Fatal Finds in Nuala (The Inspector de Silva Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  He looked out of the window. ‘Ah good, the rain’s stopping. It makes a pleasant change to see a patch of blue sky. I’m not surprised my wife wanted to get away for a while. I suppose that, being born here, you’re used to the monsoon. But sometimes I miss our English weather. It’s a gentler creature than you have here. I never thought I’d say it, but I miss the winters too. Frost sparkling on the grass, the countryside white with snow, icicles hanging from the eaves. What did Shakespeare say? Something about owls, and shepherds with freezing hands? My wife would know. She’s a keen reader of Shakespeare. Yes, it’s a pretty sight, a snowy winter’s day. I presume you’ve never seen snow, de Silva?’

  ‘I’ve never left Ceylon.’

  ‘You and Mrs de Silva should take a holiday. See something of the world.’

  De Silva smiled. ‘She was saying the same yesterday evening. Perhaps one day we will.’

  They had reached the driveway, and Darcy lolloped away in the direction of the nearest coconut palm.

  ‘Well, I’ll let you get off,’ said Clutterbuck. ‘Keep me up to date with how things are going and take as much time as you need down in Colombo. Why not take Mrs de Silva with you? I’m sure she’d prove an admirable sleuth. Don’t stint yourselves; the Residence will pick up the tab.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  De Silva walked over to the Morris and climbed in. Pulling away, he smiled to himself. That was one of the longest, and most affable conversations, apart from ones to do with work, that he had ever had with Archie Clutterbuck. He must have enjoyed yesterday’s adventure.

  Chapter 13

  On the drive home, though, his mood altered a little. It was gratifying that Archie had come around to his way of thinking so easily, and that he had made such a generous offer of a stay in Colombo, but the suggestion that he and Jane make a holiday of it did grate a little. If the death of a Britisher had been involved, would Archie have been so relaxed?

  ‘I think you’re being oversensitive, dear,’ said Jane when he grumbled about it over lunch. ‘Usually, the problem is that Archie resists doing what you want him to; you should be pleased when he agrees with you without any fuss. The fact it’s a villager who was murdered doesn’t make it any less important. If Archie didn’t take that view, he’s perfectly capable of telling you not to waste police time on the case. Now, when shall we go down to Colombo? We’ll need to book tickets and a hotel, but I can deal with all that if you’d like me to. It’s a long time since I’ve been in Colombo, but I’m sure I can find a place that’s not too expensive where we can be comfortable. I know you’ll have work to do, but it would fun to revisit old haunts too.’

  He got up and went around to her side of the table. Resting his hands on her shoulders, he kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sorry, my love; I’m being a grouch. Archie said we weren’t to stint ourselves, so we’ll take him at his word: book the Galle Face Hotel.’

  Jane’s eyes danced. ‘That’s the spirit! I’ll have to bring my best frock.’

  Leaving her to make plans, de Silva drove to the police station. The bazaar was crowded for the time of day and he had to slow down to negotiate the mêlée of carts, shoppers, dogs, and chickens thronging the road. Above it all, the sky was now a limpid blue, although a line of dark clouds mustered on the western horizon like a herd of angry bullocks massing for a stampede. No doubt all these people hoped to complete their business before the rain came on again.

  At one point, he had to wait for a handcart piled high with fruit and vegetables to lumber across in front of the Morris. A shrine to the Buddha had been set up at the corner of the crossroads. He noticed that all the candles had been doused in the last downpour. It had also turned the offerings of flowers to a soggy brown mush. Awnings over stalls steamed as they dried in the sun. In corners where its rays didn’t reach, lingering puddles glinted like sheets of silver laid on the muddy ground.

  Rain, rain, and more rain. Rather than go to Colombo, perhaps he should try to find an expert on antiquities in Jaffna or Trincomalee. It was the dry season there, on the other side of the island. He would never choose to live in either of those places though. The countryside around them couldn’t compare with the beauty of the tea country, and, although there were some fine buildings in both cities, to his mind, Kandy far surpassed them in elegance.

  Prasanna and Nadar gave the appearance of being busy when he walked into the public room at the station. He wasn’t sure what they were achieving, but he gave them the benefit of the doubt. They’d worked hard yesterday in extremely unpleasant conditions.

  ‘I’m going to trust you with a piece of information,’ he said. ‘But I rely on you both not to breathe a word to anyone. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.

  ‘Do you recall the artefacts we found that day we discovered Velu’s body?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Well, I took them to a man called Henry Coryat, an expert in the field of antiquities, and asked his opinion as to their worth. Mr Coryat considered they were virtually worthless – merely trinkets you might pick up in a bazaar any day of the week.’

  Prasanna and Nadar looked downcast. ‘Did you think they were valuable?’ asked de Silva.

  ‘We thought some of them might have been, sir.’

  ‘Am I right that you felt that would make this case much more interesting than it would be if Velu was simply murdered over some village squabble?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Prasanna. ‘We assumed it was the reason we made the search in the jungle yesterday.’

  ‘Then I have some good news for you. Increasingly, I’ve had my doubts about Mr Coryat.’

  ‘Do you mean he was lying, sir?’ asked Nadar.

