The Betel Nut Tree Mystery Page 7

  Could Nicole have killed her fiancé because he wanted to call off their wedding? Or . . .

  ‘What if Nicole found out that Victor was having an affair?’ She looked like a woman whose jealousy was in the Hell Hath No Fury category.

  ‘Here?’ Parshanti said dismissively. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Someone who followed him out here or someone he had just met . . .’ Neither seemed likely, given how he had followed her onto the ship to make his dramatic proposal. ‘What if Victor found out that Nicole was seeing someone else?’

  ‘Again, who?’

  ‘Kenneth Mulliner?’ I suggested.

  ‘I’ll leave the magazines with you.’ Abruptly, Parshanti got up and left.

  I’d thought we were going to lunch together, but guessed she was going home to change out of her new dress since there was no one in the office worth getting it dirty for.

  I thought about Nicole Covington. She had slapped her son for calling her a black widow. But ‘black widow’ doesn’t really apply to a woman who’s lost only one husband. And I still didn’t believe a child Junior’s age, no matter how interested in bugs, would know the term or apply it to his mother. Junior must have heard someone using it. Had that someone also planted suspicions in Victor’s mind?

  It had to have been Kenneth or Dr Covington – unless, of course, it had been Victor himself.

  But it was no use speculating before I’d had the chance to talk to Junior again. I returned to the magazines. The gossipy speculations and advertisements for teeth whiteners and scented hand creams made me feel as if I had eaten too much coconut ice. I don’t know how people read these things for fun. But then I found an old article that made me knock on Le Froy’s door.

  ‘Sir, here’s a Pip’s Squeaks piece that claims Radley Covington married Nicole Robert because he suspected her of being interested in someone else.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘No name given. He’s referred to here as’ – I read from the magazine – ‘“a Jewish university professor up in an ivory tower who writes cutting pieces warning of the rise of fascism in the slums below”. I could ask Nicole . . .’

  ‘Get hold of the writer and find out what other information he has.’

  ‘No one knows who the writer is, sir. “Pip’s Squeaks” is written by an anonymous source. Even the papers claim they don’t know his real identity. He writes about American and British high society from the inside, so he has to keep his cover.’

  ‘Did this “Pip” discuss Glossop’s upcoming marriage?’

  ‘No. Only the proposal.’

  Le Froy started to say something about wiring the papers, but just then I saw something out of the window that made me leap out of my chair and push past Sergeant Pillay, who had just come in with tea.

  ‘Stomach?’ Sergeant Pillay asked sympathetically. ‘You want charcoal tablets?’

  ‘No.’

  Parshanti had not gone home to change her dress after all.

  ‘I think you should take a harder look at Kenneth Mulliner,’ I called, as I headed out. ‘I don’t trust that man!’

  Trusting Kenneth Mulliner

  The rain had stopped but it was not yet hot. Small birds were squabbling for bugs in the roadside weeds while larger ones scrabbled around the buildings for discarded food or, oddly, cigarette ends. Singapore had just had a bath and felt pleasantly new and fresh.

  What was less pleasant was seeing Parshanti and Kenneth together further up the road. I hadn’t been mistaken. I hurried back into the Detective Shack. Three surprised faces turned in my direction. ‘I’m going for an early lunch.’ I grabbed the umbrella that served as a walking stick as well as protection from people and weather. Sergeant de Souza started to say his mother had prepared her special lontong for everyone in the office to share, but I waved and left.

  I wasn’t really following Parshanti. I meant to keep my distance as long as they stayed in public. But Kenneth noticed me and stopped. Parshanti didn’t look pleased. Well, that made two of us. At least she had taken off those silly gloves.

  ‘Hello, there! Where are you going in such a hurry, Su Lin?’

  If Parshanti’s wearing a going-out frock instead of a work dress in the middle of a weekday hadn’t warned me, her suddenly high social voice would have.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ The eyes she narrowed at me warned me not to say anything that might make her look bad in front of Kenneth.

