Singapore Sapphire

by A. M. Stuart

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t suffering delayed shock. Do you want to see Mac?”

  Harriet shook her head. “I’m not sick. Just not sleeping well. Funny how the heat gets to you when you are feeling under the weather.” And every creak and groan the house made sent shivers of fear down her as she imagined Sir Oswald’s murderer stalking her in the dark.

  “Well, if you don’t feel up to it, just take it quietly at home tomorrow, old girl.”

  “I’m fine, Julian.”

  Her brother fixed her with a gimlet eye and Harriet found herself unable to hold his gaze. Julian knew her too well. She often wondered if taking holy orders gave a person instant insight into the darkest thoughts of his fellow man.

  “I really am better if I’m busy,” she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  The sound of tires crunching on gravel made a liar of her as she dropped her fork onto the plate with a clatter. She was definitely jumpy. Julian waved her back in her seat.

  “I’ll go.” He glanced at the clock. “Late for a caller.”

  He returned with a damp Inspector Curran in tow. Curran dripped water onto the polished floorboards as he removed his hat, shaking his wet hair like a dog.

  “Hell of a night,” he said. “I apologize for my appearance.”

  Harriet stood up to greet him. “Can I get you a towel?”

  “I’m not staying. I must get the motor vehicle back to South Bridge Road. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. You asked me to tell you when we found—”

  “Visscher?”

  Harriet sank back on her chair as the policeman nodded.

  “He was found this morning. Dead, I’m afraid.” Something in his hard, flat tone left Harriet with no doubt that Hans Visscher had met a violent end.

  Harriet looked down at her half-eaten meal, remembering the distressed young man from Monday night. “He was so frightened . . . was it”—she looked up into the policeman’s grim face, already knowing the answer—“foul play?”

  Curran nodded. “Yes.”

  She stopped herself from asking how Visscher had died. She didn’t want to know.

  Julian waved at the table. “Have you eaten, Inspector? I’m sure the cook can rustle up a meal for you.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve my own meal waiting for me at home.” He ran a hand over his chin, rasping the bristles that spoke of a long day.

  After her conversation with the gossiping wives of Singapore, Harriet found her curiosity about him had been piqued and she took a moment to study him. She supposed he would be in his midthirties, touching six feet, with a lean, athletic build and neatly cut brown hair that now hung in damp strands around a clean-shaven face, gray with exhaustion.

  His deeply tanned, rather aesthetic face spoke of a life largely lived outdoors and she wondered if he really was the grandson of an earl and how he had come to be in the Straits Settlements Police Force. Questions for another day and another time. In the meantime, his impeccable courtesy to her had forced her to reevaluate her opinion of the police. He did not resemble the narrow-minded, rough men she had encountered during the protests in London and she wondered how differently she may have been treated had it been an Inspector Curran who had dealt with her rather than the weasel-faced Sergeant Hodge.

  “Is there anything we can help you with?” Julian inquired.

  Curran screwed up his eyes as if trying to remember something. “Yes. Can you confirm what time Visscher was here and what he was wearing?”

  Julian glanced at Harriet and answered for her. “The clock had just struck eight and he was wearing ducks, very wet ducks. No hat.”

  Curran nodded. “Thank you. That’s helpful.” He glanced at his watch. “I must be going.” He glanced at Harriet. “Mrs. Gordon, are you all right?”

  Harriet shook her head. “No. I just wish we had been able to persuade him to stay. He would have been safe with us. He wouldn’t be . . .” She broke off, conscious of the crack in her voice.

  Curran sighed. “There is nothing you could have said or done that would have changed what happened. None of us know our ultimate fate, Mrs. Gordon.”

  “Very philosophical but it doesn’t make me feel any better,” Harriet replied.

  Julian and Harriet stood on the verandah, watching as Curran drove away, his constable huddled over the wheel of the vehicle as the rain slewed down on the inadequate canvas hood they had pulled up. Harriet slipped her arm into her brother’s and leaned her head on his shoulder, and they stood for a long time just watching the rain as it hurled itself relentlessly, as only tropical rain could, against the unresisting earth.

