by A. M. Stuart
“Give me your word you won’t hurt him,” Harriet said.
Viktoria glanced across at Harriet. “Really, Mrs. Gordon, you are hardly in a position to bargain with me. If I want to hurt him there is nothing you can do to stop me.” She turned her attention back to the boy. “I have a little task for you, young man. Come with me; I need to write a note, which you will deliver for me.” She gestured at the Burmese man. “And you, Zaw.”
Viktoria laid her hand on Will’s shoulder and the boy grimaced as her fingers bit into his flesh. She steered him toward the door, followed by the stone-faced Zaw.
Kent sat down in a rattan armchair and crossed his legs.
“You may as well sit down, Mrs. Gordon.”
Harriet complied, sinking into a comfortable chair as if she were about to take tea with her genial host. After the hard floor of the servant’s cell, the chair felt almost civilized. She took the opportunity to glance at the clock. It showed nearly one o’clock, earlier than she had thought.
“Paar, there is a hamper in the car. I am sure Mrs. Gordon must be famished.” Kent gestured in the direction of the front door.
“I’m not a servant,” Paar responded, his flushed face a darker red where Viktoria had struck him.
“Do as I say,” Kent purred in a low voice that held more menace than if the order had been shouted. Muttering under his breath, Paar left the room. Distantly, Harriet heard a door slam.
“What a pity things have come to such a pretty pass,” Kent said. “We were doing so nicely.”
Harriet glanced at Lawson. He was watching the door through which Viktoria had disappeared with his son.
“I would appreciate an explanation of your involvement, Colonel . . . or is it Major?” Harriet said.
“That is a very long story, Mrs. Gordon, and I’m not sure we have the time.” He glanced across at the clock as it struck the hour.
“Did you kill Newbold?” Harriet demanded.
Kent’s moustache twitched. “You are very direct, Mrs. Gordon. No, I didn’t”—he paused—“although I might have done. He had served his purpose.”
“And that was?”
Kent smiled. “Viki and I had decided it would be pleasant if the proceeds of our little enterprise were not shared three ways.”
“What about Visscher?”
“That was unfortunate,” Kent said. “The stupid boy overheard a conversation he shouldn’t have and went running off to Newbold. He made the mistake of confiding in Paar and Paar delivered Visscher straight into our hands. We had no choice but to silence the boy. Pity. I deplore violence. The trouble with enterprises of our nature is that once too many people are involved there is always the risk of a weak link.” He jerked his head at Lawson. “Like that fool.”
Harriet glanced across at Lawson. His head had sunk onto his chest and at the mention of his name, he groaned.
“Please, release Mr. Lawson’s bonds. I fear he is not well.”
Kent rose to his feet and walked across to Lawson. Seizing a handful of hair, he raised his head. “I think you might be right, my dear.” He shrugged and let the man’s head fall again. “If he dies, no loss.”
Harriet took a deep, shuddering breath, her gaze scanning the room, looking for an opportunity to make good her escape. The doors to the terrace stood open, beckoning her. She rose to her feet, stretching her stiff back. Kent moved with remarkable agility for a big man. He pushed her back in the chair and leaned in to her, his hands on the arms of the chair. She could smell garlic and onions on his breath.
“Don’t even think about it, Mrs. Gordon. I told the truth when I said I don’t like harming women or children but I will if I have to.”
The unexpected domestic clink of china interrupted Kent and he straightened, looking over Harriet’s head toward the door. “Ah, Paar. Thank you. Set the tray down on the table and undo Mr. Lawson’s restraints. I don’t think he will be giving us any trouble. I suggest you eat something, Mrs. Gordon. It could be a very long day for you.”
Harriet glanced at the tray Paar carried. If she were to get through the next few hours she needed all her wits about her and that required food and drink. Without interference, she rose to her feet and crossed to the table where Paar had set down the tray on which were bottles of warm ginger beer and digestive biscuits. As she started to eat, Paar undid Lawson’s restraints. His head fell back and he gasped as he took in deep breaths. Harriet filled a cup with the ginger beer and carried it over to him.
“Drink,” she whispered. “You need your strength.”
Lawson looked up at her. His hair clung damply to his forehead and the heat that radiated from him came not from the humid atmosphere but fever. He raised his left hand to take the cup but his hand shook too badly. Harriet held the cup to his lips and he drank greedily, forcing Harriet to pull back.
“Don’t make yourself sick.”
When she had got some food and drink into the man, she turned to Kent. “His wound needs dressing.”
Kent stood up and walked across to the sick man. Without any emotion on his face he looked down at him.
“Very well. Paar, you will find some bandages in the bathroom. Bring those and some fresh water.”
“Thank you,” Harriet said, and began unwinding the fetid cloth that had been used to bind Lawson’s arm. As it came away he cried out in pain and Harriet flinched in sympathy, her nose twitching at the familiar smell of a wound gone bad. She had seen enough untended injuries in her husband’s little clinic in the slums of Bombay to recognize the symptoms. The long, nasty cut, no doubt inflicted by Zaw’s knife, oozed pus, and the skin around it was inflamed.
She looked up at Kent. As a soldier, he must have known what he was looking at—a wound that was threatening to turn gangrenous.
