Trouble in Nuala Read online

  The first scent de Silva inhaled was rose, followed by cardamom, ginger and liquorice. ‘My guess is that it’s pitta tea. An Ayurvedic remedy for poor digestion. It’s also supposed to cool the body and reduce inflammation of the skin. I remember Renshaw had a nasty rash when I saw him here.’

  Hebden frowned. ‘That’s strange; I know that occasionally my patients consult Ayurvedic doctors too and I have no objection, but I wouldn’t have thought Renshaw was one of them.’

  ‘Neither would I, but then people often surprise me.’

  ‘Ah well, it’s of no significance now and there’s nothing more I can do here. I’ll stop at the bungalow on my way back to Nuala. I’ve got something in my bag that will help Mrs Renshaw to sleep if she needs it. I’ll come back later today and see how she’s getting on. Is your wife prepared to stay with her for a while?’

  ‘I’m sure she will if it would be a help.’

  ‘Good. No doubt we’ll be in touch soon.’

  His footsteps rang on the metal stairs and he was gone. De Silva had the clear impression that there was no doubt in the doctor’s mind as to the cause of Renshaw’s death. His concern now was for the planter’s widow.

  The bag of dried leaves was still in de Silva’s hand. He took another pinch and sniffed it. Yes, almost certainly it was pitta tea. He looked around the room and noticed a china cup in the cracked enamel sink under the window. It had obviously been used and not washed up as a small amount of brown liquid was still in the bottom of the cup. He swirled it round and caught the scent of roses, liquorice and spices as before but there was a faint tang of something else that even his sense of smell was unable to identify. He put the cup back in the sink then changed his mind. He would take it with him and the dried tea too. Downstairs, he stowed both carefully in a box in the Morris’s trunk.

  After a few words with Renshaw’s manager, he started up the engine and set off down the rutted road. It was only as he passed the bungalow that it struck him that Madeleine Renshaw hadn’t asked exactly how her husband had died.

  Chapter 10

  The ceiling of the Crown’s vast lobby glowed with panels of stained glass set in a tracery of polished wood that suggested the leaves and branches of a great tree. It was a place of glamour and dreams, thought de Silva as he walked through the magnificent oak and glass doors. Ever since he and Jane had seen the film, Grand Hotel, on one of their regular trips to Nuala’s cinema, the Crown reminded him of it. He almost expected to see Greta Garbo, swathed in velvet and fur, sashay across the foyer with that faraway look in her eyes. He hid a smile as Sergeant Prasanna gasped and hung back before following across the gleaming marble floor as if it might swallow him up at any moment.

  If the receptionist was surprised to receive a visit from the police, he was too well trained to show it.

  ‘I’ve arranged to meet Mr David Leung. Please tell him I’m here.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. I’ll telephone his room.’

  De Silva watched him make the call and replace the receiver. ‘Mr Leung will be with you shortly. He suggests you meet in the library. Would you like someone to show you the way?’

  ‘There’s no need, thank you.’

  People come and go; nothing ever happens, de Silva murmured, recalling the opening lines of Grand Hotel as he and Prasanna walked to the library down a corridor wide enough for two bullock carts to pass each other. But subsequently, as anyone who had watched the film knew, a great deal had happened. A lesson that you should always expect the unexpected. Or was he the only one who believed that?

  After Renshaw’s death, Clutterbuck had seemed all too eager to accept Doctor Hebden’s view that the cause of death was heart failure. ‘Hebden’s a sound man,’ he’d said, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘I’ve told him I’m happy to rely on his judgement and I think you should be too, de Silva. Where will going round asking a lot of questions get us? Renshaw was just the sort of fellow who’s likely to have the old ticker give up on him. Believe me, I’ve seen plenty of his kind. In any event, in this climate, it’s best to get on with burying him. Better for the widow too. I’m sure Madeleine Renshaw will be relieved to get the funeral over.’

