by A. M. Stuart
Curran schooled his face to remain neutral, hoping Kent did not notice the betraying muscle in his jaw as he clenched his teeth. He knew the man was trying to disarm him, deflect him from the case in hand, but the calculated little barb had hit home.
Clearing his throat, Curran continued, “According to your military records you were in Rangoon at the time of Newbold’s exploration of northern Burma.”
A few beads of perspiration shone on Kent’s forehead and he fumbled in his pocket, searching for but failing to find a handkerchief.
“Newbold recommended you join the expedition?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Carruthers and the other members of the expedition?”
Kent huffed out a breath. “Do you have a cigarette on you, Curran?”
Curran did not reply. He sat back with his arms folded, waiting for a response.
Kent shrugged. “We knew as soon as we saw the Mogok mines that there was an opportunity too good to miss. The others were an encumbrance we did not need and we ensured they did not return.”
“You mean you murdered them?”
Kent shrugged again. “Newbold thought he had paid me off in the rubies that we pocketed on that expedition but the bastard had found that bloody sapphire and was hanging on to it. So, I bided my time. I knew once he had the mine operational, he could not resist pocketing the best stones but he lacked a means to do so. I introduced Viki to him and we came up with the plan to smuggle the rubies out of Burma using her contacts.”
“What about his memoirs?”
“Of course I knew it would be a work of fiction, aimed at securing his place in history. It didn’t bother me. Charles Kent was dead. When young Carruthers turned up at the club last year, I had a nasty moment. I remembered the lad in Rangoon. Fortunately he didn’t recognize me.”
Curran held his tongue. Kent didn’t need to know that Carruthers had not recognized him because he was not Carruthers. So many lies and so much deceit had wrapped this case in a tangled web.
“You thought he may be interested that you murdered his father?”
Kent shrugged. “Don’t think for a minute there are any confessions to be had in what Newbold was writing, Inspector. To all purposes Carruthers’s father died of fever and that is what I will swear to. What Newbold’s story may have been, we will never know.”
“You were the one who told me Carruthers had gone out to Mandalay the night Newbold died.”
“I mentioned Newbold’s memoirs to Carruthers—thought he might be interested. Suggested he may like to talk to Newbold on Sunday night. It’s always useful to have someone else to blame a dead body on. Although, let me get this clear, Curran. At the time I had no way of knowing Newbold was already dead. Zaw’s instructions were . . .” He trailed off.
“Were?” Curran prompted.
Kent regarded him for a long moment. “We wanted the sapphire and Zaw can be very persuasive. However, if Newbold proved too hard, there is no doubt that Zaw would have persisted to the end. Believe me, Inspector, Newbold was dead when Zaw arrived. I honestly thought Carruthers had done him in for us.”
“How many people have died for these rubies, Kent? I’m losing count. Carruthers’s father, the other men on that expedition, Newbold . . .” Curran paused. “Why did the boy Visscher have to die?”
Kent crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling. “Viki and I were a little indiscreet and it seems the boy overheard us discussing Newbold. Time was running out. The last of the rubies were already at the godown and we needed the sapphire. Visscher rightly assumed that Newbold was going to be cut out of the arrangement and went to warn him. I don’t know what Newbold would have done with the information. He never got a chance to act on it. Someone else killed him that evening. As for Visscher, Paar had no trouble betraying the boy to us.”
“So you deny killing Newbold?”
“I will say this again, Curran. It was not us. We would have been on our way to a comfortable life in Argentina within a few days—with the sapphire. I repeat, Newbold was dead when Zaw got there.”
“So, who killed him?”
Kent shrugged. “No idea.”
“Let’s go back to Visscher. Who killed him?”
A muscle in Kent’s cheek twitched and Curran answered for him.
“Zaw?”
With narrowed eyes Curran studied Kent. “Too grand to do your own killing?”
Kent shook his head. “Zaw has been my right-hand man for over twenty years, Curran. Why have a dog and bark yourself? It was quick. The boy didn’t suffer. The body was supposed to be washed out to sea but . . .” He waved a dismissive hand and not a flicker of remorse crossed his eyes.
He was responsible for countless deaths in Burma; he had tried to frame the false Carruthers for a murder he didn’t commit. He had ordered the murder of Hans Visscher and, like his lover, he was guilty of the attempted murders of John Lawson, Stefan Paar and Harriet Gordon. Charles Kent would hang.
Back in his office, Curran stood by the window. He looked out onto the courtyard below, without seeing the hustle and bustle of the busy police station, and for the first time in many, many years he thought about his father, dead on an obscure battlefield in the Afghan wars, or at least that was what he had been told. What had Kent meant by implying his father might still be alive? He lit a cigarette with hands that shook. It had been a diversion, nothing more. Edward Curran had been dead thirty years and no one, not even a venal murderer like Charles Kent, had the right to resurrect his memory. He owed his father nothing.
He stubbed out the unsmoked cigarette and turned his thoughts back to the case. He had to concede that whatever else they may be guilty of, Viktoria Van Gelder, Kent and their accomplices did not seem to be responsible for the brutal attack on Oswald Newbold and his servant. They didn’t need to kill Newbold and the way in which he had died suggested a frenzied, emotional attack, not the calm, ruthless efficiency of Zaw.
