by A. M. Stuart
Her mind raced with the implications of his knowledge. Disgrace, dismissal, the end of Julian’s career.
She straightened and took a deep steadying breath. “Inspector Curran, please understand—”
He held up a hand. “Please trust me, Mrs. Gordon. What occurred in London is of no relevance to my investigation. I just wanted you to know that I am quite in sympathy with the suffrage movement.” He paused. “Can you tell me what happened? I am curious about the assault charge that was dropped.”
She hesitated, her heart racing as the memories flooded back. “It was supposed to be a peaceful rally but the police charged us. A policeman was hit over the head with an umbrella. The police were . . .” She gave a shuddering sigh. “You see, it was my umbrella but I swear to you that it was not wielded by me. I had brought it home from India and it had a distinctive elephant handle. I dropped it in the chaos and someone else must have used it as a weapon. Mercifully the man was not badly hurt and my father—”
“The crown prosecutor?”
She nodded. “He was able to persuade the authorities of the truth of my story. Unfortunately he could not get me off the other charge of affray so I went with my sisters in the movement to Holloway.”
Curran considered her for a long moment before he cleared his throat and said, “Do you know my cousin? Lady Eloise Warby. Apparently she chained herself to the railings of Westminster a few months ago.”
Harriet stared at him. “Lady Warby is your cousin? I heard her speak at the first gathering I attended in Hyde Park. I liked her enormously.”
She could still see Eloise, hatless, her hair coming down from its pins, screaming the WSPU slogans as the bobbies dragged her away.
Curran smiled. “The family does not take well to rebels in their midst so Ellie and I have always been close.” He paused, his lips tightening “When I last heard, she was still in Holloway. Is it true? The stories about how they are dealing with the hunger strikers?”
Harriet’s hand went to her throat, as if she could still feel the feeding tube being forced down. “Yes. They’re force-feeding the women. Please don’t tell me she is on a hunger strike?”
Curran glanced at her, a flicker of understanding and deep concern in his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s hard being so far away. If I was still in London I could probably do something . . .”
Harriet swallowed back the bile induced by the memory of that rubber tube. “Inspector Curran, not all the governors of the school know about my past. The bishop knows but he’s the only one and it would be a disaster if they were to find out.”
“What would they do?”
“Probably fire Julian.”
He shook his head. “That seems a bit drastic. Does anyone else in Singapore know?”
Harriet shrugged. “My brother, of course, and Griff Maddocks. He’s a journalist. He recognized my name from the papers.”
Curran nodded. “Is there a reason you have not been entirely forthcoming with the school governors?”
Harriet bit her lip. “I wanted to put it all behind me. Start afresh.”
Curran regarded her, his expression unreadable. “That is a risk you’re taking, Mrs. Gordon.”
“We know, but Julian is a good man. A really good man.”
Curran grunted. “They’ll hear nothing from me. I just wanted to clear the air between us. Now, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I should be getting home.”
“Mrs. Curran will be wondering where you are,” Harriet said, fishing.
He glanced at her and she thought she saw the faint glimmer of a smile. “There is no Mrs. Curran, something I am sure you already know from the local gossips.”
Harriet smiled. “I try not to listen to gossip.”
“Please thank your brother for the whisky and give him my regards,” he said, clapping his hat on his head.
“Will you be at the bridge opening tomorrow?” Harriet asked.
Curran pulled a face. “On duty, but I believe we will meet in more congenial circumstances tomorrow evening at the Van Wijk. The Mackenzies have added me to the invite list.”
“I look forward to it,” Harriet said, and meant it. “Good night, Inspector,” she added as he took the steps down to the driveway two at a time.
He swung effortlessly into the saddle of his horse, raised his hand and turned the magnificent animal’s head toward the road.
Harriet stood on the verandah for a little while trying to reconcile the gentle handling of a small, vulnerable kitten with the hardened policeman.
