Fatal Finds in Nuala Read online

  An Inspector de Silva Mystery

  Fatal Finds in Nuala

  Harriet Steel

  Contents

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  Characters who appear regularly in the Inspector de Silva Mysteries.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Other Books by Harriet Steel

  Kindle edition 2018

  Copyright © Harriet Steel

  The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  Welcome to the fourth book in my Inspector de Silva mystery series. Like the earlier ones, this is a self-contained story but, wearing my reader’s hat, I usually find that my enjoyment of a series is deepened by reading the books in order and getting to know major characters well. With that in mind, I have included thumbnail sketches of those featuring here who took a major part in previous stories. I have also reprinted this introduction, with apologies to those who have already read it.

  Three years ago, I had the great good fortune to visit the island of Sri Lanka, the former Ceylon. I fell in love with the country straight away, awed by its tremendous natural beauty and the charm and friendliness of its people who seem to have recovered extraordinarily well from the tragic civil war between the two main ethnic groups, the Sinhalese and the Tamils. I had been planning to write a new detective series for some time and when I came home, I decided to set it in Ceylon in the 1930s, a time when British Colonial rule created interesting contrasts, and sometimes conflicts, with traditional culture. Thus, Inspector Shanti de Silva and his friends were born.

  I owe many thanks to everyone who helped with this book. My editor, John Hudspith, was, as usual, invaluable and Jane Dixon Smith designed my favourite cover yet as well as the elegant layout. Praise from the many readers who told me that they enjoyed the three previous books in this series and wanted to know what Inspector de Silva and his friends got up to next encouraged me to keep going. Above all, heartfelt thanks go to my husband, Roger, without whose unfailing encouragement and support I might never have reached the end.

  All characters in the book are fictitious, with the exception of well-known historical figures. Nuala is also fictitious although loosely based on the town of Nuwara Eliya. Any mistakes are my own.

  Characters who appear regularly in the Inspector de Silva Mysteries.

  Inspector Shanti de Silva. He began his police career in Ceylon’s capital city, Colombo, but, in middle age, he married and accepted a promotion to inspector in charge of the small force in the hill town of Nuala. Likes: a quiet life with his beloved wife; his car; good food; his garden. Dislikes: interference in his work by his British masters; formal occasions. Race and religion: Sinhalese, Buddhist.

  Sergeant Prasanna. In his mid-twenties, recently married, and doing well in his job. Likes: cricket and is exceptionally good at it. Race and religion: Sinhalese, Buddhist.

  Constable Nadar. A few years younger than Prasanna and less confident. Married with a baby boy. Likes: his food; making toys for his baby son. Dislikes: sleepless nights. Race and religion: Tamil, Hindu.

  The British:

  Jane de Silva. She came to Ceylon as a governess to a wealthy colonial family and met and married de Silva a few years later. A no-nonsense lady with a dry sense of humour. Likes: detective novels, cinema, and dancing. Dislikes: snobbishness.

  Archie Clutterbuck. Assistant government agent in Nuala and as such, responsible for administration and keeping law and order in the area. Likes: his Labrador, Darcy; fishing; hunting big game. Dislikes: being argued with; the heat.

  Florence Clutterbuck. Archie’s wife, a stout, forthright lady. Likes: being queen bee; organising other people. Dislikes: people who don’t defer to her at all times.

  William Petrie. Government agent for the Central Province and therefore Archie Clutterbuck’s boss. A charming exterior hides a steely character. Likes: getting things done. Dislikes: inefficiency.

  Lady Caroline Petrie. William’s wife and a titled lady in her own right. A charming, gentle lady.

  Doctor David Hebden. Doctor for the Nuala area. He travelled widely before ending up in Nuala. Unmarried and hitherto, under his professional shell, rather shy. Likes: cricket. Dislikes: formality.

  Chapter 1

  July 1937

  As he peered through the Morris’s rain-soaked windscreen, Inspector Shanti de Silva began to regret the impulse that had led him to arrange one of his occasional meetings with his counterpart in Hatton. Still, life couldn’t stop just because it was the monsoon season. Inspector Singh at Hatton had treated him to an excellent lunch too. He might not admit that to Jane, in case she decided to put him on short rations at dinner.

  Yet there was no getting away from the monsoon. The wipers were helpless to keep up with the torrential rain, and it was impossible to see more than twenty yards ahead. If he had to drive any slower, he might never get back to Nuala for dinner in any case. He resigned himself to the thought. It would be better for his waistline.

  The car rounded a bend and he saw something blocking the road. Braking carefully to avoid skidding, he came to a halt. A roadworker hurried over to the car, his waterproof cape flapping in the wind. De Silva wound down the window.

  ‘The road is closed, sahib,’ the man said apologetically. ‘A tree has come down.’

  ‘How long to clear it?’

