When the British finally broke into the King’s Palace in Kandy they found crates of empty wine bottles and not much else. The doors to the Treasury were wide open; and empty. Later, they tracked the King and Queen to their hiding place in a small house a few miles out of the city. The men who led the search party tore the Queen’s earlobe in their haste to get at her earrings. They ripped her blouse open. The British commanding officer put a stop to this, shocked at the savagery of their behaviour. The Queen asked for a glass of claret which she was served, and the King and Queen were escorted, under arrest but with all due dignity, to Colombo. There was no sign anywhere of the treasure, either then or later.
So where did it go?
It was the astrologer, Clarice’s father, who had first alerted her. ‘I see incalculable wealth,’ he said, ‘such as you and I can only dream of.’
‘Where?’ asked Clarice breathlessly. ‘Where?’ (She was not her father’s daughter for nothing.)
‘Underneath the house,’ the old man said.
The more Clarice thought about it, the more it made sense. Where would the King’s treasure be but with the Treasurer? If the King was fleeing Kandy, and could not take it all with him, to whom would he have entrusted his valuables? The traditional method of building houses in Sri Lanka anyway was to bury handfuls of jewels in the foundation. Was it so far beyond the bounds of possibility that the King’s treasure lay beneath the walauwa?
Clarice had broached the subject with her husband who had been alive at the time.
‘You mad woman!’ he had yelled. ‘Are you trying to break up the house as well?’ (The marriage had been on its last legs by then.) And that had been the end. Till a month ago, that is, when an article in the newspaper had caught her eye, about some of the King’s jewels turning up at an auction in London. The thoughts of treasure burned inside her like fever. The fact that she could have even read the article with her half-blind eyes was a sign. The fates were conspiring to lead her in its search. And now that that diabolical son of hers was finally gone, it was time.
First, she called in a reputed contractor, silver-haired and dressed respectfully in a white sarong. She showed him the floor of her son’s bedroom. (Where else would the treasure be? The Devil protects his own, doesn’t he?)
‘I need this excavated,’ she said.
The contractor looked doubtful. ‘How far down?’
‘Oh, ten feet?’ The Kumarihamy was suitably vague. ‘Twenty? You see there’s an evil charm buried deep down. I need to have it cleared before my son comes back.’
‘You need a sorcerer not a contractor,’ the man nearly said. But, he knew of the Kumarihamy’s influence in town (he might never find work again) and held his tongue. He began work the next week, bringing in a team of enthusiastic young labourers in bright T-shirts and geometric hairstyles. Kumarihamy sacked them after a day. ‘They’re wearing shoes,’ she explained.
‘They have to wear shoes,’ the contractor snapped. ‘Building regulations. They might injure their feet otherwise.’
‘Not in my house they don’t. Not while I am still alive.’
So the contractor brought in the next lot, selected with care for their non-confrontational dowdiness. They came in humbly and barefoot, leaving their assorted footwear on the verandah steps.
After a day, Kumarihamy accosted the contractor. ‘Tell your men,’ she said, ‘that this is a house. People still live here. It is not, I repeat, not a building site. So I want silence. While they work I want silence.’
Telling a Sri Lankan worker to keep silent is like telling a pregnant woman to hold back till the doctor comes. ‘You can have all the silence you want,’ the contractor said. ‘Because we’re leaving.’