Terror in topaz, p.9
Terror In Topaz, page 9
He heard his brother’s sharp intake of breath. “Well?”
“The girl’s not there.” Curran turned back to face Jayant. “Or at least that is what Blake says. I don’t believe him. It is possible that whoever controls the Topaz Club business received word of their chat with Hume and issued threats. He–they–won’t talk to me.”
“Did he say anything about Samrita?”
Curran took a breath. This bit was not so easy. “I’m sorry, Jayant. Blake says she is dead.”
Jayant straightened his shoulders and shook his head. “No!”
Curran laid a hand on Jayant’s shoulder. He intended the gesture as comforting, but when Jayant stiffened, he realized it could also be interpreted as patronizing. He withdrew his hand and stuffed it into his pocket.
Jayant buried his face in his hands. “How? Where is she?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
Jayant looked up, his face creased in grief. “You must find out. I must know. These people… the murdering swine must be brought to justice.”
“I’m doing my best. I will get to the truth,” Curran responded, a sense of his own inadequacy washing over him.
A bell rang, and a loud female voice declared visiting hours were over.
As he turned to leave, Curran looked back at his brother. “Oh, I took your advice and sent a telegram to Cuscaden this morning.”
A smile twitched at the corners of Jayant’s lips. “That is good. See you tomorrow, Robert?”
Curran’s smile echoed his brother’s. “Tomorrow.”
As he walked away, he thought back to his visit to Ashton Blake and the cry of the baby. It could just as easily have been a child of one of the servants, but it had come from inside the house, not the servants’ quarters. Would Jameela have left a very young baby to go visit relatives?
He doubted it.
Eighteen
After lunch, Harriet left Julian sitting at the table on the verandah, deep in contemplation of the gospel of the prodigal son for his sermon. It was a subject he had preached on many times, so she suspected he would spend his afternoon dozing on one of the well-cushioned planter’s chairs.
Edith appeared, dressed in a dark green skirt with matching waistcoat over a light muslin blouse, topped with a straw hat trimmed with a green ribbon. The woman, Harriet decided, had an unlimited wardrobe.
She, herself, had dressed in her workaday dark blue skirt and white cotton blouse with a plain straw hat.
Edith set the wooden box she carried on the table. Julian looked up and obligingly moved his papers. With two hands, Edith undid the catches and lifted the lid.
“It’s a Webley Mark 4,” Edith said.
It was a similar weapon to that on issue to the Straits Settlements Police, but Curran carried an earlier model, with a longer muzzle he had kept from his army service.
Henry Robertson put his hands on his hips and grimaced as he looked down at the revolver in its velvet-lined box. “I told Edith it wasn’t necessary. I don’t like guns of any sort.”
“And I told you, Henry, it’s about familiarity,” Edith said. “The more confident you are in handling it, the better you will feel about it. Imagine if you had been out with Noel and you came across that giant selandang. What would you have done?”
Henry Robertson’s eyes didn’t move from the weapon in the box as he said, “I think the chances of my ever being out in the bush with your brother, let alone encountering giant selandang is extremely unlikely, my dear, but if you insist.”
A carriage arrived at two and, leaving Julian to the contemplation of the prodigal son, they traveled the short distance to a shooting range, a little way out of town.
The shooting range comprised a long range for rifle shooting and a shorter range for handguns, and every stand was busy with both men and women. The English and their guns, Harriet thought as she followed Edith, all efficiency and business, and far from the flibbertigibbet of the previous day to the lane allocated to them.
Edith set the box on the table and took out the revolver. With practiced efficiency, she put six bullets into the star-shaped loader, flicked the weapon open, and dropped the rounds into the chambers.
Curran would be impressed, Harriet thought.
“So easy to load,” Edith said. “That’s what I like about a Webley.”
She handed the weapon to her husband. “Now remember what I told you, double-handed grip … That’s it. Now … steady.”
