by A. M. Stuart
“That’s Nils Cornilissen and his wife. They arrived on Monday on the Europa,” Maddocks put in. “I had to do the write-up for the Times on arrivals. He’s some kind of antiques dealer. Dutch.”
“I met his wife, Gertrude, at Visscher’s funeral yesterday,” Harriet said.
Harriet caught a quick glance that passed between Curran and Maddocks, and Curran set his now-empty glass down on the nearest table. “May I prevail on your company for a moment, Mrs. Gordon?”
They excused themselves and Harriet took Curran’s arm. They circled the dance floor, just like two casual attendees, looking for friends and familiar faces.
“What would you like me to do?” Harriet asked in a low voice, guessing that Curran was not interested in pure social engagement.
“I wish to pass some time with the Cornilissens,” he said.
“Why? Do you think they are connected in some way to Sir Oswald? Oh . . . They are or at least they were in Rangoon at the same time as Mrs. Van Gelder.”
He glanced at her. “How do you know that?”
“I took tea with both ladies yesterday.”
“Ah, that confirms what Cornilissen told me.”
They had reached the Dutch couple, who had moved to one side of the room, watching another vigorous polka. The Austrian Ladies seemed very partial to their polkas.
Curran feigned surprise and recognition. “Cornilissen, isn’t it?” he said.
The man straightened and frowned.
“Curran.” Curran held out his hand. “We spoke at Newbold’s funeral on Thursday.”
Cornilissen smiled. “Ah ja, Inspector Curran. Are you here in an official capacity?”
Curran smiled and shook his head. “I’m here only to forget my concerns for a couple of hours. It’s a popular event.”
“There are a lot of people,” Mrs. Cornilissen agreed, her gaze scanning the room.
“Allow me to introduce Mrs. Gordon.” Curran presented Harriet.
“We’ve met,” Harriet said, smiling as she took Gertrude’s hand.
Courtesies were exchanged and fresh glasses of champagne procured.
Harriet gave the young woman an appraising look. Several years younger than her husband, tall and almost impossibly slender, her blue silk dress perfectly matched the blue of her eyes and set off the heavy sapphire earrings and necklace she wore. A jaunty blue feather headdress adorned her thick, fair hair.
“Having much luck?” Curran inquired.
Cornilissen smiled and shrugged. “Some interesting pieces from Indochina that will sell well. I did better in Batavia this trip.”
“Ah yes, that little bit of old Holland still in the East,” Curran said. “The old Dutch East India Company pretty much owned this part of the world for a while there. What was it called . . . the VOC? Now, they were a ruthless bunch. Stopped at nothing to secure the spice trade.”
“And it made them the most successful enterprise of the time, if not all time,” Cornilissen said with a smile. “Those days are gone.”
“Do you wonder what it would have been like to live at that time?” Harriet asked.
Cornilissen smiled. “I think I would miss the modern conveniences of life, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Indeed,” Curran agreed.
“Why your interest in the VOC?” Cornilissen asked, draining his champagne glass.
Curran smiled. “No particular interest. I am a student of history and I like to understand the places that I live. Here in Singapore we are at the crossroads of so very many cultures—the Chinese, the Indians, Indochina—all different, all having their own histories. Throw in the Dutch, the Spanish, the French, the English and even the Arabs and it is a fascinating place to live.”
“The VOC marked the heyday for the Dutch,” Cornilissen said, with a soft reminiscent look in his eye. “The East Indies and South Africa. Even here in Malaya. The Dutch ruled the world, Mr. Curran, but that was a long time ago, and as you intimate, sometimes it is best to leave the past where it belongs . . . in the past.”
“I think you might be right,” Curran said.
“That is the most exquisite necklace,” Harriet addressed Gertrude.
Gertrude’s long fingers played with the jewels at her neck. “My dear Nils deals in antiquities, but his brother Anders’s interest is in precious stones.”
Her gaze dropped to Harriet’s pearl strand, the gift of her late mother-in-law on her marriage to James, and one of her few good pieces of jewelry.
“Lovely sapphires,” Harriet remarked. “Are they Burmese?”
The woman smiled. “They are. There is such depth to the Burmese stones. Have you ever seen a Burmese ruby, Mrs. Gordon? The color of blood.”
“My dear, you are boring these good people,” Cornilissen cut in, his tone clipped. “If you will excuse us, Inspector, Mrs. Gordon, I think I would like to dance. My dear . . . ?” He held out his hand and led his wife onto the floor.
“She’s not a very happy woman,” Harriet remarked.
“I agree,” Curran said.
“And all the beautiful jewelry or fine silk gowns will not buy happiness.”
Harriet turned her attention back to the dance floor, her fingers tapping the rhythm of the waltz beat on the stem of her glass.
Curran coughed. “Would you . . . umm . . . care to dance?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I would, Inspector Curran. That would be most pleasant.”
He offered her his arm and they joined the couples on the dance floor.
She had expected him to be a stiff, awkward dancer but he had been taught well and his timing was impeccable. Harriet let herself relax under the guiding pressure of his sure hand.
“You dance well,” she remarked, conscious that the eyes of the nondancers were following them around the floor.
