by A. M. Stuart
“Uw liefhebbende moeder,” he read. “‘Your loving mother.’ Am I right, Mrs. Van Gelder?”
She nodded. “She wrote to him every week and he to her,” she said.
The second packet was thicker than the first. Curran unfolded the top sheet. Mijn lieveling Hans . . . it began. “My darling Hans . . .”
He had found the letters written to Visscher by his now-grieving fiancée. The girl signed her name . . . “Your beloved, Liselotte” . . . Uw geliefde, Liselotte.
He replaced the items in the satchel and handed it to Greaves. “Take this back to Headquarters.”
His gaze raked Paar’s corner of the room. He would have loved to have searched that particular young man’s belongings but he had no cause to do so . . . yet. Even as that thought crossed his mind, he felt the prickle of uncertainty. What had Paar said?
“He asked me to keep watch downstairs while he went upstairs and packed.”
Surely the first thing the frightened young man would have packed would have been his most precious possessions, his letters and Bible?
“Have you finished?” Mrs. Van Gelder broke the silence.
“Yes. Thank you for your patience, Mrs. Van Gelder.” Curran gave the woman what he hoped was an assuring smile. “I will be in attendance at Visscher’s funeral tomorrow.”
“Ja. We will both attend. He was a sweet boy.” She lowered her gaze with a shake of her head. “The poor boy . . . his poor mother. I must write to her.”
Back in his office, Curran opened the satchel containing Hans Visscher’s few possessions and spread them out on the table. He began with the letters but his Dutch wasn’t good enough for anything approaching a translation and no words like Newbold jumped out at him. He turned to the Bible, the gift of the boy’s grandmother, he guessed from the superscription in the front: Hans, van zijn liefhebbende grootmoeder.
The pages were well thumbed and some passages underlined and annotated in a boyish handwriting. Curran turned the book upside down and shook it. Scraps of paper, religious tracts and page markers fell to his blotter. He set the book down and sorted through the papers. They were mostly fragments used as bookmarks, probably torn from scrap paper the boy had to hand. One or two were inscribed with the letterhead of the Hotel Van Wijk; others looked older, the paper yellowed.
One caught Curran’s attention. Again, it had been torn from the corner of another sheet of paper but clearly visible was a diagonal line superimposed with the letter O written in a bright-blue ink. The symbol looked familiar but he couldn’t think where he had seen it.
He carefully stored the other fragments in an envelope and replaced them in the box along with the letters and Bible but kept out the paper with the strange symbol on it, staring at it and turning it in different directions. He had no reason to think it was any more significant than any of the other page markers but it didn’t fit.
Opening his notebook, he copied the symbol and filed the original in a separate envelope.
FOURTEEN
Friday, 11 March 1910
Harriet settled onto the hard pew, her gaze drawn to the image of a tortured Christ hanging from his cross above the altar. Beside her Julian knelt to pray while she scanned the small gathering scattered through the pews of the Catholic cathedral. Unlike yesterday’s service for Sir Oswald, a humble clerk from the Van Wijk barely warranted the attention of a dozen people.
Mr. and Mrs. Van Gelder occupied the front pew. The Dutch consul sat beside Mr. Van Gelder, and a pretty, blond woman in a wide, fashionable hat trimmed with a black ostrich feather sat beside Mrs. Van Gelder. She recognized the other clerk, Paar, looking hot and uncomfortable in a stiff collar and black suit. Others present looked to be staff from the Van Wijk, including a small, sweet-faced Chinese girl who cried uncontrollably into the shoulder of an older woman.
Harriet nodded at Maddocks, who sat across the aisle from them, and knew if she glanced behind her she would see Inspector Curran, watching them all.
The service concluded and the small congregation filed out of the church after the casket. Hans Visscher would begin his last, lonely journey on the earth to the cemetery on Bukit Timah Road, accompanied only by the Dutch consul, Mr. Van Gelder and Curran. Harriet wondered if his mother would pay for a headstone for her lost son or if he would lie unmarked and forgotten. Surely he deserved more than that?