The Webley fired both single and automatic action and it was clear Henry Robertson was not comfortable with either. He jerked the weapon up and fired with his eyes closed. His wife quickly lost patience with him.
“Really, Henry, it’s not hard. Watch me.”
Edith, on the other hand, had a steady hand and a clear eye and her shots hit the target with unerring accuracy. For a diminutive creature with an eye for clothes and hats, Edith Robertson certainly knew her way around weapons.
Harriet took her turn and while moderately more confident than Henry Robertson, she didn’t have Edith’s practiced hand.
An hour and a half in the heat was enough and Robertson called an end to the excursion, as the first drops of a tropical downpour threatened. They had kept the carriage waiting for them to finish, but it was past four before they returned to the bungalow all wet to the bone.
Julian met them on the verandah. “I was getting concerned,” he said.
“No need,” Robertson said.
“How did the practice go?” Julian asked.
Robertson pulled a face. “I think if I am ever confronted by an intruder, I will be lucky to give him a bad scare. Probably more likely to hit him if I threw the weapon at him!”
“Nonsense, Henry. A little more practice is all you need,” Edith said. “I am drenched, and my hands are filthy. Just look at the time. We must hurry to wash and change before Evensong.”
As she bustled inside, Edith set the box containing the Webley on the bookshelf on the verandah. Her husband followed her into the house, leaving Julian and Harriet.
“How was it?” Julian asked.
“Another strange afternoon,” Harriet said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you about it later.”
She inspected her hands, black with the powder from the weapon. “Right now, I need to clean up and change for church.”
Nineteen
Evensong was a repeat of the morning service with the same faces in the same pews, the same familiar hymns and words. Edith, in her pink spotted dress and hat, once again joined the choir with her husband directing. In her frills and bows, it was almost impossible to believe this was the same woman who had handled a revolver with such practiced efficiency only a few hours earlier.
With Julian participating in the service, Harriet sat alone until Esme Prynne slipped into the pew beside her.
“Sir Reginald takes notes of who is absent,” she whispered to Harriet.
Unlike the morning service, the Resident for Selangor State, Henry Belfield, and the Resident General, Sir Reginald Watson attended Evensong without fail. Together with their respective entourages, they took up several of the front pews.
An enthusiastic and off-key bellowing of hymns drew Harriet’s attention to a large man in the Watson party.
“Who is that man?” Harriet whispered to Esme.
“He and his wife are visiting from England. I believe she is a cousin of Lady Watson.” Esme frowned. “The Honorable George Bullock-Steele. Heir to the Earl of Alcester.”
Harriet dropped her prayer book. Curran’s bête noir, his cousin George, was here in Kuala Lumpur.
At the conclusion of the service, Esme had to hurry away and Harriet busied herself helping Edith collect the prayer books and hymnals while Julian chatted to the Reverend Grahame.
“Excellent sermon,” she overheard Grahame saying. “It even kept Sir Henry awake. Mine just seem to send him to sleep.”
Edith asked Harriet for the time. Harriet glanced at the little watch she wore pinned to her blouse. “It is getting on for six,” she said.
“Are you ready to leave?” Henry Robertson approached them. “I thought we might have time for a quick drink at the Club as we’re not due at Haycocks’s until seven thirty.”
They strolled across the Padang to the Selangor Club. Robertson was met with a warm reception, while his wife was accorded the barest of polite greetings.
As they passed the door to the gentlemen’s only bar, Harriet glanced inside. A tall, bearded man stood at the bar, watching the comings and goings. For a moment, his gaze met hers and her heart gave a leap.
She leaned into her brother. “Julian, the man at the bar—with the beard. It’s Curran.”
Julian frowned. “I don’t see anyone. Which man?”
“There … Oh …” The bearded man had gone. “I would swear it was Curran.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Maybe you just see what you want to see, Harri.”
“Don’t patronize me, Ju. I tell you it was Curran.”
