[Inspector de Silva 07] - Rough Time in Nuala Read online

  Rough Time in Nuala

  by Harriet Steel

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Other books by Harriet Steel

  Copyright

  Kindle edition 2019

  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 Acknowledgments

  Welcome to the seventh 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.

  Several 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 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 another excellent cover for me, as well as doing the elegant layout. Praise from the many readers who told me that they enjoyed the 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.

  Apart from well-known historical figures, all characters in the book are fictitious. Nuala is also fictitious although loosely based on the hill 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.

  Sergeant Prasanna. In his mid-twenties, married with a baby daughter, and doing well in his job. Likes: cricket and is exceptionally good at it.

  Constable Nadar. A few years younger than Prasanna and less confident. Married with two boys. Likes: his food; making toys for his sons. Dislikes: sleepless nights.

  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. His wife and a titled lady in her own right. She is a charming and gentle person.

  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.

  Emerald Watson. She arrived in Nuala with a touring British theatre company and decided to stay. She’s a popular addition to local society, especially where Doctor Hebden is concerned. Her full story is told in Offstage in Nuala.

  Charlie Frobisher. A junior member of staff in the Colonial Service. A personable young man who is tipped to do well. Likes: sport and climbing mountains.

  Chapter 1

  Carefully, he positioned himself close to the sixteenth green at the Royal Nuala Golf Club. Satisfied that he was hidden from the sight of any golfers on or near the green, but still able to have a good view of them, he settled down to wait. Surely, even an indifferent golfer like Bernard Harvey would come along soon.

  Ten minutes went by; he rolled his shoulders to ease the tension in them and heard the bones crack. Where the hell was Harvey? Perhaps he’d given up. He looked at his watch. He was getting into risky territory, but it might be a long time, if ever, that a chance like this came up again.

  At last, Bernard Harvey’s short, stocky figure, rendered even bulkier by plus-fours and a brown tweed jacket, appeared in the distance. He was heading for the green: his caddy, labouring under the weight of a bulky bag of golf clubs, following behind.

  There was no sign of a ball on the green; Harvey’s shot must have fallen short. Yes, it had. Harvey stopped and began to fuss about, eyeing the distance and choosing the club he wanted. Eventually, he made his decision. After pausing to tip up the brim of his cream cap and tug at his collar and the Royal Nuala Club tie encircling it, he addressed the ball.

  The shot went wide and bounced past the green into the trees, where the jungle rose up in a dense wall of vegetation. At a peremptory gesture from Harvey, the caddy started to trudge after it. Stealthily, he moved from his position, calculating the direction he should take for their paths to converge.

  When he found him, the caddy was bent over, prodding randomly at piles of leaves and muttering to himself. At the rustle of footsteps, he turned. ‘I will find it soon, sahib.’ He stopped, a look of surprise coming over his face.

  ‘I’m just looking for something myself,’ he said to the caddy in a friendly voice. One hand gripped the cord
he held behind his back. The rough hemp scratched his skin. ‘You carry on.’

  ‘Thank you, sahib. What is it you are looking for? I will search for it at the same time as Sahib Harvey’s ball.’

  ‘Nothing valuable, unless you count sentimental value,’ the man said, quickly inventing something. ‘A pen.’

  The caddy turned away, gesturing to the jungle floor. If he thought a pen was an odd thing to mislay in the jungle, he didn’t comment. ‘I’m afraid it will not be easy to find, sahib. Even harder than Sahib Harvey’s ball perhaps.’

  He stepped forward, whisking the cord from behind his back. The caddy only had time to let out a muffled cry before it tightened around his neck, cutting off the oxygen to his brain. Tighter still, and the caddy swayed, hands clawing feebly at the cord, then slumped to the ground.

  He stepped back and wiped the perspiration from his eyes with his sleeve. He’d better make absolutely sure the caddy didn’t live to tell any tales. Hauling him up so that his body rested against the man’s own, he put an arm around the caddy’s neck, adjusted his grip and jerked sharply. There was a crack. The fellow wouldn’t be doing any talking now.