  * * *

  * * *

  Long after Julian had retired for the night, Harriet sat at her dressing table, brushing out her hair. Even at this late hour, her nose shone with the sheen of perspiration that she had come to accept as part of life in the tropics. The rain had stopped and the open window let in a soft night breeze that stirred the mosquito net above her bed.

  She set her hairbrush down and opened the top drawer of her dressing table. From it she pulled a slender box that had been used to pack gloves in another lifetime. She took the lid off and folded back the tissue paper to look at the objects packed away within it. At the base of the box were the purple, green and white stripes of a sash, and resting on it the rosette proclaiming VOTES FOR WOMEN, but it was not either of these objects that she sought.

  She picked up a flat black box and opened it to reveal a medal, the sort awarded to soldiers, with a grosgrain ribbon of purple, green and white. It proudly proclaimed FOR VALOUR and the date 29 June 1909, and from it hung a simple circular disk that read HUNGER STRIKE. She snapped the lid shut and replaced it in the cardboard box, stowing it back in the drawer.

  For a long, long time she sat quite still, looking at her reflection in the mirror, brooding on her recent conversation with Griff and remembering those three awful months in Holloway when she had been strapped down and a tube had been forced down her throat. The experience had not strengthened her resolve. It had, as it was intended, broken her.

  She had been returned to her parents’ home in Wimbledon, close to death. As she lay in her childhood bed recovering from her ordeal, listening to the sounds of middle-class life in the house around her, she had made a decision. The fight would go on without her. Somewhere between James’s death and that grim cell in Holloway she had lost her way.

  She had to find it again.

  She climbed under the mosquito net and curled up, lost in the vastness of her empty bed.

  “James,” she whispered into the dark. “Where will this end?”

  But her husband gave her no reply and beyond the window the crackle of insects and chatter of monkeys reminded her she was indeed a long, long way from Wimbledon. She curled up around one of the pillows, burying her face in the cool linen so her brother would not hear her tears.

  THIRTEEN

  Thursday, 10 March 1910

  Thursday morning began with a sound and light display from Mother Nature of such intensity that Li An squealed and hid her head under the sheet. Curran laughed and drew her into his embrace. She snuggled against him, her body soft and compliant within the circle of his arms.

  “I like this,” she murmured. “Must you get up?”

  Curran disengaged her slender arms and swung his legs around to sit on the side of the bed as another low rumble of thunder rolled over the house.

  He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Duty calls. I have a funeral to attend this morning.”

  Li An knelt up behind him and entwined her arms around his neck, kissing his hair and nibbling the tops of his ears. For a long moment, Curran almost succumbed to her wiles, but the clock in the living room struck seven and he knew he had to get moving.

  Unlike England, it never just drizzled in Singapore. Outside t
he cathedral of St. Andrew’s the rain came in torrents, as if God and all his angels sat above the hapless mortals and tipped buckets of water from the clouds, accompanied to a rhythm of thunder and lightning that drowned out even the cathedral’s organ. Perspiration dripped from the end of Curran’s nose onto the hymnbook he held and he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his face.

  Quite a crowd crammed into the pews in St. Andrew’s Cathedral to honor the president of the Explorers and Geographers Club or, more likely, Curran thought, out of ghoulish interest in Newbold’s violent end. Colonel Augustus Foster gave the eulogy, expounding on Newbold’s courage and foresight in opening up the jungles of Burma for the advancement of the British Empire, a thought that made Curran’s blood run cold. He doubted the people of Burma viewed the advancement of the British Empire with quite such equanimity.

  As far as he was concerned the main interest in the man lay in what was not said about him. As Foster waffled on, from his position to the side of the church Curran scanned the faces of the mourners, looking for signs of guilt or remorse. All he saw were perspiring, beetroot-red faces set in expressions of deep gravitas, befitting the occasion. He glimpsed Harriet and Julian squeezed into a pew beside several gentlemen he recognized from the cricket club. Harriet fanned herself with the order of service and, catching his eye, smiled.