“I wonder,” Harriet said to Shashti as she clambered back up her skirt, “who is Lee-Anne? Or is it Lee An?” Remembering the whispered gossip of the school mothers, she decided the latter was far more likely. The mysterious Chinese housekeeper, perhaps?
Was it possible that she had been wrong about Curran? Was he a policeman she could trust? Certainly no policeman she had met in London would have sympathized with the cause of the suffragettes, but then no policeman in London could claim Lady Eloise Warby as a cousin.
Even as she thought of Lady Warby, she felt a stirring in her blood. She may have been driven into the arms of the suffragettes by her own loneliness but she had come to embrace their beliefs and they had come to represent everything in her life that had frustrated her. Why couldn’t she have become a lawyer like her father? Why did she, as an independent-thinking woman, not have the right to vote on matters that affected her and the thousands of other women?
She may have left London but it seemed the cause had not left her.
FIFTEEN
Saturday, 12 March 1910
My goodness, what a crowd.”
Louisa Mackenzie skillfully elbowed her way through the well-dressed men and women to join Harriet on the temporary tiered platforms that had been erected on the north bank of the Singapore River. From here they had a fine view of the new bridge.
Louisa let out a breath as she surveyed the elegant truss arches and fine fluted piers. “So glad it is finally opening. I must say it is rather splendid.”
“Worthy of the Thames perhaps, rather than this unassuming stream?”
As one Louisa and Harriet turned their heads. Robert Curran, resplendent in his white ceremonial uniform with gleaming, freshly polished brass buttons and epaulettes, stood behind them. He tipped his fingers to the brim of the slightly preposterous white sola topee.
“My dear Curran, shouldn’t you be off investigating murders?” Louisa inquired.
Curran’s mouth tightened and he cast a baleful glance at the official dais, where a similarly resplendent inspector general of the Straits Settlements Police sat just behind the governor, Sir John Anderson. Cuscaden appeared to be deeply engaged in the prattle of an overdressed matron in a large hat surmounted with peacock feathers that kept hitting the IG’s nose every time she bobbed her head.
Harriet raised a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle the giggle.
“I wonder,” Curran murmured, “if having a bridge named after you would make Sir John eligible for membership of the Explorers and Geographers Club.”
“I’ll tell him you suggested that.” The soft lilt of a Welsh accent alerted them to the presence of Griff Maddocks, who scrambled up beside the ladies.
“Maddocks, you should not sneak up on people unannounced,” Louisa chided, hitting the journalist playfully on the arm with her furled parasol.
Maddocks grinned. “But that’s how I hear the best gossip, Mrs. Mackenzie. Mrs. Gordon, you look lovely today.”
Compared to Louisa in her soft cream muslin tea gown, Harriet felt like a frump in a plain navy drill skirt, starched white blouse and a utilitarian straw hat trimmed with a navy ribbon.
Griff smiled at her. “What brings you to the social event of the year?” he asked.
“The unbridled excitement of watching our governor cutting a ribbon,” she
replied. “And the school choir is singing the national anthem in the Memorial Hall. I came along to keep them all in line but found I was not needed.”
“I gather things got a little rowdy last night. Some idiot decided to go across it riding on the bonnet of a motor vehicle. Now, that would have been a story, not this . . .” Maddocks’s lip curled as he gazed around at the stiff, formal pageantry. “Anyway, why are you here, Curran? Don’t you have a couple of murderers to catch?”
“I do,” Curran said, “but Cuscaden was concerned there would be trouble today.”
Maddocks gave the policeman a sharp, journalistic glance. “Is the case of the boy fished out of Stamford Canal connected to Newbold?”
“Couldn’t possibly say.” All humor had gone from the policeman’s face and he stared ahead with a stony countenance, once again the professional dealing with an irritating member of the press.
Maddocks smiled. “Oh, come on, Curran, give me something to write about other than this damned bridge.”