“I’m sure my grandfather would be pleased to hear you say that. Heaven knows, he expended enough money on trying to turn me into a gentleman.”
“On which point he largely failed?” Harriet suggested.
“Indeed. As my aunt is at pains to mention, there was little point making silk purses out of a stable hand’s son.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
He smiled down at her. “It’s fine, Mrs. Gordon. I am sure the local gossips have acquainted you with my family history. It’s quite true. My mother was the daughter of Lord Alcester and my father the son of the head groom. Lord Alcester, my grandfather, God rest him, was good to me and took me in but I was always the cuckoo in the family nest, and since his death, I have been well and truly expelled. What else do the gossips say?”
“That you have a local woman as your mistress.”
Curran missed a step and trod on her foot.
“You are nothing if not forthright, Mrs. Gordon,” he said as he picked up the rhythm again.
“I apologize. That last piece of gossip is nothing short of scurrilous and I should not have repeated it,” Harriet said.
“Her name is Khoo Li An.”
“Li An who doesn’t like cats?”
He smiled. “She considers them bad luck. Are you shocked, Mrs. Gordon?”
She pondered this question. “A hundred years ago in India, it was almost to be expected that the young men would take a local woman as their wife or mistress but the denizens of the Raj today are far less forgiving.” She looked up at him. “I am not like them, Curran. As far as I am concerned this is the Far East, not Wimbledon, and I have no right to judge anyone.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It is only my small talent at cricket that saves me from total social ostracism but Li An is more important to me than social acceptance.”
He trailed off and she saw something in his face that surprised her. A fierce light in his eye and a grim set to his mouth. Whoever Li An was, this man loved her with a fier
ce protective love.
“Where did you meet her?” Harriet asked.
“Penang.”
The abruptness of his response indicated he had no further wish to discuss Li An so Harriet changed the subject, asking him about the hope for success against the Johor Cricket Club. He humored her, and as they danced for a little longer in silence, Harriet noticed Curran’s gaze kept drifting to the Cornilissens, who stood together in a corner, apparently deep in conversation.
“You keep looking at the Cornilissen woman,” Harriet said. “What are you thinking?”
Curran frowned. “Very little,” he said. “The trouble is, Mrs. Gordon, I need firm evidence, not just my gut instinct.”
“And what is your gut instinct telling you?”
“The murders of Newbold and Visscher are connected to this hotel in some way.” He smiled ruefully. “You didn’t hear me say that, Mrs. Gordon. I tend to talk too much in your presence.”
“I heard nothing,” she agreed.
The music ended and they drew apart, politely applauding the band.
“I think this may be my dance.” Griff Maddocks’s voice came from behind them.
Harriet turned and looked up at the tall policeman, who inclined his head. “I cede my place, Maddocks.”
“An interesting chap, Curran,” Maddocks remarked as they watched Curran push his way through the crowd, out onto the terrace, to be swallowed up by the night.
“As I am coming to discover,” Harriet said.
They chatted about inconsequential matters, and when the music ended, Euan Mackenzie claimed her for the next dance. As he whisked her out onto the floor in an enthusiastic polka, Harriet abandoned herself to the enjoyment of the evening.
EIGHTEEN
Sunday, 13 March 1910
The sun beat down remorselessly on the heads of the “flannelled fools” who graced the Padang, the large field that served as both playing field and military parade ground, for the annual match against the Johor Cricket Club. A large crowd had turned out to watch from the grandstand or from beneath umbrellas or in open carriages, in the shade of the young rain trees that had been planted along Connaught Drive.
The Singapore Cricket Club had the home ground advantage but the Johor side were putting up a sterling attack. A big brute of a man with a large moustache clean bowled Curran for thirty-four runs. He retired to a smattering of polite applause and resounding cheers from the little group of St. Tom’s boys who sat with their headmaster and young Michael Derby. Curran smiled and lifted his bat to acknowledge the boys.
On his return to the pavilion, he removed his pads and sat down in the players’ ranks to watch the game. He always found the gentle click of willow and leather soothing and it afforded him the opportunity to ponder on the confused events of the week.
“Deep in thought, Curran.” A large shadow loomed over him.
Curran squinted upward and smiled at Colonel Foster. “Rather a lot on my mind, Colonel.”
“Yes, of course. Mind if I join you, old chap?”
Without waiting for a response, Colonel Foster squeezed onto the bench beside Curran, juggling a cup of tea and a biscuit, which he dunked in the tea and munched thoughtfully as he watched the match.
“Tricky bowler, that one. Caught you with a clever inswinger,” he said at last as the Johor player thundered in on his run-up. The batsman at the crease swayed away just in time to avoid being hit on the body. The crowd oohed its collective disapproval as the bowler trudged back to his mark before turning to run in again.
Curran shrugged. “He’s fast and I just didn’t see it.”
“Oh, well played, sir!” Foster spat biscuit crumbs as the batsman sent a ball from Curran’s nemesis to the boundary for four runs.
Foster drained his teacup and brushed the biscuit crumbs from his moustache. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation of the other day, Curran. And I’ve remembered something.”