  The roadworker waggled his head. ‘Who knows, sahib? It has only been reported a little time. I’m waiting for more men to come and help with the clearing. Tomorrow perhaps the road will be open again.’

  It wasn’t unreasonable, thought de Silva with a sigh. The tree couldn’t have been down all that long; the road had been clear when he passed this way going to Hatton. Well, unless he wanted to return there, his only option was to go back to the last crossroads and take the old road to Nuala. From what he remembered of the state of its surface, he’d have to drive even more slowly than on this one, but at least he’d be able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

  ‘I’ll turn around,’ he said to the roadworker. ‘Good luck with your job. I hope you don’t have to wait for too long for reinforcements.’

  ‘Thank you, sahib.’

  It took ten minutes to reach the crossroads. Piloting the Morris onto the old road, de Silva saw that his reservations hadn’t been misplaced; the surface was pitted with numerous potholes. Some of them could probably swallow a rickshaw and would certainly do the Morris’s axles no good at all if he went down one. Gingerly, he set off, wea
ving from one side of the road to the other in his efforts to avoid trouble. This kind of driving was anything but restful. Narrowly missing an enormous puddle in the depths of which lurked goodness knew what pitfalls, he made a mental note to postpone future visits to Hatton until the dry weather. It would have been no surprise if the wise carpenter of Benares had suddenly appeared, sailing along in his boat, or, as Jane’s Christian religion had it, old Noah and his Ark.

  Distracted by his musings about how all religions sought to explain cataclysmic weather in terms of a Divine plan, as well as by the need to concentrate on the road ahead, he didn’t notice the change in the Morris’s engine tone at first. But when he did, he realised with dismay that something was wrong. The engine spluttered again, and he felt a violent jolt. The Morris lost speed; a few yards later, it came to a complete halt.

  Steam drifted over the bonnet. He wasn’t sure whether it was the result of the fault, or simply the rain turning to vapour in the humid air. Whatever the case, he wasn’t hopeful that he would be able to fix the problem out here. If he couldn’t, it would be a job for Gopallawa Motors, and they were back in Nuala.

  He reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed his raincoat and hat. Getting out of the car, he pulled them on and went to open the bonnet. He was no mechanic and his ideas were soon exhausted. For sure, this was a problem he’d need Gopallawa Motors to solve.

  A glance at the sky told him that it would soon be dark. He had a choice: stay with the car and spend the night in the jungle or walk the rest of the way to town. He weighed up the options. If he walked fast, he might be on the outskirts in an hour or so. Maybe he would find a rickshaw man to take him home to Sunnybank. Alternatively, he could stay where he was and wait for another car to come by and rescue him, but then he might be waiting until morning. Dearly as he loved the Morris, she was not a comfortable bed.

  It was an awkward job steering her to the side of the road on his own, but eventually he accomplished it. He made sure that the handbrake was firmly on and set off in the direction of town, head down into the wind.

  Despite his waterproofs, he soon felt as soggy as yesterday’s rice. On he trudged, mud splattering his trousers and rain dripping from the brim of his hat. It found its way through the tongues of his shoes and soaked his socks. His feet squelched at every step. Jane had counselled him against going down to Hatton today, and she had been right.

  He reckoned he had walked about a mile when something that sounded very like a scream startled him; he stopped and listened. He wasn’t afraid of it being a wild animal. They had too much sense to be on the prowl on a night like this, but something about the eerie cry unnerved him.

  It came again, fading against the howl of the wind. He squared his shoulders. Perhaps he was imagining things and it was just the wind. Briskly, he stepped out once more.

  Then his heart started to pound. A pinpoint of white light was emerging from the darkness, dipping and swaying, emitting an inhuman wail that froze his blood.

  He didn’t think of himself as a superstitious man, but all reason deserted him. The Mohini! It must be the Mohini of ancient legend. The weeping, spirit-woman who haunted lonely roads, her dead baby in her arms. She begged her victims to help her, but if they did…

  His blood froze as he remembered the old tales.

  She was nearly on him! Her light dazzled him. Sweat poured from his forehead, mingling with the rain. His vision blurring, his breath came in ragged gasps. The ground caught at his feet like glue. In a burst of desperation, he wrenched himself free and ran, blundering into puddles and potholes; stumbling over the debris the storm had tossed onto the road. The cries grew louder.

  Then something struck him, and there was darkness.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Lucky for you that young Frobisher was also coming home from Hatton last night,’ said Archie Clutterbuck. ‘He was down there for me on official business. Even luckier he didn’t run you over. He told me he saw you in the nick of time and just managed to stop. If it hadn’t been for that branch coming down and hitting you on the head, there would have been no harm done.’

  De Silva swallowed. He had no intention of admitting his foolishness to his boss, the assistant government agent. Far from being the ghastly apparition he had feared, the white light had heralded the approach of Charlie Frobisher, a new member of the Residence’s staff. One of Frobisher’s car’s headlights had been out, and the heavy rain had done the rest. As far as Frobisher was concerned, de Silva hadn’t been running as if his life depended on it; he had simply been the victim of a freak accident, knocked out by a dead branch brought down by the high wind.

