[Inspector de Silva 06] - Passage From Nuala Read online

  Unperturbed, Sarah ignored the hostile stares. ‘Poor little thing,’ she murmured, exuding concern. ‘We should find a doctor straight away.’

  The woman shook her head as she rocked the baby from side to side, desperately trying to soothe him. ‘No, it will be too expensive. This happens often. He’ll be calm soon.’

  ‘Is someone meeting you?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll be alright. Thank you, you’ve been very kind.’

  Sarah smiled sweetly. ‘It was a pleasure. If there’s nothing more I can do, I’ll say goodbye.’ She bent forward and patted the toddler’s head, then, careful to act as if she was in no hurry, walked away. The baby had turned out to be an even better distraction than she had hoped.

  Her heart leapt; she was free. And as she’d eaten nothing since last night, she was hungry. The first thing she was going to do was find some food.

  **

  De Silva squinted into the sun. It was impossible to watch every gangway. He hoped that these local policemen were good at their jobs.

  ‘Is there any sign of her yet?’ Jane appeared at his elbow.

  ‘I don’t think so, although I can’t be sure. There’s such a crowd leaving the ship. I hadn’t expected there to be so many people.’

  ‘After so long at sea, I expect most of the passengers would like to walk around on dry land for a few hours. They may not all be leaving the ship for good.’

  For a few moments, they stood in silence, observing the policemen at the bottom of each gangway. They did look to be detaining some passengers, but it was hard to see the faces of the people they stopped. Presumably, they were satisfied they were harmless, for all of them were, eventually, allowed to go on their way.

  De Silva began to fear the exercise was a waste of time. Perhaps Diana March, or as he now thought of her, Sarah Betts, was still hidden on the ship. It might be best to bring the local police on board to search for her.

  He was about to tell Jane that he was going to find William Petrie and suggest a change of plan when there was a commotion at the bottom of one of the gangways. De Silva and Jane saw that people were backing away from two women who had a toddler and a baby with them. The baby seemed to be ill. The taller of the two women was speaking to her friend.

  Why did the little scene arouse his suspicions? De Silva couldn’t explain, but it did. He looked around for one of the sailors with binoculars that William Petrie had promised to arrange, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jane.

  ‘The two women down there. The ones with the toddler and the baby who looks to be ill in some way. I think the taller one’s her.’

  The tall woman turned away and began to stroll in the direction of the exit from the dock. Despite the shabby coat she wore, she had an unmistakeable air of elegance.

  He made up his mind. ‘I’m going after her. Will you find Petrie for me? Tell him where I’ve gone. I’ll try to round up a few of the policemen on the quayside to help me.’

  Chapter 32

  It was much harder to see what was happening on the level of the quayside than it had been up on deck. He moved through the crowd, trying to look in all directions, but there was no sign of her. The three policemen he had managed to round up at short notice fanned out to search too.

  He had almost given up hope when he saw her among a group of men by a food stall. Pushing through the crowd, he stopped a few yards away. She was eating from a small bowl, dipping in a wedge of naan to scoop up the food. He took the last few steps and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Sarah Betts, you’re under arrest.’

  She swung round, her eyes wide. For a moment, she froze, then so fast that he didn’t have time to duck, the bowl flew at him and curry splattered his face. He put up a hand to wipe the mess away and immediately regretted it when chilli burned his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he saw the back of the shabby brown coat whisk away into the crowds. Half blind, he couldn’t follow.

  ‘Water!’ he shouted to the stallholder. ‘Quickly!’

  The man let out an indignant stream of words in a language de Silva didn’t understand. ‘Water!’ he shouted again, frantically pantomiming washing his face. A grubby boy loitering nearby grinned at him. ‘He says who will pay for the broken bowl.’

  ‘To hell with his bowl. Find me some water.’

  The boy led him to a nearby fountain and de Silva sluiced his eyes. He cursed under his breath: he had lost her.

  ‘Did you see where that lady went?’ he asked the boy, when he could see clearly again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Show me.’

  The boy looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Oh, very well.’

  De Silva fished in his pocket and found a few coins. The boy took them and scampered away.

  ‘Hey! Where do you think you’re going?’

  The boy stopped and pointed towards the mouth of a narrow alley. ‘This way.’

  The dark alleys and sun-drenched courtyards they ran through reminded de Silva of the back streets of Colombo. There, he had known every inch of them, but here, it was a different matter. The boy darted along like quicksilver. Keeping up soon had de Silva puffing but to lose sight of his guide would be a disaster.

  Women hanging out washing, children playing, and old men squatting in doorways smoking or chewing tobacco watched them curiously as they ran by. Their feet kicked up dust that made de Silva’s nose and eyes itch. A dry, stale taste parched his mouth. His heart thudded, and his lungs felt as if they would burst.

  Once or twice, the boy stopped to speak with someone before dashing on. De Silva assumed he was asking if they had seen a woman answering to Betts’ description. At last, he halted so abruptly that de Silva nearly ran into the back of him. ‘What is it?’ he asked crossly, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  The boy put his finger to his lips and pointed to a house with a peeling, blue door. From the sign on the wall, it looked to be a lodging house. ‘My friend says he saw the lady go in there, sahib.’