“Mrs. Gordon?” She turned at the sound of her name to see she was being addressed by Mrs. Van Gelder.
“I’m sorry we should meet again in these circumstances, Mrs. Van Gelder,” Harriet said, pausing to introduce her brother.
“Ja. It is very sad. Poor boy,” the woman replied, and raised a lace-edged handkerchief to her eye after the introductions were complete. “He had such plans. He was to be married, you know?”
“No, I really knew very little about him.”
Mrs. Van Gelder heaved a heavy sigh, her not-insubstantial bosom rising and falling beneath a lace jabot. “God’s will,” she intoned.
“I am not sure God had much to do with it,” Julian said. “The boy was foully murdered.”
Mrs. Van Gelder nodded. “Of course, you are right, Reverend Edwards. Perhaps, Mrs. Gordon, you could come back with me now and I shall return the book you left with me?”
“Book?” Julian quirked an eyebrow at his sister.
Harriet glanced at Julian. “That book I promised to lend Hans, remember?” Julian, knowing his sister well, held his peace and she turned back to Mrs. Van Gelder. “Of course I will retrieve the book and I will see you back at the school, Julian.”
She walked with Mrs. Van Gelder over to a gharry, an open carriage used as a cab, where the young, blond-haired woman already waited. She was introduced by Mrs. Van Gelder as Gertrude Cornilissen.
“Mrs. Cornilissen is a regular visitor to the Van Wijk,” Mrs. Van Gelder said as she seated herself next to the young woman, leaving Harriet to sit across from them.
“Is this your first visit to Singapore?” Harriet inquired of Mrs. Cornilissen.
“Oh no.” Mrs. Cornilissen’s gaze drifted to the tall man talking to Mr. Van Gelder. “I come every year. My husband has business here.”
“And what is his business?” Harriet inquired.
“My dear Nils deals in antiquities.”
“What a wonderful opportunity to see something of the world,” Harriet said.
The woman’s lips tightened and she fanned herself with a lace-gloved hand. “I do not like this heat, the food or the smells or the people.”
“I am sorry to hear that. One does become accustomed to it,” Harriet said. “And have you known Mrs. Van Gelder long?”
Gertrude Cornilissen cast the older woman a quick glance, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Ja. I knew Mrs. Van Gelder in Rangoon.”
“It is a lonely life, as you may have cause to know, Mrs. Gordon. I look forward to dear Gertrude’s visits.” Mrs. Van Gelder patted the younger woman’s hand.
The distance from the Catholic cathedral to the Van Wijk hardly justified a carriage and they reached the manager’s house in a couple of minutes.
The Chinese maid opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of the visitors. At the clipped command from her employer, the girl scuttled away as Mrs. Van Gelder indicated that the visitors take a seat. Conscious that she could quite easily claim her book and leave, Harriet sat down as the girl returned, balancing a tea tray with three cups.
Mrs. Van Gelder pointedly set Harriet’s book down on the table next to her and handed her a cup.
“You have some wonderful antiques,” Harriet remarked, casting her gaze around the parlor. It reminded her of Sir Oswald Newbold’s collection of statues and carvings.
“My husband has a good eye for value,” Mrs. Cornilissen said. “Mrs. Van Gelder has been quick to take his advice.”
“Have you been out East l
ong, Mrs. Van Gelder?” Harriet took a sip of tea.
“Some years,” Mrs. Van Gelder replied. “I lived for a short time in Batavia and then in Rangoon. My first husband, Klop, managed a tea plantation, but he died in Burma. Cholera.”
“I’m sorry. I lost my husband in India,” Harriet said. “Typhus.”
Both women nodded in sympathy.
Harriet set the cup down. “Did you know Sir Oswald Newbold in Burma?”
“A little.” The two women exchanged glances. “The European community is small. It was Sir Oswald who introduced me to Van Gelder.”
