Dangerous Inheritance (11 page)

Twenty hours later, after calling at Damascus, Bahrein and Bombay, they landed in Ceylon, thus arriving in the early morning of the 13th, a date long regarded by the superstitious as unlucky. For them it marked the beginning of a long series of anxieties and dangers, culminating in a desperate struggle to keep their freedom and their lives that they did not all survive.

They landed early in the morning at Katunayake, the great R.A.F. Base which, together with the historic Naval Base at Trincomalee, had been handed over to Ceylon only seven months earlier, marking the final withdrawal of British power.

It was surrounded by lines of coconut palms through which could be glimpsed the sparkling sea. Douglas's presence ensured them a quick passage through Immigration and Customs, and his father had sent two cars to meet them. By the time they set off for Colombo the sun was well up, it was pleasantly warm and the air balmy.

Fleur had never before been in the tropics, and during the hour's drive she could hardly have had a more pleasing sight of them. The road ran all the way through what had once been primitive jungle but was now a highly populated area. Along some stretches, palms, bread-fruit trees and frangipani, with almost bare branches but lovely flowers, grew in riotous confusion. Along others there were coconut groves alternating with broad belts of paddy fields; and all the vegetation was a startlingly vivid green.

Every few miles there was a village. Each had its school, either Buddhist or Catholic, and a dozen or more untidy, open-fronted shops, all of which seemed to offer the same goods—cotton garments, sweets, Coca-Cola and great heaps of tropical fruit and vegetables. The houses were small, and mostly wooden structures; but many were of brick covered with
stucco and had absurdly elaborate porticos for their size. All of them had little gardens in front, gay with flowers, and even the most tumbledown shacks had a few pots of flowering plants outside their doors.

All the way there was a lot of traffic: many cars, mostly of ancient vintage and often piled high with produce, and here and there a slow-moving cart drawn by hump-backed oxen. The people were light brown, small, slim, upright; the younger women pretty above the average, although their looks were often marred by protruding teeth. As it is an ancient custom to let the hair grow long, many of the men had theirs done up in big buns on the top of the head. The majority of both sexes were in native dress, the women in garments of several brilliant colours which never seemed to clash. Occasionally they passed an old man, nearly naked and carrying a tall staff as he made his way along the road, or a shaven-headed Buddhist priest wearing the yellow robe. There were, too, countless children of all ages, dressed in white European-style uniform, clutching a load of books, on their way to school.

After such sights Colombo, at first, was disappointing. There were no wide straight streets or spacious squares, but seemingly endless roads lined with decayed-looking houses and squalid shops. As they penetrated the city it seemed to be one vast slum. Then, at a snail's pace, the cars edged their way through a long narrow street jammed with traffic. On one side of it rose a high wall enclosing the docks, on the other were alleys that led to the fish market. The stench was appalling and every fifty yards or so a bedraggled old beggar lay asleep on the pavement.

But at length they got through to a few better streets in the district known as ‘the Fort', and to the south of it came out on to a broad esplanade. Inland across a wide stretch of grass stood the imposing House of Representatives and other fine Government buildings and at the far end lay the palatial block of the Galle Face Hotel.

When Ceylon had been under British rule this had been considered one of the finest hotels in Asia, and Douglas said that although it was not quite what it had been he was sure they would find it comfortable. For the Duke he had secured a suite
on the first floor, usually reserved for V.I.P.s. The rooms were vast, air-conditioned and looked out on the esplanade; but for the others he had been able to get rooms only in the further block, to which they had to walk through a quarter of a mile of passages. Having seen to it that they had everything they wanted, it was agreed that he should bring his parents to meet them at cocktail time, then he went off to his home. Tired after their long journey, they all had baths and went to bed.

When evening came they gathered in the long cocktail lounge at the front of the hotel. Soon afterwards Douglas arrived with his father and mother. Mr. Anton Rajapakse proved to be a small bald man, wearing enormous tortoiseshell glasses; his wife was much larger and a formidable looking woman with a big hooked nose, from whom Douglas had obviously acquired his slightly aquiline features.

