by A. M. Stuart
“What’s Harriet Gordon doing up here?” Mackenzie crouched down beside Sir Oswald and opened the black bag he carried. Curran tried not to look at the array of shiny, anonymous instruments that glinted at him from its depths.
He gestured at the bloodied corpse. “She found him.”
Mackenzie looked up. “Harriet?”
“You know her?”
“Very well. I went through medical school with her late husband, James. Her brother’s the headmaster of St. Tom’s in River Valley Road. Luckily for you she’s a sensible woman. If it had been my wife who had stumbled on this . . .” Mackenzie gestured at the corpse. “But you haven’t told me why she was here.”
“She tells me she was doing some work for Newbold. Typing.” Curran cast a glance at the typewriter. “Do you know anything about her work with Newbold?”
“She and her brother came for supper on Saturday night and she mentioned that she had placed an advertisement in the Straits Times and had obtained her first client. I’m not sure she gets any money for the hours of work she does at the school.” Mackenzie wiped the instruments he had been using, snapped the bag shut and rose to his feet. “We need to get him out of here and down to the morgue. He’s going off pretty damn fast.”
“Time of death?”
Mackenzie tilted his head. “I’d say before midnight. That’s as good as you’ll get, Curran. Have you looked at that knife in his neck? Nasty-looking chap.”
The red eyes of the demon sparkled malevolently and it grinned at Curran, its fanglike teeth protruding from its jaw. He could almost believe the hideous creature capable of committing the crime itself. Bukit Hantu indeed . . . there were evil spirits here and this was one of them.
Like most houses in Singapore, the kitchen, laundry and servants’ accommodation were detached from the rear of the house and connected only by a covered walkway. Leaving Mac with Sir Oswald, Curran traced the running, bloodied footsteps to the back door. A Malay constable squatting in the shade outside the kitchen jumped to his feet as Singh and Curran approached.
The smell of death emanating from the kitchen seemed stronger than inside the house and again Curran had to compose his face before entering the kitchen. Like the study, the kitchen showed clear signs of a struggle. Pots, pans and broken crockery littered the floor, and the body of an elderly man dressed in baju malayu, the traditional loose trousers and smock favored by local men, lay in a crumpled heap half under the kitchen table, a dark pool of congealed blood around him, buzzing with insects.
Curran knelt beside the corpse and waved the flies away. The man stared back at him with clouded eyes from a mottled face. Like his master, the servant showed signs of having tried to defend himself and he had been stabbed multiple times. To judge from the amount of blood, he had probably bled to death on the floor where he lay.
Curran rose to his feet and considered the corpse. “What do we know about him?”
“Mrs. Gordon told me she had met a Burmese servant by the name of Nyan when she came to the house yesterday. It could be he,” Singh said.
“So, for the moment, only Mrs. Gordon can identify him?” Curran scratched his chin and wondered if he could ask Mrs. Gordon to formally identify the man. Perhaps after Mackenzie had seen the body and it could be presented in a slightly less appalling manner?
Curran turned to the unwashed plates and cooking utensils that stood piled beside the wash trough.
“Only one set of crockery and cutlery, so his visitor arrived after supper. What happened then? Was Nyan summoned to take port to Newbold and his visitor but when he got to the door of the study he walked in on his master being murdered?”
Singh grunted agreement, used to Curran’s habit of thinking aloud, adding, “So he was chased down the corridor and cornered in here. There was a struggle and he was stabbed?”
Curran exhaled. “Nasty, but I think this suggests that the knife we found in Newbold’s body was not the murder weapon. The murderer would have had to have a knife with him to finish off the servant.”
Singh shrugged and looked around the kitchen. “This is a kitchen, sir. No shortage of knives.”
“Where’s the body, sir?”
Both men turned at the sound of Greaves’s voice. The young constable stood in the doorway with Dr. Mackenzie. Curran gestured at the body under the table, and with his finger Greaves pushed his glasses back up his shiny nose and took a breath before entering the room.
Outside Curran lit a cigarette and offered one to the doctor, who accepted. The smell of tobacco did something to alleviate the stench of death.
“This is a bad business, Curran,” the doctor said, his face grim. “To think I was only saying to Harriet at supper on Saturday that nothing untoward happened in Singapore.”
“Really? Wishing yourself bad luck, were you, Mac? In fairness, I was only complaining to Singh this morning that nothing interesting had crossed my desk for weeks. The most exciting matter troubling me is the theft of two valuable vases. Be careful what we wish for, Mackenzie.”
Mackenzie frowned and glanced back at the house. “Here’s something for you, Curran. Given the violence of these crimes, the murderer would have been covered in blood.”
Curran nodded. “I’m doubtful that will get us anywhere, but it is worth bearing in mind.” He glanced back into the kitchen, where Greaves was folding up the legs of his camera. “Now, Mackenzie, the bodies are yours, and I had better see that Mrs. Gordon returns home safely.”
“I can take her if you like,” Mackenzie said. “I have my motor vehicle with me.”
Curran shook his head. “No, I have some questions for her and it may be easier if she is away from here.”
