Terror in topaz, p.1
Terror In Topaz, page 1
Terror in Topaz: A Harriet Gordon Mystery
1st edition Oportet Publishing 2023
ISBN (ebook) 9780645237894
Copyright © 2023 by Alison Mary Stuart Brideson
Cover Design: Fiona Jayde Media
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
No AI Training: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Spelling throughout is US English
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
AUTHOR NOTES
Acknowledgments
About the Author
BOOKS
Dedication
This story is dedicated to my readers, without whose support and encouragement this book may not have been written. Thank you for believing in me. The series will continue!
One
SINGAPORE
Monday, 28 November 1910
From her comfortable chair on the verandah, Harriet Gordon watched the curtain of water fall from the glowering sky. The evening’s torrential downpour reflected her mood.
Her ward, Will Lawson, sat on a stool nearby, engaged in what was now his nightly duty—oiling the absent Inspector Robert Curran’s cricket bat. The sickly-sweet smell of linseed oil hung in the heavy air, adding nausea to her threatening headache.
“Will, enough! Put that stinking stuff away and get on with your homework,” Harriet snapped and then, conscious of her harsh tone, added, “Please. I’m sure it doesn’t need to be oiled every single night.”
“But I promised the inspector,” Will mumbled.
“I know you did, but what little I know about cricket bats, I do know they don’t need to be oiled quite so regularly.”
Will glared at her. “I will hate it if he comes back and thinks I didn’t look after it properly.”
Harriet summoned a smile. “I am certain he won’t think that, Will.” She pointed at the door. “Homework.”
Will picked up cloth, oil, and cricket bat and stomped inside. Oiling a cricket bat was infinitely preferable to schoolwork.
The side gate that led from St Thomas House to the school squeaked, and Harriet’s brother, Julian, headmaster of St Thomas Church of England Preparatory School for English Boys, ran toward the house, the large umbrella he held doing very little to keep the rain at bay.
Reaching the verandah, he stopped, panting from his exertion, water streaming from his sodden hair down his face. He closed the useless umbrella and leaned it against the verandah rail.
Harriet rose to her feet, but he forestalled the question on her lips by holding up his hand.
“Let me get dry and changed and then we’ll talk,” he said. “Pour us both a whisky. I think we need it.”
It seemed like an age before Julian reappeared, his still-damp hair sticking up where he had roughly toweled it. He patted it down, adjusted his glasses, and accepted the glass Harriet held out for him.
“That bad?” she asked, her voice high with tension.
“I haven’t lost my job,” Julian said.
Harriet let out a breath. That had been her greatest fear.
Two weeks earlier, she had lost her job, a contract to provide typing and shorthand services to the Detective Branch of the Straits Settlements Police. Inspector Robert Curran, who had employed her services, had himself been suspended and replaced by Inspector John Keogh, a self-righteous prig of a policeman brought in from the Federated Malay States Police Force.
On discovering Harriet’s history with the suffragist cause in England the previous year that had landed her in Holloway prison for a brief time, Keogh had dismissed her. As if that wasn’t enough, he had taken it upon himself to officially inform the Trustees of Julian’s school that they were employing a woman with a criminal past. Though ‘employing’ was a word used lightly, as the school didn’t pay her for her administrative duties. It was understood that board and lodging with the headmaster was sufficient recompense for her services.
The trustees had summoned Julian to a meeting to explain himself.
“They could hardly claim they didn’t know,” Harriet said.
“Indeed. Before I even suggested you come out to join me, I discussed it with the bishop, and he raised it with the others. They were prepared to turn a blind—some might say Christian—eye to your transgressions, but once it came to an official notification from the police, they had to be seen to do something.”
Harriet sank into her chair. “And what is that something?”
“They officially reprimanded me and banned you from the school premises. You are not, however, banned from continuing your, and I quote, ‘excellent services.’ The school typewriter will be relocated here, and I will have to bring the work to you.”
Harriet uttered an unladylike and blasphemous response.
Julian held up his hands. “I know, but in the circumstances, it is the best compromise we could arrive at.”
