by A. M. Stuart
“It seems more than a little coincidental that his arrival in Singapore overlaps with the illegal rubies arriving on the Amsterdam gem market. Wouldn’t you agree?” Maddocks continued.
Curran considered the information. “He has precious few personal records of any kind, for a man writing his memoirs. Some story about a fire in Rangoon?”
“That may be true,” Maddocks said. “His bungalow burned to the ground, the same month he was to leave for Singapore.”
“An accident?”
“Spilled oil lamp, so the story goes.”
Curran shook his head. “I would appreciate it, Maddocks, if you kept this information out of your paper for the time being.”
Maddocks shrugged. “It’s just supposition, Curran. Until I can back it up with some decent facts, it won’t be going to print.” He returned his notebook to his pocket and picked up his empty glass. “Satu empat jalan?”
Curran smiled. “For a man who has only been in Singapore a few short months, Maddocks, you’ve a pretty good grasp of the lingo.”
Maddocks’s neat dark eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “And for a policeman, you’ve obviously neglected to investigate my past. I was born here, Curran. Went back to dismal Wales with my family when I was twelve. I’m afraid it’s in my blood.”
“Satu empat jalan.” Curran raised his glass and repeated the anglicization of the Malay. A not-so-subtle play on words. Satu meaning “one” and jalan meaning “road.” The Anglo community used empat, the number four, instead of “for.” One for the road.
Curran waved a waiter over and ordered another round of beers . . . for the road.
Maddocks pulled out a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco from a leather pouch as he said, “Back to my original question. What’s your feeling about the match tomorrow?”
Curran’s mood lifted. Cricket had been the one part of his life he had clung to wherever he had been and whatever the circumstances.
* * *
* * *
Li An tied Curran’s bow tie and smiled as she ran a finger down his freshly shaven cheek.
“You look fine, Curran,” she said.
He caught her face in his hand and gazed at her, the old anger rising to the surface. “Li An, you understand . . . tonight is business.”
“And this Gordon mem, is she business?” Li An asked, her wide eyes belying the knife edge to her tone.
“Purely business,” he assured her.
Mac had sent a message earlier in the evening. He was delayed at the hospital and had promised to collect Mrs. Gordon. Would Curran oblige, as her brother was indisposed and she could hardly arrive alone. Curran wondered about the propriety of openly socializing with a key witness to his current investigations and decided he didn’t really care. He liked Mrs. Gordon and she intrigued him. The policeman in him yearned to know more about her past and what had occurred in London twelve months previously. The man in him responded to her keen intelligence and her independent spirit.
He could hardly arrive in a ricksha or a gharry so he had sent for the departmental vehicle, knowing Tan relished any opportunity to drive the damn thing. Even as Li An brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the sleeve of his evening jacket, he could hear the hideous rumble of the machine coming up the hill.
He bent his head and kissed her. “Good night. Don’t wait up for me.”
Although he knew she would—she always did.
SEVENTEEN
Julian managed a low, unclerical whistle as Harriet swept into the living room.
“You look smashing,” he said.
Harriet twirled to show off the à la mode dress of black satin and lace, chosen for her by her sister, Mary, before leaving London. Ever bossy, Mary had insisted on taking her younger sister on a shopping expedition to ensure, if nothing else, Harriet did not disgrace the family even further with her choice of drab clothes.
Even the phlegmatic Huo Jin had stood back, nodding as she considered her mistress.
“Very pretty” was her conclusion.
Harriet patted her hair, swept up into an elegant chignon and held in place with a tortoiseshell comb. Huo Jin had shown a hitherto undemonstrated talent with hair.
Harriet glanced at the front door as the grumble of an engine announced the arrival of a motor vehicle.
“That must be the Mackenzies. They must have borrowed a motor vehicle,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t mind me going by myself?”
“Quite sure. An afternoon in the hot sun at the bridge opening was a bit much and I can feel the start of a headache, Harri. I really can’t face the Austrian Ladies’ Orchestra.” Julian smiled. “I trust Mac and Louisa to keep you out of trouble.”
Firm footsteps crossed the verandah, followed by a sharp rap on the door. Huo Jin answered it, standing back to admit not Euan Mackenzie but an almost unrecognizable Robert Curran. The man standing on the doorstep, in full, starched white tropical evening dress, bore more resemblance to his purported aristocratic roots than to the policeman Harriet had come to know over the last few days.
A small “Oh” escaped Harriet before she had a chance to restrain it.
Curran must have misinterpreted her exclamation. “Sorry to disappoint you. Dr. Mackenzie is detained and has sent me in his stead. I have the motor vehicle outside.”
“I am not disappointed. Just surprised,” Harriet said. “I hardly recognized you out of your uniform, Inspector.” She glanced at Julian. Her brother raised a questioning eyebrow.
“You’re not joining us, Reverend?” Curran inquired.
Julian patted the book by his chair. “No, it will just be me and Virgil tonight.”
“Each to their own,” Curran responded. “Will you be coming to the match tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” Julian declared. “Bringing some of the boarders with me, so you better put on a good show, Curran.”
“Mrs. Gordon . . . ?” Curran turned to Harriet.