  The library’s heavy plum velvet curtains framed tall windows that nevertheless let in very little light. Dark leather sofas and low tables furnished it and the walls were lined with yard after yard of books with gold-tooled spines. The room smelt of tobacco and beeswax polish. Brass reading lamps with bottle green shades stood on the tables. De Silva pulled the chain on one of them and a pool of light descended. He sat down and pointed to an upright chair by one of the windows. ‘When Leung comes, you’d better sit there to write notes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Prasanna, try not to look like a rabbit in the headlights.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  The door swung open and David Leung strode in. He wore a dark suit and the cuffs of his white shirt were fastened with chunky gold links. His gold watch was obviously expensive. ‘Inspector de Silva? I’m David Leung. I understand you wanted to see me.’

  De Silva nodded. ‘Good morning, Mr Leung. Thank you for being so prompt. I just have a few questions. If you’ve no objection, my sergeant here will take notes.’

  Leung smiled. ‘Do I have any option, Inspector? I assume this is about my late friend, Charles Renshaw. A tragic occurrence: I was very shocked when I heard the news. As you probably know, I was with him that evening. When I left the plantation to return to Nuala, I had no idea he was in any danger.’ He shook his head. ‘I blame myself for not being more perceptive. But I forget my manners, Inspector. May I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind if I do.’

  Leung went to a sideboard that held several decanters and some cut-glass tumblers. He poured a whisky then returned to his chair. Swirling the whisky in his glass, he leant back. ‘Please, ask away, Inspector. I’ll do anything I can to help. Charles Renshaw was a dear friend.’

  ‘I understand you were with Mr Renshaw most of the day at the cricket match. Is that correct?’

  Leung nodded.

  ‘Some observers have mentioned that your conversation seemed heated at times.’

  Leung frowned. ‘What observers?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you that, sir.’

  Leung shrugged. ‘Very well. It may have looked that way, I suppose. Poor Charles had business troubles that I was trying to help him with. He wasn’t a man who found it easy to take advice, even from a friend. I had hoped, however, that we were making progress.’

  ‘Was Mrs Renshaw aware of her husband’s difficulties?’

  ‘Madeleine? Good lord no. Charles didn’t want her upset.’

  ‘But you drove them both home after the cricket?’

  ‘Yes, but Charles insisted she remained in the dark. When we reached Five Palms, he muttered to me that he wanted to talk more. As it turned out, he also wanted to drink more. I tried to dissuade him but I fear whisky was Charles’s way of dealing with his troubles.’

  The scratch of Prasanna’s pen filled the brief silence.

  ‘So you dropped Mrs Renshaw and her son off at the bungalow and went up to the factory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If Mr Renshaw wanted to talk, wouldn’t it have been more comfortable at the bungalow?’

  ‘Probably, but Charles wanted to go to his office. He had some papers he wished me to see. He was rather paranoid about being overheard too. I’m afraid he could be very mistrustful of Madeleine and he often accused their servants of listening at doors. ’

  ‘Did he have any justification for that?’

  ‘None to my knowledge.’

  ‘You say Mr Renshaw carried on drinking. Could you estimate how much he’d had by the time you left him?’

  Leung thought for a moment. ‘I believe he had three, maybe four, whiskies, but adding those to what he drank over the course of the day, I’d say well over half a b
ottle.’

  ‘Was that a normal amount for him?’

  ‘Not unusual, I’m afraid. For as long as I can remember, Charles was a heavy drinker. It didn’t stop him functioning and he probably drank a bit less when he was busy at the factory, but it was getting worse.’

  De Silva’s eyebrows rose. No wonder the plantation was in trouble.

  ‘And for how long had you known him?’

  ‘About five years. We met in Colombo. We were both involved in a variety of the same businesses. That was before Charles inherited the plantation.’

  ‘Was Mr Renshaw successful then?’

  ‘Moderately, but I’m afraid he often rubbed people up the wrong way. Not a good idea in business.’

  ‘But you got on with him?’

  ‘Perhaps I have a thicker skin than most. Charles was a good man under the gruff exterior.’