  ‘Is he sure?’

  The boy nodded. His skinny hand reached out and tugged at the pocket of de Silva’s jacket. De Silva batted the hand away.

  ‘Watch the door while I go in. If the lady comes out, follow her and get a message to me to tell me which way you went.’

  The blue door creaked, and he stepped into a narrow, dark lobby. A sour-faced woman in a drab green robe eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Did a tall lady in a brown coat come in here? An English lady?’

  The woman’s lips stayed clamped shut. He pulled his badge out of his inside pocket. ‘Police.’

  She peered at the badge. De Silva was afraid it wouldn’t mean anything to her, or she wouldn’t understand him, but then she gave a reluctant nod. ‘The third floor,’ she said in a fractured accent. ‘Number twelve.’

  The stairs creaked under his feet as he hauled himself up a succession of steep flights. On each landing, there was a small window, but he doubted the panes of glass had been cleaned for a long time. The grime on them was so thick that light barely managed to penetrate. Where any persistent ray of sunshine did relieve the gloom, it danced with motes of dust.

  On the third landing, de Silva paused to catch his breath. A door with the number twelve on it faced him. At a right angle, another stood ajar. He glimpsed a basin and a worn, enamelled bath inside.

  Behind the door to room twelve, he heard someone move about. It must be Diana March. He had no gun. The best he could do now was try to surprise her and hope that, if she was armed, she wouldn’t have time to reach for her weapon.

  He was about to barge in when the door was opened for him. A towel in her hand, Sarah Betts stared at him for a second then tried to slam the door in his face. He jammed his shoulder in the way then hurled himself after her as she dashed to the bed where the Gladstone bag and its contents were strewn across the counterpane. He caught her wrist before she had time to snatch up a small pistol, twisting her around to
face him and dragging her back to the landing. She was stronger than he’d expected.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ he gasped. ‘It will be better for you if you come quietly.’

  ‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Inspector? What a triumph for a provincial policeman. Inspector de Silva saves the day.’

  He ignored the jibe. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your—’

  The bite was unexpected and so hard that he yelped and released her. Cradling his wounded hand, he ran after her in pursuit. Up the next flight they went, and the next, until there were no more stairs to climb, and a low door faced them.

  Sunlight blinded him as he emerged into an aerial world of chimneys and water tanks, thrown into sharp relief by the scorching sun. When his eyes grew accustomed to the brightness, he saw her facing him.

  ‘Give yourself up,’ de Silva said calmly. ‘We have the letter you wrote to Harry Delaney, and the dispatches you stole from Charles Pashley.’

  ‘Forgeries. You must have planted them.’

  ‘We also have a photograph of you with Harry Delaney in Bombay. How do you explain that?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I have powerful people behind me. They’ll expose your lies.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that. Be assured, you will have to answer for your crimes, and a man like Arthur Chiltern will shy away from being involved in a scandal. Give yourself up. You’ve nowhere left to run.’

  She laughed, and the coldness in her eyes made his skin prickle.

  ‘Oh, you’re wrong there, Inspector.’

  She glanced to her left where a narrow walkway ran along the edge of the roof of the next-door house. ‘I have an excellent head for heights. Can you say the same?’

  De Silva couldn’t, although he was pleased to find that this airy world troubled him far less than usual. He took another step.

  She moved onto the walkway. At intervals, metal poles stuck up from the adjoining house’s roof, as if there had been a plan to build another storey onto the structure. A long moment passed, then she smiled. ‘Goodbye, Inspector. I hope we never meet again.’

  She turned and started to walk. De Silva thought of the boy waiting in the alley: unlikely to be a help now. He must force himself to follow her. Cautiously, he edged along, his heart beating faster as small pieces of masonry crumbled under his feet and ricocheted down to the courtyard far below. Each time he reached one of the metal poles, he paused a moment to steady his spinning head.

  Suddenly, he heard a crack. Ahead, close to where she stood, a much larger piece of masonry had shifted from its position. As it rocked, dislodging its neighbours, she grabbed the nearest pole. It held firm, but her foothold had gone. Five floors below, sleepy cats basked in the sun. A man with a donkey and cart ambled across the courtyard, oblivious to the drama taking place high above him.

  Slowly, Sarah Betts’ fingers unclasped from the pole.

  Chapter 33

  De Silva stood at the window of their Cairo hotel room and watched dawn streak the sky. The street below him was already busy; he wondered if the city ever slept. He was glad it was morning. It might be some time before he stopped reliving in his dreams the moment when Sarah Betts had plummeted to her death.

  Jane stirred. ‘Come back to bed, dear. It’s far too early to get up.’

  He climbed under the sheet and put his arms around her.

  ‘Are you still dreaming about her falling?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so, but it will pass. I’m determined to enjoy the rest of our holiday. I can see us getting a taste for this travelling business – the world will be our lobster.’

  ‘Oyster, dear, as you know perfectly well,’ said Jane with a smile.

