Maybe she’ll find it easier to talk once it’s over and there’ll be something I can do to help.’
‘Whatever you think is best.’
‘Thank you, dear. I’m sorry to leave you on your own.’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine. Although I miss you, of course,’ he added hastily.
Jane laughed. ‘I should hope so. It’s time Hamish went to bed, I’d better go. Will you call me again tomorrow?’
‘I promise. Goodnight, my love.’
‘Goodnight, dear.’
Chapter 11
De Silva did up the top button of his overcoat and wrapped his muffler tighter around his neck. He was glad that the leather driving gloves he wore had a woollen lining.
Sergeant Prasanna shivered in the passenger seat, the travelling rug Jane always insisted on carrying in the Morris draped around him like a shawl. ‘I hope we don’t run across any of your girlfriends. It’s not a flattering look.’
�
�Perhaps it would be a good thing, sir,’ the sergeant said glumly.
‘Your mother still trying to marry you off, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
**
The grey dawn light revealed the plantation worker, Akash, waiting for them in the factory yard. Clad in an old sarong, with a length of homespun cloth around his shoulders, he looked even colder than Prasanna. He climbed gingerly into the dickey seat and clung to the bar dividing it from the front as they drove off.
By the time they reached the place where Akash indicated that the road ended, the sun was up and the air was already warm. De Silva found a place to park the car and sent Prasanna to find someone to watch it while they were away. ‘Tell them I’ll pay them well when we come back.’
The rice fields on either side soon gave way to jungle. The path became steep, then levelled and narrowed to meander along the side of a hill.
A network of tree roots protruded from the parched earth and de Silva had to watch his step to make sure he didn’t trip. He prayed to any god who would like to listen that no snakes lay in wait.
Below them, an occasional glint of silver showed that a small stream ran through the ravine beneath a tangle of fallen trees and creepers. The air clung to de Silva’s body, heavy with moisture. He started to sweat and the powerful smell of rotting vegetation made his stomach queasy. It was a long time since he had walked in the jungle and he had forgotten how tiring it was if you were not used to it. He slowed his pace to conserve his energy, letting Prasanna and Akash walk ahead.
In spite of the discomfort, he reflected, there was beauty in the jungle. Yet there was struggle too. It presented a kind of metaphor for human life: the big bully-boy trees thrusting up toward the sky, while the smaller, weaker ones lived in the understorey. Then there were the passengers: mosses in a dozen shades of green or grey; ferns; lianas and orchids with pale, gnarled roots like dead men’s fingers. All of them depended for their lifeblood on other plants or their decomposing remains.
Just as he thought he would have to rest – surely the walk was taking far longer than the hour Akash had said – they emerged into a clearing where a man with a knife was shaving curls of pale bark from a slender tree. The delightful smell of cinnamon revived de Silva’s spirits.
The man clearly recognised Akash and left his work to take them to the village. A pack of skinny dogs barked as they drew close. Their new guide picked up a stick and threw it at the leader who yelped and backed away. ‘Bad,’ he grunted.
They reached a scattering of mud huts, each with a porch made of palm fronds propped up by thin tree trunks. Children played in the dirt but they looked a little better fed than the ones at the labour lines. There were some goats and two tethered cows as well as a flock of scarlet-wattled jungle fowl strutting between the huts. Sacks of maize and rice were stacked under many of the porches. These people were farmers. In a good year, their diet would be reasonable.
De Silva beckoned to Akash. ‘Where’s Gooptu?’
‘You wait. I speak to his wife. Gooptu very sick. Might be sleeping.’ De Silva frowned as Akash disappeared into one of the huts with the cinnamon cutter. He would be angry if they had come all this way for nothing.
But a few moments later, Akash returned. ‘He wake. You come with me.’
A sour smell met them at the door of the hut. In the semi-darkness, it was just possible to make out a low straw bed and the shape of a man lying on it. Closer to, it became clear that he was painfully thin and his gaunt face glistened with sweat. A woman who sat cross-legged near the bed stared at them and gave vent to an agitated torrent of words. She raised a thin, brown arm and pointed at it then shook her fist.
‘What’s she saying?’ asked de Silva, not understanding her even though she spoke in Tamil.
‘She says she has sold her bangles to buy medicine for her husband but he needs more or he will die.’
De Silva steeled himself to go nearer to the bed and saw the suppurating wound on the sole of one of Gooptu’s feet. ‘Ask her when he came home and how long he’s been like this.’
‘She remembers it was just before last poya day. He told them he had walked all the way. The wound on his foot was bleeding and full of dirt. The fever started soon afterwards,’ said Akash after a brief conversation with the woman.
Poya day: the day of the full moon. If Gooptu had come home shortly before the last one, that was well before Renshaw was found dead. He looked again at the wound on Gooptu’s foot. The very thought of the man putting weight on it made him wince. Gooptu was certainly in no state to have walked all the way back to Nuala, broken into the factory and murdered Renshaw.