  ‘I’m most grateful to him. Would you convey my thanks? I don’t know how I would have got home without his help.’

  ‘No lasting ill effects, I hope?’

  ‘Only a slight headache.’

  ‘Good; but you obviously took quite a knock from that branch. You must speak to Doctor Hebden if the headache gets any worse. I’m sure Mrs de Silva would say the same.’

  Jane would, and indeed she had in no uncertain terms.

  ‘Damnable time of year,’ Clutterbuck went on, conversationally. ‘Haven’t had a game of golf in weeks. Course is completely waterlogged, or so the head greenkeeper tells me. No shooting and precious little fishing to be done either.’

  He glanced at the elderly Labrador snoozing in front of the cheerful fire.

  ‘Just as well old Darcy doesn’t need as much exercise as he did when he was a youngster. I think he’d toast himself in front of that fire all day if I didn’t push him out occasionally.’

  From the pungent smell of drying dog, de Silva guessed that there had been a recent sortie.

  ‘Well, apart from running around in the dark getting yourself into scrapes, have you anything to report?’

  ‘Nothing of any importance, sir. My visit to Hatton was merely a routine one. I like to keep up with Inspector Singh down there.’

  ‘Good plan. Never know when you might need his cooperation, and then personal acquaintance is invaluable. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, eh?’

  ‘Quite right, sir.’

  Clutterbuck looked at his wristwatch. ‘I have a luncheon appointment in an hour, but I hope you’ll take a pre-prandial with me before you go. Something to keep out the damp, eh?’

  De Silva smiled. ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘Whisky and soda?’

  ‘That would be most welcome.’

  **

  Twenty minutes later, fortified by a considerably stronger whisky and soda than he would have poured for himself, de Silva emerged onto the rainswept drive and hurried over to the car Gopallawa Motors had lent him while the Morris was out of action.

  As he drove back to the station, he thought again about the incident on the road. He still wasn’t completely convinced that there was nothing more to it than Charlie Frobisher driving towards him and then the disastrous encounter with the falling branch. When he’d told Jane she had, of course, dismissed any other possibilities.

  ‘Those screams you thought you heard were the wind, dear,’ she’d said firmly. ‘And if both of Charlie Frobisher’s headlights had been working, I’m sure you would have realised, even at a distance, that it was a car coming towards you.’

  He sneezed and took a hand from the steering wheel to reach in his pocket for his handkerchief. The belief in the stars and the spirit world that he had grown up with was sometimes hard to shake off – he hoped this cold wasn’t going to be equally intractable – but of course Jane was right.

  He’d woken that morning with a very scratchy throat and a feverish feeling. Jane had tried to persuade him to take the day off, but he hadn’t wanted to miss his regular appointment with Clutterbuck. There were also arrangements to be made for recovering the Morris. He had already spoken to the manager at Gopallawa Motors and would be spending the afternoon going out with two of the garage’s mechanics to see what could be done. If the Morris couldn’t be fixed by the
roadside, they would have to tow her back and deal with the problem in town. He hoped that wouldn’t take long. The car that Gopallawa had lent him was adequate for a day or two, but it was no substitute.

  Another sneeze shook him, and he blew his nose once more. In the rear-view mirror, he noticed his eyes were already rimmed with pink. He grimaced; it looked like he wasn’t going to be able to avoid this cold.

  Chapter 3

  At the police station, he was surprised to find Sergeant Prasanna’s wife, Kuveni, sitting with her husband and Constable Nadar in the public room. He and Jane had become very fond of Kuveni when she lived with them for a few months before her marriage, and he was always delighted to see her, but she rarely came to the station. All three of them stood up as he entered, but he motioned Kuveni to sit down again.

  ‘No need to get up for me, my dear. You’re well, I trust? It can’t be long until the baby’s due. I hope your rascal of a husband is taking great care of you.’

  ‘Oh, he is, Inspector.’ Kuveni gave him a smile that accentuated the dimples in her cheeks. ‘He is very helpful in the house.’

  ‘Excellent. Now, I’m delighted to see you but also anxious to be reassured that your visit is not due to some problem.’

  There was a movement in the corner of the room and, for the first time, he noticed there was a small, thin woman huddled there, watching him with frightened eyes. From the look of her clothes, she wasn’t well off. Her face was careworn.

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

  The woman’s hands twisted a fold of her sari; she glanced anxiously at Kuveni who spoke to her in the Vedda language. The woman was silent for a moment then made a halting reply. Even though de Silva spoke English, Tamil and Sinhalese, he had never learnt the ancient tongue of the Veddas, a dwindling race that most Ceylonese considered primitive, although Kuveni was living proof that with education and opportunity, they could hold their own against Ceylon’s other inhabitants.