“You have no wish to return to Holland?” Harriet inquired.
Mrs. Van Gelder shook her head. “There is nothing for me in Holland.”
“No children?”
The woman set her empty teacup down and fixed Harriet with a hard stare. “No. What of you, Mrs. Gordon?”
“My son died with my husband,” she replied.
Just for a fleeting moment Mrs. Van Gelder’s mask slipped and something like genuine compassion softened the prim, little mouth. “I am sorry,” she said. “I lost a son in Batavia.”
Gertrude Cornilissen set her cup down, the delicate china clattering in the saucer, breaking the mood. “I hope I never have a child,” she declared.
The two older women looked at her. “Why?” Harriet asked.
“They just break your heart,” Gertrude said. “Is that not so, Viktoria? I think of that poor woman in Rotterdam mourning her boy who will never come home to her.”
Harriet made a show of glancing at her watch. “I must get back to the school.” She rose to her feet. “Thank you for the tea. It was most welcome after such a sad morning.”
Mrs. Van Gelder saw her to the door with an almost indecent haste, pressing the book into her hand with a reminder that she had almost forgotten it.
* * *
* * *
As the dark descended on a soft, clear Friday evening, Harriet and Julian sat with the junior master, Michael Derby, on their verandah enjoying a predinner drink. Shashti lay curled up on Harriet’s lap and she let her finger trail across her soft fur. Just a couple of days of proper nutrition and love and the kitten had already gained weight and condition.
Julian and Michael were discussing school matters and Harriet listened with only half an ear.
Julian’s chair groaned as he rose to his feet. “I think we’ve time for another drink. Harri?”
“Mm,” she concurred, “and I think it might be prudent to find an extra glass. Unless I am greatly mistaken we have a visitor.”
A horse and rider had turned into the driveway. Aziz ran around from the back of the house to take the reins of the horse as Inspector Curran swung easily to the ground.
Holding the kitten pressed against her chest with one hand, Harriet rose to greet him. Curran took the steps up to the verandah two at a time, whipping off his pith helmet, which he tucked under his arm.
“It’s a lovely evening for once,” he said.
“You look tired, Inspector,” she remarked.
“It’s been a difficult day—a difficult week.” Curran ran a hand across his brow, pushing back the dark lick of hair that fell across his forehead.
Julian handed him a glass. “You look like a man who could do with a whisky. Take a seat, Curran. Have you met Michael Derby? He’s the junior master at the school.”
Michael half rose to his feet. “I should go . . .” he began, but Curran waved him back.
“Don’t leave on my account.” The policeman sank into the spare chair with a sigh, clutching the glass Julian had handed him as if it were a life preserver.
Harriet resumed her seat, resettling Shashti on her lap.
“You’ve acquired a new resident?” Curran observed, indicating the kitten.
“One of the boys from the school found her abandoned and we’ve taken her in. We think the mother and other kittens were eaten by a python.”
To her surprise, Robert Curran’s lips curled in a smile and he reached out a finger, gently stroking the kitten’s head. He had long, elegant fingers, better suited to the drawing room than the rough work of policing, Harriet thought, taken by the expression on the man’s face as he took the little animal from her.
“He has a name?” he asked.
“She . . . Shashti. I would have thought you a dog man, Inspector?”
To her surprise the policeman laughed. “I like dogs but I prefer cats,” he said, scratching Shashti behind the ears. “They’re independent animals.”
In their short and dramatic acquaintance, she’d never seen him remotely relaxed, but the little cat seemed to have broken down Curran’s professional reserve, and she liked the way he smiled as he stroked the small animal.
“No motor vehicle tonight, Inspector Curran?” Harriet said.
“No, I prefer my horse on short errands such as this. I like horses too,” he added. “In fact, there are days I think the company of animals is infinitely to be preferred to that of humans.”
He took a sip of the whisky, his eyes widening with pleasure. “Good stuff, this.”