  He stubbed out his cigarette (on someone’s pristine white-painted window ledge!). ‘Parshanti was just telling me that you and Harry Palin are friends. She didn’t realize you see him as a suspect in the murder case.’

  ‘Everyone is a suspect. Even you, Mr Mulliner.’

  Parshanti gasped and hit my arm – much harder than a sweet, flirtatious young lady should. ‘Su Lin! You can’t say things like that to a friend!’

  ‘It’s practically libel,’ Kenneth said lightly. ‘In America, you could be strung up for saying things like that to a white man.’ But he said it in a way that suggested he was teasing rather than threatening me. He swept off his sun hat and made me a mock bow. ‘But I don’t mind. Kenneth Mulliner, murder suspect, at your service.’

  They both laughed and I saw my mistake. Now they had shared (what they thought was) a joke, Parshanti felt even more comfortable with him.

  I remembered what the Dale Carnegie book in the Mission Centre said about winning trust. ‘You must feel terrible about what happened to your friend. Is Mrs Covington any better? Do you know if her friend who writes the Pip’s Squeaks articles has been in touch with her?’

  ‘Pip’s Squeaks?’ Kenneth raised an eyebrow. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Do you know it? I have no idea how much of what he writes is true, but “Pip” is very entertaining!’

  ‘I think you can rely on pretty much everything you read in Pip’s Squeaks. Seems to be a matter of honour with that chap.’

  ‘I wonder how he knows so many famous people.’ Parshanti got back into the conversation. She only read Pip’s Squeaks for the people Pip mentioned, not caring about his clever observations or the way he manipulated language.

  ‘He might write about you one day and make you famous, Miss Shankar.’

  ‘Oh, if only, Mr Mulliner.’ Parshanti giggled. She might fancy herself sophisticated, but the truth was, she didn’t have any more experience with young men than I did. Her mixed race (evident in the golden skin that a new blue frock showed up so well) frightened off most serious admirers. Mrs Shankar frightened off the rest.

  ‘Call me Kenneth. Can I call you Patricia?’

  Parshanti looked embarrassed. I realized she must have assumed he remembered her as well as she remembered him. She recovered quickly, ‘My name is Parshanti, but you can call me Shanti for short.’ A tendril of hair escaped her plait and she was winding it around her finger with her head tilted. It was a familiar gesture that filled me with dread. Sometimes I think the presence of an attractive man cuts off the blood supply to her brain and makes her stupid. And I could see she found Kenneth Mulliner attractive. The sharp dread you feel when a dog with big teeth fixes its eyes on you assailed me.

  ‘Shanti. Shall I or shan’t I, Shanti?’

  Parshanti giggled again. Then there was an awkward pause. If I had had the least bit of tact, I would have left them alone to get to know each other better. But I have always valued facts over tact.

  ‘Come on.’ I tried to get Parshanti away. ‘Let’s go to the fishball noodle stall. I’m hungry.’

  ‘What’s the hurry? It’s too early for your lunch break, isn’t it? You always say you can’t just leave work when you feel like it.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and question your friend Harry Palin over lunch, if you’ve nothing better to do?’ Kenneth suggested.

  ‘Is it true the police suspect Harry Palin? Su Lin, you can’t believe that! Poor Harry! You know he’d never hurt anybody.’

  Once I got the chance I was going to have a serious talk with
Parshanti: she had to learn not to talk to suspects about suspects.

  ‘We will be interviewing everyone who knew the dead man,’ I said. ‘Especially Mrs Covington, when she feels up to talking. I thought Dr Covington was Nicole’s father at first. Don’t you find it strange they’re travelling together when they don’t seem to get along well?’

  ‘Su Lin! You can’t say things like that!’ Parshanti hissed.

  ‘Anyone can see Dr Covington doesn’t get along with his daughter-in-law.’

  ‘They were living together in America,’ Kenneth said, ‘and travelling together is just an extension of that. Nicole must find the old man useful. He spends more time with Junior than she does. And Taylor is a very rich man, of course. Our Nicole hates being alone and likes rich men. She’ll keep Taylor around until she finds the next. It should have been Victor, but now poor little Nicole will have to start again with someone else.’