Mackenzie glanced at him, his eyes narrowing. “She’s not a suspect, is she?”
Curran almost laughed. “I can’t rule anyone out for the moment, Mackenzie, but I can’t see Mrs. Gordon wielding a knife with such ferocity over a criticism of her typing skills.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Women are capable of feats of incredible strength when enraged, Curran.”
Curran shook his head. “I don’t consider Mrs. Gordon a suspect. Just a very important witness that I need to be pleasant to.”
Mackenzie nodded. “I warn you. She’s not that fond of the constabulary.”
“I guessed that. Can you tell me why?”
Mackenzie shook his head. “None of my business and, I suggest, none of yours.”
That last statement, Curran thought, remained to be seen.
THREE
Curran reentered the house through the back door and took a moment to check Newbold’s bedroom. Like the study, it had been ransacked. Clothes had been pulled from the drawers and scattered across the floor. A small bathroom led off the bedchamber and here Curran stopped in the doorway and swore aloud. Two bloodstained towels lay on the floor, and even from where he stood he could see the washbasin full almost to overflowing, the water stained red with the blood of Sir Oswald Newbold and his unfortunate servant. The murderer had cleaned himself before he left, possibly, if he had any sense, wearing something of Newbold’s and carrying his own bloodstained clothing. They would not be looking for a man covered in blood.
He strode down the corridor to the front door and paused. Harriet Gordon had abandoned the chair and leaned against the verandah rail, looking out at the busy scene in the front garden.
She turned as Curran approached her, his footsteps ringing loud on the wooden boards.
“Have you found anything of interest, Inspector?” she inquired as two of the attendants from the mortuary wagon that had just arrived hurried up the steps, carrying a stretcher.
“It’s all of interest, Mrs. Gordon.”
“And those men?” She pointed at the uniformed constables combing the garden.
“Murder weapon, abandoned clothing, signs of a vehicle . . . anything.”
“You may be right but it doesn’t stop us looking.”
She crossed her arms. “I would like to go home, Inspector.”
“We will be leaving shortly,” he said. “But first I have one last, unpleasant task for you. If you’re up to it?” He indicated the stretcher being carried around the corner of the house by two of the mortuary orderlies. The body of the old servant had been covered with a gray, woolen blanket. “I was wondering if you could identify the servant for me.”
Her lips tightened and she gave a slight inclination of her head before striding down the steps with purpose in the set of her shoulders. Curran summoned the men across and ordered them to uncover the man’s face.
“Is that the servant who you met here?”
Mrs. Gordon swayed back on her heels, her hand going to her throat. “Yes. That’s Nyan.” She straightened and, to Curran’s surprise, she touched the man’s cheek. “He seemed a gentle old man. He did not deserve to die in such a violent way.”
Something in the tone of her voice gave Curran pause. Why the grief for this man but not for Sir Oswald?
A curt nod from Curran and the orderlies hurried away to stow their burden in the back of the mortuary wagon.
“Thank you,” Curran said. “That is never an easy task.”
“No worse than what I saw in the study,” she said. “I had years of assisting my husband’s medical practice and his work in the worst slums of Bombay. Death does not generally unsettle me.”
“Did he just have the one servant?” Curran asked.
“I only saw one—Nyan. Newbold told me he had come with him from Burma. There could have been others but as I told you, I only visited here the one time. Excuse me . . .” She opened her handbag and produced a neatly laundered handkerchief, which she pressed to her mouth and nose. “Please take me home. My brother will be worried.”
Curran nodded. “My motor vehicle is at your disposal.”
She glanced back at the house. “Did you find the manuscript?” she asked.
Curran frowned. “What manuscript?”
“Sir Oswald’s memoirs. It was a pile of papers about three inches thick”—she indicated the thickness between thumb and forefinger—“secured with string. I saw him place it in the safe last night but the safe has been ransacked. Silly, I know—”
“Wait here.” Curran turned back into the house.
In the study, he found the mortuary orderlies loading Sir Oswald onto the stretcher. Skirting the sweating men and the blood-soaked carpet, he circled the desk and crouched down beside the safe. He began sifting through the spilled contents—share certificates, title deeds, but nothing that matched the description of Sir Oswald Newbold’s memoirs.
“It’s not there, is it?”
He jumped to his feet, spinning on his heel to face Harriet Gordon. She stood a few feet away, pale but perfectly composed.
“Are you quite sure he put it in the safe?”
“Quite. After I found Sir Oswald I looked to see if there was a telephone and I saw the safe had been opened. I noticed the manuscript missing straightaway.”
Curran scanned the room with its expensive antiques and valuable books. So, something had been taken. Something of value to the murderer?
“Thank you, Mrs. Gordon. I’ll get a full description from you when I take your statement. For now, you shouldn’t be in this room.”
“I really have no need of a police escort to take me home. If I could send a message to my brother, Aziz can bring the pony trap back for me.” An edge of ice had crept into her tone.
Her evident reluctance to spend any more time with the police than was strictly necessary only served to intrigue him.
“It would be remiss of me not to ensure you reach home safely, Mrs. Gordon. My motor vehicle is waiting outside and you will be home much quicker if I take you.”