Curran brought his attention back to Maddocks and his lips twitched. “Oh, I’m sure by the time you’ve reported on the jollities in Memorial Hall and who said what about whom, you should have several good inches of column space.”
Maddocks rolled his eyes. “Spare me! One gets bloody weary of reporting about rubber prices and who is staying at what hotel.”
“Now, now, Maddocks, watch your language; there are ladies present.”
Maddocks mumbled his apologies to Harriet and Louisa.
“What would you say to a trade of information?” Maddocks addressed Curran.
Curran stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been doing a little research into Sir Oswald Newbold. If I let you have what I’ve got, you give me the exclusive to report on the progress of the case.”
“Oh, how thrilling,” Louisa interposed. “What have you found out, Maddocks?”
Harriet elbowed her friend in the ribs. “None of your business, Louisa,” she said in a low voice, not wishing to interrupt the interesting exchange between the men.
Curran regarded the Welshman, his eyes narrowed. “How good is your information?”
“It’ll save you months of research.”
Louisa smiled coquettishly at the reporter. “Do tell!”
Maddocks inclined his head. “Another time, Mrs. Mackenzie. Curran, meet me in the Long Bar at Raffles for a beer this afternoon about three. Right now, I have a story to write. I see His Excellency is armed with a vicious pair of golden scissors. Ladies.”
Maddocks tipped his hat and pushed his way through the crowd to get a closer view. Harriet stood on her tiptoes in time to see His Excellency, Sir John Anderson, the feathers on his hat blowing in the wind, step forward with the scissors poised, ready to cut the ribbon across the new bridge, the jambatan bahru.
“I’m pleased you will be joining us this evening, Robert,” Louisa said.
An unfamiliar prickle ran down Harriet’s spine as Louisa used the policeman’s first name.
“I have heard that the Austrian Ladies’ Orchestra is not to be missed,” Curran replied with a straight face.
Louisa flicked his sleeve. “I think a good oompah or two would do you good. The entertainment begins at seven. Bollinger champagne is promised. Don’t be late, Curran.”
Scattered applause and a halfhearted cheer roused the crowd as the ribbon fell away from under the governor’s gold scissors. One of the brightly decorated new trams waiting on the south bank and driven by a stony-faced European driver rang its bell and began to rattle slowly across the bridge, followed by the still oddly respectful crowd.
“It looks like the fun is over. Come, Harriet, I’m sure you wish to hear the boys’ rendition of ‘God Save the King.’ Until tonight, Curran.” With a twirl of the lace parasol she carried, Louisa slipped her hand into the crook of Harriet’s arm and they pushed through the crowd toward the Memorial Hall.
“You’re wrong to tease him, Louisa,” Harriet said.
“Nonsense. I’ve known Curran since he arrived in Singapore. I know exactly how far I can push him but he does need to learn to relax more. It will be good for him to have a night out.”
“Will his . . . umm . . .” Harriet stumbled on the right word.
“His paramour? His native woman?” Louisa suggested. “No, she won’t accompany him and not because she would not be welcome. She lives her own life quite away from Curran’s. You will know why when you meet her.”
“If I meet her. If I am unlikely to encounter her in social settings, I don’t see when our paths will cross.”
“True,” Louisa said. “And perhaps that is for the best. Oh dear, I can hear the band striking up. We’ll miss them.”
The two women had to push their way into the crowded, stuffy hall, just in time to hear the cherubic voices of the boys of St. Tom’s beginning “God save our gracious king. Long live our noble king . . .”
SIXTEEN
At three in the afternoon Curran found Maddocks in the Long Bar at Raffles. The journalist had arrived before him and was already on his second beer. Curran set his hat down on the table and gave his order to the waiter.
“How were the speeches?” he asked.
Maddocks pulled a face. “Obsequious. His Excellency won a rather large, ugly silver platter for his skill at wielding the scissors. Important matters first: Are you playing cricket tomorrow?”
