The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Page 3
‘Oh, I agree with you, my dear. Don’t be in any doubt about that. And if the man was flogged, it will be made clear to Renshaw that it’s not to happen again, not unless he wants me on his tail. He’ll have to find other means of keeping his workers in line.’
‘Paying them better and improving their living quarters perhaps,’ his wife said acerbically.
‘We live in an imperfect world, my dear. At least the Tamils on the plantations have a wage and a roof over their heads. On the whole they’re better off than they would be if they’d stayed in India.’
‘Shanti! Aren’t you making rather light of this?’
‘As I said, we don’t even know if the allegation’s true yet. And I have to bear it in mind that my job is also to keep the peace. Clutterbuck’s concerned that if Renshaw was to be charged and word got around the plantations, it might stir up trouble with the workers. He believes that if there is anything in this accusation, a warning shot across the ship would be a better way of dealing with it and enough to make Renshaw think twice about his actions.’
‘Across the bows, dear.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, I suppose Archie Clutterbuck may be right. We don’t know the true circumstances and a warning might be the best way to start.’ She closed her book, set it down on the table beside her, and stood up. ‘I’d better go and talk to Cook about dinner.’ She paused for a moment then, ‘You know, I think I recall this man Tagore from my days in Colombo. You remember the father of the family I worked for was a professor of law?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, quite a few of his students used to be invited to the house if there was a party or a dinner. I’m sure Tagore was one of them. He was studying to be a barrister. Such a handsome young man; he had lovely dark-brown eyes and curly hair, black as ink. He spoke English perfectly.’
‘It sounds like I was lucky to snatch you from him.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, he was never more than an acquaintance and he would have been far too young for me anyway. And a little too serious.’ She caught his eye. ‘I do believe you’re jealous.’
He put his arm around her waist and gave it a squeeze. ‘I’m jealous of any man who might turn your head, my dear.’
She leant her cheek on his shoulder. ‘You know perfectly well that no one could.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, I don’t know about dinner, but I’ve had no lunch.’
‘Then I’ll tell Cook to send you out something to keep you going.’
They chatted as he ate the curry, dahl and rice that a servant brought out. Later, as the shadows on the lawn lengthened and a breeze stirred, rustling the leaves of the coconut palms, they went inside. The evenings were still chilly in February; as usual, the fire in the drawing room was lit after dinner. The warmth made him sleepy and the book he read failed to hold his attention. He had to admit, it wasn’t the author’s fault; the prospect of dealing with Charles Renshaw kept coming between him and Sir Walter Scott’s stirring tale.
Jane turned the last page of her Agatha Christie and closed the book. ‘As good as ever,’ she remarked. ‘But you don’t seem much struck with Ivanhoe.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m a bit too preoccupied, I suppose.’
‘Poor dear. A good night’s sleep often unravels problems. Shall we get to bed?’
‘Good idea.’
She rested her chin on one hand. ‘If you meet Mr Tagore, it will be interesting to see how he’s turned out. I wonder if he married. There were certainly plenty of girls in Colombo who seemed willing.’
‘If I meet him, I promise to carry out a detailed forensic examination of his personal life for you, my love.’
She picked up the cushion at her elbow and tossed it at him. ‘Don’t you dare!’
Chapter 5
De Silva drove to the station the following morning under a sapphire sky. Constable Nadar was bent diligently over his work when he arrived. He jumped to his feet. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Anything to report?’
‘A man came in earlier wanting to see you, sir. I told him we weren’t expecting you for another hour and he said he’d come back.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What sort of person was he?’
‘A Tamil, sir, tall and well dressed.’
‘Ah. You’d better send him in to me when he comes back. Where’s Sergeant Prasanna?’
‘He went down to the lake to see about the ponies, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll have my tea now.’ He glanced at the papers in front of Nadar. ‘What’s that one about?’
‘From one of the Ayurvedic doctors, sir. He has a stall on one of the side streets. The lock of his premises was broken when he came to open up yesterday. Nothing seems to have been taken that he could see, but bottles and jars on the shelves had been moved around and someone had been through the drawers underneath and emptied a few packets of spices and herbs on the ground.’
‘Odd. It doesn’t sound like it’s worth wasting much time on but tell the man we’ll make inquiries. Probably just teenagers larking about.’
‘It’s quite likely, sir. Between ourselves, he’s not a popular man in his neighbourhood.’
In his office, de Silva drank his tea and mulled over how he would deal with his visitor. He had little doubt in his mind that it would be Ravindra Tagore. If he was correct, the lawyer didn’t waste much time.
He looked at the clock; he might as well get this meeting over with and dispense with the idea of visiting Renshaw first. The difficulty was that he sympathised with the lawyer’s view on flogging. It was unacceptable, but Tagore was likely to overestimate what he, de Silva, could do about it. These planters were gods in their own plantations. Pressure from their superiors or peers, self-interest or, in the best examples, goodwill might lead them to treat their workers decently, but it was very unlikely that a judge would find against them unless a worker was seriously injured or killed. Renshaw was not such a fool as to risk that. A whole system that had been more than a hundred years in the making couldn’t be swept away overnight, although sometimes he wished it could.