That left Carruthers?
He considered that possibility. If the man had really been James Carruthers then, yes, he had a motive—the death of his father, but Symes was merely an agent of the Burmese Ruby Syndicate. He had no reason to kill Newbold. In fact, he would have wanted him alive. If Carruthers was to be believed, Newbold was already dead when he got to the house that night. So somewhere between seven o’clock when Visscher had left and nine o’clock when Carruthers arrived, Newbold had entertained another visitor, one who had not given him time to act on the information Visscher had passed on.
Curran sat down and leaned back in his chair. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he ran through the list of suspects once more and sighed deeply and with genuine regret. He knew who had killed Newbold and possibly why and the knowledge brought him no satisfaction.
FORTY-SEVEN
Harriet lay in her own bed, staring up at the mosquito net, while her fingers pleated the soft material of the clean, linen sheet that covered her. From the kitchens came the apparently tuneless twang of Huo Jin singing Chinese opera. At that moment Harriet considered the atonal screeching, as Julian rudely referred to it, could possibly be the loveliest thing she had ever heard.
She was in her own bed, in her own home. The nightmare that had begun when she accepted a commission to type Sir Oswald Newbold’s memoirs was finally over.
After the terrifying end to her ordeal, she remembered very little. A tall figure brandishing a service revolver illuminated by the light of a fire, a horse and a strong arm to lift her down out of the saddle. She touched her cheek as if the memory of the damp khaki uniform and metal buttons pressed against her and the warmth of his body as he carried her into the police post still lingered.
In the Changi police outpost, someone had brought her tea, Chinese tea, and she had drunk cup after cup. There had been voices, familiar, loving voices and Julian’s arms around her. The sight of her brothe
r’s anxious face had been the last straw. She had broken down completely, sobbing into his shoulder until she had no more tears to shed.
Euan Mackenzie had given her a cursory inspection. He had been brisk and professional but he had not come for her sake. She saw him bent over the man who had been laid on the table in the center of the police station. John Lawson was still alive and Euan had come to take him to the hospital. She would have to wait.
In the end it had been the police vehicle that had carried her home. Despite the hour, Huo Jin had been waiting, her long graying hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing a loose gown Harriet had never seen before. There had been more tea, fussing, and warm, scented washcloths, a sleeping draught prescribed by Euan and then bed, blissful, lovely, wonderful bed.
She wondered what time it was. Well into the day, she thought, listening to the buzz of insects, the cries of the birds and the chatter of monkeys from the ulu behind the house. As if he had sensed her return to consciousness, the door squeaked open and Julian peered around.
“You’re awake,” he said, his face splitting into a grin. He turned back to address someone outside. She heard the words tea and toast.
Harriet pulled herself up on her pillows. Every muscle in her body ached. She rubbed her wrists where the bonds had left bruises and red raw marks. Julian crossed to the bed and lifted the mosquito netting away, tying it in a ball above her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her right hand in his.
Dark gray circles bagged under his eyes and the lines of strain pulled at his mouth.
“Harriet . . . I thought . . . I would never have forgiven myself . . .”
“I’m fine, Julian. A bit stiff and sore and I badly need a bath. How’s Will?”
Julian smiled. “Louisa took him in. Like you, he needs a little rest and love and the distraction of being with other children but he’s otherwise unharmed.”
“What about Lawson?”
Julian shrugged. “Last I heard he was still holding his own. Euan got him to the hospital and operated straightaway, but . . .” His lips tightened. “We don’t hold out much hope. He was already in a bad way. Euan had to take his arm off.”
Harriet looked away. “Poor man . . . poor Will.” She turned back to look at her brother. “Julian, I want Will here. Can you ask Louisa to bring him?”
“But he’s better off with Louisa.”
She shook her head. “He needs me. That child and I have been through an ordeal and come out the other side. I owe it to him to have him beside me.”
Julian considered his sister for a long moment.
“Are you up to it? You’re not . . .”
He trailed off and Harriet knew he had been about to say, You are not trying to bring Thomas back to life?
He might be right. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, remembering those long hours with Will and how she would have risked her own life to save him.
The door opened and Huo Jin, familiar again in her black samfu, her hair coiled in a neat bun, entered, carrying a tray. Harriet sniffed appreciatively as the scent of fresh toast drifted toward her. Huo Jin, grinning from ear to ear, set the tray down.
“You eat,” she said. “I fix you bath. You smell.” She clicked her tongue. “Now I have to wash sheets and nightdress. I am old woman. Too much work.”
“Thank you,” Harriet said. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”
With another click of her tongue, Huo Jin went into Harriet’s bathroom. The bungalow had a rudimentary water system that allowed the luxury of lukewarm baths but as Harriet had quickly discovered, anything more than lukewarm was not really required.
Julian patted her hand again. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “I’ll go and telephone Louisa.”
Two hours later Louisa arrived, driving a pony trap with Will sitting beside her. Harriet waited for them on the verandah, sitting in her favorite rattan armchair in a loose peignoir, her still-damp hair unbound and Shashti in her lap. Will jumped down from the trap before Aziz had come out to take the pony from Louisa and help her out.
