The regret he always felt when he thought of his father came over him. He wished he’d known him better; he’d been a schoolboy when he died. He would have liked to talk to him about how he had dealt with his British masters. Had there been times when he’d found it hard to steer the right course?
A flock of egrets flew over, flapping lazily towards the rosy glow in the west. He heard the distant screech of a peacock and another answering it.
One by one, the lights were going on in the town below. He walked to the end of the garden and stood by the privet hedge watching them. The words of a hymn they had sung at church the last time he went with Jane slipped into his head:
When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your blessings, name them one by one,
Count your blessings, see what God has done!
Then something he couldn’t quite remember about conflicts great or small. He sighed. Did he invite problems? He had never thought so but certainly his assumption that life in Nuala would be peaceful and uncomplicated hadn’t proved to be correct. Perhaps he must accept that people made life complicated wherever you were.
He looked back at the bungalow. The lamps on the verandah glowed and Jane still sat there, calmly reading her book. He hoped he was going to enjoy this chicken fricassée. The last English recipe Cook had served for dinner – Lancashire hotpot – had been moderately enlivened by the presence of plenty of onions but he still preferred a good fiery curry. Still, Jane had accustomed herself to his country’s food so he ought to make the effort in return.
A figure appeared in the doorway to the verandah. Jane closed her book and waved. Dinner must be ready; he should go inside and wash his hands. As he crossed the lawn, it suddenly dawned on him why he had felt that something remained unfinished, even after young Vijay confirmed that Helen Wynne-Talbot had jumped.
It was the anonymous caller to the station who had spoken to Nadar. He hadn’t telephoned back. Perhaps he was just a crank; one of those tiresome people who needed to bolster their sense of importance by pretending to know something about a case that no one else did, but, in some obscure way, the silence bothered him.
The chicken fricassée turned out to be pleasant, with a silky sauce and plenty of vegetables and chopped herbs. To de Silva’s mind, however, some chillies would have vastly improved the mild, grassy flavours. When dinner was over, he and Jane retired to the drawing room to read. After a surfeit of the muscular works of Sir Walter Scott, he wanted a change and Jane had suggested he try Jane Austen. He was reading Pride and Prejudice which he was enjoying far more than he had expected. He understood from Jane that Sir Walter had been a great admirer of Miss Austen’s works, as she had been of his, in spite of the fact that their novels could not be more different.
He found the place where he had stopped the previous evening and settled into a new chapter. When it came to the end, he let the book fall in his lap and rested his eyes for a few moments. They felt rather scratchy this evening, perhaps the lingering effects of that dusty walk up to Horton Plains, even though it seemed like a lifetime ago.
He wondered what Miss Austen had been like: an acerbic lady perhaps. Her observation of the workings of the human heart was perceptive and her eye for folly sharp. Would he have enjoyed meeting her? It might have been an unnerving experience. Perhaps he would have been as incapable of holding an interesting and rational conversation with her as dull Mr Collins or giddy Lydia.
Jane looked up from her Agatha Christie. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘Very well. It’s an excellent novel. As you said, a pleasant change from Sir Walter.’
‘Where have you got to?’
‘Darcy’s formidable aunt has just arrived at Longbourn to find out whether Elizabeth Bennett is hoping to marry him.’ He grinned. ‘I notice that in literature it’s frequently aunts who are cast as the villains – P G Wodehouse is another example – whereas uncles are mostly amiable.’
Jane sniffed. ‘I hope you’re not implying anything.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Just as well.’
She closed her book and stifled a yawn. ‘I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.’ She rested her chin on her hand pensively.
‘Sixpence for them?’
‘A penny, dear, it’s all they’re worth anyway. I was just thinking about Sergeant Prasanna again. It seems very harsh that he might have to give up this girl to please his mother.’
He shrugged. ‘Yes, but who knows? The girl may not even be keen on him in the first place.’
‘Oh, surely she will be. Your sergeant’s a good-looking young man and you always say he has a bright future if he stays in the force.’
‘I believe he does, but that doesn’t mean the girl will feel the same way about him as he does about her.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
He returned to his book but when he looked up again, Jane was still sitting in her chair, with the same thoughtful expression on her face.
‘What is it now? I hope you’re not turning into a Mrs Bennett, fretting about marrying her daughters off. There’s no point worrying about Prasanna and his love life. He’s old enough to stand up to his mother if this girl’s the one he really wants.’
‘Actually, I wasn’t thinking about him any longer, I was thinking about Ralph Wynne-Talbot.’
‘What about him?’
‘I was wondering if he will marry again.’
‘I should think it’s rather more a question of when.’
‘Shanti!’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that unkindly, but won’t he need a wife to help with this great house he will inherit? Who will manage it for him?’
Jane raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d like to think a wife is something more than a housekeeper.’
He put his book on the table beside his chair, reached out and pulled her onto his lap. ‘I can’t answer for the British aristocracy, but mine certainly is.’
She stroked his hair. ‘I’m very glad to hear it. And I expect you’re right about Ralph Wynne-Talbot. It will be a lonely life if he doesn’t find someone to share it with, and I’m sure every mother of unmarried daughters in England will be eager to help him do so.’
