by A. M. Stuart
A Shocking Discovery
“Hello,” she called, her voice vanishing into the dark bowels of the house. “Sir Oswald? Are you at home?
“Damn it,” she swore under her breath. She needed the typewriter.
If no one was at home, perhaps she could retrieve her property and be gone, leaving a note of apology for her intrusion.
She stepped over the threshold, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she caught her breath. Furniture had been overturned, cushions torn apart and valuable porcelain lay shattered on the rugs.
A sensible woman would have turned on her heel.
She glanced at the study door. It stood ajar and, drawn by an invisible force, she approached it, her breath held tightly in her throat. Her nose twitched as she caught the scent of something sweet and sickly, at odds with the pervading odor of damp and dust.
With a single extended finger, she pushed the study door. It opened on protesting hinges and she peered around it, her gaze seeking the familiar solidity of the sturdy black case of the Corona typewriter. It sat where she had left it, on the round table in the center of the room, but as her peripheral vision widened she let out her breath in a gasp.
Sir Oswald Newbold lay spread-eagled. He stared up at the ceiling with sightless eyes, his face fixed in a grimace of horror, echoed only by the hideous grin of the devilish imp carved on the handle of the antique knife—the dha, Sir Oswald had called it when he had shown it to her the previous day—that had been thrust into his neck.
The scream stuck in Harriet’s throat.
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2019 by Alison Mary Stuart Brideson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Stuart, A. M., 1959-
Title: Singapore sapphire / A. M. Stuart.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2019. | Series: A Harriet Gordon mystery.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018058073 | ISBN 9781984802644 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781984802651 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | British—Singapore—Fiction. | Detective and mystery stories. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9639.4.S78 S56 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018058073
First Edition: August 2019
Cover illustration © Larry Rostant
Cover design by Judith Lagerman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To my husband, David, who took me to Singapore and gave me the space and encouragement to pursue this mad dream of writing.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Glossary
Character List
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
GLOSSARY
MALAY WORDS
Atap: A thatch made of palm leaves used in the construction of huts
Bukit: Hill
Dhobi: Laundryman
Gharry: A horse-drawn carriage available for hire
Godown: Warehouse
Hantu: Ghost
Jambatan: Bridge
Kampong: Village
Ricksha: Rickshaw
Sungei: River
Tuan: Sir or mister. A form of address used as a mark of respect. (attribution: Collins English Dictionary)
Ulu: Unkempt foliage/jungle
Wallah: A person with a particular duty, e.g., ricksha wallah—a man who pulls rickshaws
DUTCH WORDS
Geliefde: Beloved
Gevangenen: Prisoners
Kleine: Little
Lieve: Dear
Mijn: Mine
Vrouw: Wife
OTHER WORDS
Amah: A female house servant or nursemaid
Ducks: The white twill tropical uniform of the colonial civil service
Jagar: Doorman
Kapok: A fluffy cotton seed of the kapok tree. Often used to stuff bedding.
Pith helmet: A lightweight cloth-covered helmet made of pith material (sola topee is a variation)
Sam Browne: A wide belt, usually leather, supported by a narrower strap passing diagonally over the right shoulder
Samfu: A light suit consisting of a plain high-necked jacket and loose trousers, worn by women from China
Walletjes: The red-light district of Amsterdam
CHARACTER LIST
ST. THOMAS CHURCH OF ENGLAND PREPARATORY SCHOOL FOR ENGLISH BOYS
Reverend Julian Edwards: Headmaster. Older brother of H
arriet. Unmarried. Passionate about cricket.
George Pearson: Senior master and deputy headmaster.
Ethel Pearson: Wife of George. House mother and matron to the boarders.
Michael Derby: Junior master.
William Lawson: A pupil.
John Lawson: William’s father. A rubber planter.
ST. THOMAS HOUSE (THE HEADMASTER’S RESIDENCE)
Harriet Gordon: Widow. Shorthand typist and unpaid assistant at her brother’s school. Former suffragette.
Huo Jin: Housekeeper at St. Thomas House. Chinese opera singer.
Lokman: Cook at St. Thomas House.
Aziz: Odd-job boy. Orphan.