He ushered her out of the study and down the steps to the pride of the Singapore Straits Settlements Police Force Detective Branch, the newly acquired 15.9 horsepower, Arrol-Johnston motor vehicle that had arrived with Constable Greaves.
“I didn’t know the police now had motor vehicles, Inspector,” Mrs. Gordon remarked as he opened the rear door of the vehicle to allow her to enter.
“It is, I believe, the first of its kind in Singapore. Inspector General Cuscaden is very keen to embrace modern methods of policing and while I am fully supportive of some, such as fingerprinting and photography . . .” He paused. “Personally I consider motor vehicles a noisy, dangerous necessity. Give me my horse any day. Come on, Tan, get a move on, it looks like rain.”
Constable Tan grinned, and as he cranked the handle to start the mechanical beast, Curran lowered his voice. “He treats this monster like a favorite girl, Mrs. Gordon. Now, where are we going?”
“St. Thomas House . . . next to St. Thomas School in River Valley Road.”
With the engine of the vehicle purring smoothly, Tan jumped into the driver’s seat and with infinite care navigated the “beast” down the rutted driveway and out into Bukit Timah Road.
* * *
* * *
As the police motor vehicle turned onto Bukit Timah Road, Harriet heaved a sigh. She had gone past the need for tea. All she wanted now was a stiff whisky and a long bath. Perhaps then she could get the lingering smell of death and the memory of Sir Oswald’s bloodstained corpse out of her mind.
“You’ve been very brave, Mrs. Gordon.” Inspector Curran’s well-modulated tones interrupted her reverie.
She cast him a sharp, angry glance. “Please don’t patronize me, Inspector. I’ve seen dead bodies before.”
Curran cleared his throat and a slight color stained his lean, tanned cheeks. “My apologies, Mrs. Gordon. I did not intend to patronize you.” He cast her a rueful smile that softened his face and for a moment almost made him look human. “I am not sure I know how to deal with ladies who admit to seeing dead bodies on a regular basis. Most ladies of my acquaintance would be reaching for the smelling salts.”
Harriet didn’t carry smelling salts and had little time for the vapid women who did.
“My husband ran a small clinic in the slums of Bombay. Sadly, the deaths I saw there were from neglect and poverty. Never a murder victim.” She thought of Sir Oswald Newbold and realized beyond the revulsion and her own shock at the manner of his death, she could summon no feelings of grief or pity. “Sir Oswald . . . Did he suffer?”
He gave her a sharp appraising glance.
“He clearly fought off his attacker and sustained several very bad wounds before the final blow. I expect his assailant got him to the floor before plunging the knife into his throat.”
Harriet raised her hand to her mouth as she swallowed back the bile. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, apart from a couple of glasses of tepid water. It was hardly surprising that she felt a little light-headed and nauseated. The fumes and smell of new leather arising from the motor vehicle did not help.
“Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Gordon?”
Curran’s voice brought her back and she took a deep breath. “Quite well, Inspector.”
“Why had you left your typewriter at the house?” Curran asked.
“It seemed more convenient to leave it there than to keep carrying it back and forth but the school typewriter was broken and I have a term’s worth of school fees to type up. When can I have it back?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gordon, but the house is a crime scene. I will make sure it is returned to you in due course.”
Harriet let out a heavy breath and leaned her elbow on the door of the motor vehicle, pretending an interest in the passing scenery. She hoped her apparent disinterest would deter further questions but the policeman did not take the hint.
“What was in Sir Oswald’s memoirs?”
“And yet someone thought his memoirs of sufficient interest to steal the manuscript, as you yourself pointed out, Mrs. Gordon,” Curran mused.
Harriet shrugged. “He had written the entire thing in shorthand. Even I had trouble interpreting it so I fear the thief may not find them very illuminating.”
“How did Sir Oswald contact you?”
“I received a note from him on Friday and on Saturday afternoon I met him at the Hotel Van Wijk. You know it?”
It was a foolish question. Of course he knew it. Everyone knew the Hotel Van Wijk on Stamford Road.
Curran frowned. “Why the Van Wijk?”
She shrugged. “I gained an impression that he stayed there often. All the staff seemed to know him. In fact, one of them paid a call at his home just as I was leaving last night.”
She sensed the policeman stiffen and his unusual light-gray eyes fixed on her with renewed intensity. “A visitor? Why didn’t you mention this before?”
His annoyance amused her. “You didn’t ask me,” she replied.
“Did you recognize him?”
“One of the young clerks from the reception. A nice boy, always very polite.” She frowned, trying to recall the name. “Fisher? No, Visscher. Dutch, I think. He had been on duty at the desk of the Van Wijk when I arrived for my meeting with Sir Oswald.”
“Why did he visit Sir Oswald’s home? Was he expected?”
“Definitely not expected. I must say Sir Oswald did not seem very pleased to see him at all. Visscher said he was returning something that Sir Oswald had left at the hotel but he seemed quite agitated.”
Curran’s lips tightened and his gray eyes narrowed. “Did he say what the object was?”
