Trouble in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 1) Page 12

  ‘Why not see how she is tomorrow? Let’s talk in the morning.’

  In the driveway, he heard a long whistle followed by a stream of angry chatter. Perched on a wall, Jacko fluffed out his feathers and fixed him with a malevolent eye. ‘Get out, bitch,’ he squawked. ‘Bastard!’

  ‘If I were you, I’d make myself scare for a while, Jacko.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Jacko riposted triumphantly. He let out a volley of sound like machine gun fire.

  De Silva put his fingers in his ears. By the heavens, the bird was loud. He was surprised no one had come round from the garden.

  Apparently delighted with his victory, Jacko preened then recommenced his imitation of a machine gun. Or was it? The noise was more ta-ta-ta than rat-a-tat. The bird was a mimic; of course it didn’t understand the words it said, however they did reveal what it had heard. ‘What are you trying to say, Jacko? Ta-ta-ta?’

  Jacko pecked at the creeper climbing over the wall then raised his head once more. ‘Bastard,’ he chuntered. ‘Ta… tag… ah!’

  So, it sounded like Madeleine and her husband had quarrelled over Tagore. What inference could he draw from that?

  The roar of an engine sent Jacko fluttering up into a tree. De Silva turned to see the black Daimler sweep into the driveway. Leung nodded as he climbed out and, after a brief exchange of civilities, walked round to the garden.

  One had to admire his self-possession, thought de Silva. It was as if there had never been a less than amicable exchange between them. Leung’s visit wouldn’t help Madeleine’s peace of mind. It would be interesting to know what was said. Perhaps Jane would be able to enlighten him in the morning.

  Leung had parked his car next to the Morris. As de Silva walked round the back of the Daimler, he saw that the bent spokes he had noticed before were still there. They were on the offside rear, where Leung said he had sustained the puncture. A pity that with such a fine car, he hadn’t asked the garage to repair the damage when they fixed the tyre. If it had been the Morris, he certainly would have done so.

  On the drive home, his mind seethed with a jumble of thoughts. He told the servants to bring him a simple dahl and curry and ate a hasty meal. Afterwards, he retired to his study where the fire had been lit. The cosy warmth and the food calmed him. Sat at his desk, he found a large piece of paper and turned on the lamp. In bold letters, he wrote down four names: Gooptu; Leung; Tagore; Madeleine. Then as an afterthought he added one more: Charles Renshaw.

  He’d deal with Renshaw first. He hadn’t yet considered the possibility that Renshaw had taken his own life.

  He put down his pen, laced his fingers and rested his chin on them. Renshaw wouldn’t be the first man driven to suicide by debt. Cyanide killed quickly. Many suicides had chosen to use it. Yet people rarely killed themselves without leaving some kind of farewell message. Then there were the bruises and abrasions. Hebden’s theory that Renshaw had fallen didn’t convince him. The marks were more likely to be concentrated at specific points like the knees or the chin. The marks on Renshaw’s body were spread out. He hesitated then put a line through Renshaw’s name.

  Gooptu was next. He was the least likely of them all. He had reason to hate Renshaw but the injury to his foot was clearly genuine. How could he have left his village in such a poor state of health? How too would he have had the money to buy the poison? Another line.

  On to Leung. Was there something he was missing there? Leung’s story about why he was delayed in returning to the hotel was plausible, but suppose Hebden was wrong about the time of death? Leung could have bribed the night watchman to say he had left the factory earlier than he really had. Perhaps he should go and question the watchman again? Maybe someone at the labour lines had noticed he had more money to spend than usual. That was a job for Prasanna. He’d mentioned taking the children a new cricket ball. A good excuse for a visit.

  He circled Madeleine and Tagore’s names and joined them with a line. None of what he knew so far amounted to evidence that would stand up in court, but it was pretty clear from the afternoon when he and Jane had seen them at the lake that Tagore was lying about the extent of their acquaintance. He was also sure that they were the couple he had glimpsed at the cricket match and Jacko’s chatter provided further proof there was something between them.