But as they took their seats, she wondered if Julian may have been correct, and she was conjuring Curran. He’d been on her mind as she fired the Webley that afternoon, that was all.
The party ordered drinks and, as she had the previous day, Edith’s gaze kept straying to the entrance.
“Oh, look, Henry,” she said, her face lighting up. “It’s Mr Stewart. Fancy seeing him here on a Sunday night.”
Walter Stewart greeted Robertson with a hearty handshake, renewed the acquaintance with Harriet, and was introduced to Julian. He acknowledged Edith with a quick nod of the head.
“Unusual to see you here on a Sunday, Stewart,” Robertson said.
“I’m having dinner with friends at the Empire,” Stewart replied. “It won’t be a late night. I’m due to head up country to check out a tin mine in Perak tomorrow.” He turned to Julian. “What brings you to KL?”
“An invitation from Robertson,” Julian replied. “I’m headmaster of St Thomas in Singapore—professional colleagues and all that.”
“Reverend Edwards is a keen cricketer,” Robertson said. “We watched the lads playing the Chinese school yesterday.”
Stewart pulled a face. “Not my game. I prefer rugby.”
Indeed, he looks like a rugby player with his solid frame, Harriet thought.
“Mrs. Gordon?”
Harriet excused herself from Julian to turn to Edith Robertson’s mother, Mary Chapman, accompanied by two younger women.
“I saw you in church this evening. Your brother gave an excellent sermon. Have you enjoyed your stay?” Mrs. Chapman enquired.
“It’s been a lovely break from Singapore. I have had little opportunity to travel since I arrived in Singapore back in January.”
Mary Chapman looked around the room. “You will find us a much closer society than Singapore. Personally, I find Ceylon a more congenial place, but my husband’s heart is here so here we stay. Let me introduce you to my daughters.”
Not my other daughters, Harriet noted, as she greeted Mrs. Hickey and Mrs. Bird. Both women were older than Edith by a few years and did not appear to bear much resemblance to their fey, fair-haired sister.
“I do hope Edith is looking after you,” Mrs. Hickey said.
“She has been an excellent hostess,” Harriet said with a smile. Faced with Mrs. Chapman’s open hostility to her youngest daughter, she felt curiously protective of Edith.
Mrs. Hickey’s gaze drifted to Edith sitting by herself, staring into the last of her gin and tonic. “Don’t tell me that is another new hat!”
Mary Chapman rolled her eyes. “Edith spends so much time in the millinery department of John Little’s, some believe that she works there. Small wonder poor Henry agreed to her taking the job at the Methodist Girls’ School. A Chapman woman working … whoever heard such a thing.”
The two younger women tittered in agreement.
As if conscious her mother was talking of her, Edith set her glass down and rose to join them. She greeted her mother and sisters, who acknowledged her with the politeness reserved for mere acquaintances. Harriet thought of the effusive hugs and kisses she would have shared with her sister, Mary.
“When do you return to Singapore?” Mrs. Chapman asked.
“Tomorrow. We are taking the day train so we can see something of the scenery.”
“Such a tedious journey. It has been a pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Gordon. Safe journey. Come girls,” Mary Chapman said and turned away.
“I’ve just ordered us another gin and tonic,” Edith said, and they resumed their seats at the table.
Harriet had settled with her drink when one of the bar staff approached her.
“I beg your pardon, Mem,” he said and handed her a folded slip of paper.
She took it, recognizing at once the scrawl on the outside: Mrs. Gordon, written in Robert Curran’s appalling handwriting. Her heart jumped as she opened the folded paper.
I’m outside at the far end of the terrace, the note read.
“Who is sending you notes?” Edith demanded.
Harriet cast around. “Your mother wishes to have another word,” she lied.
Edith pulled a face. “Probably wants to know what I am up to. Honestly, I swear she spies on me. Say only nice things, Harriet.”
Harriet smiled and assured Edith of her complicity as she rose and made a dignified exit.