  He made his way back to the place where he had started out. Harvey had moved up to the green. He was just in time to see him take a ball from the pocket of his golf bag and drop it close to the edge of the hole. Exchanging his iron for a putter, he lined up and gave the ball a sharp tap. It teetered on the hole’s metal rim then dropped in with a soft click. Harvey bent down and fished it out. Quickly, he filled in his score card then cupped his stubby-fingered hands to his mouth.

  ‘Leave that ball where it is now! I’m in a hurry to move on.’ For a few moments, he waited for an answer, then started to walk towards the rough.

  The man stepped out of the trees. ‘Afternoon, Bernard! How’s it going? Tricky little hole this one, isn’t it?’ He gave Harvey a knowing smile.

  Harvey bristled. ‘No complaints,’ he said curtly. ‘If it goes on this way, I won’t finish much over par. What are you doing up here, anyway? And why are you carrying that thing?’ He looked at the golf club in the man’s hand. ‘You’re not dressed for golf. No tie, and that jacket would disgrace a tramp.’

  The man looked at the threadbare sleeves of his shabby jacket and shrugged. ‘I lost something when I was playing yesterday. I thought it might be somewhere around here.’ He indicated the club. ‘Brought this in case I needed to beat down any undergrowth.’ He glanced along the fairway. ‘All alone? A chap needs to be careful, y’know. I heard a rumour someone saw a leopard prowling around this area the other day.’

  ‘Lot of nonsense,’ said Harvey stiffly. ‘The perimeter fence is sound, and if it isn’t, I damn well want to know why. I’ve put enough money into this place. It’s a bad show if I can’t get a bit of practice in private when I want it without risking my life.’ He consulted his chunky gold watch. ‘Time’s getting on. Looks like I’ll have to go and find my blasted caddy.’

  ‘Looking for a lost ball, is he?’

  Harvey shook his head. ‘Blighter asked if he could go and relieve himself in the bushes. Must have a bladder like a bloody elephant.’

  An enigmatic smile played on the man’s face. ‘Perhaps the leopard got him after all.’

  ‘Most amusing.’

  Harvey stumbled off into the rough and disappeared into the trees, shouting for his caddy. Briefly, he waited before following him. Everything was going according to plan, but the job wasn’t over yet. His gut roiled.

  The caddy lay on the ground where he’d left him, the cord that had strangled him still around his neck. Harvey stood over him, a perplexed expression on his pallid, glistening face. ‘What the hell’s been happening here?’ he blustered.

  With a hiss, wood and steel sliced the air. At the club’s first impact on the back of his skull, Harvey cried out. Twisting to face his attacker, he raised his hands to his head in a futile attempt to ward off the next blow. An indistinct plea gurgled from his lips as he spat out blood and broken teeth. The club came down again and again, until he ceased to struggle and lay motionless.

  The man tossed the club down and doubled over. His chest heaved; the trees around him swam before his eyes. A long moment passed before he recovered sufficiently to kneel beside Harvey’s body and feel for a pulse, but even then, his hands refused to stop shaking.

  The heat of the jungle was unbearably oppressive, now more than ever. Sweat poured off him, drenching his shirt and dripping saltwater into his eyes. He struggled out of the old jacket and loosened his collar. That was better. Trying to ignore the stench of blood, faeces, and urine that rose from Harvey’s body, he took a few deep breaths.

  Gradually, the shaking lessened. His long fingers probed Harvey’s neck, found the carotid artery and remained there, waiting for a sign of life. Nothing.

  The man squinted at the sun, still half hidden by the tree canopy. In an hour or so, it would be at its height. He didn’t have long to cover his tracks. With a grunt of pain, he got to his feet. Every bone in his body ached from the force he had needed to exert, but he must get that damned golf bag of Harvey’s off the green. He didn’t want anyone spotting it before he’d had time to clean up.