There was a knock at the door and Constable Nadar put his head round. ‘Mr Tagore to see you, sir, if it’s convenient?’
‘Send him in, Constable.’
De Silva rose to his feet. With an unconscious movement, he straightened the elephant badge on his lapel.
Ravindra Tagore made a striking figure with his handsome features and tall frame. Jane had said he was a student when she met him in Colombo, so he must be in his mid-twenties now. It looked as if the intervening years had not been easy ones. His eyes had a world-weary expression to them and faint lines were etched on his forehead. De Silva decided to say nothing of his meeting with the assistant government agent for the moment.
‘Mr Tagore! Please take a seat. What can I do for you?’
Tagore sat down. He exuded an air of natural authority that de Silva found irksome. It brought to mind the run-ins he recalled having with members of the Colombo Bar in the old days. Some lawyers had a way of thinking they were a cut above the police, and of overestimating their clients’ innocence.
‘I wish to make a complaint against Mr Charles Renshaw. You know him, I imagine?’
‘I know of him. He has a tea plantation not far from here.’
Tagore nodded.
‘And what is the nature of your complaint, Mr Tagore? Has Charles Renshaw caused you loss in some way?’
‘No, my complaint concerns his treatment of one of his workers.’
Ah, here it comes, thought de Silva.
‘Renshaw accused the man of injuring himself deliberately and flogged him. Even if the injury was self-inflicted, and there is no evidence that it was, such a punishment is disproportionate and inhuman.’
De Silva rested his elbows on his desk and made a steeple with his fingers and thumbs. ‘Mr Tagore, if I am to take this further, I need this man to come to me and tell his story.’
‘Does the man intend to come here then?’
‘He’s an uneducated coolie, Inspector. Such people are usually afraid of their employers, but let me put it to you – does that mean they should be denied the same access to justice as other men? If I can talk to this man, I’m sure I can persuade him to speak up for himself.’
‘So why haven’t you done so?’
‘Because Renshaw refuses to give me access to him, which is in itself suspicious. Something he won’t be at liberty to do if you investigate the case.’
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘He told me the man had gone back to his village, but I wasn’t convinced that was the truth.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact, it has crossed my mind there’s a far more sinister reason why Renshaw won’t allow me to interview the man.’
De Silva frowned. This complaint was becoming more serious than Clutterbuck had led him to expect.
‘You mean murder? Come, come, Mr Tagore. A lawyer of all people should be more circumspect about rushing to conclusions that might lay him open to a charge of slander.’
‘I hope I can trust that you’ll treat anything said in this room as being in confidence,’ said Tagore stiffly.
De Silva leant back in his chair and tapped his cheek with one finger. After a moment or two of withstanding Tagore’s expression of withering scorn, he pulled a pad of paper towards him, picked up a pen and made a note. It was a trick he often used to buy time to compose himself.
He stopped writing and regarded Tagore calmly. ‘Your concern is laudable, Mr Tagore. I can’t promise anything, but I will pay a call on Renshaw and find out more about what happened. But if this man—’
‘Gooptu – Hari Gooptu.’
‘If this man Gooptu has nothing to say for himself, it must be the end of the matter.’
‘And what if you don’t find him?’
‘Mr Tagore—’
Tagore was already reaching into the bag he had brought with him. He pulled out what looked like a grimy bundle of cloth and held it up for de Silva’s inspection. It was a coarsely woven shirt of the kind workers wore, but more significantly, it was heavily stained with blood. ‘I think it can be said with justification that this provides persuasive evidence that in any event Renshaw has a case to answer.’
‘Who does it belong to?’
‘Hari Gooptu.’
‘You’re sure about that? Did he give it to you himself? How can that be if you’ve not met him?’
For a moment, Tagore looked uncomfortable.
‘It came from another source.’
‘Another source? You’ll need to be more specific than that. Who was it?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
Briefly, de Silva deliberated. From the set of Tagore’s expression, he was obviously going to persist, and if the shirt did belong to Gooptu, there was a strong possibility it was at least evidence that he had been flogged.
‘Very well, Mr Tagore,’ he said at last. ‘As I say, I’ll speak to Renshaw. If I think it appropriate, I’ll give him a warning.’
‘And that will be all?’
The hairs on the back of de Silva’s neck prickled. ‘It’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment.’
‘When he should be charged with causing grievous bodily harm, or worse?’
‘You’ve not yet proved what he did, Mr Tagore; I’ll need hard evidence to confirm your accusations. But I will speak to Renshaw. If there’s any truth in the matter, I hope a warning will suffice.’
He scribbled another note on the pad of paper then looked up. ‘Does that satisfy you?’
‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Don’t rock the boat. It’s a well-worn refrain.’ Tagore unfolded his long legs and got to his feet. ‘I see you’re not prepared to take this seriously. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of it.’
De Silva seethed. This man did him an injustice if he believed he didn’t care. Tagore was probably dramatising the situation when he hinted at murder, but the idea of harsh punishment revolted de Silva as much as it did any decent man. If Gooptu had been flogged, he intended to make it clear to Renshaw that any more beatings would make charges likely to follow.