A man stood in the shadows at the far end of the terrace, looking out at the Padang, a cigarette in one hand and the other in his jacket pocket.
Harriet slowed her step until she was almost upon him.
“Curran?” He half turned and for a moment her breath caught. “I thought it was you I saw in the bar.”
“Good evening, Harriet.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“And you.”
“I don’t like the beard,” she said.
He rubbed his chin. “Neither do I, but needs must.”
“Were you also at the Batu Caves yesterday afternoon?”
His eyes widened slightly. “You saw me there?”
“I wasn’t certain. I’m glad to see you, Curran.” The words came out in a rush.
They stood in awkward silence for a long moment.
“Did you know your cousin George is in KL? I saw him in church tonight,” Harriet said.
“Yes. There is apparently no escaping anyone in this town. I have spoken to him. I don’t trust him to tie his own shoelaces, but hopefully, he will keep quiet.” He ground out his cigarette on the low wall that separated the verandah from the Padang. “What brings you and your brother up here?”
“Julian has been invited to consider a position at the Prince Alfred School,” Harriet said. “We are staying with the headmaster and his wife but don’t worry about us. We leave tomorrow.”
Curran nodded. “No offence, Harriet, but that’s a relief. When I saw you this evening, I thought I better let you in on my current alias. Just in case.”
“An alias? How mysterious. Who are you?”
“Mr. Ronald Sutton, gentleman and adventurer, writing a travel guide.”
“I see. Is Jayant with you?”
“He’s in the hospital. Dengue.”
“Oh no, will he be all right?” Harriet said with genuine alarm. Dengue could be a killer.
“I’m hopeful. He seemed better today.”
“And are you any closer to finding your sister?”
Curran paused. “Yes, and no. I tracked her to the … establishment where she had been, but I think we are going to have to face the fact that she may well be dead. Everything is pointing that way.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “So am I.”
She frowned, knowing Curran too well. He was not telling her everything. “But it’s not just about your sister. The disguise, the alias … there’s more, isn’t there, Curran?”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Confidentially, Harriet, I’m doing a job for the Federated Malay Police.”
She had to resist an urge to crow. “I knew there had to be something. It was all too convenient just letting you go on suspension.”
He held up a warning finger. “Not a word to anyone, not even Julian.”
“I am offended you would think that of me. What is the job?”
“I can’t tell you, but it is tied to the Topaz Club.”
Harriet nodded, suppressing a thousand questions that bubbled up inside her. “Very well, I understand.”
He smiled, that achingly familiar smile that crinkled his eyes at the corners. “I trust you implicitly, Mrs. Gordon. How are things in Singapore?”
“Keogh disbanded the department. Singh is back on traffic duty, Musa has been sent back to Changi, and as for me—”
“I know, Harriet. Keogh is a bastard, but I’ll see it righted when I get back.”
“And when do you get back?”
He shrugged. “When this assignment is finished.” He gestured at the door where the light spilled out onto the terrace. “You better get back to your friends before you’re missed.”
“Curran—” She cut herself off. “Be careful.”
“You know me, Harriet.”
“I do. That’s why I’m asking you to be careful.” She laid a hand on his chest. “It’s good to see you. I … we’ve all been concerned.”
He looked down at her hand, and she snatched it away.
“It’s good to know I have friends,” he said, lightly reaching out and touching the sleeve of her dress.
“You do. Come home safely.”
As she turned to leave, she glanced back. “Where are you staying?”
“The Empire Hotel. Room 15 if you need me.”
Julian met her at the door. “There you are! I was getting worried. Who were you talking to… it didn’t look like Edith’s mother—”
Harriet dropped her voice. “Curran. It was Curran. Say nothing, Julian. He wasn’t here, we haven’t seen him and if we do encounter him again, we’re strangers.”
“But—”
“I’ll explain later.”
Harriet apologized to the Robertsons for her absence. No one expressed any curiosity as to where she’d been, but she was conscious of Julian watching her.
