by A. M. Stuart
“However, I’m not sure I learned very much beyond the sad fact that most of his companions on that journey perished. Of course, that was when he discovered the famed Newbold Ruby.” Strong made a circle between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
Curran raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. “A stone that size would be worth a fortune.”
“And the color of pigeon’s blood, apparently.”
Curran had often heard this description and wondered about the exact color pigeon’s blood that excited the comparison.
“Was it still in his possession?”
“Alas, no. I believe it now graces the regalia of some minor European royalty. You must understand Newbold was in the employ of the Burmese Ruby Syndicate and when the Mogok area was opened up, he returned as the mine manager. He had no legal claim on anything he found, except by virtue of his shareholding.”
Curran frowned. “Then, where did his wealth come from?”
Strong blinked. “The returns on the BRS shares were good and I believe there may have been some inherited wealth. I can give you a full accounting when we have finalized the estate.”
Curran waved at the cardboard boxes stacked against one wall of his office. “There are the contents of his desk and safe, Strong. We will let you have them when we have finished with them.”
Strong nodded. “Sooner rather than later, Inspector?” He pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Curran shook his head. “Nothing for the time being. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Then, I shall see the poor fellow laid to rest. Have the police finished with the house?”
“Not yet. I’ll send the keys around when we’re done.”
Strong shook his head. “It is an ill-fated property. The previous owner committed suicide. Hanged himself from the rain tree in the garden. After two violent deaths, I doubt anyone will want to buy it.”
A chill ran down Curran’s spine. Little wonder the locals called it Bukit Hantu.
“Three violent deaths,” Curran said. “You forget Nyan.”
Strong rose to his feet. “Thank you for your cooperation, Inspector. It’s greatly appreciated. I shall advise you of the details of the funeral in due course.”
After the lawyer had left, Curran found his men standing around a board that had been set up in the main office. Greaves was pinning his crime scene photographs to it.
“Where are we with the Newbold murder?” Curran inquired.
Singh turned at the sound of his voice. “We spoke with the neighbors and their servants but no one heard or saw anything, but the house is very isolated so we would have been fortunate to find such a witness.”
Tan chimed in. “It is as if the spirits of the hill have been at work. We did learn that the hill was reputed to be the burial site of a famous prince and his retainers. Their restless spirits still roam the ulu.”
Curran rolled his eyes. “Don’t you start on that superstitious nonsense. Unless the hantu come armed with sharp knives, there are no ghosts involved.”
Curran moved in for a closer look at the crime scene photographs. Without color or scent, the two-dimensional, cold shades of black and white removed the horror from the scene that had confronted them the previous day.
“Mrs. Gordon says the Visscher boy turned up just as she was leaving. At the moment he is our prime suspect,” Curran said.
Singh shook his head. “Ah. Not Visscher. We found a ricksha wallah who says a young man of Visscher’s description flagged him down in Bukit Timah Road about seven. Newbold had time to eat his evening meal and Nyan could not have served that until he returned from delivering Mrs. Gordon to her home.”
Curran swore under his breath and ran his hand through his hair. “If not Visscher, then who? How did he arrive and how did he leave?” He pointed to the photograph of the kitchen. “Newbold ate his evening meal so the visitor could not have arrived until after that had been finished and cleared. So, between eight and nine? Looks like he let his killer in and sent for port.”
“Mrs. Gordon said she found the front door open,” Singh put in.
“Doesn’t mean anything. The murderer probably fled that way or it could have been left open for ventilation.”
“We have made inquiries with the ricksha wallahs and except for Visscher, we cannot find a driver or ricksha wallah who took anyone to or from Bukit Timah Road between seven and nine,” Singh concluded.
Curran glanced at his sergeant. “Of course we are assuming he took a richsha or gharry and did not have his own transport. There are the tracks of a motor vehicle in the driveway.”
“I have men asking questions.” Singh glanced at the clock on the wall. “Are you not expected at the hospital at nine, sir?”
Curran glanced up at the clock. Five to nine. He would be late.
* * *
* * *
Huo Jin woke Harriet with a cup of tea, the Straits Times and the news that the tuan had gone up to the school and she was not to hurry. Harriet pushed back the heavy mosquito net and glanced blearily at the little carriage clock on her bedside table. It showed eight o’clock. She had overslept and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with kapok. Hardly surprising as she had taken the precaution of self-administering a sleeping draught on top of several brandies.
She picked up the paper and the lurid headlines glared out at her. Brutal Attack in Bukit Timah. Famed Explorer Sir Oswald Newbold Dead.
She forced herself to scan the article, dreading to see her name mentioned but the article simply recorded that the body had been discovered by an “Englishwoman.” In fact, the article was decidedly short on fact and heavy on speculation. Intruders had broken in . . . valuable antiques stolen. She tossed it to one side and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her limbs heavy and unresponsive.
“The tuan say that you are to stay at home today. School will manage without you,” Huo Jin said without much enthusiasm. The amah preferred her days to herself without interfering memsahibs breathing down her neck.