Harriet looked down at the glass she cradled in her hands. “Oh, Ju, I am so sorry to get you into strife.”
Julian shook his head and smiled. “I’m not. You know I’m proud of you, Harri.”
She managed a watery smile. “I suppose I should be grateful that they are letting me go on typing school reports and demands for school fees.”
Julian stood up and poured them both another whisky. “It’s timely in a way. I received a letter from the acting headmaster of the Prince Alfred School in Kuala Lumpur only yesterday. They’re looking for a new senior master in classics and wondered if I would be interested.”
Kuala Lumpur, or KL as it was referred to by most people, was the capital of the Selangor State, one of the Federated Malay States. About two hundred miles north of Singapore, the state had grown around the incredible wealth from the tin mining industry. Such riches were not something the British could resist. Unlike the Straits Settlements, of which Singapore was one, which were under British rule, some thirty years earlier, the Sultan of Selangor had agreed to allow the British to administer the State under a British ‘Resident Minister’ or ‘Resident’, without relinquishing his own control. As other Malay States had joined the Federation, KL had become the administrative center for not just Selangor but all the Federated Malay States.
Harriet stared at him. “Kuala Lumpur? But Julian, you are the headmaster of your own school. It would be something of a backward move for you.”
Julian swilled the whisky in the glass he held. “Truth be told, I’ve been feeling a bit restless. It would be a relief not to have the responsibility of being a school principal and to go back to teaching senior boys again.” Julian sat down, leaning his forearms on his knees as he looked up at his sister, his face grave. “The position comes with a house but, best of all, Harri, it means Will could attend at a master’s rate. The Prince Alfred School has an excellent reputation, and he’d get the best education we can provide for him.”
And that, Harriet had to agree, was a good argument. They were struggling to find a suitable school for Will when he finished at St. Tom’s next summer. A senior school that the y could afford would be a godsend.
“I don’t have to give Robertson an immediate answer,” Julian said. “He’s invited me—us—to visit and look over the school, meet the other staff, and see if we would like the move to Selangor State.”
“Both of us? When?”
Julian hefted a sigh. “The sooner the better. How about this weekend? I am inclined to make a trip of it. I’ve checked the train timetables. There’s a night train that leaves Singapore at 7.15 and gets into KL at 6.56 in the morning. If we go up on the Friday night train and back on the day train on Monday, you can play the tourist in Kuala Lumpur while I hobnob with the school. You’ve not really seen anything of the Malay Peninsula beyond Singapore. Seems like a splendid opportunity.”
“I have to admit a change of scene would be most welcome,” Harriet said.
Julian straightened and drained his glass. “So be it! If you can prevail on Louisa to take Will in for a few nights, I’ll make the travel arrangements.”
“Where shall we stay?”
“Didn’t I mention? Henry Robertson has invited us to stay with him and his wife at the headmaster’s house.”
“That’s very kind. I hope we won’t be an imposition. Do you know Robertson?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times. Nice chap. I haven’t met his wife. She’s younger, I gather. They have a small child, and I’m sure she would be glad of some company.” He paused. “You will find Kuala Lumpur is a little different from Singapore. It’s less well established. A much smaller European population, so a new face is always welcome.”
“As long as his wife is happy for some company. Does she have a name?”
“Enid…” Julian frowned. “No… Edith.”
“I think this sounds like an excellent plan, Julian,” she said.
Julian straightened and smiled. “I agree. Even if I don’t take to Prince Alfred, at least we shall have a break from routine. A change is as good as a holiday.”
Harriet finished her drink, and her mood lifted. After the despondency of the last few weeks, a weekend in Kuala Lumpur gave her something to look forward to, and her mind turned to her packing. As Julian had observed, since her arrival in Singapore the previous January, she had little opportunity to travel and her mind raced to the practicalities of travel and accommodation, and adventure.