  If Madeleine and Tagore were in love, they certainly had a motive for wanting to be rid of Renshaw. Madeleine had the most obvious opportunity to get into the factory – it wouldn’t be easy for a woman to get through that window but she could probably find out where Renshaw kept spare keys. She would need to pass the night watchman to use the main door, however. There were other problems as well. How would she obtain the poison in secret, or haul Renshaw’s body into the tank?

  No, if Madeleine was involved, it had to have been with Tagore’s help. Tagore was the key: he needed to find him.

  He stretched and rolled his shoulders to ease them. There was nothing more he could do tonight. He might as well go to bed. Tomorrow Tagore. There’d been no news about Asian Ventures from his old friend in Colombo either. About time he chased that up.

  Chapter 16

  He passed a restless night, disrupted by the distant sound of firecrackers. Strange how loud they were in the night: like gunshots even if they were miles away. Early birds twittered in the garden by the time he slept deeply and he didn’t wake until half past eight.

  He pushed his feet into his brown morocco slippers and reached for his paisley robe. The telephone rang in the hall and he heard one of the servants answer it.

  ‘It’s the memsahib, master.’ The man held out the receiver. Jane’s voice sounded troubled.

  ‘I saw Leung arrive just as I left,’ de Silva said. ‘Did his visit upset her?’

  ‘Not particularly. He didn’t stay long. I’m afraid it’s worse than that. That wretched bird was found dead this morning. Poor Hamish is so upset.'

  ‘Oh dear, what happened?’

  ‘We’re not sure. Madeleine got up early, she said she hadn’t slept well. Jacko was lying on the lawn badly mauled. Probably he came back wanting to be fed and a wild animal got him. Madeleine didn’t want Hamish to see him so she told one of the servants to bury the body at the bottom of the garden straight away. It’s all very unfortunate. If only Madeleine hadn’t scared Jacko away as she did, it might never have happened.’

  De Silva decided not to mention what he had heard Jacko say on the driveway. It was still better to keep his suspicions to himself, even from Jane. ‘How much longer will you stay?’

  ‘Madeleine insists I come home on Monday as I planned. She says she feels better and Florence Clutterbuck has been telephoning asking us both to visit the Residence for the day. You don’t need to fetch us. Florence is sending the official car and we can drop off my luggage at Sunnybank then go on. They’ll bring me back in the evening.’

  ‘Won’t Madeleine find it a bit of an ordeal?’

  ‘She says not, but I must admit I’m surprised. Last night she was still saying she might have to tell Florence she wasn’t feeling well enough to go, yet this morning, she seems determined. To tell the truth, it’s probably for Hamish’s sake. He loves that dog of Archie Clutterbuck’s. It might cheer him up to see it.’

  It would be good to have Jane back he thought as he shaved. The only trouble was, she was far too acute. He’d have to be careful what he said if she wasn’t to guess he was now treating Renshaw’s death as murder. Jane was discreet but even she might let slip something it was too early to reveal.

  He rinsed his face and towelled it dry, mulling over their conversation. It did seem very convenient that the delinquent Jacko was no more. And somewhat unlikely that such a crafty bird would fall victim to a wild animal. There was something about the story that didn’t fit. He must try to find a way of verifying it.

  Chapter 17

  De Silva spent a quiet Sunday alone. In the evening Jane telephoned again. He felt a traitor for not taking her into his confidence but he kept his r
esolve. The atmosphere at the bungalow had improved a little throughout the day, she said. Hamish was excited about the trip to Nuala.

  ‘Oh, and Florence wants me to stay for the evening.’

  She laughed and he pictured her rolling her eyes. ‘She’s organised one of her soirées. We’re to have readings and a string quartet. It won’t be a late evening. Do you mind if I accept? You don’t have to come.’

  De Silva felt relieved. He liked music and literature but an evening spent trussed up in a starched shirt and stiff collar was not his idea of the best way to enjoy them. ‘Of course not. But what will Madeleine and her boy do afterwards?’