Harriet shook her head. “No, I have work to do at the school. Bring me some warm water and I will have breakfast on the verandah.”
Fortified by toast and marmalade, Harriet gulped down two cups of tea and had just poured herself a third cup as a ricksha turned into the drive.
Griff Maddocks jumped down, exchanged a few words with the ricksha wallah and, waving his hat in greeting, loped up the stairs.
“My dear Harriet, how are you?” he inquired.
“Griff, while it’s always a pleasure to see you, I hardly think this is an appropriate time of day.”
Maddocks smiled. He had a sweet, disarming smile, which he no doubt employed to advantage in his chosen profession.
Being much of an age they had spent a great deal of time in each other’s company on the long voyage from London, frequently being called on to form a pair for bridge or participate in deck sports. Griff had brought something back into Harriet’s life that she had thought long forgotten . . . laughter.
His charm was wasted. Harriet remained unmoved. The journalist glanced meaningfully at the Straits Times, open on the table beside her.
“You’ve read my column this morning? I even managed to get a byline in the Times of London.”
“Yes, terrible news about Sir Oswald Newbold.” Harriet picked at a loose thread on the tablecloth.
“Harriet.” Maddocks grinned. “I know it was you who found him.”
Harriet met his gaze, her face a study in innocence. “Your report says merely an ‘Englishwoman.’”
“Curran requested I not name you,” he said.
Curran went up in Harriet’s estimation.
“You may as well join me, Griff.”
“I don’t wish to intrude—” he began.
“Yes, you do,” Harriet said. “Please sit.”
Huo Jin appeared in the doorway and Harriet sent her to fetch a fresh pot of tea and a second cup. She waited until Huo Jin had returned before fixing her uninvited guest with a stern eye.
“I am not compelled to talk to you,” she said, handing him the cup.
“Of course not.” He set the cup down and leaned forward, all humor gone from his face. “I can understand why you’d not wish your name mentioned. That business in London last year.”
She took a deep breath. “You know . . . ?”
“I was the court reporter for the Daily Mail in June last year, Harriet.”
Harriet shivered, despite the warmth of the morning, and her cup rattled in the saucer. She set it down. “You didn’t think to mention this before?”
“I assumed if you wanted me to know, you would tell me yourself.”
She ran a shaking hand across her eyes. “You must understand that I am in a very precarious situation. The bishop is the only member of the school trustees who knows the full story. If the others find out, Julian could be dismissed.”
He raised a hand. “Harriet, I would like to think we’re friends and, despite my profession, you can trust me. Although I can’t guarantee that your name will not come out at some point.”
“I’m not afraid of my name being public knowledge, Griff, only my history.”
“But you were exonerated.”
“Of the assault, not the affray. That remains on my record and for which I spent three long and very miserable months in Holloway.”
Maddocks nodded. “I see your dilemma but you have my word that if any of that does come out, it will not be through my agency.”
Harriet smiled. “Thank you for your discretion, Griff.”
“For a journalist, I am plagued with a basic code of integrity and there is nothing to be gained in my pursuit of the truth in revealing your unfortunate encounter with the law. You’re a victim of a political system, not a criminal.”
“Integrity? Is that a word one associates with the press?” Harriet wondered aloud, remembering the London Times report . . . Also arrested was the widow of the late Dr. James Gordon, daughter of respected crown prosecutor Mr. G. Edwards. She has been charged with assault and hindering a policeman in the execution of his duty . . .
All humor went from Maddocks’s eyes as they took on a brilliant intensity. “Mrs. Gordon . . . Harriet . . . I don’t for one minute believe that a woman prepared to go to Holloway for a cause she believed in can dismiss it so easily.” He studied her for a moment. “A journalist is supposed to be impartial, but I have a great sympathy for the suffrage cause. There are stories coming out of Holloway of force-feeding and—” He stopped, his eyes widening as Harriet gave an involuntary start, her hand going to her throat.
“You?”
She nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I decided to come to Singapore.”
Griff Maddocks said nothing, but his gaze didn’t move from her face as he took a studied sip from his cup, his silence inviting her confidence.
“I joined the hunger strike,” Harriet said in a tight small voice. “Every day for a week the wardress would hold me down while a man forced a tube down my throat. It was intended to break me.”
“Did it?” Griff asked.
Harriet looked away, studying the bright-purple bougainvillea that curled around the lattice of the verandah.
“They inserted the tube into my lung and I nearly died.”
Griff leaned forward, his hands clasped together. “But why on earth did you join them?”
Harriet closed her eyes. “All my life I wanted to be a lawyer, just like my father and his father before him, but even my darling father could see no point in wasting education on a woman when all I was going to do was get married and live, like my parents, in a comfortable house in Wimbledon, dispensing tea and cake and doing good work. That’s why I studied shorthand and typing. My mother was appalled when I suggested I work for my father’s law firm. Then I met my husband and escaped to India. I spent ten years working with my husband until he died, leaving me with insufficient funds for independence. I found myself back in Wimbledon, taking tea with my mother’s friends, facing a life of impecunious widowhood and taking care of my parents as they grew older. I stumbled on a rally in Hyde Park and everything Mrs. Pankhurst said resonated with me. Why shouldn’t women have the vote? Why can’t they be doctors or lawyers?” She raised her gaze to meet his. “Or journalists?”