Chapter 22
It rained steadily in the night. In the morning, the garden smelt of damp earth and grass, and birds darted between shimmering trees. As the Morris purred along the road into town, the beauty of the day dispelled de Silva’s gloom.
Nadar was already at the station but there was no sign of Prasanna. ‘He has gone to the bazaar, sir,’ Nadar said uncomfortably when de Silva asked where his colleague was.
‘Oh? Is there some trouble there?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. Maybe monkeys are stealing from the stalls again,’ Nadar added lamely.
De Silva’s lips twitched. He had a pretty good idea what had drawn Prasanna to the bazaar. ‘Well, let’s hope those criminal masterminds aren’t too difficult to foil, eh Nadar?’
‘No, sir. I mean yes, sir.’ A guilty look came over his round, earnest face. ‘Forgive me, sir, I do not believe that is really why he’s gone.’
‘Nor do I; no doubt he wants to see this young lady of his again.’
Nadar’s guilty look changed to one of concern. ‘I hope it will not mean trouble for him, sir. His mother has very strong opinions. It was easy for my wife and me, our families approved of the match. In fact, they were all most anxious for it.’
‘That was very fortunate for you.’
‘Yes, sir, I am a very lucky man.’
De Silva clapped him on the back. ‘Good. Now don’t you worry about Sergeant Prasanna, he must fight his own battles.’ He opened the door to his office. ‘I expect to be in all morning. Bring my tea, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
De Silva went to his desk and sat down. After Prasanna had spent the last few days tramping about the jungle on his grisly errand, he probably
deserved a bit of latitude. He’d turn a blind eye for a day or two, but then in fairness to Nadar, Prasanna would have to pull his weight again.
He spent a few minutes going through his post until there was a knock at the door and Nadar arrived with the tea. When he’d gone, de Silva opened the bulky envelope at the bottom of the pile. It was the catalogue he’d ordered from Colombo. He leafed through the pages, admiring the fine range of gramophones the company offered. Some came in tall cabinets, others were designed to sit on table tops or even be portable. The more ornate ones were made of waxed oak adorned with gilt fittings. Delicate patterns of leaves and flowers had been incised on their horns.
His Majesty’s Voice: the company symbolised the best of British manufacturing. Even the famous Sir Edward Elgar lauded their products as the only way to listen to music for those not fortunate enough to have the opportunity of going to the best concert halls to enjoy it.
He studied the technical details – apparently, the machines had been furnished with a new type of sound box that gave equal balance to treble and bass and virtually eliminated the hisses and crackles he’d noticed on the few gramophones he had heard played. He also considered the look of the machines and finally came to his decision, choosing one with a pretty, octagonal-shaped case that was a good size for the place he had in mind. He mustn’t leave it too long to send in his order. The gramophone would take time to arrive and he wanted to surprise Jane with it on their anniversary. Knowing how much she loved music, he was confident she’d be pleased. He leant back in his chair, picturing warm evenings on the verandah listening to the pieces they both loved, from dance music to opera, or even jazz.
There was another knock at the door and Nadar put his head round. ‘There’s someone to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?’
De Silva marked the page then closed the catalogue. He had an uneasy feeling. ‘Who is it?’
Nadar lowered his voice. ‘I think it may be the man who telephoned and wouldn’t give his name, sir. He has the same voice.’
De Silva sighed. If the fellow had come in person, he’d better not turn him away without a hearing. ‘Show him in, but warn him I’m busy and I can’t spare him long. Better still, if he’s not gone in ten minutes, knock on the door and say you wanted to remind me about an important engagement.’
The dark-haired man who entered the room looked British, probably about forty. His appearance was undistinguished, neither fat nor thin, in fact the most noticeable thing about him was that he walked with a pronounced limp.
De Silva rose from his chair. ‘Good morning, sir. Please take a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ He noticed how the man winced as he dropped into the chair.
‘Now, how may I help you?’
‘I understand you’re the officer who’s been dealing with the investigation into the death of Helen Wynne-Talbot.’
Inwardly, de Silva groaned. This scenario was tediously familiar; he was about to hear some crackpot theory after all.
The man gave a wry smile. ‘Your expression betrays you, Inspector. No, I’m not mad and I haven’t come to waste your time. On the contrary, I think you will find what I have to tell you very interesting.’
He cleared his throat. ‘My name is Matthew Claybourne. I knew both Ralph and Helen Wynne-Talbot well. We spent several years together in Australia. Among other things, Ralph Wynne-Talbot and I were both engineers for a company involved in the construction of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.’
De Silva raised his hand. He would need a lot of convincing before he agreed to discuss the pros and cons of the Wynne-Talbot case with this man, even though he seemed more lucid than expected. For the moment, it was best to be as off-putting as possible. ‘Before you go any further, Mr Claybourne, I ought to make it clear that the case is closed on Helen Wynne-Talbot’s tragic death. The verdict, and we have reliable witnesses to substantiate it, was suicide. If it’s your wish to pay your respects, the funeral will be held at St George’s church here in Nuala in a few days. I’m sure you understand this is a very difficult time for Mr Wynne-Talbot. If you were a friend of his, may I suggest that you leave seeing him and offering your condolences until then?’