  ‘They’ll stay at the Residence. Florence insists it will be no trouble. In fact she’s persuaded Madeleine to be their guest for a few days. There’s a charity luncheon at the Crown and she might like to see the new film at the Casino. It’s certainly a change of heart on Madeleine’s part - as if she suddenly can’t wait to be away from this place. I’m sure it will do her the world of good to get out of herself. It might make her stronger for when she has to deal with the problem of what to do about the plantation. ’

  De Silva’s head ached. His wife was so full of plans for helping Madeleine Renshaw. He dreaded being the one who might have to dash them.

  **

  When Monday morning came, he left for the police station without taking his usual morning walk round the garden. Sergeant Prasanna jumped to his feet as he came in. ‘Good news, sir! The owner of four of the ponies is found and I hope to know who the others belong to very soon.’

  ‘You’ll have to leave that for the moment, Prasanna. I’ve more important things for you to do. Have you taken that cricket ball you promised to the children at the Renshaw plantation’s labour lines?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. There hasn’t been time.’

  ‘Get over there today. Start up another game if you need to and get the workers talking. I want you to find out if anyone has been noticed having more money to spend than usual. Particularly the watchman who was there on the night Renshaw died.’

  A puzzled expression came over Prasanna’s face.

  ‘You’d better fetch Constable Nadar. I need to explain the situation to both of you. Where is he?’

  ‘In the yard, burning those old papers you wanted destroyed, sir.’

  ‘Well, hurry up and call him in.’

  De Silva paced the room as he waited for them. Nadar came in fumbling with the top button of his uniform tunic; he wiped a smut from his nose.

  ‘The fact is,’ de Silva said briskly, ‘I’ve reached the conclusion that Charles Renshaw didn’t die of a heart attack. He was murdered.’

  Constable Nadar’s eyes widened.

  ‘How, sir?’ asked Prasanna.

  ‘Cyanide: administered in a cup of herbal tea.’

  Prasanna frowned. ‘But we saw in the village that Gooptu was too sick to walk and anyway, he has no money for such things. Neither do the other workers.’

  ‘I don’t think it was revenge on the part of Gooptu or any of the other workers, although I admit that was my first reaction, as has been yours. No, my suspects are quite different. One of them is David Leung. As you know, he was with Renshaw that night. He claimed he left at about midnight and the night watchman corroborated his story but he didn’t reach the Crown Hotel before half past three.’

  ‘Do you think the night watchman may have been bribed to give the wrong time then, sir?’ Prasanna asked.

  De Silva smiled. ‘Very good, Sergeant. You’re thinking. We have to consider the possibility. I’ve interviewed Mr Leung and he has an explanation for why it took him three and a half hours to drive from the plantation to the Crown, but we only have his word and the watchman’s for the time he left.’

  ‘But I read the report Doctor Hebden sent in. It certified that Mr Renshaw died at five o’clock.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Sergeant. Doctor Hebden may be incorrect.’

  ‘You said one of the suspects, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  De Silva hesitated. For the present he wouldn’t mention Madeleine. If he was wrong about her, it would be unforgivable to have besmirched a lady’s name. It wasn’t necessary to extend the same courtesy to Tagore however. ‘The other is the lawyer who laid the complaint against Renshaw: Ravindra Tagore.’ He turned to Nadar. ‘I want you to go round the Ayurvedic shops in town and find out if they’ve sold any pitta tea in the last week or so.’

  Nadar looked crestfallen. Nuala had many such places.

  ‘Prasanna will help you when he comes back. If they have, find out whether any of the customers were new ones. I imagine most of the shops know their regulars.’

  After they’d gone, de Silva telephoned the Nuala Hotel. ‘Mr Tagore left us last Friday, sir,’ the receptionist said.