Griff smiled. “You’d be a fine journalist, Harriet.”
Griff’s smile was hard to resist and she allowed herself a low chuckle, remembering her mother’s face when she told her she had joined the Women’s Social and Political Union. Then came the protest outside the Houses of Parliament and the three months of hell in Holloway. Had that experience broken her?
“Harriet?” Maddocks prompted.
She brought her attention back to him and forced a smile. “I am here now, thousands of miles from London, living in a society where women are less than chattels. I hope you can understand why I do not wish my past to follow me here.”
He nodded. “You have my word and I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He rose to his feet and collected his hat, giving her the benefit of his disarming smile, once again the charming journalist. “But is there anything you can tell me about Sir Oswald’s murder that may be of interest to the readers?”
Harriet shook her head. “Nothing that the police cannot tell you. Thank you for your concern. Good day.”
He clapped his hat on his head. “And to you, Mrs. Gordon.”
As he turned for the stairs down to the driveway, his hand raised to summon the ricksha wallah who squatted in the shade, Harriet rose to her feet. The memory of a frightened boy emerging out of the dark and the rain made her run down the steps and catch him by the sleeve as he mounted the ricksha. “Griff. There is something you can do for me.”
He turned. “Anything.”
“Let me find a book and then come with me to the Hotel Van Wijk.”
SEVEN
Curran did not envy Dr. Mackenzie the job of “honorary” police surgeon. He saw nothing honorific in the unpleasant criminal cases he shared with Mac. Autopsies were one aspect of his job he particularly disliked but he felt his presence was necessary both from an evidentiary point of view and as a mark of respect to the deceased.
Even the rudimentary refrigeration rigged up in the hospital morgue using large slabs of ice did little to lessen the rate of decomposition, and he knew as he opened the door to the morgue he would be in for an unpleasant morning.
Mac looked up and grinned. “I started without you. I want to get this over with before it gets too hot.”
“How do you stand it?” Curran asked, covertly rubbing his nose in a vain attempt to lessen the smell.
“I like a mystery,” Mac replied, and with a cocked head regarded the corpse on the cold marble table. “The human body is a wonder.”
There didn’t appear to be anything to wonder about Sir Oswald Newbold. The corpulent body had sustained fifteen wounds, including the one that had almost severed his finger.
“The attacker got Newbold on the ground and plunged that dagger into his neck.” Mac pointed with a scalpel.
“How do you know that?” Curran asked.
“The flow of blood from the wound,” Mackenzie said, and a slight smile twitched his moustache. “And the bloody great bruise on his chest from someone’s knee holding him down. But the knife in his neck did not inflict the other wounds.” Mackenzie looked down at the mutilated body on his dissection table and indicated one of the wounds to the man’s torso. “You see how this wound tapers. I suspect a curved blade of some description. Very, very sharp.” He glanced at the second table, where the body of Nyan lay covered in a stained sheet. “Same knife was used on the
servant.”
Curran waved a hand in the direction of Newbold’s neck. “Where’s the knife that was left in the body?”
Mackenzie jerked his head at a metal bowl. “In there. It’s all yours.”
Using his handkerchief, Curran grimaced as he picked up the hideous object. The red eyes of the demon winked at him as he carried the knife to the window.
Several brown smudges indicated that the hand gripping the knife had already been covered in blood. With any luck Greaves would find fingerprints.
Curran ran a thumb experimentally across the stained edge of the stout, pitted blade and shook his head. It was as blunt as a butter knife.
“Which wound killed him?”
Mac gestured at the neck wound. “Probably that one. He would have bled to death in minutes.”
Curran dropped the object into a paper bag, washed his face and hands and excused himself. Outside in the fresh air, such as it was, it still felt like the miasma of the autopsy room clung to him as he walked down Outram Road. He needed the exercise and he needed time to think.
* * *
* * *
Of all the hostelries in Singapore, Harriet particularly liked the Hotel Van Wijk, but the lure of its famous ice cream or curry tiffin was forgotten as she strode into the entrance foyer. The young man on the reception desk looked up as she approached and her heart sank. Unlike the cheerful face of Hans Visscher, the young man on duty had a sharp, pointed face, dark hair heavily slicked with oil, and a spotty and perspiring visage. The smile of welcome was not reflected in his eyes. She glanced at the name engraved on his brass name badge: PAAR.
“Can I help you, madam?” Paar inquired, his accent betraying a European background similar to Visscher’s. Dutch, she presumed.
Harriet forced a smile. “Good morning. I was hoping to find Mr. Visscher on duty.”
Paar’s smile did not slip. “He is not on duty this morning. Is there anything I can assist you with?”
“No.” Harriet thought fast, conscious of Griff Maddocks standing behind her, his journalist’s ears pricked. “I was talking to him when I was here on Saturday and had promised to lend him a book. Where might I find him?”