Claybourne smiled calmly. ‘Oh, I assure you, Inspector de Silva, I have no intention of contacting Ralph Wynne-Talbot. In fact, it would be impossible for me to do so.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked de Silva with a frown.
‘For a very good reason, Inspector. Ralph Wynne-Talbot is dead.’
Chapter 23
It took de Silva a few seconds to recover his composure. He hoped he hadn’t given Matthew Claybourne the satisfaction of thinking he had astonished him. In his experience, this kind of man lived for the excitement of feeling he was important. It had been a problem that the Colombo police had often had to address: how to sift the genuine informants from the charlatans.
‘That’s very interesting, Mr Claybourne, but do you have any proof?’
‘I see you’re not impressed, Inspector, and I can’t say I blame you. Johnny Randall – he’s the man who’s masquerading as Ralph – is a clever fellow. Ever since I met him, I’ve been aware of his uncanny knack for pinpointing people’s weaknesses. It didn’t take him long to see that Ralph was vulnerable. He won his confidence early on in their acquaintance and learnt a lot about him. Certainly enough to do a convincing job of pretending to be him. And of course his task has been made much easier in Ceylon since Ralph’s aunt and uncle never met him. Add to that Johnny’s calculating charm, and the way he changes like a chameleon to win over whomever he’s with, and the job is done.’
De Silva had to admit, Claybourne’s assessment of the man he claimed was an impostor wasn’t a million miles from his own. He remembered thinking on their first encounter at the Residence dinner that Helen Wynne-Talbot’s husband’s charm was too slick to be genuine. Afterwards, he’d wondered if he was just jealous that the man seemed so much more at ease in grand surroundings than he did himself, yet… He was careful not to show it but, in spite of his initial scepticism, his interest was aroused. He waited for Claybourne to continue but the man only stared blankly at an old ink stain on the desktop, as if he’d forgotten de Silva was there.
‘It was convenient for him that he and Ralph looked very alike,’ he said at last. ‘If the Petries or any members of the Axford family had seen photographs of Ralph as a boy, it would be perfectly plausible that he grew up to look like Johnny. Their hair colour was different – Ralph was fair – but children’s hair often darkens as they grow older. Anyway, given the family rift, Johnny probably thought it was a safe bet there were no photographs.’
He looked up and studied de Silva intently, as if trying to ascertain whether his story was being taken seriously. ‘I’d better start at the beginning. I first met Helen and Ralph in Sydney. As I said, Ralph and I were both working on the Sydney Harbour Bridge project.’
De Silva nodded.
‘I liked Ralph instantly and although Helen could be moody I spent a lot of time with them. The fact that Ralph and I were in the same line of work was a bond. He was never one to boast, in fact if anything people thought him a little too reserved, but he had a passion for what he did that struck a chord with me. We talked about moving on to Canberra when the bridge opened and the job ended. You may or may not know that about twenty years ago, in order to solve the rivalry between the cities of Sydney and Melbourne, it was designated Australia’s capital. It’s well situated, but a very small place. At first, building it up to the standard you’d expect of a capital city was a gold mine for anyone in the planning and construction businesses.’
‘I imagine it was.’
‘But no one had reckoned on Black Tuesday,’ Claybourne continued. ‘After the crash, the Australian economy took a dive and work on Canberra was put on hold.’
He paused and de Silva wondered if he should prompt him. A few moments elapsed before he resumed speaking. ‘There was no point going there after that. I’d heard there was work
in the gold mining area around Kalgoorlie, so I decided to try there instead. Ralph agreed to tag along and I was glad of his company.’
He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
De Silva shook his head and waited while Claybourne lit up and dragged deeply on the cigarette.
‘It was up there that we ran into Johnny. I never found out what line of work he was really in, but there was a lot of big talk about his theories of investment and how much money he’d made in the precious metals markets. In those parts, it was hard to tell just how wealthy people were. There was nowhere to spend money apart from in the hotels and bars and none of them exactly rivalled the Ritz. People mostly dressed in a rough-and-ready style and had little time for social distinctions.’ He smiled dryly. ‘That’s something I’ve noticed Australians pride themselves on.’
De Silva rotated his pen between the fingers and thumb of one hand, wondering when this man was going to get to the point. He still wasn’t sure what to make of him but decided to humour him for a while longer.
‘Ralph had inherited money when his parents died. Not enough to keep him for the rest of his life, he needed to work, but enough to ensure that he and Helen would always be well off. Johnny soon found out about that and he also discovered Ralph had fancy relations back in England. He started calling him Lord Ralph. Ralph laughed but I knew he was embarrassed. Johnny kept telling him he should go and find the relations. There could be money in it. But Ralph was happy with the life he had in Australia. He wasn’t interested in getting to know the grandfather who had kicked his father out, or the rest of the family who had stood by and watched it happen.’
‘How long do you believe he’d known about his family history?’
Dark Clouds Over Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