  I had theorized that Kenneth was secretly in love with Nicole, based on his letting her boss him around. Most women wouldn’t have dared till after they were safely married. But now he sounded as if he didn’t even like her. Of course, he might just be a very good actor, which meant I shouldn’t trust what he was saying now.

  Or it might be a front the two of them had cooked up together, which would raise Kenneth Mulliner to the top of my suspect list, along with his possible lady love.

  ‘And what about Dr Covington?’ I asked. ‘Why does he put up with her? Why doesn’t he settle somewhere with his grandson?’

  Parshanti flared, ‘If Nicole Covington was travelling with her mother-in-law instead of her father-in-law, everyone would be singing her praises. Like Ruth and Naomi in the Bible. Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Stop being so judgemental, Chen Su Lin!’

  I was taken aback. I hadn’t thought Parshanti paid any attention during our Bible-study classes. I hadn’t. After all, Bible study (though compulsory) had not been a subject in the Cambridge exams.

  Kenneth was also stunned. He stared for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes and snot from his nose. ‘I never thought to travel halfway around the world to have Bible passages quoted to me by an Oriental!’ He offered his arm to Parshanti. ‘Mademoiselle, walk with me back to the Farquhar. We’ll have lunch there, and perhaps I can persuade you to tell your friend I am innocent.’

  Parshanti glanced at me to see if I appreciated the honour she was being offered. I shook my head urgently. Parshanti took Kenneth’s arm and they turned in the direction of the hotel.

  ‘Mr Mulliner,’ I said, ‘were you waiting to see Chief Inspector Le Froy about something? You were lurking outside the office.’

  ‘What’s that? Oh, no, not lurking. I decided to take a walk. See something of the town. Glad I did.’ He patted Parshanti’s hand.

  ‘And why do you continue spending time with Nicole, Mr Mulliner?’

  ‘Because of your chief inspector,’ Kenneth called back, without turning. I suppose he didn’t think it necessary when walking away from an Oriental. Lucky for him I wasn’t petty enough to mind. ‘If he’s keeping me on this damned island I might as well make the most of my time here.’

  Parshanti’s glance over her shoulder was a mix of excitement and pleading. Look who I’m with! And Please don’t spoil this for me!

  I should tell her parents: that would be the smart thing to do. But they would be so furious with her and she would be furious with me. And I had no proof – yet – to justify putting Kenneth Mulliner at the top of my list of murder suspects.

  They clearly didn’t want me around. So, of course, I followed them.

  Kaeseven

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  I jerked my face out of the bougainvillaea hedge (ouch!) and saw a tall, thin figure behind me. I thought it was a suspicious hotel employee. I was on the street side of the bushes flanking the lawn patio of the Farquhar’s tea room, peering through thorny branches to keep an eye on Parshanti and Kenneth at their table.

  As long as my friend was in sight I knew she wasn’t being murdered by my top murder suspect. Though, of course, we didn’t yet know how Victor Glossop had been killed. If he had been poisoned, there was nothing to stop Kenneth Mulliner slipping something into Parshanti’s soup even as I watched.

  I knew I couldn’t say that to the hotel staff. If challenged, I planned to tell them I was Parshanti’s servant girl and had been told to wait outside for her. As it turned out, I didn’t have to lie.

  ‘Miss Chen! I thought that was you.’

  The white uniform was unfamiliar, but I remembered the voice and grinning teeth.

  ‘Cookie!’ I exclaimed (quietly) in delight. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you went back to India after – after the trial and everything,’ He had been in charge of the kitchen at Government House when Harry Palin’s father had been acting governor.

  ‘Kaeseven at your service, Miss Chen.’ Cookie – sorry, Kaeseven – looked as glad to see me as I was him. ‘I am no longer employed as a domestic cook. Now I am number-two chef here in the Farquhar Hotel.’

  ‘I am so glad.’ And I was, but not only to see an old friend. It might be very useful to have someone I trusted working at the Farquhar.