“He needs a doctor,” she said.
“He will have to make do with you, my dear. Here’s Paar with the contents of my medicine cupboard. Do what you can.”
Relieved to see carbolic among the items Paar dumped on the table, Harriet cleaned and dressed the wound properly. Lawson did not utter a sound until she had finished.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he whispered at last.
She nodded. “You’ve lived in the tropics long enough to know what happens to untreated wounds.”
He looked away and Harriet straightened. She turned to face Kent.
“Let him go,” she said. “He needs a doctor. You still have me.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Gordon.” Viktoria cut in from the doorway. “Zaw has returned and we will be away.”
Kent jerked his head at the French window. “Time to go.”
Paar glanced out the window. “A boat? But we have the carriage and the motor vehicle—”
“You are a stupid boy.” Viktoria’s voice dripped with ice. “You don’t think we could use the carriage again, let alone such a distinctive motor vehicle? Every police officer on the island will be looking for it. No one will suspect an innocent fishing boat.”
“Where are we going?” Harriet found her voice.
“A quiet little place we know. However, it will take us some hours to reach our rendezvous.”
Viktoria turned to look at Harriet, and Harriet returned her gaze without blinking, gratified to see Viktoria’s eyes slide away.
“I gave the police until midnight to turn up with the stones, Charles.”
Kent snorted. “The Spartan won’t wait forever.”
Harriet’s mind churned. The police still had to find the boy before they could take action on the instructions Viktoria had sent with him.
“And if the police don’t come?” Harriet asked through tight lips.
Kent shrugged. “Then, we will have to cut our losses, my dear.” The smile he gave his mistress turned Harriet’s blood to ice.
“You haven’t hurt Will?” Lawson half ros
e from his chair.
Viktoria turned her gaze on Lawson. “No. Annoying brat, but no, he’s still in one piece. We’ve left him where someone will find him soon enough. Enough talk. It’s time to go. Zaw . . .”
Kent barked out an order in a language Harriet now assumed to be Burmese.
Zaw hauled Lawson to his feet and wrenched his arms behind his back, tying his wrists, oblivious to Lawson’s yelp of pain. Satisfied Lawson had been secured, he turned to Harriet, tying a dirty piece of rag around her mouth. She gagged at the sour taste of the cloth but he ignored her muffled protestations, securing her wrists behind her back with the cords that had bound her the previous night.
The fingers of his right hand closed around her forearm and he jerked her forward. As he pushed her toward the door onto the terrace, one of her last remaining hairpins tumbled to the floor with a gentle ping. She cast a quick glance around but nobody else seemed to have noticed it.
A humble native fishing boat had been pulled up onto the beach. Harriet cast frantic glances to her right and left but the beach was deserted. It appeared to be a small private beach framed by two rocky points with only Kent’s villa fronting it. Even if she could scream, she doubted anyone would hear her, and even if they did, she would be dead before anyone could come to her aid.
The prisoners stumbled forward onto the warm sand. Lawson staggered and would have fallen if Zaw hadn’t caught his bad arm and hauled him upright. Lawson cried out in pain, audible despite the gag.
As they reached the shoreline, Zaw picked Harriet up bodily and threw her into the bottom of the boat, where she lay in a soup of tepid, stinking water. Lawson followed, forcing Harriet to wriggle over to make room for him.
Paar tossed two suitcases and a canvas bag into the boat, prompting a roar from Kent as the canvas bag landed in the bilge water that sloshed in the bottom of the simple craft. The luggage was rearranged and Paar clambered awkwardly into the boat, causing the small craft to rock. He settled himself in the stern, where he was joined by Viktoria, who pulled an atap screen partly over their heads to shield them from the sun and curious eyes.
Harriet could hear Kent arguing in Malay with the boatman but the words were indistinguishable.
The boat scraped along the sand and shuddered as Kent vaulted after them, landing with surprising agility beside Harriet’s head. There could be no disguising the large Inggeris as a local fisherman and as there was no room for him beside Viktoria and Paar, he settled down beside Harriet, apparently impervious to the seeping water.
He bent down and solicitously lifted Harriet into a sitting position.
“More comfortable?” he inquired as he unrolled a second atap screen to pull over them.
If Harriet had been able to summon a sharp retort, the gag prevented her from doing anything more than glaring at him.
As the sail on the heavily laden vessel kicked out with a slap of canvas, she closed her eyes, trying to visualize a map of the island. Changi lay on the far northeastern end of the island. According to Julian it was nothing more than a fishing village as far away from the main settlement as it was possible to travel. The coastline was dotted with islands where a larger steamer or boat could hide. If the Spartan had been commissioned by Van Gelder and Kent to carry them away then it probably lay offshore. From there it could go anywhere.
As for Lawson and herself, if the police did not bring the stones in time, they would be disposed of and their bodies would never be found. Julian would blame himself. Her parents would be distraught.
Nothing, not even the blackest moments in Holloway, had provoked such a sense of despair as that which overwhelmed her at that moment. Harriet turned her face to the side of the boat, trying to focus on the sodden, stinking wooden boards but exhaustion had begun to catch up with her and the tears began to seep from beneath her tightly closed eyes, silent tears born of hopelessness.