“Not me, Inspector. As my brother will tell you, cricket is not my game and I refuse to be one of those women in the stands who turn up to look decorative and sip tea.”
Curran’s eyes rested on her face for a moment, the corners creased in amusement. “I imagine you’re not,” he agreed. “Far better at making the tea . . .”
“Inspector Curran, if I had a cushion handy I would throw it at you.”
“Fortunately for me you haven’t.”
It had been a long time since a man had presumed to tease her and she rather liked it.
Julian laughed. “Challenge Harriet to a tennis match one day, Curran, and you’ll soon discover where her talents lie.”
Curran raised an inquiring eyebrow at Harriet. “Tennis?”
Harriet glared at her brother. “I do enjoy a game of tennis,” she mumbled. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Have a wonderful evening,” Julian said. “I’m certain I can trust you, Inspector Curran, to see to my sister’s safety?”
Curran smiled. “She has the full protection of the Straits Settlements Police, I assure you, Reverend.”
“Oh dear, that makes it sound like I’m under arrest,” Harriet said.
Robert Curran smiled and crooked his elbow. “Mrs. Gordon, I am off duty tonight and I assure you it is my absolute pleasure to have your company for the evening.”
She allowed herself to smile in response and took his arm in her gloved hand. Even in the tropics, correct dress had to be observed.
As they walked down the front steps toward the car, Curran said, “I have ordered the car for eleven. If that is too early for you, I am sure Mac—”
“No, eleven is fine. I have the unenviable job of organizing the boarders for church in the morning and I will need all my wits about me. They’re already overexcited after singing today and the cricket match tomorrow.”
Curran handed
her into the car. “What is your aversion to cricket, Mrs. Gordon?”
She settled herself on the hard leather seat. “Years of being forced to watch my father and brother playing the game. I am sure that is why I married a Scot. James professed to loathe cricket.” She laughed. “But too late I discovered he adored rugby, which has the benefit of being considerably shorter in duration and therefore almost bearable.” She paused. “Julian says you are very good.”
“At policing?”
“At cricket.”
“In my younger days,” Curran said, settling himself next to her. “I’m afraid old age is creeping up on me. I still enjoy a hit but the fire has burned down.”
“Where to, sir?” the young constable at the wheel asked without turning his head.
“Hotel Van Wijk, Tan.”
The weather being fine, the canopy had been lowered and the warm evening enveloped them as the motor vehicle purred along Orchard Road and into Stamford Road. Harriet glanced at the dark snaking line of the Sungei Stamford.
“Is that where Visscher was found?” she asked.
Curran nodded. “He was found just beyond the Serangoon Road bridge by one of the dhobis.”
“What did he do to deserve such a death?”
“He was a threat to somebody, Mrs. Gordon.”
“But what sort of threat? He was only a boy.”
“Mrs. Gordon. I am off duty tonight. Can we talk about something else?”
She glanced at his profile. “I don’t believe you are ever really off duty, Inspector Curran. By the way, I did a little research on the VOC.”
“And?”
“They were powerful, Curran. The most powerful single company in the world, particularly this part of the world. Whole populations of islands were simply wiped out in the East India Company’s quest to secure the spice trade.”
“Someone told me they swapped Manhattan for one of the Spice Islands.” Curran tilted his head and looked at her. “I wonder if they would make the same decision today?”
“Probably, if it meant world domination,” Harriet said. “Do you think it is possible that the VOC has been reconstituted in some way?”
Curran shook his head. “No. I suspect the name has been appropriated for some reason best known to whoever is responsible for these crimes.”
“But, Curran, if they have, what is their connection with Newbold? He wasn’t Dutch.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
Something in his tone made her pause. She glanced at him.
“You’re lying to me, Inspector.”
“Lying?”
“I was right. You’re never off duty.”
“I am when I’m playing cricket.”
“Then, perhaps I should come and watch you play. It could be interesting. Assuming you will be working in whatever capacity tonight, is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“Good Lord, Mrs. Gordon. You are a guest at a party. The last thing I want to do is ruin your evening. You enjoy yourself.”
Harriet stiffened. “Don’t patronize me, Curran.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I’m not just a simpering female.”
“Oh, I know that,” he replied with a smile. “But to answer your question, I intend only to observe the interactions of several people.”
“Suspects? Am I a suspect?”
He shook his head. “No, but you’re a witness and it would be improper of me to jeopardize your evidence.” He paused. “However, if I were to need your assistance . . .”
“I want to help. I would like to find the person responsible, if not for Newbold’s death then certainly for the cold-blooded murder of that poor old man, Nyan, and young Visscher. Neither of them deserved to die.”
Curran didn’t respond immediately. Propping his arm on the door of the car, he looked out into the night.
“Yes, we owe them justice, don’t we, Mrs. Gordon?”
* * *
* * *
The exterior of the Hotel Van Wijk had been hung with bright Chinese lanterns, and from beyond the open windows of the ballroom, the music of a fox-trot drifted out onto Stamford Road as Robert Curran helped Harriet out of the motor vehicle.