‘I want to see his back. Ask her to turn him over.’
Akash spoke to the woman who started to cry and wring her hands. De Silva sighed and produced a few coins. She tucked them in a fold of her sari and wiped her eyes.
Gently, two men who had joined them in the hut turned Gooptu over. De Silva studied the skin on his back. There were a few welts but they weren’t deep and seemed to be healing a great deal more cleanly than his foot.
‘Let him lie down again. Prasanna, give me the shirt.’
Prasanna pulled it out of the bag he carried and handed it to de Silva. Gooptu was fully awake now, his breathing shallow and his eyes darting around these strange faces in his hut.
De Silva held up the shirt. ‘Ask if it belongs to him.’
Gooptu understood de Silva’s Tamil and shook his head. De Silva was inclined to believe him. The shirt was far too large for this emaciated man and much of the stain was in a different place to the welts on Gooptu’s back.
‘Did your master flog you?’
Gooptu nodded and muttered a curse.
‘Do you know anything about his death?’
Gooptu’s chest heaved and de Silva realised he was laughing. ‘Dead?’ he gasped at last. ‘Good.’ He turned his head and spat out a gobbet of phlegm then closed his eyes once more. He looked as if he was going to sleep.
There seemed to be no point questioning him any longer. De Silva pulled out some more rupees. ‘Tell the woman to buy salt to clean the wound and medicine for her husband’s fever. Here’s money for it.’
Outside, he breathed in a lungful of clean air with relief. As they followed Akash back along the jungle paths, doubts filled his mind. Now he had seen Gooptu, he no longer considered him an obvious suspect. At least he could tell Jane the man had been found and seemed likely to recover.
What about the other workers? If any of them had broken into the factory and committed the crime to avenge Gooptu, finding out who it was would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And if one of them was the murderer, why would they stay on at the plantation and take the risk of being unmasked, especially with the place’s future so uncertain?
Perhaps Hebden was right. Experience showed that the most obvious explanation for a death was frequently the correct one. In other words, Renshaw had died of a heart attack; there was nothing more to it than that. After all, as well as now having no obvious suspect, he had found no murder weapon either. If Gooptu could be ruled out, and it seemed he could be, all that was left was vague suspicion.
He thought of Madeleine Renshaw and Tagore, of the grazes on Renshaw’s body and the unwashed teacup with the smell he couldn’t place. When he made his report to Archie Clutterbuck, which he still had to do, he wasn’t even sure he would mention them. With Renshaw dead, Clutterbuck would probably want the matter forgotten as soon as possible. Until he had something convincing to back up his theory that Renshaw had been murdered, he preferred to avoid giving the impression he was just being difficult.
Chapter 12
The organ’s sonorous tones filled the church. A rustle like the wind in a grove of coconut trees accompanied it as the congregation rose to their feet.
Bearing the coffin on their shoulders, the pall bearers walked slowly to the table before the altar and set down their burden. Madeleine Renshaw, veiled in black, followed. Ham
ish, dressed in a dark suit and tie and a white shirt that made him look like a parody of a grown-up, grasped her hand. De Silva felt a stab of pity for the boy. Even if he hadn’t been close to his stepfather, this death must remind him that he had lost his natural father. His home would be a sombre place for many months too.
The vicar stepped forward and spoke the opening words of the funeral service. Renshaw might not have been a popular man, de Silva thought, but almost every pew was full. From where he and Jane sat towards the back of the church, he surveyed the rows of bowed heads. Most of the planters in the area and their families were there, and many of the Renshaws’ household staff. Doctor Hebden sat in the same pew as the Clutterbucks.
The congregation remained standing to sing a hymn. De Silva, who was no singer, mumbled through it. The organist reached the final chords and they knelt to pray then the vicar called for a few moments of silence: a time for all those present to meditate on their memories of the departed. How many of those memories would be kindly, de Silva wondered, and then felt ashamed.
A grating sound and footsteps distracted him. To his surprise, he saw Ravindra Tagore ease himself into one of the pews on the other side of the aisle. So he hadn’t returned to Colombo yet. But what was he doing here? He was the last person de Silva would have expected to want to pay his respects.
When the service ended, the congregation followed the coffin to the churchyard where it was lowered into the grave and the vicar spoke the final prayers. Afterwards, people stood in little knots and chatted, waiting for a decent interval to pass before moving on to the funeral lunch.
De Silva found himself beside the Clutterbucks.
‘The nerve of the man!’ Florence’s chins wobbled and he realised what she often reminded him of: a jungle fowl. ‘After the accusations he made in that poor man’s lifetime, you’d think he’d have the decency not to darken the church doors.’
‘A bad business all round,’ her husband growled. ‘The sooner the fellow makes himself scarce, the better.’
Trouble in Nuala Page 9