  ‘That is a possibility, or it may be that he’s not as competent as he once was. Whatever the truth of the matter, Mr Clutterbuck has agreed to my getting a second opinion. Oh, by the way, he praised your hard work yesterday. Well done, both of you.’

  The young men beamed.

  ‘I’ll be going down to Colombo soon to consult a man there. I’m not sure what the result will be, but this could be a turning point. Meanwhile, I’d like the two of you to scout around in the bazaar. See what information you can glean about Velu.’

  He scratched his chin. ‘There’s the village headman’s grandson too. I think I’ll go back to the village this afternoon and see if there’ve been any developments. We can’t be certain there’s a connection, but any unusual circumstance needs to be followed up. If the grandson isn’t back before I leave for Colombo, I rely on you, Prasanna, to keep an eye on the situation. Nadar, you can help if need be. Now, I’ll be in my office. One of you put a call through to the police at Colombo for me, please.’

  A few minutes later, the telephone on his desk chirruped. He picked it up and heard Nadar’s voice. ‘I have the police headquarters at Colombo, sir. Who shall I say you want to speak with?’

  ‘Inspector Rudi Chockalingham.’

  There was another silence then his old colleague’s voice crackled down the line against a racket of typewriters and shouted conversation. Conditions at the Colombo headquarters had clearly not improved in the years since he had been gone.

  ‘Shanti de Silva! What a pleasure to hear from you. Are you still up in Nuala?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘How’s married life?’

  ‘Excellent. The best thing I’ve ever done.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say so. Especially as I am about to embark on the same state.’

  ‘Tamed at last, eh?’ said de Silva with a chuckle.

  ‘My mother said it was high time.’

  ‘Well, congratulations. Is it the end of motorbike riding?’

  ‘That point is still to be negotiated. But tell me more about how things are with you. Are you missing the big smoke at all?’

  De Silva laughed. ‘There are times, but on the whole, I find quite enough excitement up here.’

  ‘Riddles in the tea leaves? Stolen bul
locks?’ De Silva pictured his old colleague’s mischievous grin.

  ‘Murder this time.’

  ‘Ah, that is a more interesting challenge. Who’s the dead man?’

  ‘A villager by the name of Velu.’

  ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘He’d been badly beaten, but the murderer finished the job with a knife to the heart. The body was buried in a shallow grave in the jungle.’

  ‘Do you think the murderer was another villager settling a score?’

  ‘That would be a reasonable assumption if it weren’t for the artefacts we found close to the body.’

  ‘And they were?’

  ‘Coins – old ones – and some fragments of jewellery.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I took them to one of the British residents up here – a man called Henry Coryat who used to be a senior curator at the museum in Colombo.’

  ‘Coryat…’ Chockalingham paused. ‘Ah yes, I remember the name. He retired a few years ago because of ill health.’

  ‘He told me that nothing we’d found was valuable.’

  ‘But I sense you weren’t content to leave it there.’

  ‘I wasn’t. One of the British staff at the Residence here knows something about archaeology, and he believed there were things worth looking for in the area. I decided to investigate further.’

  Chockalingham listened, dropping in an occasional comment or question, as de Silva recounted the story of the jungle adventure.

  ‘The upshot is,’ de Silva finished, ‘our assistant government agent has agreed to my getting a second opinion. That’s where you come in.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Can you help?’ prompted de Silva. ‘You must know a suitable person. One who would be discreet.’

  ‘I’m just thinking who would be best. Yes, I have an idea. Can you leave it with me for a day or two? I’ll contact him and get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Shall I call you at the police station?’

  ‘Or at home if you can’t get me there. I have a telephone installed.’

  ‘I’m impressed; an inspector down here doesn’t qualify for one.’

  De Silva gave him the number.

  ‘Do you plan to bring the artefacts to Colombo yourself?’ asked Chockalingham.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. We must spend an evening talking over old times. They still serve the best arrack in town at Vikram’s.’

  De Silva remembered the dark, smoky bar favoured by some of the Colombo force. He wondered if the ebullient Tamil who owned it had got around to cleaning up the tobacco-stained walls and ceiling since he was last there.

  ‘I’ll be glad to.’

  When they had said their goodbyes, de Silva leant back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. A good day’s work: now all he had to do was wait for Rudi’s call. After that, he’d report back to Archie.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. There were still a couple of hours before dusk, but if he drove out to the village to see if the headman’s grandson had returned, he would probably have to drive home in the dark. He didn’t relish the idea if the rain had started again, and his ankle was still painful and in need of rest. He’d leave it until morning and spend what remained of the afternoon here catching up on routine business.

  Chapter 14

  The rain came again just as he and Jane sat down to dinner. It lasted through the night, and at first, de Silva couldn’t sleep. When he did manage to doze off, he dreamt that elephants were using the bungalow’s tin roof as a dance floor. Rudi Chockalingham added to the commotion, roaring round the house on his motorbike, but when de Silva woke, he realised it was only the rain falling, and the wind buffeting the windows.

  He slept again then woke a final time to find a servant placing a tray of tea on the table by the bed. The rain was over, and sunshine flooded into the room, making the silver teapot gleam.