Curran nodded. “That is my intention. I’m waiting on information from Rangoon on Newbold. Other than that, I have no clear leads.”
The Johor Cricket Club had sent across its best team to match up against the Singapore Cricket Club in the annual “grudge” match. Murder or not, he didn’t intend to miss the game. If he did he would probably have to add his death to the mounting list.
The captain of the Singapore Cricket Club team would kill him.
“And the Dutch boy, Visscher? Cause of death?” Maddocks continued.
“Suspicious.”
Maddocks set his beer down and rolled his eyes. “Suspicious? From what I could gather his head had been almost severed.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“The dhobis.”
Curran rolled his eyes.
“Officially all I can tell you is that his death is suspicious.”
Maddocks grunted and took a swill of beer. “Tell me honestly, do you believe the two deaths are connected?”
Curran swirled the amber fluid in his glass. “You’re not to write this down—of course they are, but at this stage I have nothing to link them.”
Maddocks straightened in his chair. “Maybe I can help.”
Curran shot him a glance. “What do you know?”
Maddocks produced a notebook and flicked through several pages until he came to the part he was looking for.
“I have a colleague on the Times in London. He’s been working on a story coming out of Amsterdam concerning illicit Burmese rubies.”
“Rubies?” Curran’s hand jerked, slopping beer onto the table.
Maddocks grinned. “That got your attention, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but Amsterdam is noted for diamonds, not rubies.”
Maddocks shrugged. “Primarily diamonds, but the cutters also deal with high-quality gems of other types, particularly Burmese rubies and sapphires.”
“Go on.”
“Rubies of a particularly high quality have been coming into Holland through the black market for the last two years. There’s no official records and corresponding tax paid on them. The authorities believe they are coming out of the mines in northern Burma and being smuggled through Singapore. Now, tell me, how long has Oswald Newbold been living in Singapore?”
“About three years.”
“Correct. He arrived three years ago, after a life spent in Burma. Did you know it wa
s Newbold who led an expedition into northern Burma in the 1870s to discover the extent of the ruby mines?”
“Yes, and I also know he and one other were the only ones to come back alive.”
“One of the expedition was a George Carruthers. According to the official report, he died of fever. Newbold’s only surviving witness was a military man by the name of Kent.”
“I know all this. Carruthers’s son is the secretary of the Explorers Club.”
Maddocks’s eyebrows shot up. “Is he indeed? That I didn’t know.”
“And he told me Kent died a few years later.”
Maddocks shrugged. “Kent went off on another exploration to northern Burma and didn’t return. It was widely assumed he was dead.”
Curran shot the journalist an appraising glance. “He’s not?”
“No reason to assume otherwise. Kent’s loss meant that Newbold had no witnesses to his discoveries and no one to share the glory. As a direct result of his expedition, Britain annexes northern Burma and the Burmese Ruby Syndicate sets up a mine in the Mogok region. Newbold was the Burmese Ruby Syndicate’s man on the spot. He commissions the mines, gets a knighthood and amasses a fortune.”
Curran frowned. “A fortune? I’d have said he was comfortably well off but from what I’ve seen he didn’t have a fortune.”
Maddocks’s eyes gleamed. “This is where it gets interesting. It’s not common knowledge but he lost a large part of it in a speculation on ruby mines in Indochina. My source in London tells me his management of the mines came under suspicion in the early part of this century. Ill treatment of workers and the like and he was quietly persuaded to retire. From what I can find he arrived in Singapore, if not quite destitute then pretty badly off, but in three years he’s gone from a room in the Hotel Van Wijk to a bungalow on Bukit Timah Road.”
Curran held up his hand. “Did you say the Van Wijk?”
Maddocks consulted his notes. “He lived there for just over a year before he bought the place up on Bukit Timah. You know, for a policeman you have a face like a book, Curran. What’s the connection?”
Curran schooled his face to behave and shook his head. The Van Wijk again. All paths seemed to lead back to that respectable establishment.