“The advantages of a Scottish husband,” Harriet said. “He taught me to appreciate good Scottish whisky drunk with just a dash of water. Of course finding pure Scottish peat water in Singapore is a challenge but we make do.”
“It is most welcome,” Curran said. “Visscher’s internment was a sad affair. Just myself, Van Gelder and the Dutch consul at the grave.”
Shashti abandoned Curran and climbed back up Harriet’s skirt. She turned her attention to the kitten, gently stroking its tiny head, feeling the rumbly purrs. This little animal was real and alive. Hans Visscher was dead and buried thousands of miles from the people who loved him.
“All that time you were looking for him, was he dead in a canal?” she asked.
Curran shook his head. “Not in the canal. We think his body was put there sometime on Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning.”
A cold shiver ran down Harriet’s spine. “Poor boy. Dumped like refuse,” she said.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Curran reached into his jacket pocket and unwrapped a notebook from an oilcloth. He flicked through the pages and, glancing up at Harriet, he said, “I think I should get you to teach me shorthand, Mrs. Gordon. Now, what exactly did Visscher say about his visit to Newbold the previous night?”
Harriet frowned. “Something like ‘I tried to warn him but he said I was a fool.’”
“And that nonsense about the VOC,” Julian added.
“The VOC?” Derby put in. “You mean the Dutch East India Company?”
Curran turned to the young man. “That’s right. What do you know about it?”
Derby shrugged. “Only what I read in the history books. It was a powerful consortium of merchant venturers in the seventeenth century. The VOC pretty much controlled most of the East Indies.”
Curran turned to a page in his notebook on which was drawn a diagonal line superimposed with an O. “I don’t suppose any of you recognize this symbol?”
The three craned forward.
“Of course,” Derby said. “It’s part of the insignia of the VOC. The letter V for ‘Vereenigde—United,’ the straight lines of the V superimposed with an O for ‘Oost-Indische—East Indies,’ just like this, and a C for ‘Compagnie.’ United East India Company.”
Curran turned the book back and added the second diagonal line forming the V and superimposed a C. “Like this?”
Derby nodded. “Just like that, Inspector.” He laughed. “But it’s a nonsense, of course. The VOC has been nonexistent for one hundred and fifty years.”
“So everyone says,” Curran said. “Oh, hello, little one.”
Shashti had given up on Harriet and returned, mewing, to Curran. The policeman scooped up the kitten and turned it o
n its back, scratching the kitten’s little round belly while Shashti tried to catch his fingers with her tiny paws.
“I think you need to get a cat,” Harriet said.
“Li An is not very fond of them,” he said, and as if he realized he had spoken out of turn, he set the kitten down and rose to his feet, once more the policeman. “Actually, Mrs. Gordon, there is another matter I need to speak to you about alone, if that’s all right?”
Harriet shot Julian a glance. Indecision flashed across her brother’s face.
“Of course,” she said. “Julian, perhaps you and Michael could adjourn to the study for a few minutes.”
Michael Derby had one of those open friendly faces that concealed no guile. He looked from Harriet to the policeman and back again, curiosity burning in his eyes.
“Derby.” Julian stood up and indicated the front door. “We do need to discuss the upper thirds’ Latin results.”
Harriet retrieved Shashti from her endeavors in trying to stalk a lizard on the wall and rose to face the policeman, her arms crossed. “What do you wish to talk to me about that requires such privacy?”
“I’m sorry, I had hoped to catch you alone . . . at least I presume your brother knows . . .”
She’d never seen him discomfited before. “Knows what? What are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Gordon, I know what happened in London last year.”
He may as well have hit her in the stomach. The breath left her body and she sank back onto her chair. “Oh . . . how . . . ?” was all she could say.
“I telegrammed London for information on all the parties involved in the Newbold affair—not just you.”
Harriet glared at him, furious that he did not trust her and had gone in search of her past, but then he was a policeman, what could she expect? She, in turn, should have known better than to trust him.