The boy bounded up the stairs and for a moment Harriet thought—hoped—the child would throw himself at her, but long-ingrained English manners prevailed and he came to a halt a foot from her, his hands behind his back. He looked pale beneath his tan and there were dark-blue smudges under his eyes, but apart from a few visible scratches and bruises, he appeared to have survived his ordeal quite well.
Harriet smiled and held out her hand to him. “There’s room to sit down, Will,” she said, squeezing herself along and patting the cushion beside her. To her surprise the boy complied and she handed Shashti to him.
“He’s been asking after you,” Louisa said as she joined them.
Will looked up from tickling Shashti behind the ears. “I want to go back to school, if that’s all right?”
Harriet smiled. “Of course, Will. Your friends will be pleased to see you. I know everyone was very worried.” She hailed Aziz and ordered him to escort Will up to Reverend Edwards at the schoolhouse.
She waited until she heard the gate squeak on its hinges. “He’ll be better off in the company of his friends and normal routines,” she said.
Louisa sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “I took him to see his father on the way here.”
“And?”
“Lawson rallied for the boy, but from what Euan tells me it seems doubtful his father will see out the day. I think they both knew it was good-bye.”
Harriet looked away, fighting back the tears, not for John Lawson but for a child who had loved his father and would now lose him.
Louisa reached over and took her friend’s hand. “How are you?”
Harriet composed her features and managed a smile. “I’ll be just fine, Louisa. I’m just a little tired.”
Louisa gave a dramatic shiver. “I think you’re remarkably composed.”
Harriet glanced at her friend. In Louisa’s comfortable middle-class life, a tardy servant would probably be the worst thing she would have to confront. Harriet had lost her world when James and Thomas had died, and tied up in a dark hut waiting for death, she had realized that since those terrible days, she had been merely going through the motions of life. She hadn’t been truly living. For the first time in years, she wanted to live, and in Will Lawson she had something . . . someone . . . to live for.
Louisa took a genteel sip of her tea and Harriet decided against trying to voice her thoughts. Louisa would never understand.
“I don’t think there is much rest for the wicked, Harriet. Here is your dashing Inspector Curran, the hero of the hour, by all accounts.”
Harriet glared at her friend as the familiar chestnut horse came to a halt. “He’s not my Inspector Curran, dashing or otherwise!” she said under her breath.
Louisa leaned forward. “Not what Euan told me . . .”
Harriet had no opportunity to ask what Euan had told his wife as Curran, annoyingly crisp, clean and fresh for a man who had probably not had any sleep in twenty-four hours, took the steps up to the verandah two at a time and swept off his helmet, running his hand through dark, damp hair. Harriet caught a wince of pain but thought better of asking what injuries he had sustained.
“I came to see how you are, Mrs. Gordon.”
Harriet smiled at him. “I am as you find me, Curran. In one piece, on my own verandah, in the company of my friend, enjoying a spot of Darjeeling tea, sadly without the luxury of a lemon. Would you care to join us?”
Curran glanced down at the tea tray with its delicate porcelain and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you, but no. I don’t have time to stop. I’ll need a statement from you—”
“Of course.” Harriet gestured at her shorthand notebook and pencil that rested on the arm of the chair. “I was just making notes.”
/> “I won’t bother you anymore today. Tomorrow will be fine. Can you come to South Bridge Road about ten in the morning?”
Harriet agreed and asked, “How are our friends faring this afternoon?”
Curran, catching her meaning, smiled. “Annoyed,” he said. “No, I would go so far as to say they are livid.”
“What will happen to them?”
Curran glanced upward as if the question required considerable thought. “I’m afraid there will be a trial, which will involve you.” He brought his gaze back to Harriet, a slight smile curving his lips. “But I think you are up to it. I saw what you did to that poor man last night.”
Louisa raised her eyebrows and cast a curious glance at Harriet. Heat flooded Harriet’s face and she glanced down at her hands, her fingers pleating the fine material of her peignoir.
“Inspector Curran, please . . .”
He smiled. “I’m teasing. Sorry I can’t linger. Glad to find you in good spirits and”—he turned to Louisa—“good company.”
“I’ve brought Will back to school,” Louisa said. “He’s said his farewells to his father—sadly.”
All humor vanished from Curran’s face and he nodded. “Yes. I think tragic is a better descriptor.” He gathered himself together. “Good day to you, ladies.”
Harriet watched him swing himself with ease into the saddle of the chestnut gelding and ride away.
Robert Curran. They were now bound together by the blood that had been spilled in the last few days and she owed him a debt she didn’t think she could ever repay, except with her friendship, if he wanted it.
“So, is it true? Did he really carry you into the Changi police outpost in his arms?” Louisa inquired, fixing Harriet with wide, curious eyes.
Harriet felt another flush of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. “Someone did,” she conceded. “It was probably that large constable he had with him.”
Louisa’s lips pursed in a moue of disappointment. “Oh, come on, Harriet, that’s not what Euan said. Oh dear, another interruption.”