STRAITS SETTLEMENTS POLICE FORCE
Inspector General of Police W. A. “Tim” Cuscaden: (Not fictional) 1853–1936. Retired from Straits Settlements Police in 1913. Introduced innovative policing methods such as fingerprinting. Has a road in Singapore named for him.
DETECTIVE BRANCH
Inspector Robert Curran: Straits Settlements Police Force Detective Branch. Former military policeman. Grandson of the Earl of Alcester. Black sheep of that particular family. Opening batsman for Singapore Cricket Club.
Sergeant Gursharan Singh: Third-generation Sikh policeman. Curran’s right-hand man.
Constable Earnest Greaves: Branch wonder boy. Newly arrived from London.
Constable Tan Jian Ju: Excellent undercover detective and lover of motor vehicles.
FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES
Khoo Li An: Curran’s live-in lover. Scarred woman of mystery.
Dr. Euan Mackenzie: Chief surgeon at the Singapore General Hospital and part-time police surgeon. Old friend of Harriet’s late husband, James Gordon.
Louisa Mackenzie: Wife of Euan. Harriet’s best friend.
Griff Maddocks: A gentleman of the press and friend of Harriet’s.
THE HOTEL VAN WIJK
Henrik Van Gelder: Hotel manager.
Mrs. Van Gelder: His wife.
Stefan Paar: A clerk.
Hans Visscher: A clerk.
Nils Cornilissen: A guest. Dealer in Asian antiquities.
Gertrude Cornilissen: Nils’s wife.
THE EXPLORERS AND GEOGRAPHERS CLUB
Sir Oswald Newbold: President, explorer of northern Burma and crashing bore.
James Carruthers: Secretary. A paid functionary.
Colonel Augustus Foster: A member. Keen on cricket and motor vehicles.
ANIMALS
Leopold: Curran’s horse.
Shashti: Harriet’s kitten.
Mr. Carrots: The school’s trap pony.
PROLOGUE
Singapore
Friday, 4 March 1910
Shorthand and Typewriting. An Englishwoman undertakes casual work as a stenographer and typist. From Monday to Friday after 5:30 P.M. daily. On Saturday after 2 P.M. She guarantees rapid and careful work together with ABSOLUTE SECRECY. Address Mrs. Gordon, Tanglin Post Office 35.
Sir Oswald Newbold picked up his pencil and circled the small advertisement on the second page of the Straits Times, folded the paper and set it down beside his place mat. He crossed one leg over the other and, picking up his teacup, he surveyed his garden.
The early-morning mist rose out of a jungle beyond the boundary of this barely tamed corner of Singapore. The thick, humid air seemed alive with the boobook call of the native birds and the screech of macaques.
The smell of the hearty English breakfast of bacon and eggs that Nyan set before him seemed curiously at odds with the tropical surroundings.
As Sir Oswald ate, his eyes strayed once more to the Straits Times. He set down his fork and dabbed the egg yolk from his moustache.
Folding his napkin, he pushed back his chair and stood up.
“Nyan, I have a letter to write. Be ready to take it into town for me later this morning.”
ONE
Singapore
Monday, 7 March 1910
The day had not begun well for Harriet Gordon. A domestic upset in the kitchen had to be smoothed over before she even arrived at the school to find that the unreliable typewriter on her desk refused to work. The decision to retrieve her own little typewriter from the home of Sir Oswald Newbold had been where it all began.
As the pony trap turned off Bukit Timah Road into the long drive that wound its way through the abandoned rubber trees and thickets of jungle up to Sir Oswald Newbold’s home, the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle.
Not a monkey, a bird or an insect could be heard in the ulu that surrounded the house, and a hush, as thick and impenetrable as the humidity of the late morning, settled around Harriet.
The pony flattened his ears and slowed his jaunty pace, as the low silhouette of the old plantation house came into view. Aziz clucked his tongue encouragingly but Mr. Carrots came to a standstill, his ears pressed against his lowered head. The boy shifted in his seat, his gaze darting around the overgrown garden.
“Sorry, mem. We go no further and I think we should not stay. They call this place Bukit Hantu. It is a bad place.”
