Christmas in Nuala

by Harriet Steel

  ‘I confess it was less dramatic than I anticipated. But as the count is an amateur, perhaps one shouldn’t have expected too much.’

  At Sunnybank, they sat on the verandah for a while, admiring the stars. The air was still warm, although a light breeze stirred the trees. Jane was quiet; de Silva wondered whether she was thinking about Christmases past in England.

  ‘I admit I do miss some things,’ she said when he asked her. ‘Snow on Christmas morning. Carol singers coming to the door on frosty evenings. But the most important thing is to be with the people you care about, and I’m here with you.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, my love.’

  They sat up for a little longer then went to bed. De Silva wasn’t sure how many hours he’d been asleep when the noise woke him.

  Jane stirred. ‘Whatever’s going on? Who can be knocking at this time of night?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’d better go and find out. It doesn’t sound as if it’s something the servants will be able to deal with.’

  Hauling himself out of bed, he pulled on his dressing gown and stumbled to the door. In the bungalow’s hall, moonlight shone through the un-curtained windows. He heard a woman’s voice outside; she sounded very agitated. Quickly, he unlocked the front door and opened it.

  At first, he couldn’t see her clearly against the bright moonlight, then his eyes adjusted, and a jolt of surprise went through him. It was Countess Arcanti.

  The hair that had been so elegantly arranged at Florence’s party straggled to her shoulders. She had exchanged her party frock for a coat thrown over a nightgown. Her feet were bare, and they were bleeding.

  ‘Countess! What on earth…’

  She seized his hands with both of hers. ‘Inspector! Thank goodness I’ve found you. I remembered your wife saying you lived near Cosmo’s uncle’s house. I was so afraid there would be no one to help us. Please come quickly!’

  De Silva glanced past her to the drive. There was no car parked there. Had she run all the way?

  She saw him looking, and her grip tightened. ‘The car... I’ve never driven it before, but I had to find you. Cosmo will be furious with me.’ She began to cry. ‘My poor Cosmo! He may already be dead.’

  ‘Who is it, Shanti?’ De Silva heard Jane’s voice. A moment later she was by his side, a look of dismay on her face.

  Countess Arcanti gripped de Silva’s hands even more tightly than before and shivered.

  ‘Mrs de Silva, I beg you, tell your husband he must help us. My husband and his cousin are fighting. I’m terrified one of them will be badly hurt.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll help you, Countess,’ said de Silva. ‘But how did you get here?’

  ‘I left without them noticing and drove here dressed as you see. I had no choice – the house has no telephone. If only I hadn’t lost control of the car as I turned at your gate.’ She paused as more tears flowed. ‘It will be impossible to drive it now,’ she said wretchedly.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about that,’ soothed Jane. De Silva hurried to the bedroom to pull on his uniform. ‘My husband will have the Morris out in a jiffy. Won’t you, dear!’ she called out loudly, then turned back to the countess. ‘You can tell him everything as you go along.’

  At the turnout from Sunnybank, de Silva saw a car with its bonnet buried firmly in the roadside ditch designed to take rainwater from the road in the monsoon season. He would have to call in Gopallawa Motors to tow it out in the morning.

  Countess Arcanti hunched in the passenger seat beside him, her slim fingers drumming on the dashboard. ‘Faster, Inspector, I beg you,’ she said tensely. ‘I’m terrified of what will happen if they’re alone.’

  ‘What are they fighting about?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Robert is very drunk. He was a bit tiddly at the party, but still alright to drive, I thought. He must have had a couple more when he got back to the bungalow. Cosmo and I chatted about the party for a while, then I had got ready for bed and Cosmo was about to do so when we heard Robert shouting up at our window. We sleep on the first floor of the building in the courtyard, you see. I begged Cosmo not to go down, but he said he wouldn’t be accused of being a coward. When I looked out of the window, I saw them arguing. Then Robert struck my husband, and they started to fight. I’d never seen Robert behave violently before. I was so frightened of where it would end, I just pulled on this coat and ran for the car. They didn’t see me drive away.’