Two
Kuala Lumpur, Selangor State
Wednesday, 30 November, 1910
A suffocating early morning humidity hung over Selangor State and by the time Robert Curran—sometime Inspector with the Straits Settlements Police Force, but currently on suspension—had scrambled up the steep slope to the entrance to the Batu Caves a few miles outside of Kuala Lumpur, he was dripping. He removed his hat, a stylish fedora purchased at great expense from John Little & Co. the previous week, and mopped his face with a clean handkerchief.
Order restored, he paused a moment to take in the cathedral-like beauty of the caves. This first chamber soared above him, hung with heavy stalactites; the ancient stalagmites below, broken and stained by the frequent visitors to the cave system. A second chamber lay before him, open to the daylight, with vines and the roots of trees that had taken hold in the rocky cavities, creeping over the craggy walls as they reached for the sun.
Since leaving Singapore, Curran had been kicking his heels in a run-down plantation house while he waited for a proper briefing on his secret assignment. A brief meeting with the Resident of Selangor State, Henry Belfield and Henry Talbot, Commissioner of the Federated Malay States Police, an old acquaintance from his cricketing days, had provided him with very little useful information except that he had to wait until someone they trusted with a full brief contacted him.
The message had come at last. Be at the Batu Caves at nine in the morning and ask for directions to the Dark Cave.
A European man dressed, like Curran, in a linen suit with a high starched collar, stood framed in the entrance to the second cavern. He glanced over his shoulder and, without acknowledging Curran, stepped down into the cave, disappearing from view. Curran waited a few minutes before crossing the floor of the first cavern. He followed the other visitor into the open space beyond. Above him, troops of monkeys, chattering with indignation at the intrusion, scaled the walls to the fringe of trees that overlooked the space below.
“Good morning,” the stranger said.
He sat on a rock, one ankle crossed over his knee as he pulled a pipe from his pocket, carefully packing it with tobacco from a leather pouch.
“Can you direct me to the Dark Cave?” Curran asked.
“It will be closed at this time of day.” The man looked up. “Curran?”
Curran nodded his affirmation. “And you are…?”
“Stephens, Archibald Stephens.”
“This is all a bit Rider Haggard,” Curran said, referring to one of his favorite authors.
Stephens lit his pipe, inhaling and blowing out the smoke. “We don’t know who to trust any more. When you suspect everyone from the Resident down, what else can you do? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Apparently.” Curran caught the scent of the smoke rising from the pipe. “That’s a nice twist.”
Stephens removed the pipe and inspected the contents. “I have it made especially by a little chap in Colombo. Costs me a fortune to bring in, but it’s the simple pleasures in life, don’t you agree?”
Curran brought his attention back to the reason for this clandestine meeting. “When it comes to trust, can I start with you? Who are you, and why should I trust you?”
Stephens nodded. “You must understand, Curran, our relationship with the Sultan and the Council of State is a delicate one. Here in KL, we not only have the administration for the State of Selangor, but also the overall establishment for all the Federated Malay States. We are cursed, my friend, with not only a Resident for Selangor, Henry Belfield, but also the Resident General for the Federated Malay States, Reginald Watson.” Stephens paused. “Over-governed, Curran. That’s when mistakes occur.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and continued. “As to why you should trust me, that’s an excellent question. You can check my bona fides with Belfield himself if you wish. I work in the office of the Accountant and Auditor. It is our task to see that we are, well, how to put it … we are rendering unto Caesar all that is Caesar’s. In the past two years, certain irregularities have been detected, most notably in the area of excise and duties being collected within Selangor State.”
There had been no mention of excise and duties in Curran’s short clandestine briefing on the case. Excise and duties were not part of Curran’s regular duties, let alone any irregular investigations.
“In what way?” he asked, more out of politeness.
“The only dutiable goods imported into the Federated Malay States are opium and spirit liquor. We’re not concerned about the liquor, but we are concerned about opium. There is more opium coming in than we are receiving in duty.”
“The import of opium is not illegal,” Curran pointed out.
He fought back the urge to point out that the question of the appropriate duty not being paid on opium seemed irrelevant when hundreds, if not thousands, were victims of the vile substance. In his opinion, opium should be banned, not used for profit. But wars had been fought on that subject. It was not for him to argue the point.