  ‘The day before the Hatton cricket match?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a forwarding address?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  Ending the call, de Silva frowned. It was clear that Tagore had stayed in Nuala after he checked out of the hotel. Why hadn’t he remained there? Was it because he didn’t want anyone to know his movements? He scratched his chin; he’d have to find another way of tracking the lawyer down, but what could that be? Then he remembered why Tagore had been at the church when he and Jane met him. He’d mentioned that his mother had recently been buried there. The vicar might know where he was to be found.

  **

  De Silva locked up and drove to St George’s. Away from the bustle of the Nuala streets, the churchyard drowsed in the sunshine. Gravestones reared up from the long grass, the newer ones straight, the rest at tipsy angles. A few graves had low metal railings around them but most were simple rectangular mounds of earth. Fresh flowers decorated the plots where the friends or families of the deceased still visited the graveyard.

  De Silva walked up and down the rows until he found Tagore’s mother’s plot. It was in the shade of a cherry tree, a scattering of whose fragile white petals had fallen and caught in the grass. There was no headstone yet, just a wooden cross with a plaque giving her name and the dates. Someone, Tagore probably, had put a bunch of wildflowers in a small jug there. De Silva smelt their sweetness.

  There was no one about so he went into the church but it was also deserted. He would have to call at the vicarage. He found the gate in the corner of the churchyard and went down an uneven path between camellia and rhododendron bushes.

  The vicarage was a low, stone building with pretentions to Victorian Gothic architecture. The windows were set in pointed arches decorated with carvings and the door was a massive piece of oak, hinged and studded with iron. He pulled the bell and eventually a servant answered the door. ‘Please tell Reverend Peters that Inspector de Silva is here to see him.’

  The man waggled his head and went away. A few moments later, the vicar emerged from his study. He looked rather bemused. As well he might, de Silva thought. He rarely accompanied Jane to church. He might as well get straight to the point.

  ‘Ravindra Tagore,’ the vicar mused when asked the question. ‘He was in Nuala recently to attend his mother’s funeral but I only met him at the service. All the arrangements were seen to by the undertakers. But come in, come in. I may have something in my records. If not I’ll give you the undertakers’ name and you might like to enquire there.’

  De Siva followed him into a dimly lit, cluttered room that smelt of peppermints and waited while the vicar riffled through papers. At last he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, but the undertakers were Baileys in Hatton.’

  ‘I know them. Thank you.’

  ‘Are you a friend of Mr Tagore’s?’

  ‘An acquaintance. I have some legal business I would like to discuss with him.’

  ‘His mother was a charming lady. She came to church every Sunday until her final illness. I was very glad to be able to visit her in hospital several times before she died.’

  He accompanied de Silva
to the door. ‘A sad business about Charles Renshaw,’ he observed. ‘I understand your wife is a friend of his widow’s. I don’t know Mrs Renshaw well myself. She comes to church, but rarely takes part in our other activities. I suppose their plantation is rather remote.’

  De Silva thanked him and returned to the station. When he tried to telephone the undertakers, however, the line to Hatton was down. He looked at his watch. There was time to drive there if he left straight away.

  **

  The drive was a pleasant one but, to his annoyance, when he arrived he found the premises closed. He waited for ten minutes in case someone returned then another idea occurred to him. The Registry of Births and Deaths in Nuala would issue him with Mrs Tagore’s death certificate which would show her last address. Tagore might have gone there or there might at least be something – a letter or an address book perhaps – showing where he lived. He wished he had thought of that before driving all this way.

  He reached the Town Hall in time to fill in the two forms required and pay the fee. The clerk handed him a receipt and suggested he return the next day. Feeling irritable, de Silva went back to the station. It had been a wasted day. Another evening alone stretched before him.

  He was on the station doorstep with his key in the lock when there was a squeak of brakes and Prasanna jumped off his bicycle.

  ‘Did you find anything out?’

  Prasanna shook his head. ‘No one there has been spending more money than usual, sir. In fact they were all very subdued. The manager is still sending pluckers out into the fields but no one knows whether the leaves they collect will ever go to the auctions. Some of the workers have left to find other jobs.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Prasanna. You may as well get off home.’

  Chapter 18