  A note of panic came into her voice. ‘Inspector! Faster, please! Robert will kill my husband if we don’t hurry.’

  ‘Try to calm yourself, Countess. The argument is probably over already.’

  They had reached the entrance to the Rushwells’ property. The Morris turned in and bumped up a rough drive, passing a bungalow that de Silva assumed was Robert Rushwell’s home.

  At the top of the drive, a fortified, stone gatehouse with crenellated walls and narrow, asymmetrical windows came into view. The central part was three storeys high, with two more storeys topping off the massive rectangular towers that buttressed it. On the ground floor of the central section, a Gothic archway, easily wide enough for a car to pass through, pierced the forbidding stone wall. Beyond it, de Silva saw a courtyard with a range of buildings around it, many of them in ruins. He shivered; it was a gloomy place.

  ‘I suggest you stay in the car, Countess, while I find your husband and his cousin.’

  Countess Arcanti’s eyes flashed. ‘No! I must come with you. Perhaps I can persuade Robert to leave my husband alone.’

  She threw open the Morris’s door, jumped out and ran into the moonlit courtyard. There was no one there.

  ‘We’re too late,’ she cried. ‘How will we find them now?’

  She glanced wildly around the range of buildings fringing the courtyard. There was a light in an upstairs window of the building to their right. ‘That’s one of our rooms,’ she said. ‘They must be up there.’

  Following her through a doorway, de Silva found himself in a dark hall, lit only by moonbeams filtering through high windows. There was a dank smell and sparkling trails like those that snails left in his garden told de Silva that the walls were damp.

  The countess headed for a staircase in a dark corner by a cavernous fireplace.

  ‘Take care you don’t fall,’ she said. ‘Robert’s bungalow has a generator for electricity, but my husband’s uncle refuses to have one. This house is dangerous at night.’

  At the top of the staircase, there was another large room, but the antique four-poster, piled with tangled bedding, was empty. The kerosene lamp, whose light they had seen from the courtyard, flickered on a windowsill.

  The countess seized de Silva’s arm. ‘They may have gone to Clarence’s tower. We must try there.’

  As she almost dragged him down the stairs, he had to reach for the side wall to steady himself. The crumbling plaster was cold and slimy to the touch. Back in the courtyard, she pulled him over to the archway where a door into the tower on their left brought them into an entrance lobby. There was no window, but in the light provided by a guttering kerosene lamp, de Silva saw a staircase to his right and beyond it, a door to a room. He glanced in the room as he went to follow the countess up the stairs and saw that it was empty.

  The stairwell was small and dimly lit, each set of flights leading to a half landing, each with one room leading off it as on the ground floor. His chest burning with the effort of keeping up with the countess, de Silva only glanced through the rooms’ open doors as he passed. In the glow of the moonlight, it was clear they were bereft of both furniture and life; presumably never used.

  The countess shouted at him to hurry, and it was as they started up the stairs leading to the fourth floor that he heard a heated argument taking place. The violent anger in the voices alarmed him, but he couldn’t make out if there were two or three men involved, still less their identity. This sounded more serious than he had anticipated. What a fool he’d been to leave his gun at Sunnybank. He suppo
sed that was because the idea of having to shoot an Englishman was beyond his imagining. However, it might have helped him take control of the situation.

  The countess was still ahead of him as he struggled up the last flight to the fourth landing. ‘Hurry!’ she called. ‘They’re up here in the study.’

  Despite her injury, she climbed faster than he could. His heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest at any moment. He cursed himself that he wasn’t more fit.

  ‘Robert!’ He heard the countess call out again. ‘’What are you doing? Where are Cosmo and Uncle Clarence?’

  There was no answer, then de Silva heard the count’s voice.

  ‘Julia, stay back! Robert has a gun.’

  The countess’s hand flew to her throat. She shrank into a corner of the half landing. ‘Robert, I beg you! Don’t hurt my Cosmo.’

