Read Online The Red Thread by Dawn Farnham - Free Book Online

open, pillared gate of Number 3, passed under the seven-bayed porte-cochere and over the cool green and white Malacca tiles of the porch and pulled the doorbell. This was a mere formality, as the doors stood open, and he made his way into the entrance hall.
    There he stood, waiting, and within a minute, Coleman himself, dressed as he usually was in loose trousers and a kurta of soft Indian cotton, emerged from the inner hall.
    â€˜For Gaard’s sake, Robert! What on earth can ye be wanting advice for at this time of the morning?’
    He ran his hand through thick, wavy brown hair, which he wore longish over his ears, and looked quizzically at his guest. His Irish accent was as strong today as when he had left Drogheda twenty-five years ago.
    â€˜G.D., you must help me, for I have not the faintest idea what to do. This is personal. Policing is no problem but this, really, I’ve done something— .’ He trailed off. He looked as if he might burst into tears at any minute.
    George took pity on him and threw an arm round his shoulder. ‘There, there, come on, up we go.’
    Coleman smiled and led his young friend across the hall, up the stairs, through the sitting and dining rooms and finally out onto the wide upper verandah, where lounging chairs and tables were in abundance. Calling for coffee, Coleman indicated two high-backed rattan chairs covered in cushions, and they sat.
    A platter of fruits, chunks of prickly pineapples, furry mangosteens and juicy pieces of giant pomelo arrived on the table, carried in by a pretty Tamil girl in a soft pink sari . Coleman preferred women around him and always tried to employ female servants whenever possible. This girl was the daughter of servants of one of his most important colleagues, Nanda Pillai, one of the most indispensable men in the settlement, in George’s opinion, whose brick kilns were his main supplier of building materials.
    â€˜These young Indian lasses, they’re quiet and loyal. As they grow older, I always try to find them husbands from the convict lines. The Indian convicts are the most reliable men in the entire settlement,’ he explained when asked.
    George Dromgold Coleman was not only the surveyor and architect of Singapore; he was Superintendent of Public Works and Overseer of Convicts, thousands of whom formed the cheap labour pool needed to carry out the East India Company’s road and building contracts, as well as his own private commissions.
    He also had the best coffee in Singapore, which he got directly from Sumatra, Toraja and Java through Tigran Manouk, Takouhi’s brother. George raised his cup. ‘To Baba Budan who stole the bean that so many fortunes are built on.’ This morning he had asked for beans from the high fields of Mandheling, in western Sumatra.
    George was always full of stories. He was very well read, had a personal library, was a frequent contributor to John Armstrong’s library and reading rooms on Commercial Square as well as a patron of the library at the institute and part-owner of the only newspaper in Singapore. Robert, who would rather do anything than read, nevertheless liked to listen to what Coleman called ‘tales of woe and wonder’. The story of how an Indian holy man smuggled the fiercely protected coffee beans out of Arabia was one of them. For a moment they both sat, silently savouring its richness and breathing in the aroma; then he addressed his friend.
    â€˜Well, Robert, what seems to be the trouble?’
    â€˜I think I’ve done something you won’t be pleased with.’
    Coleman raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Robert swallowed another gulp of coffee and in a strangulated voice began. ‘About two months ago I came home one evening, and when I got into bed there was a young native woman already there. She’s young and lovely, and I’m afraid I was unable to resist. She apparently has feelings for me, and I like her a great deal,