She hesitated before taking his proffered arm. It would be easy to forget that this handsome man, cool and elegant in his tropical evening kit, was a policeman and worse, a policeman who knew her history.
Too many people already shared the knowledge. Louisa and Euan Mackenzie, of course, the journalist Maddocks and now Curran. She wondered how long it would be before it spread through the close Anglo community. Nothing the mamas would like better than a scandal of such magnitude involving someone they knew. She had visions of outraged mothers removing their darlings from the school in protest at having a convicted criminal in the employ of St. Tom’s. The governors would surely sack Julian.
As if he could read her thoughts, Curran closed his hand over hers. “It’s a lovely evening, Mrs. Gordon. There is a band playing so let us put the cares of the world behind us and enjoy the night.”
These monthly soirees at the Van Wijk were popular and quite a crowd pressed into the ballroom and spilled out onto the terrace and gardens. A placard at the entrance proudly declared that the AUSTRIAN LADIES’ ORCHESTRA OF THE GRAND CONTINENTAL HOTEL UNDER THE BATON OF BANDMASTER L. HOCKMEYER would be the entertainment for the evening and, indeed, the band comprising ladies in Austrian national dress were already hard at work.
Mr. Van Gelder met them at the door, his eyes widening as he recognized Harriet’s companion.
“Inspector, I hope you are here for pleasure, not business?” Van Gelder asked with a forced laugh.
Curran inclined his head. “Even policemen are entitled to a few hours off.”
He introduced Harriet, and Van Gelder clicked his heels together as he bowed over her hand, affording her a view of well-oiled hair that had been combed across a nascent bald patch.
As he straightened, he said, “Did I not see you yesterday at the funeral of poor Visscher?”
“Yes. My brother and I both attended,” Harriet replied.
“Liefste . . .”
Harriet and Curran turned as Mrs. Van Gelder joined them. Her hair had been styled in a fashionable coiffure and she wore a low-necked, royal blue satin evening gown. It set off her eyes and, Harriet considered, in her youth Viktoria Van Gelder must have been quite a beauty.
“The kitchen,” Mrs. Van Gelder said, and her husband excused himself, hurrying away in the direction of the hotel kitchen.
Mrs. Van Gelder acknowledged Harriet with a polite smile and turned to Curran, tilting her head to look up at the tall policeman. “Inspector. Do you have any news about our poor Hans?”
Curran shook his head.
The woman fumbled in her beaded reticule for a handkerchief with which she dabbed decorously at her eyes.
She sighed, restoring the handkerchief and forcing a smile. “My apologies, tonight is not the night for such gloomy thoughts.” She gestured at the ballroom. “Please enjoy yourselves.”
As they entered the ballroom, Curran left Harriet to go in pursuit of a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses, allowing her an opportunity to peruse the room. The band were now playing a cheerful polka and she caught sight of Louisa talking to a group of women on the far side of the room.
“Good evening, Mrs. Gordon.”
Harriet turned to smile at Griff Maddocks, who had slipped into place beside her.
“Good evening, Mr. Maddocks. Did you finish your story on the bridge opening?”
Maddocks pulled a face. “The story is filed and my evening is my own. Can I prevail on you for the next dance?”
Harriet looked around but couldn’t see Curran. She allowed Maddocks to lead her out onto the floor as the band struck up a waltz. They had partnered each
other at several dances on board the ship from England and Maddocks had a deft touch and light feet. They chattered about the bridge opening.
When the dance ended Harriet looked around for Curran once more. He stood in the doorway to the terrace, clutching two glasses of champagne, talking to the Mackenzies. To judge from his perspiring face and crooked tie, Euan had only just joined the party.
Maddocks had seen them too. He took her arm and they strolled over to join their party.
“There you are,” Louisa said. “Poor Curran has been holding this glass for so long, it is probably quite warm.”
“Your champagne, Mrs. Gordon.” Curran handed her the dripping glass and she took a sip, expecting the tingle of bubbles but the humidity sapped even the fizz from champagne.
“Glad Curran managed to deputize for me,” Mac said, taking a glass from the tray of a passing waiter. He downed it in one gulp to a disapproving glare from his wife.
“What detained you?” Harriet asked.
“Babies. They come when it suits them, not when it suits everyone else.”
“All well?” Harriet inquired.
“Yes, mother and baby both fine. Good to share a happy occasion after the week we’ve had.” He glanced at Curran and sighed. “I’m here now and let me just say, my dear Harriet, you look bonny tonight. No Julian?”
“No. It’s been a hard week and he was all done in tonight.”
“That brother of yours needs to watch his health.” Euan waylaid a second waiter and scooped up a glass of champagne, which again he downed in one quaff. He waved his empty glass in the direction of the door. “Haven’t seen them before.”
All heads turned to look at the elegant couple who had entered the ballroom. Gertrude Cornilissen wore a filmy gown of pale-blue silk and languidly waved a matching fan. Her lip curled in disdain as she surveyed the gathering, much as Harriet imagined Mr. Darcy’s had on encountering the Bennet family in one of her favorite novels. Like his wife, Cornilissen was tall and blond haired, but some years older, the blond hair fading to silver.