When the Duke offered drinks, Mrs. Rajapakse asked for a gin-sling; her husband said he was a teetotaller and would like tea. When it was brought Fleur was surprised to see the waiter set down a glass pint tankard that tinkled with ice and had slices of lime and sprigs of mint in it; but she was soon to learn that iced tea served in this way was a favourite drink in Ceylon.

After the first few rather awkward minutes Mr. Rajapakse laid himself out to be pleasant. He said that he had always been on excellent terms with the British, and greatly admired them; so he was very happy that his son should have brought home an English bride, and particularly such a lovely one as Fleur. Mrs. Rajapakse nodded agreement and showed her obviously false teeth in a smile; but Marie Lou formed the impression that Douglas's mother was by no means so enthusiastic about her son's choice.

For about half an hour they talked mainly of sights that the visitors must be taken to see while on the island, and it was arranged that they should dine with the Rajapakses the following night; then with handshakes and bows Douglas's parents departed.

Next morning Douglas came to the hotel and, leaving the old Duke in bed, they drove along to the Fort. As a shopping centre
Fleur found its few streets disappointing. There was one big store called Cargills, but no little boutiques of the sort she had hoped to find. However, she was cheered up by Douglas taking her to a jeweller named Gunasena. It was a tiny shop but stocked with thousands of set and unset stones, mostly mined in Ceylon—sapphires of many shades, topazes, zircons, moonstones, garnets and catseyes. He also had diamonds but Fleur felt that for her engagement ring she ought to have a stone of the country, so she chose a beautiful square sapphire. Then Douglas insisted on also buying her a bracelet made up of a dozen fine semi-precious stones, each a different colour.

That afternoon they took their bathing things and drove out the five miles to Mount Lavinia. A big hotel was delightfully situated there on the far point overlooking a charming little bay with both sand and smooth rocks, and the water was so clear that they could see the bottom many feet down.

When they were having tea on the terrace afterwards, Douglas had to drive off several large crows that were attempting to snatch the cake from Fleur's plate. Laughing, he told her that the crows in Ceylon were a positive curse, for they were as bold as brass and inveterate thieves; and, if she were not sleeping in an air-conditioned room, would come in at the open window and make off with any jewellery she had left on her dressing table.

De Richleau, still feeling the strain of the long flight, had asked to be excused from dining with the Rajapakses that evening; but the others accompanied Douglas to his parents' house. It was a large airy building with wide verandahs and a well-kept garden, out in the best residential suburb. The evening passed off pleasantly enough, although Fleur got no closer to Douglas's mother, and was somewhat disconcerted when she was asked if she knew the Queen, whom she did not. It then emerged that Mrs. Rajapakse and her sister—another bulky and formidable lady—who was present, had both been presented when Her Majesty had visited Ceylon in 1954, and had escorted her round the home for invalid children. There was, too, another awkward moment when Douglas's aunt
expressed the fervent hope that Fleur would have at least six children, as she had definitely made up her mind that three was to be the limit.

Next morning the Duke felt sufficiently rested to hold a business conference with Douglas and his father. The latter, having stated that he had no doubts whatever about the justice of their claim, told de Richleau that it might not now be quite as easy to establish as they had at first believed.

On the Duke's instructions, the present occupier of the Olenevka estate and mines, Mr. Ukwatte d'Azavedo, had been served with papers. To have admitted his guilt would have been a confession of forgery and have led to a criminal action which would land him in prison; so, on his behalf, some days before his lawyers had sent in a formal repudiation of the claim.

That he would do so had been expected, but their case had appeared sound, resting as it did on the signed confession of Count Plackoff's dead butler-valet, Pedro Fernando, and the anticipation that they would be able to produce the other participant in the forgery, Pedro's wife Vinala, in court as a witness. However, when Rajapakse had sent one of his clerks to Olenevka to take a statement from Mrs. Fernando, it was found that she had disappeared and no-one knew where she had gone.