But de Silva’s anger was tainted with guilt and a pain crept in behind his eyes. Why did the lawyer’s zeal rile him? Was it because he feared that he had fallen in too readily with Clutterbuck’s aim of dealing with the matter with as little fuss as possible?
He pushed the thought away. At this stage, the professional course was to keep a distance between himself and Tagore. There might be no truth in the matter, and as a policeman, he must deal in facts and the law. The extent to which a master could legally discipline his workers was one of degree; it would be hard to get a conviction without strong evidence that Renshaw had gone too far. If this man Gooptu was found but refused to come forward, it would be impossible. A bloodstained shirt from an anonymous source wouldn’t change that.
And if he wasn’t found? De Silva groaned inwardly. Clutterbuck might have saddled him with an intractable problem. Tagore seemed a persistent fellow.
He turned his attention back to Tagore’s grim face. ‘I hope you aren’t trying to threaten me, Mr Tagore?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Inspector.’
The silence crackled. Eventually, de Silva decided to allow Tagore a small victory and be the first to break it.
‘Are you staying long in Nuala?’ he asked in a neutral tone that he hoped might defuse the tension a little. ‘I may need to speak to you again.’ Privately he thought that it would also be good to know how much longer he had to watch out for trouble from Mr Tagore.
‘A week or so. My work in Colombo won’t allow me to be absent for long, but my mother died, and I have to settle her affairs.’
‘Allow me to offer you my condolences.’
Tagore’s expression softened a fraction. ‘Thank you. My parents lived here for many years. I had forgotten how beautiful the hill country is.’
The tension returned. He stood up and nodded curtly. ‘Thank you for your time, Inspector. If you wish to speak to me, you’ll find me at the Nuala Hotel.’
The door closed behind him and de Silva sighed. Once he had been hot-headed and idealistic like Tagore, but as he’d grown older, the complexity of human affairs had taught him caution. Sometimes, however, he found it hard to decide whether that was really a good thing.
Chapter 6
It took him forty minutes to drive the ten miles to the Five Palms plantation the following morning. The monsoon looked to have washed away the last stretch of the narrow road and it must have been poorly repaired since already potholes and ruts made it treacherous. De Silva wondered whether it was inexperience or parsimony that had made Renshaw skimp on the work.
He passed the entrance to the plantation bungalow. Through the stone pillars on either side of the open gates he saw a sweep of unkempt lawn with the clump of lofty palms that presumably gave the place its name to one side. On the opposite side of the lawn, the bungalow squatted, in need of a fresh coat of paint. If it was his, he would curb the creepers that rampaged over the walls and roof too.
The remainder of the way up to the tea factory looked even more uninviting than the first part of the road so he eased the Morris onto the dusty verge, pulled up the hood, and set off to walk.
He had to admit, whatever the plantation’s shortcomings, the view was magnificent. A panorama of vibrant green terraces rolled down the hillside. Women pluckers moved through the bushes like bright little sailing boats in an emerald sea. As he neared the factory, he saw some of them coming back from the fields carrying baskets of leaves on their backs.
The hum of machinery grew louder. In the covered area outside the factory doors, some of the pluckers had already tipped their baskets out onto big canvas sheets and were sorting the tips from the coarser leaves with quick,
nimble fingers that continued to flash through the green piles even as their owners cast him wary glances. A woman dressed in a better sari than the rest emerged from a door nearby.
‘Is your master here?’ de Silva asked.
She pointed to the factory building. He noticed that its condition was as shabby as the plantation bungalow’s although, as it was an industrial building, there was perhaps more excuse.
The hum turned to a roar as de Silva entered. He nearly collided with a wiry man carrying two enormous sacks on his back. ‘Where’s the master?’ de Silva shouted in Tamil.
‘The rolling room.’ The man jerked his head in the direction of a door on the right then bounded away up a flight of metal stairs.
In the rolling room, the noise of heavy machinery was overpowering. Fine, tea-scented dust filled the air. A few moments passed before de Silva’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and he saw a stocky, florid-faced man he guessed to be Renshaw. The man looked up from the handful of dry leaves he was examining, tossed them into the sack at his feet and came over to where de Silva stood.
‘No strangers allowed in here,’ he growled.
De Silva indicated his police badge. ‘My name is Inspector de Silva,’ he shouted. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d spare me a moment of your time, sir.’
Renshaw nodded curtly. ‘You’d better come to my office.’
The office was a bleak room with narrow metal windows; a sickly light filtered through their grimy panes. Furniture was scant and where the walls were not lined with filing cabinets and shelves crammed with papers, the paintwork was peeling. Cracked linoleum covered the floor.
Renshaw flopped down in the chair behind his desk but didn’t offer de Silva a seat. ‘I haven’t much time,’ he said. ‘We have a shipment due to go down to the tea auctions at Colombo tomorrow. Whatever this is about, you’d better make it brief.’
De Silva took a breath to suppress his irritation. Clearly, Renshaw was not going to be an easy man to deal with. At first glance, it seemed eminently plausible that he would mistreat his workers.