  As the service concluded, he caught up with her. Despite the black, high-necked dress she wore, she appeared calm and unruffled by the heat. Her brother wore a clerical collar and, in contrast to his sister, looked flushed and wilted after the oppressive humidity inside the church.

  Harriet glanced around the departing congregation. “Inspector Curran, are you hoping to find the murderer among the mourners?”

  Curran refrained from expressing his opinion that there was always a high probability the murderer was among the crowd. Instead he said, “You never know, Mrs. Gordon.”

  He walked with them out into the spacious grounds of the cathedral. At least the rain had stopped but the trees dripped moisture onto the departing congregation.

  “I saw Visscher’s death reported in the Straits Times this morning but it didn’t say how he died. Was he drowned?” Julian inquired.

  Curran shook his head. “No, he was dead before he was dumped in the canal.”

  Harriet’s brow puckered but she was doing her best to contain her curiosity about the manner of Visscher’s death.

  “His throat had been cut,” Curran said in answer to her unspoken question. “It would have been very quick.”

  “Oh, poor boy.” Harriet’s hand went to the high collar of her dress, closing over a small cameo pinned in the hollow of her throat.

  Curran looked around the crowd. “Mrs. Gordon, unfortunately I must attend the internment. Good day to you.”

  “Inspector Curran.” Harriet’s hand on his arm detained him. “Hans Visscher. What are his funeral arrangements?”

  Curran shook his head. “I haven’t heard. Tomorrow, I believe, but I will send you word of the details.”

  “Thank you.” Harriet removed her hand, tucking it into the crook of her brother’s arm. She inclined her head to him as Julian led her away to the waiting pony trap being held by the boy Aziz.

  Curran turned back to watch the crowd still gathering at the door around Colonel Augustus Foster, the man’s bulk unmistakable among the dark-clad figures. Curran pushed his way through the crowd and found the colonel in conversation with the tall, fair-haired Dutchman from the Hotel Van Wijk, the Amsterdam antiquities dealer, Cornilissen. He allowed Foster to make the introductions.

  “What brings you to Singapore, Mr. Cornilissen?” Curran inquired.

  “Every year I visit,” Cornilissen replied. “Cape Town, Rangoon, Singapore, Hong Kong and Canton.”

  “Do you not have agents to do your buying for you?”

  Cornilissen’s pale-blue eyes rested on Curran. “Of course, but I prefer the opportunity to view the best goods for myself.”

  Curran glanced at the hearse, drawn by two heavyset horses, decorated with black plumes, which had begun to move away from the church.

  “Were you acquainted with Sir Oswald Newbold?”

  Cornilissen’s face assumed a suitable gravitas. “Of course. I knew him from his time in Rangoon. He was a good source of antiquities and in turn bought some good pieces from me. His death greatly saddens me.” Cornilissen placed the neat bowler hat he carried on his head. “Now, if you will excuse me, Inspector—Foster, I have business to attend to. Good day.”

  Curran waited until Cornilissen had departed before turning to Foster. “How do you know Cornilissen?”

  Foster’s moustache twitched. “Newbold introduced us at one time. Cold fish but he does have an eye for the antiques. I’ve made a few purchases through him. I presume you are coming out to the cemetery?” Foster indicated a bright-red motor vehicle attended by a stony-faced man of unfamiliar ethnicity, incongruously dressed in an ill-fitting English driver’s uniform. “This is my man, Zaw,” Foster said as the motor vehicle started with a jolt. “Been with me since Rangoon. Can I offer you a ride to the cemetery?”

  Curran declined.

  * * *

  * * *

  Curran returned to South Bridge Road, damp and irritable. He hadn’t expected any dramatic revelations at Newbold’s graveside but formalities had to be observed. Only the hardiest had maintained a vigil by the graveside, soaked to the skin while an equally sodden priest committed the last earthly remains of Sir Oswald Newbold and his servant, Nyan, who shared his grave, to the heavy clay of the Singapore earth.