THIRTY-NINE
Hot, tired and frustrated by the lack of communication from the kidnappers, Curran returned to South Bridge Road to find he had visitors. The Reverend Edwards, Dr. and Mrs. Mackenzie and the journalist Maddocks were sitting in a row on a bench in the detective’s outer office. They rose as one as he entered and began firing questions at him. Curran held up a hand and they fell silent as he gestured them into his office.
It was not a large room and with five people in it, it felt even smaller. Louisa took the only spare chair and the three men stood behind her, all of them fixing Curran with anxious and fearful gazes.
“You promised to give me news,” Julian began, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“I know,” Curran said. “Forgive me, but I haven’t had a moment to myself. We’ve arrested Cornilissen and recovered the rest of the ruby shipment.”
“Cornilissen?” Euan Mackenzie raised a shaggy eyebrow.
Before Curran could respond, Louisa chimed in, “And Harriet? Have you found her?”
Curran shook his head. “I know who has her.”
“John Lawson.” Julian ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up on end. “We know that, Curran.”
“Yes and no. I have made some progress. Cornilissen, Viktoria Van Gelder and Augustus Foster are the chief perpetrators of the events of the last weeks. Newbold, to a certain extent, was their dupe And Lawson was just one of their underlings.”
Four thunderstruck faces stared at him.
“Viktoria Van Gelder?” Louisa’s mouth fell open in genuine surprise. “I know her from one of my charities. She always seemed nice enough but a little dim.”
Curran gave a snort of laughter. “Far from it, Louisa. I’m only beginning to learn about Viktoria Van Gelder and one thing she isn’t, is dim.”
“What about Foster?” Maddocks put in. “He’s a harmless old buffer.”
Curran picked up a telegram from London that lay on his desk. “That harmless old buffer is a man by the name of Charles Kent. He was asked to leave the army after a particularly nasty incident involving the massacre of an entire village in northern Burma. Newbold may have been the instigator of the scheme but this man Kent and the Van Gelder woman had their own plans for the stones.”
“So much for honor among thieves,” Mackenzie remarked.
“Quite. I have the last ruby shipment and the sapphire and I’ve no doubt our friends would like them back. I anticipate they will offer Harriet and the boy in return for the stones but I’ve yet to receive the ransom demand, so that, if nothing else, is good news.”
“It could mean they’re already dead,” Julian said, a sharp edge to his tone.
“I don’t think so.” Curran dismissed that suggestion with a shake of his head. “For the moment assume the best. Now, please, can I ask you all to return home? I have an interview I need to conduct and every moment is precious.”
“Of course,” Julian said. “If you want me, Curran, I will be with the Mackenzies.”
At the door Curran put out a hand to detain Maddocks. “And you, Maddocks, not a word . . .” he said in a low voice. Maddocks opened his mouth to protest but shut it again as Curran said, “Anything you write could potentially endanger Mrs. Gordon.”
Maddocks shook his head. “I have the highest regard for Mrs. Gordon. I would never . . .”
“Good.”
* * *
* * *
Curran began his interviews with Viktoria Van Gelder’s daughter. Gone was the soft, frilly creature of silks and satins. The woman sat across the table from him, her arms folded and her mouth in a hard line. The cornflower blue eyes were as cold as a Scottish loch in the middle of winter. Curran greeted her with a smile.
“Your charm is wasted on me,” Gertrude Cornilissen said.
“Where is your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you care?”
“Of course I care. I care because she has the money owed
to Nils and me.”
“I have your husband in custody, Mrs. Cornilissen. He will be charged with theft and being an accessory to murder . . .”
“Murder?” The blue eyes widened. “We were not even on the island when Newbold died.”
“But you were when Visscher was killed . . . in the godown used by your husband. Where are your mother and Charles Kent?”
A muscle twitched in the woman’s jaw at the mention of Foster’s real name but she looked away. “I don’t know.”
Curran could not waste any more time on her. Clearly cut in her mother’s image, Gertrude Cornilissen would not betray the other conspirators. He left her in the hot, airless room to consider her options and turned his attention back to Van Gelder.
The hotel manager sat on the edge of the hard platform that served as a bed in the cell. Sweat streamed from him and the room stank of fear and the contents of the bucket in the corner.
Van Gelder rose to his feet as Curran entered. “When will I be free to go, Inspector? My hotel . . . my guests . . . Viktoria hates being left in charge—” He began to whine but something in Curran’s face stilled his tongue.
“Has something happened to my Viktoria?”
Curran resisted the urge to tell him exactly what he thought of his Viktoria.
“Nothing has happened to your wife, that I know of,” Curran said, “but I would like to know a little bit more about her.”
Van Gelder frowned. “Viktoria? She has nothing to do with this.”
“Sit, Van Gelder.” Curran waved the man down onto the bench again. “Your precious Viktoria has played you for a dupe.”
“What do you mean?” The man frowned.
“Did you know that before her marriage to you she was the mistress of brothels from Amsterdam to Rangoon?”
Van Gelder stared at him, his mouth falling open. He blinked rapidly.