Curran shot his companion a quick glance. “Yes?”
“Carruthers.”
“What about him?”
“He was absent sometime during the evening the night Newbold died.”
Curran’s instinct prickled and he gave Foster his full attention. “Absent? How do you know? He tells me he had a club full of members all attesting to his presence.”
“Not all. It was sometime after dinner. Carruthers said he had some work to catch up on in the office and would prefer not to be disturbed, but Ginger Smitherton, you know old Ginge? Discovered some ruins in Thailand or something.”
“Err . . . no.”
“Anyway, Ginge remembered he had to pay his dues so he went to Carruthers’s office. Door was locked so he knocked. No reply. One of the servants said he thought Carruthers had gone ‘out the back,’ you know, to visit the conveniences, so Ginge gave up.”
“If Smitherton didn’t pursue Carruthers to the conveniences, what makes you think he would be anywhere else?”
“About an hour later, Carruthers comes back into the parlor with wet hair. Didn’t think anything of it at the time but now I think it’s a rum thing. If he’d just been out the back, there’s no reason for his hair to be wet. Covered walkways and all that.”
Curran’s fingers clenched on the handle of his bat.
“Does Carruthers have any transport?”
“He does. Rather a nice little motor vehicle. He brought it in from America a couple of months ago. Had the whole club agog. Must have cost him a year’s wages.”
“Where did he get the money from?”
“An inheritance from an uncle, he said.”
Curran’s pulse quickened. Carruthers was a paid employee of the Explorers and, according to his own story, his father’s untimely death in Burma had left him and his mother destitute, dependent on the charity of the BRS. How had he come into money? This was a kernel of real evidence and Curran had to speak to Carruthers without delay.
“Thank you, Foster. That’s most helpful. Any idea where Carruthers will be today?”
Curran stood up. The batsman at the crease had just gone out to a rising ball. The innings would be over shortly. The cricket match would have to continue without him.
Foster looked bemused. “At the club, of course. Hates cricket. I say, you’re not leaving, are you?”
“I’ve done my bit and they can manage without me for the next innings. Twelfth man can field.”
“But, damn it, you’re the best slip fielder . . .” Foster’s words were lost in the applause of the crowd for the change of batsman. Curran pushed his way through the crowd to find his captain and excuse himself from the rest of the game.
* * *
* * *
Still wearing his cricket flannels, Curran turned up at the door of the Explorers and Geographers Club. The jagar eyed him askance.
“Cannot let you in. Not properly attired.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. Fetch Mr. Carruthers.”
As he had on Curran’s previous visit, the jagar moved into the doorway and stood there solid, silent and implacable, with his arms crossed. As he topped Curran by at least a head, any chance of taking him on physically did not seem like a good idea. Instead Curran shouted.
“Carruthers? Anyone? Please tell this oaf to let me in!”
He heard hurried footsteps on the passage and Carruthers’s pink face peered around his doorman. “Inspector Curran, I do apologize. Let him through.”
Curran passed into the hallowed halls of the Explorers and Geographers Club without further hindrance.
“What can I do for you?” Carruthers asked. Sweat sheened his forehead and he produced one of his endless supply of handkerchiefs to mop his face.
“I need to speak to you urgently. In your office.”
Carruthers led the way and Curran shut the door behind him as Carruthers settled him
self into his chair behind the vast expanse of desk.
“Please take a seat, Inspector, and tell me how I can be of help.”
Curran remained standing.
“Where did you go on the night Newbold was murdered?”
Carruthers visibly flattened in his chair. “What do you mean? I was here all night. Didn’t leave until after midnight. People will vouch for me . . .”
Curran put his hands on the desk and leaned forward so his face was within inches of Carruthers’s.
“No, you weren’t, Carruthers. You disappeared in your motor vehicle for at least an hour. Where did you go?”
“Nonsense! Who says, I . . .” Carruthers looked up into the policeman’s unsympathetic face and crumpled. “I . . . I . . .” Sweat ran in runnels down the man’s jowly face. He swallowed. “I went to see Newbold.”
Curran had what he came for. He straightened and sat down in a chair across the desk from Carruthers, schooling his face to impassivity.
“But . . . but . . . I didn’t kill him. He was already dead.”
“Why did you go to see him?”
Carruthers licked his lips. “I could lie and tell you it was club business but I’ve already been a little economical with the truth.” He hefted a deep breath. “I told you that my father was part of the expedition that went out with Newbold and that he never came back. Newbold was going on and on about his memoirs and I wanted to confront him about my father. You see, I always believed there was something odd about the whole affair.”
“In what way?”
“Newbold got all the accolades and made a fortune from those bloody ruby mines whereas Ma and I got nothing.” An old bitterness cramped the man’s face. “I intended to ask Newbold for money to help us out. I only have what I earn from here and Ma died in penury. He owed us something.”
Anger now suffused Carruthers’s face so Curran moved the subject along, leaving the question of the money to buy the motor for the moment. His own pulse raced and he had to be careful not to push too hard, just hard enough to get a confession.
“I know you own a motor vehicle so I assume you drove up to Bukit Timah Road. Where did you park the vehicle?”
