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  Praise for

  The Harriet Gordon Mysteries

  “Skillfully and seamlessly weaves actual people and events of the time with rich, multidimensional fictional characters. . . . By the end of this sharp, satisfying novel, you’ll be anxious to find out what happens in the next adventure.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review), on Singapore Sapphire

  “My favorite new mystery series! Set in a unique and compelling setting, and filled with fascinating historical research, deft characterization and thrilling suspense—readers will devour Singapore Sapphire. One of the best books I’ve read this year. I can’t wait to read Harriet’s next adventure.”

  —Anna Lee Huber, bestselling author of the Lady Darby Mysteries

  “Filled with all the hot, decadent splendor and sultry danger of colonial-era Singapore. Rich, atmospheric and fascinating!”

  —C. S. Harris, USA Today bestselling author of What the Devil Knows

  “Singapore Sapphire is a remarkably sensitive look at life in Singapore in 1910, with a wealth of historical detail as well as rich characterization.”

  —Criminal Element

  “Stuart brings both early-twentieth-century Singapore and her characters vividly to life in this first in the Harriet Gordon series.”

  —Booklist

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by A. M. Stuart

  The Harriet Gordon Mysteries

  Singapore Sapphire

  Revenge in Rubies

  Evil in Emerald

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Alison Mary Stuart Brideson

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Stuart, A. M., 1959– author.

  Title: Evil in emerald / A.M. Stuart.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2022. |

  Series: A Harriet Gordon mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021051765 (print) | LCCN 2021051766 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593335482 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593335499 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PR9639.4.S78 E95 2022 (print) | LCC PR9639.4.S78 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23/eng/20211029

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051765

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021051766

  First Edition: March 2022

  Cover art © Larry Rostant

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman

  Adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed

  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.

  pid_prh_6.0_139650553_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for The Harriet Gordon Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by A. M. Stuart

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  In loving memory of my mother-in-law, Patricia (1933–2021).

  Pat was a voracious reader who could knit like the Furies, with a book balanced on her knee, and for many years was my number one reader and copyeditor.

  Author’s Note

  In choosing to write a story set in colonial Singapore, I am conscious that I am portraying a time and characters with views and attitudes that are repugnant to our modern sensibilities. In every level of society there are the good and the bad, and characters like Lionel Ellis are grounded in historical reality. I hope there is sufficient reflection to be found in other characters within the story to provide balance.

  One

  Friday, 28 October 1910

  As the last strains of a waltz died away, Harriet Gordon looked up into Simon Hume’s handsome face. Her heart skipped a beat as he bent his head toward her and whispered, “It’s too early to go home and it’s a lovely night, let’s go for a walk.”

  “Yes, let’s,” she whispered back.

  After a wonderful dinner and a few turns around the dance floor at Raffles, a walk in the warm tropical evening seemed the perfect end to a perfect night.

  With the lights of the hotel and the bright music of the band behind them, they strolled arm in arm across Beach Road to the beach itself. Away from the hotel, the soft night enfolded them. Harriet threw her head back to look at the stars bright in the inky velvet blackness of the sky. She had had, maybe, one glass of wine too many, but she didn’t care.

  The peaceful sea sighed as it lapped gently onto the white sand and Simon pulled her away from the solidity of the palm groves toward the water.

  “Simon. I’m not dressed for beach walking,” she protested.

  “Then take off your stockings and shoes,” he said, and undid his own boots, hanging them from the laces around his neck. He rolled up his trousers and held out his hand.

  “Coming?”

  Harriet looked down at her expensive gray leather evening shoes and her one pair of silk stockings.

  “Oh, hang it all,” she said, and while Simon discreetly stood with his hands in his pockets looking out to sea, she pulled off her shoes and stockings. She rolled her stockings into the toes of her shoes, and holding the shoes in her left hand, she indecorously hitched her skirts almost to her knees, gathering the fabric into the wide velvet belt, before stepping gingerly out onto the sand.

  Simon caught her spare hand and tugged at her, pulling her down toward the water.

  “
Simon!” Harriet protested as he swept her into his arms and waded out into the sea. “My dress!”

  “It’s only ankle-deep, and it’s wonderfully warm.”