  ‘According to the night watchman, you left the factory at about midnight.’

  ‘That’s correct. I came back to the hotel and went to bed. It had been a long day. I slept late that morning, breakfasted in my room and worked on some papers. It wasn’t until I went down to lunch that I heard the news, later on I received your message.’

  ‘Apart from the night watchman, did you notice anyone else up at the factory?’

  ‘No, the place was deserted. When I passed the bungalow, all the lights were out too. Presumably Madeleine had retired to bed.’

  ‘Were you aware that Mr Renshaw was taking medicine for his heart?’

  ‘He mentioned his doctor had prescribed something for a heart murmur; that was all. He told me it was a fuss about nothing. He rarely took the pills and was tempted to throw them away.’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about Ayurvedic medicine?’

  Leung’s expression was impassive. ‘Charles was a man who dismissed what he referred to as ‘quackery’ even more roundly than conventional medicine. He regarded illness as a symptom of weakness.’

  He swirled his whisky glass again and drained it. ‘Sadly, that view seems to have been his undoing. I feel extremely sorry for Madeleine. How has she taken the news?’

  ‘Very distressed, as you would expect.’

  He nodded. ‘I plan to stay on for the funeral, of course. I hope to have the opportunity of talking to her and offering my condolences then.’

  ‘Do you live in Colombo?’

  ‘Part of the time: when the needs of my business require me to.’

  ‘And may I ask what your line of business is?’

  ‘Commodities. Import export.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Forgive me, Inspector, but if there’s nothing more I can help you with, I have a lunch appointment at the Empire Club.’

  ‘Nothing more for the moment, Mr Leung.’ De Silva stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  They left the hotel and he turned out of the drive in the direction of the station, however after a short distance, he pulled into a side road and switched off the engine.

  ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  ‘I want to go back and check what time Leung returned to the hotel on Sunday morning, but I’d rather do it when I know he’s gone.’

  ‘Do you think he was lying about when he left the factory?’

  De Silva shook his head. ‘Probably not. The night watchman corroborated his story but it’s always worth checking everything. Being a policeman for as long as I have has taught me that. If Leung left the factory at around midnight, even allowing for driving in the dark and the state of the roads - if you remember, it rained very heavily overnight - he should have been back at the hotel not much later than one o’clock.’

  The sound of a powerful engine swelled and, with a roar, the Daimler swept past the end of the road. When he had waited for the sound to die away, de Silva drove back to the hotel. ‘Go in and see if you can find who was on duty that night and if they remember what time Leung returned.’

  ‘What do I say if someone asks why I want to know, sir?’

  ‘Tell them it’s a routine inquiry. Oh, and say it’s confidential.’

  De Silva tapped the steering wheel, humming under his breath as he waited for Prasanna to return. He admired the roses in the flowerbeds that flanked the hotel drive. A magnificent wisteria, heavy with purple flowers, smothered the walls on either side of the porch. The building’s style, with black beams set into white walls, was so English.

  ‘I spoke to the manager, sir. The night porter’s off duty sleeping but he’ll ask him when he comes on again. I said I’d come back.’

  De Silva frowned. ‘You’ll have to learn not to let these people fob you off, Prasanna.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Prasanna looked chastened. ‘I’ll go back and tell him to wake the man up, shall I?’

  De Silva started the engine. ‘No, you can leave it this time. It’s just a detail and it will keep. This afternoon we’ll go up to the plantation. I’d like another look around.’

  **

  They drove into the yard at the plantation and de Silva turned off the Morris’s engine. The only sound was the twittering of birds and there was no sign of workers on the tea terraces. Disturbing how quickly things fell apart, de Silva thought as he waited for Prasanna to return with a key.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked when the sergeant reappeared.

  ‘Most of them have stayed down at the labour lines, sir. The manager says he’s having trouble persuading them to come back to work. They’re afraid it’s unlucky to come up after their master died here.’