They had, of course, written to her earlier on the subject and assured her that, if she pleaded that her late husband had exerted pressure on her to witness the forged will, she would have nothing to fear; but it now seemed that she must have been so frightened at the thought of having to appear in court and confess to her act that she had decided to abandon her home and go into hiding.

When asserting d'Azavedo's innocence, his lawyers had stated that if the case went to court evidence would be brought to show that Pedro had had a long-standing grudge against their client; and if that could be proved it would weaken the value of his confession. Unless, therefore, the only living witness to the will could be found and persuaded to testify, the case would now rest largely on the evidence of handwriting experts.

On hearing all this the Duke was justifiably annoyed, as from the first account he had received it had appeared to be a clear-cut case; whereas it now looked as if he had been brought out to Ceylon on what might prove a wild goose chase.

The Rajapakses were most apologetic and the elder excused himself on the grounds that he had not received the Duke's instructions until the 30th April, it had taken several days to draw up the papers and the response from d'Azavedo's solicitors had not been received until the previous Friday. Moreover, they could not have foreseen either that Pedro's confession was to be challenged or that his wife would disappear. The question now was, did de Richleau still wish to proceed?

In favour of doing so were the points that d'Azavedo might be bluffing about Pedro and fail to show that he had any reason to seek revenge, that Mrs. Fernando might yet be traced and that, the inheritance being a large one, it was well worth an already rich man like the Duke gambling a few hundred pounds on the chance of securing it. Even more, de Richleau was influenced by the fact that now he was so old he could indulge in few amusements, and the endeavour to bring a forger to justice would provide him with a new interest. So, after some discussion, he told the Rajapakses to go ahead.

Their business being concluded, the elder Rajapakse took off his glasses, wiped them and said with a smile, ‘Now, Your Grace, for more pleasant matters. Owing to your kindness Douglas has already enjoyed an excellent holiday in Corfu. But my partners and I can get on quite well in the office without him for a while. Your case will not come on for some time, and in these special circumstances I should be happy to give him a further week, so that he can show his charming fiancée, yourself and Mr. and Mrs. Eaton something of the beauties of our country.'

De Richleau inclined his white head. ‘You are very kind. Many years ago I spent some time in Ceylon. I should like to visit Kandy again and various other places; and the others, of course, would welcome such a tour, particularly since you could spare Douglas to be our guide.'

‘It will be a pleasure,' Rajapakse replied. ‘And it is just as well that you should go up-country for a few days, because the situation in Colombo at the moment is causing some anxiety.'

‘So I gather,' said the Duke. ‘I was reading the
Ceylon Times
this morning, and it looks as if there is going to be trouble.'

‘I fear so. Ever since the death of our first Prime Minister, Mr. D. S. Senanayake, there has been a lot of unrest here. His son, Dudley, who succeeded him was a most respected man; but he was not supported by his colleagues and, unfortunately, we have a strong Communist element in Ceylon. The Reds engineered a national strike and riots which also seriously hampered his administration; so he resigned. Sir John Kotelawala also met with much opposition and it was during his administration that the agitation for Sinhala Only began, which is the cause of the present trouble. He visited Jaffna, the heart of the Tamil country, early in 1956 and promised parity of Tamil with Sinhalese. But a few months later came the landslide election in which his party was swept away, and Mr. Bandaranaike then put through the “Sinhalese Only” Bill. The Tamils, having been settled here for many centuries, naturally resented it bitterly and demanded the official use of their language in their own districts.'

‘They are settled mainly in the north, are they not?' asked the Duke.

‘Originally, yes. They arrived from southern India in a series of invasions dating from the eighth century and overwhelmed the old Sinhalese Kingdom of Rajarata there. Since then they have spread all over the island, mainly as plantation workers, but they keep to their own settlements and do not mingle with our village people. Many of them are now well-educated and clever men and, under the British Raj, held posts in our Civil Service. It was largely with the object of driving out both them and the British that Sinhalese was made the only official language.'