  ‘You must come and see my kitchen. I want to feed you again, Miss Chen.’

  Oh, how I wanted to. Watching people eat always makes me hungry. My stomach was growling, and I was so thirsty I could hardly think of anything else. But I was there on a job, even if self-appointed. ‘I can’t right now. Sorry. Oh, Kaeseven, do you think you can you bring me some water?’

  Kaeseven pushed his face into the shrubbery as I had been doing. ‘Your friend and her companion will be here for some time more. They ordered dessert and coffee to follow their meal. You can come back here to watch when I send out their dessert. Come, Miss Chen. Does the inspector know that Mr Victor and Miss Nicole had a big fight the day he died? And that later the same night Miss Nicole had a big fight with Mr Kenneth?’

  He knew me well, dangling the information like bait.

  ‘We heard Victor and Nicole had a fight but we don’t know what about.’

  ‘Come,’ said Kaeseven. ‘Eat first, then talk.’

  Kaeseven settled me at a table in the open-air space behind the kitchen. It was where vegetables were prepared and there were trays of water chestnuts and mung bean sprouts awaiting attention. I started topping and tailing the sprouts as I watched the goings-on in the room. I was surprised things were not busier during lunch hour.

  ‘Dinner service is much busier than lunch. Most of the guests prefer to eat out at midday,’ Kaeseven explained, when he came back. He looked approvingly at my efforts and took over as I greedily drained the glass of sour plum juice and started to eat the simple dish of yellow rice and curried vegetables he had fixed.

  ‘We get a few locals coming in for business lunches. When they are working they never notice what they eat, so it is a good time for the younger cooks to practise.’

  Even if the diners did not notice, I saw all the dishes were brought out to him for vetting before they were taken into the dining room. Kaeseven was still the exacting ‘Cookie’ I had known in the governor’s mansion. I was glad his cooking had got him a hotel job.

  ‘Those people, there is a small boy with them. Nice boy, but he steals things.’

  ‘Junior? What things?’

  ‘Small things. Like a little dog that’s burying things to dig up later. No point reporting, but if you find my makkhana phirni upstairs, bring it down for me. It is my own, not belonging to the hotel.’

  ‘Just now you said Nicole fought with Victor Glossop the night he died. And then with Kenneth Mulliner. Do you know what either of those fights were about?’ I spoke with a mouth full of aubergine, sweet potato and cauliflower deliciously seasoned with coriander, cumin, turmeric
and who knew what else?

  ‘Miss Nicole wants to go to Mr Victor’s party. He says it is just for . . . bachelors.’ There would have been professional female companions for the bachelors. Perhaps that was what Nicole had been upset about.

  ‘Miss Nicole wants parties with dancing and cocktail drinks.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Kaeseven shrugged. ‘Sometimes, when people shout at each other, you cannot help knowing. And then Miss Nicole came to the kitchen and shouted at me, the number-two chef.’

  ‘What?’ This startled me enough to stop eating. ‘Nicole shouted at you? Why?’

  ‘She asked me to make a big cake for the party. Big enough that she can hide inside and jump out. She said in America all the best hotels without fail provide big cakes for women to jump out of.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told her that for such cakes she must order in advance. Special equipment is needed. You cannot tell me in the afternoon that tonight you want a big cake to jump out of.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Kaeseven signalled and a serving boy put two cups of aromatic mint tea on the table.

  ‘Miss Nicole said she will complain about me to the manager. She will tell the manager I was rude to her. She said she is going to tell everybody that my kitchen is dirty and full of rats. And that night she didn’t eat dinner in the restaurant. None of them did.’

  He looked sad. No matter how ridiculous, a white woman’s word carried more weight than the truth in Singapore. Nicole’s wild accusations might cost Kaeseven his job at the hotel.

  ‘Don’t worry. Nicole has other things to think about now than jumping out of cakes. Cookie— Kaeseven, Le Froy will want to know this. If I type out what you told me, will you sign it and answer any questions he has?’