  ‘The memsahib sent this up for you, sahib. She is already downstairs.’

  De Silva pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I’ll be down soon. Tell her to start breakfast without me.’

  The servant poured a thin, golden stream of tea into the bone china cup. ‘Very well, sahib.’

  De Silva drank his tea then washed and shaved quickly. His face stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. There were traceries of lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead, and an increasing number of grey streaks in his hair. Age was catching up on him, but at least the drawn look he remembered from his Colombo days wasn’t apparent. He had Jane and the healthier air of Nuala to thank for that.

  Five years since he had left the Colombo force. Apart from a brief visit there three years ago, most of which he’d spent on the Black Lotus case in the High Court, he hadn’t been back. He rinsed his razor and patted his face dry with a towel then reached for his comb. He wondered how the years had treated Rudi Chockalingham. He’d sounded on good form, but then he always was a gregarious fellow and fond of a joke.

  His ankle was less painful this morning; it must have benefitted from the overnight rest. He left the bandage in place, pulled on underpants, socks, and uniform shirt and trousers then padded downstairs. He’d finish dressing after breakfast: his stomach called.

  ‘Good morning, dear,’ said Jane with a smile. ‘I thought I’d let you sleep for a while. You had a restless night.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure why. The case is progressing according to plan for the moment.’

  ‘How’s your ankle?’

  ‘A little better, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Excellent. I telephoned the Galle Face. They have rooms available this week and next.’

  ‘Good; all we need now is a call from Rudi.’

  **

  After breakfast, he set off for the village in the jungle. As a precaution, he took a walking stick with him. Even though his ankle had improved, he had quite a long walk in prospect.

  Driving through town, the gullies on either side of the road still ran with water from the overnight rain. Out in the countryside, coils of mist drifted among the trees. When he reached the dirt road, the surface was slippery with mud. Parking the Morris close to where the road dwindled into a mere track leading into the jungle, he changed his shoes for the stout boots he had taken the precaution of bringing with him and set off.

  Now he was alone, the walk seemed more intimidating than it had when he came this way with Prasanna. The deeper he penetrated, the more malevolent the squawks and whistles of hidden birds sounded. The track widened a little and he saw that this was because on either side, saplings had been wrenched from the ground and branches ripped from the taller trees. Giant feet had churned up the earth. Elephants had passed this way; perhaps not long ago. In addition, the improvement in his ankle soon wore off. He was glad he had brought the walking stick and did his best to use it to keep his weight on his good foot.

  At a fork, he hesitated then took the left side. It wasn’t long, however, before he doubted he had made the right choice. He stopped, wondering whether he should go back then decided to walk a little further on in the hope of recognising a landmark. He vaguely remembered seeing a fine banyan tree whose aerial roots had grown into thick trunks, encircling their host tree.

  A few more minutes of walking and, to his relief, the banyan came into view. He found a log and sat down to rest, gazing at the massive tree. It was hard to believe that all this had grown from a tiny seed. It must be ancient, at least by the standards of the jungle where everything grew so quickly. There was something cathedral-like about the lofty arcade formed by the aerial roots that had swept down from the crown of the parent tree to plant themselves in the rich red earth. The parent tree’s hollow trunk was very thin in places, crisscrossed with parasitic vines. In a few years, it would rely entirely on its progeny to stay upright.

  His musings were interrupted by a loud crack close by. His heartbeat quickened: elephants? Perhaps he should ta
ke refuge behind one of the banyan’s roots. So long as the creatures didn’t see him, or did, but with their weak eyesight thought he was part of the tree, they shouldn’t be alarmed and attack. Jungle lore claimed that elephants heard better through their feet than they did with their ears, detecting shaking of the ground inaudible to humans. Cautiously, he moved to the nearest giant root and slipped into its shadow.

  Time passed, and nothing happened. De Silva’s heartbeat returned to its usual rate. He was about to carry on when there was a commotion that set his heart racing once more. Out of the trees shot a jungle fowl, flying low. Fleetingly, de Silva thought he saw a brown face watching him from a break in the wall of green, then it was gone.

  The fowl settled on the ground, its scarlet wattle still quivering with indignation, then recovered and started to peck for grubs in the leaf litter. De Silva noticed that some of its cobalt-blue tail feathers were missing. He wondered how it had happened. The bird didn’t seem to be moulting otherwise. Perhaps the face he’d seen was that of a villager who’d decided to come out into the jungle to hunt for the pot.

  At last he reached the village. The first thing he noticed was that there was some damage to the village well, presumably caused by the heavy rain. Part of the side had collapsed, and a party of men was shovelling earth out of the hole and repositioning stones.

  The headman leant on his stick directing operations. When he saw de Silva, he came over and greeted him with grudging civility.

  ‘Problems with the well?’ de Silva asked.

  The headman grimaced. ‘Always problems when the monsoon comes. What can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Has your grandson returned?’

  A shake of the head. The headman jabbed his stick at the diggers and the pile of earth they had removed from the hole. ‘His mother still wails,’ he said grimly. ‘Maybe I tell them to bury her under that.’

  What a charmer, thought de Silva. ‘Are any of the other young men missing today?’