  As de Silva reached the place where a small kerosene lamp had been put down beside the top step, he turned. The open doorway to the study came dimly into view. Just inside it, the bulky figure of a man, standing with his back to them, almost blocked out what light escaped from within. Hearing the approaching footsteps, the man moved a little to one side. Beyond him, and facing them from inside the room, de Silva caught a glimpse of Cosmo Arcanti. The man in the doorway shifted slightly again, once more blocking de Silva’s view as he approached cautiously past the countess. However, the yellowish light that had illuminated the count’s face had revealed an expression of profound horror that de Silva could not forget. It had stood out against the semi-darkness that permeated the rest of the room.

  ‘Robert!’ the countess pleaded again. ‘Give up the gun. Talk to us.’

  But her entreaty was in vain. With a black-gloved hand, Rushwell reached back towards the door and pushed it to, shutting himself and Arcanti inside the study. De Silva heard a bolt shoot across.

  The countess threw herself at the door, hammering at it with her clenched fists. A crash came from inside the study, then another.

  ‘We must get in,’ she gasped.

  De Silva caught his breath and steadied himself. When his vision cleared, he studied the door. It looked very solid, but he had to try. He motioned the countess to stand aside.

  At the first blow, his shoulder throbbed, but the door didn’t budge. He prepared himself for another attempt. From inside the room, he heard muffled cries and what sounded like furniture being overturned and smashed.

  ‘The fireplace in our hall!’ the countess cried. ‘There are fire irons there. Perhaps we can use one of them to force open the door.’ She disappeared down the stairs.

  De Silva tried more blows with his shoulder, but soon he was exhausted. The sound of breakages had stopped, and there was an ominous silence. ‘Open the door!’ he called out.

  There was no reply.

  He heard the countess once more running up the stairs. She appeared, catching her breath and brandishing a poker.

  ‘Here, try this.’

  He gripped the poker and raised it to strike, then froze. From inside the study, a shot rang out, swiftly followed by another.

  ‘Cosmo!’ screamed the countess.

  The shots galvanised de Silva into action. With renewed vigour, he hammered at the door with the poker, while the countess watched with terror in her eyes. ‘We’re too late.’ Her voice was hoarse with emotion.

  ‘We may not be.’ He stopped to take a breath. ‘Don’t give up hope.’

  The wood started to splinter as he redoubled his efforts but still the door held. Suddenly, she seized his arm. ‘Someone’s moving inside.’

  De Silva stopped and listened: she was right. There were distinct sounds of movement, as if someone was trying to crawl towards the door. He pressed his ear to it and heard a faint cry for help. The door opened a fraction.

  ‘Take care!’ whispered the countess urgently.

  Then they heard a voice, feebly calling her name.

  The countess’s face lit up. ‘My Cosmo! He lives. Push, Inspector! Push at the door.’

  He did so, and the door creaked open.

  The study looked as if a whirlwind had swept through it. Furniture was upended; papers from Clarence Rushwell’s desk were disordered and strewn across the floor. Ink leaked from a broken inkpot, and one of two tall candelabras lay not far from the door, the wax from its candles already solidifying on the wooden floorboards. Guttering candlelight from the other revealed the scene.

  Count Arcanti was sprawled on the floor, one sleeve of his evening shirt stained with blood. His face was chalky and contorted with pain. Behind him, a trail of blood stretched back into the room.

  The countess sank to her knees and cradled his head in her lap. ‘My darling, you’re wounded.’

  ‘It’s nothing – a scratch.’ A spasm of pain snatched away his voice.

  In the dim light of the second candelabra, de Silva saw a figure slumped on the floor next to the only chair left standing in the room. A few steps in, he realised it was not Robert, but Clarence Rushwell. Blood soaked the front of his clothes and pooled at his feet. He had been shot through the heart. Automatically, de Silva felt for a pulse and found none. A breeze brushed his face; a window at the far end of the room was open.

  ‘Where’s Robert?’

  ‘Gone,’ muttered the count bitterly. ‘I couldn’t stop him. He killed my uncle. I’m sure that if he hadn’t thought you were close to getting in and panicked, he would have finished me off too.’

  ‘Why were you arguing?’

  ‘It was a stupid quarrel.’ He stopped, obviously struggling to control his pain, before he spoke again. ‘I thought Robert and I were friends. I had no idea all the friendship was on my side.’