  He set her down but didn’t release her, his arm circling her waist. The water embraced her bare calves, her toes sinking into the sand as he pulled her closer. She slid her free hand beneath his jacket and closed her eyes, but even as she leaned into the warmth of his hard body beneath his shirt, the memory of another man intruded, a man who had rescued her from kidnappers and carried her to safety. She had pressed her cheek to the hard, damp khaki cloth of his uniform, grateful for his strength and the staunch heart that had driven him to risk his life for her and a small boy . . .

  “A moonlit night, a beautiful girl, and a tropical breeze. It doesn’t get any better,” Simon whispered into her hair before bending his head and kissing her, lightly at first.

  The heady effect of wine and the romance of time and place swept over Harriet, and she sent all other traitorous memories spinning across the water like a stone. She wound her arms around his neck and abandoned herself to the moment, allowing herself to respond to his kiss. She tasted the saltiness of his lips and breathed in the scent of soap and man.

  This should have been a magical moment, their first proper kiss after months of stepping out together. She held her breath, waiting for the sense that this was it, this was him.

  But she felt . . . nothing.

  She pushed away from him, but he caught her hand, his brow creased as he studied her face.

  “Harriet, that was presumptuous, I . . .”

  Presumptuous? They had been keeping company since August. Presumption was not the issue.

  She smiled. “It’s fine, Simon. Really. I’m just a little . . . out of practice.”

  He brushed her cheek with his forefinger. “I know how hard it must be, but your husband has been gone a few years, Harriet. It’s not fair that you should be alone.”

  She stood quite still, unsure how to respond. Her hesitation came not from a loyalty to the memory of James Gordon. It was not James, but that other man who slid like a shadow between them.

  “I just need time, Simon. I like you, I really do—”

  “Enough to—?”

  She stared at him. “To . . . what?”

  He looked at her, and in the moonlight a thousand conflicting emotions crossed his face before he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The last thing I want to do is put pressure on you.”

  Despite the warm night, she shivered. “I think I should get home, Simon. It’s getting late and I have a rehearsal tomorrow.”

  Simon laughed. “Oh, not that damned show. It’s bad enough I have to put up with Maddocks rehearsing ‘I am a Pirate King’ in the bathroom every night. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  “I shall ensure you have front row seats. I would hate for you to fall asleep,” Harriet chided.

  “With cat-like tread . . .” Simon sang as they strolled hand in hand back along the beach, barefooted in the warm water, the soft sand sliding away beneath their feet. When the lights of Raffles came into view and distant music once more spilled across the road, they ran up the beach to the tree line and sat on a fallen palm tree to pull on their shoes. Harriet grimaced as the lingering sand rubbed against the hard shoes, but it would never do to saunter back into Raffles barefooted.

  As they walked back to the car, Simon slid his arm around her shoulder, leaving her with no alternative but to slide her own arm around his waist.

  He swung her around to face him, lightly clasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raising her face to his.

  “Harriet. I’ve never known a woman like you—”

  “I should hope not,” she said with a laugh, gently disengaging his hand and climbing into the green Maxwell tourer, the greatest love of Simon Hume’s life.

  He shut the door, and they drove in silence through the quiet streets, back to St. Thomas House, where a kerosene lamp had been left on the verandah to light her return.

  Simon opened the passenger door, and as she stepped out, Harriet looked up at him and smiled, her hand on his chest.

  He’d done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Apart from the kiss, he had, as always, been the perfect gentleman. He was handsome, single, kind and considerate and from wealthy landed gentry in Australia. The perfect suitor in every way.

  “Thank you for a lovely evening, Simon.”

  He bent his head and lightly kissed her again. She did not protest, closing her eyes and allowing herself to enjoy the moment.

  “I’ll be back from Kuala Lumpur in a couple of weeks. I can hardly wait to see you again,” he whispered, curling a lock of her hair in his finger.

  “It seems like a long time to be away,” she said.

  “I know, but the story’s a big one. I will need the time.”

  “You haven’t told me what the story is about—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. “Another time, Harriet.”

  He vaulted back into the motor vehicle and, with a wave of his hand, turned the vehicle onto St. Thomas Walk.

  Harriet stood at the top of the steps and waited until she could no longer hear the noise of the engine, discordant among the familiar sounds of insects and animals in the tangle of jungle behind the school.

  She sighed and turned to pick up the lamp, smiling as she pushed open the door of the slumbering house.