  He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. ‘What would you like to do today?’

  They had spent the first few days in Cairo quietly, often sat reading in the hotel’s palm-shaded gardens. Between those times, they visited the cavernous national museum with its dusty cases of painted mummies, animal deities, and ancient treasures. They inspected a church and a mosque and wandered through markets pungent with the aroma of spices. In mazes of narrow streets, probably little changed since the time when the Romans built their fortress on the banks of the Nile, they watched goldsmiths and silversmiths working at their craft. They drank innumerable glasses of sweet tea and syrupy coffee. De Silva took pictures everywhere they went.

  News came from William Petrie that after the verdict of not guilty in Sarah Betts’ trial for the murder of her first husband, a detective at Scotland Yard, who had mistrusted the verdict, had kept an eye on her. His files showed that she and Harry Delaney started to be seen together six months later. At the time, Delaney was a nightclub singer, but there were rumours he had a criminal past. The detective lost track of the pair when they left England.

  ‘I wonder if poor Arthur Chiltern was their first intended victim, or whether there were others between him and the murder of her first husband,’ Jane mused when the story emerged.

  ‘I doubt we’ll ever find out. One thing’s for sure, Chiltern had a lucky escape. I didn’t take to the man, but I wouldn’t wish a wife like Diana March on him.’

  At breakfast in the hotel’s pleasant dining room, they decided to make the trip out to the pyramids that day. ‘If we’re not too late to find a guide,’ said de Silva.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find someone to take us. Let’s ask at reception.’

  The hotel recommended a guide who was, they assured the de Silvas, excellent. His camels were also very docile.

  ‘Camels?’ De Silva’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected camels, but Jane seemed delighted with the idea, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

  ‘People say you can even climb up the Great Pyramid of Cheops to see the view from the top and take tea,’ said Jane brightly. She looked at de Silva and giggled. ‘I was only joking, dear.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Camels will be quite enough to cope with.’

  **

  He enjoyed the first part of the expedition as their horse and cart jingled through the streets of Cairo. Streets that grew quieter and more countrified until the city ended somewhat abruptly in the desert. A small caravan of camels sat and waited in the shade of a grove of palm trees. De Silva observed the nearest one dubiously. Chewing its cud, it looked back at him with a supercilious expression. It knows I’m a novice, he thought.

  ‘Camels are much misunderstood, you know,’ remarked Jane, as if she had read his mind. ‘If they’re well treated, I’m told they’re intelligent, friendly animals.’ She nudged him. ‘We must have a picture, dear, mustn’t we?’

  Suddenly, de Silva’s interest in photography dwindled, but he took a picture of the camels all the same, then put the camera back in its case and settled the strap around his neck. He offered up a silent prayer to any deity who happened to be listening that his camel would be one of the well-treated variety.

  Their guide had soon singled out the two beasts they were to ride. ‘Very tame,’ he said. ‘Very nice.’

  De Silva nodded, trying to show more confidence than he felt.

  Helped by the camel driver, Jane mounted with admirable elegance. Then it was de Silva’s turn. As instructed, he climbed into the saddle then leant back as the camel got up on its hind legs. When it was settled, it grunted and hauled itself up on its front legs. The camel driver indicated that de Silva should lean forward now and steady himself with the handhold at the front of the saddle.

  The guide mounted, and they set off. The camel’s hair felt coarse and scratchy to de Silva’s touch. He was glad he wore western dress, with long trousers and thick socks. It was good that his animal did seem to be biddable too. After a while, he even started to enjoy its swaying gait. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  Small in the distance, the pyramids increased in size as they drew nearer. Bathed in the golden rays of the morning sun and guarded by the huge, lion-pawed Sphinx, they were a magnificent sigh
t. Busy marvelling, de Silva suddenly noticed that his camel was getting behind the rest. He cast his mind back to the few occasions when he had ridden a horse in Nuala. How did you make them speed up? Squeeze with your legs – that was it.

  Gently, he applied some pressure; the camel took no notice. He tried again, harder this time. The beast gave an angry grunt and jerked sideways, almost unseating him. Then its ears flattened, its rubbery lips peeled back from its yellowed teeth, and it set off at a gallop.

  He just had time to glimpse Jane’s shocked face as he flew past her, his camera bouncing against his chest in frantic concert with the thundering beat of his heart. With a mixture of exhilaration and alarm, he felt the wind stream into his face. It was one thing to make a camel go faster, but how did you stop it? He hoped he was going to get back to Nuala unscathed.

  Then, as the pyramids filled his vision, the effort of hanging on banished all other thoughts from his mind. What a holiday this had turned out to be!

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  Other Books by Harriet Steel

  The Inspector de Silva Mysteries #1

  Trouble in Nuala

  When Inspector Shanti de Silva moves with his English wife, Jane, to a new post in the sleepy hill town of Nuala, he anticipates a more restful life than police work in the big city entails. However, an arrogant plantation owner with a lonely wife, a crusading lawyer, and a death in suspicious circumstances present him with a riddle that he will need all his experience to solve.