  He glanced in the direction of the dead caddy. Simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just as well he was much slighter in build than Harvey and had been easy to overpower. He’d already decided what to do with him: not a pleasant task, but he’d better get on with it.

  After he had dealt with the body, he stripped off the old clothes he wore, washed himself as best as he could using some of the water he’d brought and used what remained to clean the head of the golf club. That done, he donned the clean trousers and jacket he had also taken the precaution of bringing. The discarded clothes were covered in blood. He would have to find some way of disposing of them later.

  Dried palm fronds crackled under his feet as he returned to the place where he had left his car. After bundling the blood-stained clothes into a sack, he stowed it and the golf club in the boot, then climbed into the driver’s seat and set off. Soon, the course was behind him, and gradually, his grip on the steering wheel slackened. The first part of his plan had gone smoothly. He had nothing to fear.

  Chapter 2

  ‘May I ask what is so funny?’

  Shanti de Silva came into the drawing room from the verandah, where, work over for the day, he had been relaxing in his favourite chair. He crossed to where his wife, Jane, sat at the small table between the windows and looked over her shoulder. The photograph that had made her laugh showed the two of them on holiday in Egypt, mounted on camels, with the Sphinx and the pyramids in the background. Cool and serene, Jane looked as if camel riding was something that she did every day. In contrast, his hat was askew, and his expression was far from content. The photograph had been taken by the local guide who had arranged the trip to see the famous sights, using the camera de Silva had bought especially for the holiday. Shortly afterwards, he recalled, his mount had bolted. As if it were yesterday, he remembered the churning sensation in his stomach and the pounding of his heart in the eternity before the beast had been brought under control.

  Jane dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but it was rather a comical sight. Now that I know you weren’t hurt, of course,’ she added hastily. ‘You really did very well to hang on until the creature came to a stop.’

  A rueful smile replaced de Silva’s scowl. ‘I suppose it could have been worse. The greatest injury was to my pride. But if we go on holiday again, promise me you’ll never suggest we do anything else of that kind.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Tucking the photograph into the white corners she had gummed onto a page of their holiday album, Jane smoothed it down. ‘There; not many left to do now. I want to write captions under each one, but it will keep until tomorrow.’

  ‘Would you like to go out this evening?’

  ‘That would be nice. I hear the film that
’s on at the cinema this week is good.’

  ‘What film is that?’

  ‘A comedy with Laurel and Hardy.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘I’ll tell the cook to serve an early supper, shall I?’

  ‘An excellent idea.’

  The sound of the telephone ringing drifted from the hall. De Silva frowned. ‘Were you expecting a call?’

  Jane shook her head as she reached for another photograph: this time a view of the desert with the Sphinx in the foreground. ‘No, I don’t think so. It can’t be Florence about the church flowers. We did them yesterday morning.’

  A servant came into the drawing room. ‘The call is for you, sahib. It is Doctor Hebden.’

  De Silva’s frown deepened. Why would David Hebden, the local doctor, call him at home? He hoped nothing was wrong. It would be most unfortunate if anything was about to upset the plan he and Jane had only just made.

  He nodded to the servant. ‘I’ll come.’

  In the hallway, he put the black Bakelite receiver to his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Good evening, Doctor Hebden. What can I do for you?’

  Hebden cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we have a problem, de Silva. Can you come up to the golf club?’

  ‘Of course, if it’s an urgent matter.’

  ‘Good man. I’ve already telephoned the Residence, and Charlie Frobisher will be joining us. Archie Clutterbuck’s tied up with some important visitors. I’ll call Frobisher back and ask him to collect you on his way.’

  De Silva scratched his head. Quite apart from the fact it was odd to call him up to the golf club, why was it necessary to involve one of the Residence staff too? ‘Can you tell me more?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d rather not say too much on the telephone,’ said Hebden in a low voice. There was a long pause; de Silva’s policeman’s instincts prickled. Clearly, something was seriously wrong. He heard Hebden clear his throat again.