  With every available man on his force engaged in trying to trace Visscher’s last movements and the whereabouts of the suitcase he had taken with him, Curran found himself alone in the office. He flicked through the notes on his desk to find a message from the Dutch consul advising that Visscher’s funeral would be at ten the following morning. A short service at the Catholic cathedral followed by internment in the Catholic section of the same cemetery that now held Sir Oswald Newbold. Curran’s already gloomy mood sank further as he thought of Visscher’s mother and fiancée, so very far away.

  He poured himself a finger of whisky from the hidden bottle in his bottom drawer, just as the clerk knocked on the window of the partition and entered, waving a telegram.

  “For you, tuan. From Scotland Yard,” the young man intoned, reverently setting the envelope on the desk.

  Curran dismissed the clerk and scanned the telegram. He had sent a general inquiry to an old colleague and the reply came with some interesting information about his principal witness, a certain Mrs. Gordon. Nursing his whisky, he set the brief epistle down on the desk and sat back, considering the contents.

  “My dear Mrs. Gordon,” he said aloud. “No wonder you dislike the police.”

  He would have to confront her with what he knew, if only to assure her that it made no difference to her veracity as a witness in this case and to reassure her that he could be trusted with her secret. Not that it was much of a secret. No doubt anyone could find contemporary reports in the London newspapers if they cared to go looking.

  He drained his glass and glanced at his watch. The clerk knocked on the window of his office again. “Sir, you’re late for the meeting.”

  Curran frowned. “What meeting?”

  “The arrangements for the bridge opening.”

  Curran swore, snatched up his hat and stomped off to the meeting room, where he knew he would be roundly chastised by Cuscaden. Damn it, he had three murders on his hands—surely they took precedence over crowd control?

  Apparently not.

  He chafed through the endless discussion before excusing himself and returning to his own office, where Sergeant Singh greeted him with the news that they had been unable to trace Visscher’s movements from leaving St. Tom’s House at about eight on Monday night to his body being found on We
dnesday morning.

  Curran was not given to swearing. Instead he paced the length of the outer office several times before snatching up his hat and ordering Singh and Greaves to accompany him, announcing they were going to search Visscher’s rooms more thoroughly.

  Mrs. Van Gelder was not welcoming but between much sighing and wringing of her hands she agreed to allow the search of the attic room provided she was present.

  The room seemed much as it had when Curran had visited the previous day. Curran watched as Singh and Greaves worked their way systematically through what was left of Visscher’s belongings. Drawers were pulled out and the cavities searched for hidden documents. The pockets of his abandoned clerical ducks were turned. They pulled the mattress from the bed, searching the bed frame.

  They found nothing.

  Curran ordered everything to be restored and as Greaves and Singh heaved the mattress back onto the bed, something caught Curran’s eye. The walls were lined with timber, contributing to the dark oppressive atmosphere in the room.

  Curran glanced at Paar’s bed. If a young man had private correspondence he wanted to keep away from the prying eyes of his roommate, where would he hide it? He knelt on the bed and ran his hands along the boards beside the bed. His questing fingers found what he was seeking: a hole. He inserted a forefinger and pulled. The board came away, revealing a cavity beyond.

  Behind him, Mrs. Van Gelder let out a gasp and he glanced in her direction. She stood in the doorway with one hand raised to her mouth, staring at the hole. She caught his eye and looked down at the floor.

  “Anything in there, sir?” Greaves’s voice broke the silence.

  Curran slid his hand inside the cavity, his fingers closing on leather. He pulled the object out, a small soft leather satchel. He unbuckled it, emptying the contents onto the bed. A black leather book and two packets of letters fell onto the cover. He picked up the book first: a well-thumbed Dutch translation of the Bible. The name in the front was recognizably HANS VISSCHER. He picked up the first bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon and extricated the top missive. It was written in Dutch in a neat, educated hand. Curran had picked up enough Dutch during his time in South Africa to recognize the signature.