  Something in their relationship had changed on the beach tonight, and despite her initial reaction, a small tingle of excitement ran down her spine. Her friendship with Simon Hume had crossed an unspoken line and Simon was right; James Gordon was dead, and he would be the last person to grudge her a new relationship. If she was ready to allow another man into her life, then why not Simon? If she felt no choirs of heavenly voices when he kissed her, that didn’t matter. They were neither of them green youngsters and love would come as friendship deepened.

  As for the other . . . ? The khaki-clad shadow . . . ? That was an illusion that had no more substance than the shifting sands beneath her feet.

  Two

  Saturday, 29 October

  He kissed you?”

  “Shush!” Harriet laid a hand on Louisa’s arm as she glanced around, hoping no one else on the verandah of the old McKinnon plantation, now known as the headquarters of the Singapore Amateur Dramatic and Music Society, was within earshot of Louisa’s exclamation.

  Rehearsals for the Christmas production of The Pirates of Penzance had been ongoing for several weeks and, mercifully, the pirates were all in the rehearsal room belting out “With cat-like tread” while the policemen’s chorus waited to join in. The girls were at the far end of the verandah, reclining on battered chairs, fanning themselves as the torpid heat of the Singapore afternoon leeched whatever energy they needed.

  “He kissed you?” Louisa repeated sotto voce. “I hope you kissed him back.”

  “Louisa!” The heat rose to Harriet’s cheeks.

  “Of course you did, and it’s about time. How long have you been stepping out together?”

  “Only since the end of August.”

  Louisa rolled her eyes. “And now it’s October. Harriet, really! You are still young and James has been dead for over three years now. He wouldn’t expect you to be carrying a torch for him. It’s time to start over.”

  James Gordon, like his friend Euan Mackenzie, Louisa’s husband, had lived for his work as a doctor. He valued Harriet’s share in his vocation and she had worked with him in the Bombay slums, but most of the time he wouldn’t have noticed if he had missed a meal or his shirts were unlaundered. She had spent many evenings alone waiting for him to return from a difficult birth or an urgent surgery. Many nights she had gone to an empty bed.

  No, Louisa was right, the Australian journalist Simon Hume was not James and it was unfair to compare them. She ha
d loved James and he her, but now, maybe, just maybe, she had a second chance at love.

  “I . . .” She struggled to find the words. “I like him very much, Louisa, but there is no . . .”

  “No what? Bells and angelic choirs singing? Harriet, you know very well that sort of romantic nonsense only belongs in books or silly operettas.” Louisa narrowed her eyes. “Or is there someone else? I always thought you and Griff—”

  “Griff?” Harriet all but shot out of her chair. “Definitely no bells and angelic choirs with Griff!”

  “Did someone mention my name?” Griff Maddocks, getting well into character as the Pirate King, sauntered out onto the verandah, wiping his brow with a handkerchief while his other hand rested on the hilt of a wooden sword.

  “I was just telling Louisa that it is entirely your fault that I allowed myself to be talked into this production,” Harriet lied.

  Griff snorted. “I didn’t twist your arm.”

  “No. You just said you couldn’t play tennis on Saturdays for a few months, leaving me without my doubles partner,” Harriet complained.

  Griff grinned. “Oh, come on, old girl, you make a simply splendid Kate and deep down you have to admit you’re enjoying mingling with a different crowd.”

  Harriet’s gaze swept the verandah where the company of the Singapore Amateur Dramatic and Music Society, or SADAMS as they referred to it among themselves, were spilling out of the rehearsal room for a well-earned break.

  They were certainly a different crowd, drawn from the expatriate community and coming from all walks of life: from lawyers, such as the company’s president and director, Charles Lovett of Lovett, Strong & Dickens, to the Straits Settlements Police Constable Ernest Greaves, typecast in the policemen’s chorus. SADAMS existed on the understanding that a love of Gilbert and Sullivan united the British Empire, even though the cast had been drawn entirely from the British expatriate residents of Singapore.

  Harriet had to admit that she was enjoying the experience. She had tried to enlist Julian, but he declared he detested Gilbert and Sullivan. To find himself dragooned into the chorus of Pirates of Penzance as a policeman, when he would rather be spending his Saturday afternoons playing cricket or comfortably ensconced on the verandah of St. Tom’s House reading Virgil, was a trial beyond bearing and he had refused point-blank.