  The countess looked up from binding his wounded arm with a strip she had torn from the hem of her nightgown. ‘Inspector,’ she pleaded. ‘Is this really the time to be questioning my husband? He needs medical help quickly. Cosmo is in shock and the wound is worse than he claims. Clarence refused to have a telephone, so a doctor will need to be fetched. Please go. I will stay here with him.’

  De Silva glanced at the count. His eyes were half-closed now. De Silva had little medical knowledge but knew shock could be dangerous if the count slipped into unconsciousness. The countess was right.

  ‘Are you sure you can manage?’

  ‘I can manage, but hurry, please.’

  She touched the count’s cheek. ‘He’s very cold,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Yes, that will be the shock. I must find a blanket to cover him.’ Seeing de Silva hadn’t already left, urgency filled her voice. ‘Please go, Inspector, and hurry back.’

  De Silva felt a twinge of guilt for his momentary lack of consideration. The countess must be very distressed. He hurried out to the Morris.

  Chapter 3

  ‘You’ve been lucky, Count Arcanti,’ said Doctor Hebden when he and de Silva returned less than an hour later. De Silva had decided to go directly to Hebden’s house rather than to Sunnybank to telephone. It wasn’t much further and had the advantage that he could guide Hebden to the plantation if the doctor didn’t know it.

  ‘It’s only a flesh wound. It looks worse than it is,’ Hebden went on. ‘And you have the countess to thank for her first-aid skills. She acted as competently as any nurse. We’ll get you down to the hospital. You’ve lost some blood, but in a few days, you’ll be right as rain.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the count said weakly. He looked desolate. ‘But my poor uncle. It’s too late for him, isn’t it?’ He glanced at his uncle’s body which had been covered with a sheet.

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  Hebden turned to the countess. ‘Shall I make the arrangements for the undertakers to fetch the body, Countess?’

  ‘We’d be very grateful. I want to be with my husband at the hospital.’

  ‘Of course.’

  After Hebden had driven away with the Arcantis, de Silva went to Robert Rushwell’s bungalow. Behind the trees that towered over the unkempt garden, the sky was turning the col
our of pearl; soon, the sun would be up. There was no car outside, and no sign of servants. He walked around to the back of the building where he found their quarters, lifted the latch on the door and went in.

  The first room was dim and the air fetid. He heard a groan and saw that it came from a pallet bed in one corner where a man dressed in a grubby loin cloth sprawled on top of a crumpled sheet. There was a strong smell of arrack. The man raised his head a few inches from the pillow, grunted and turned onto his side. De Silva went over and poked him, none too gently, with his foot. The man’s eyes shot open; he saw de Silva’s uniform and sat up abruptly.

  ‘Sahib!’

  De Silva crossed to the room’s only window and pulled aside the curtain, letting in the fast-increasing light.

  ‘Get up, man. Who are you?’

  ‘I am the cook, sahib.’

  Now that de Silva saw him more clearly, he noticed there were blisters on the man’s forearms that might have been caused by kitchen burns. His hair was greasy, and he didn’t look too clean. Thank goodness he wasn’t the cook at Sunnybank.

  ‘Is anyone else here?’

  ‘Two more servants, sahib. They are asleep in there.’ He jerked his head in the direction of an inner room.

  ‘Well, you’d better all get up. Look sharp about it. I want you on the verandah in five minutes.’

  The man duly arrived on the verandah, a tattered shirt now covering his torso and accompanied by the other two servants. Their eyes were bloodshot, and they walked unsteadily.

  ‘Where were you when your master came back last night?’ asked de Silva after they had told him their names.

  ‘Asleep, sahib,’ the cook said. ‘He told us we could have the evening off.’

  ‘Did he also tell you that you could get drunk?’

  The men looked sheepish.

  ‘Never mind. What I want to know is when you last saw your master.’

  ‘Before he left to go to the Residence, sahib.’

  ‘Are you sure that was the last time? You didn’t see him go up to the main house later?’

  ‘No, sahib. Forgive us, sahib, but why do you need to know?’