“Bukit Hantu? What does that mean?” Harriet asked.
Her client had told her that he had named the property Mandalay, in memory of his long connection with Burma.
Aziz shook his head. “There are evil spirits here.”
Harriet smiled at the boy. “There are no such things as evil spirits, Aziz. You stay here with Carrots and I’ll just pop in and collect the typewriter.”
Aziz jumped from the trap and helped Harriet down.
She narrowly avoided a puddle, a remnant of the morning rainstorms. Lifting her skirts to avoid the cloying red mud, she strode the last fifty yards to the steps of the old house. On her first visit to Mandalay, it had not seemed quite so run-down, but now she could see the wood on the verandah supports was rotten and in need of painting, green mildew stained the stone steps and a single shutter somewhere around the side of the house flapped and banged, even though there seemed to be no wind.
And again, the silence . . . no sound of servants chattering, no clanging of pots from the kitchen. Nothing.
Her unease intensified as she set her foot on the lower step leading up the verandah.
Glancing back, she forced a smile and waved at Aziz. The boy stood in the shade of a massive rain tree, holding Mr. Carrots’s bridle. As she watched, the pony shook his head, almost sending the slender boy flying. The animal started to back away and it took all Aziz’s strength to hold him. Neither boy nor animal wanted to be here, and her unease began to grow.
Bukit Hantu? Harriet’s knowledge of Malay was still rudimentary. She knew bukit meant “hill,” but hantu? She would ask Julian when she got home.
The wooden boards on the verandah creaked as she approached the door. Her client would not be expecting her until later in the day, but she needed the typewriter she had left with him. She knocked loudly on the frosted-glass panel and stood back, expecting Sir Oswald’s elderly Burmese servant to answer the door as he had done the previous day. The seconds ticked past without any movement from within the house.
She tried the door handle and found the door unlocked. Given the valuables she had seen in the house, she considered Sir Oswald’s security a little lax.
“Hello,” she called, her voice vanishing into the dark bowels of the house. “Sir Oswald? Are you at home?
“Damn it,” she swore under her breath. She needed the typewriter.
If no one was at home, perhaps she could retrieve her property and be gone, leaving a note of apology for her intrusion.
Remembering the name of Sir Oswald’s servant, she called out again.
“Nyan? Sir Oswald?”
Only an echoing silence reverberated through the house to the open back door visible from where she stood.
Just collect the typewr
iter and go. You can leave a note . . .
She stepped over the threshold, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she caught her breath. The main living room bore no resemblance to the cluttered room she had admired the day before. Then every space had been filled with oriental rugs, antique furniture and Asian art. This morning nothing remained in place. Furniture had been overturned, cushions torn apart and valuable porcelain lay shattered on the rugs.
A sensible woman would have turned on her heel.
She glanced at the study door. It stood ajar and, drawn by an invisible force, she approached it, her breath held tightly in her throat. Something under her foot crunched and she started, taking a step back. The splintered remains of two port glasses lay scattered across the floor, along with a small silver tray and a broken decanter. Her nose twitched as she caught the scent of the port and something else, sweet and sickly, at odds with the pervading odor of damp and dust.
She skirted the broken port glasses and put her hand out to push the door open, but recoiled at the sight of dark smears on the chipped white paint.
With a single extended finger, she pushed the study door. It opened on protesting hinges and she peered around it, her gaze seeking the familiar solidity of the sturdy black case of the Corona typewriter. It sat where she had left it, on the round table in the center of the room, but as her peripheral vision widened she let out her breath in a gasp.
Every book had been swept from the shelves, papers scattered across the floor, interspersed with copious amounts of broken china, and in the middle of the carnage, between the table and the big desk, Sir Oswald Newbold lay spread-eagled.
Years of assisting her husband’s medical practice and his work in the worst slums of India had inured her to death in its many forms but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of the bloodstained corpse lying on the expensive oriental carpet. He stared up at the ceiling with sightless eyes, his face fixed in a grimace of horror, echoed only by the hideous grin of the devilish imp carved on the handle of the antique knife—the dha, Sir Oswald had called it when he had shown it to her the previous day—that had been thrust into his neck.