  De Silva grimaced. ‘I expect it’s the last thing on Madeleine Renshaw’s mind but she’ll have to find a way of dealing with that or the business will be in even worse shape.’ He took the large, iron key from Prasanna. ‘Right, we’d best get on with this.’

  As the metal door swung open, releasing the trapped heat, de Silva stepped back. ‘Phew! You may take your jacket off if you want, Prasanna.’

  Prasanna didn’t wait to be told again.

  Motes of dust floated in the beam of light from the high window on the first floor landing. 'I'm going to take another look in Renshaw’s office,’ said de Silva. ‘I want you to walk round everywhere else. If you see anything you think odd - anything at all - come and tell me.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  The heat in Renshaw’s office was even more intense than it had been downstairs. De Silva loosened his tie and went to the window. After a battle with the rusty latch and a firm nudge from his elbow, it opened, letting in a modicum of cooler air.

  He moved along the filing cabinets, opening each one. There seemed to be nothing unusual about their contents. Turning his attention to the desk, he found a few photographs. A couple of them showed Renshaw with Madeleine at the bungalow, squinting into the sun and smiling. The rest looked to be from an earlier time. A vigorous-looking man with a bushy beard featured in many of them, either standing with groups of workers or supervising the loading and unloading of carts. De Silva guessed he was the man Renshaw had taken the plantation over from. If that was correct, it seemed to have been a more prosperous place in his day.

  The desk’s last drawer opened halfway then stuck. He peered in and saw it contained cardboard wallets, one of which was jamming the drawer. With his hand slid as far as it would go, he pressed down on the pile, and pulled too sharply. The drawer clattered to the floor.

  He picked it up, put it on the desk and lifted out the contents. A crumpled sheet of thick paper at the bottom had been the cause of the problem. He laid it to one side and examined the wallets. Most of them were empty but a few contained old statements from Renshaw’s bank. When he was satisfied that there was nothing unusual about the entries, de Silva put the wallets back in the drawer and turned his attention to the crumpled paper. He raised an eyebrow. It was a letter headed with the name of a loan company he didn’t recognise: Asian Ventures. The size of the scheduled loan repayments bore out that Renshaw was in financial difficulties. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. There was
an old friend and colleague in Colombo who might be able to throw some light on the identity of the company. He would contact him.

  He looked at the time on the clock on the wall. Surely he and Prasanna couldn’t have been at the factory that long? He checked his watch. No, only a little over half an hour had passed. Renshaw should have had that clock fixed. Time to find out if Prasanna had uncovered anything of interest.

  ‘I’m down here, sir.’ De Silva followed the sound of Prasanna’s voice to a cluttered storeroom at the back of the ground floor. The sergeant held up a black carcass by one bony wing. ‘A fruit bat, sir.’

  De Silva’s nose wrinkled. ‘I can see that, Sergeant.’

  ‘It’s probably the bat the night watchman saw. It must have been trying to get out.’ He indicated a small window with a rusty metal frame in the wall opposite the door. The floor beneath it was thick with droppings.

  ‘I didn’t have much luck. It doesn’t look as if that window gets opened very often.’

  ‘I thought that at first, sir, but see—’ Prasanna ran his hand over the glass and then held it up to show the dust and strands of cobwebs. ‘Yet where the window meets the frame, it’s cleaner.’

  De Silva studied the frame and waggled the latch. ‘This is very loose and there’s enough of a gap between the frame and the window to slip in something thin and lift it. Open it, Prasanna, and see if the hole’s big enough for you to climb out.’

  A pile of wooden boxes stood against the wall near the window. Prasanna pulled one over and climbed onto it, then he opened the window and swung his legs through the aperture. He twisted to let his hips and shoulders follow. A few moments later, he was on the other side.

  ‘Hmm,’ de Silva mused. ‘So it’s possible someone managed to lift the latch from outside and gain entrance this way after Leung left. They closed the window on their way out but by that time, the bat had flown in. Instinct led it to try and get out by the same route but it was too late.’ He smiled. ‘Well done, Prasanna. You can come back inside now.’