A Will to Kill E-Book

RV Raman

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

THE FIRST IN A NEW SERIES THAT IS EVERYTHING WE LOVE ABOUT COSY CRIME - A SECLUDED MANOR HOUSE, RELATIVES WITH NEFARIOUS MOTIVES AND A PERPLEXING MURDER - SET IN CONTEMPORARY INDIA A SUNDAY TIMES BEST CRIME NOVEL OF THE MONTHAN OBSERVER THRILLER OF THE MONTHA NEW YORK TIMES RECOMMENDED BOOKA CRIMEREADS BEST MYSTERY OF 2020 'Hugely entertaining... set in modern-day India but its origins lie in the golden age of crime fiction' Sunday Times 'A slice of sheer pleasure... a proper, thorny puzzle' Observer 'Like stepping back to the Golden Age of the classic mystery' Rhys Bowen, international bestselling author of The Tuscan Child _______ MIST Ageing millionaire Bhaskar Fernandez has invited his relatives to the remote, and possibly haunted, Greybrooke Manor, high up in the misty Nilgiris. MOUNTAINS He knows his guests expect to gain from his death, so he writes two conflicting wills. Which one of them comes into force will depend on how he dies. MURDER Fernandez also invites Harith Athreya, a seasoned investigator, to watch what unfolds. When a landslide leaves the estate temporarily isolated, and a body is discovered, Athreya finds that death is not the only thing that the mist conceals. . . Your next cosy crime fix - perfect for fans of Golden Age crime, Knives Out and Lucy Foley _______ MORE PRAISE FOR A WILL TO KILL 'Brilliantly evokes Agatha Christie's classic country-estate mysteries for modern-day India' CrimeReads, Best Mysteries of 2020 'An enchanting setting in the Indian Hill country. . . a modern twist on a traditional whodunit' Ann Granger, author of the Campbell and Carter detective series 'I love RV Raman's Harith Athreya. . . A good traditional mystery with twists and turns' Ovidia Yu, author of CWA-shortlisted The Mimosa Tree Mystery 'The influence of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr on the narrative is compelling. . . influences of author Ngaio Marsh. . . subtle, clear, ironic, but always elegant and peppered with wit; characters sharply, sometimes hilariously, drawn' Telegraph India _______ READERS LOVE A WILL TO KILL 'This is an enjoyable classic whodunit involving an array of characters within a feuding family. . . [it] has an old-fashioned charm and is all the better for leaving the reader guessing who and why until the last pages. . .' 'Entertaining and engaging. . .' 'A nod to the Golden Age of crime in an entertaining and engaging mystery with a genuine puzzle at its heart. . .A promising start to a series'

Leseprobe

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‘I love RV Raman’s Harith Athreya with his cool, curious resourcefulness. A Will to Kill is a good traditional mystery with twists and turns set in a colonial-era mansion in the Nilgiri Hills’

ovidia yu, author of CWA-shortlisted The Mimosa Tree Mystery

‘Like stepping back to the Golden Age of the classic mystery’

rhys bowen, international bestselling author of The Tuscan Child

‘A modern-day take on the classic locked-room murder mystery… Athreya is a fine detective with a curious mind’

New York Times

‘The influence of Agatha Christie and John Dickson Carr on the narrative is compelling… influences of author Ngaio Marsh… subtle, clear, ironic, but always elegant and peppered with wit; characters sharply, sometimes hilariously, drawn’

The Telegraph India

‘Intriguing contemporary whodunit and series launch… fans of golden age mysteries will look forward to the sequel’

Publishers Weekly

‘We may not have our own Sherlock or Poirot, but the narrative tradition of Christie and Doyle has found a worthy successor in RV Raman. I cannot wait to read more of Harith Athreya’s adventures’

National Herald India2

‘Brilliantly evokes Agatha Christie’s classic country estate mysteries for modern-day India… an ingenious plot, and Raman takes obvious delight in teasing out the suspense to great effect’

Crimereads

‘Channelling Agatha Christie isn’t a bad way for a writer to spend his time, not if he does it well. Raman does it splendidly… [he] delivers a full-blast Christie mystery set in India but full of classic Christie tropes’

Booklist

‘A Will to Kill is an excellent novel… Author RV Raman’s writing is quick and on edge, it’s realistic, and he did a brilliant job with the intricacies’

Bookish Elf

Following a corporate career spanning three decades and four continents, rv raman now lectures on management, mentors young entrepreneurs, serves as an independent director on company boards, and writes.

A Will to Kill is the first novel in the Harith Athreya series. A Dire Isle, the next Harith Athreya mystery, is forthcoming from Pushkin Vertigo in 2022.

www.rvraman.com

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CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE 123456789101112131415161718192021 EPILOGUEAVAILABLE AND COMING SOON FROM PUSHKIN VERTIGOREAD ON FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER OF GRAVE INTENTIONS (A HARITH ATHREYA MYSTERY 2)COPYRIGHT

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The visitor was ill at ease, fidgeting with his watch’s metal strap, locking and releasing the clasp repeatedly. He had already made two attempts to convey the message he was carrying, and had pulled up short both times. He glanced around the near-empty, wood-panelled restaurant at Chennai’s New Woodlands Hotel where the late-afternoon crowd was yet to arrive. Across the table, under a large painting of young Lord Krishna stealing butter, Harith Athreya waited, studying the willowy young man who had given his name as Manu Fernandez. The sealed envelope Manu had brought remained unopened on the polished wood table, beside a steaming tumbler of filter coffee.

Manu had just invited Athreya to his family mansion in the Nilgiris on his father’s behalf, and was ineffectively trying to pass along the rest of the message. When he made little headway the third time, Athreya stepped in to encourage him.

‘You are only the messenger, not the author of the message,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t feel awkward about it.’

He paused as a waiter brought them hot, steaming idlis. Manu leaned back in his green-covered chair to let the waiter serve the snack with sambar and chutney. A determined look crept on to his lean, clean-shaven face as he watched the waiter do his job. Once he was out of earshot, Manu squared his shoulders and took the mental plunge.

‘You see, Mr Athreya, Dad has written two wills,’ he blurted.

‘Surely, that isn’t a problem. The later will would prevail.’

‘Normally, yes. But in this case, both wills are dated the same, and Dad has gone to the extent of writing the exact same time on both. He has also got witnesses to sign the wills simultaneously, 8in the presence of a lawyer. Neither of the two can be said to supersede the other.’

‘That’s interesting!’ Athreya’s curiosity was piqued. He had not encountered such a situation before. Manu’s father seemed to be an unusual man. Athreya found himself looking forward to meeting him, for he already knew that he would be accepting this intriguing invitation. He leaned forward. ‘Why did your father do that?’ he asked.

Manu shrugged, avoiding both the question and Athreya’s eyes. Instead, he spooned a piece of idli into his mouth.

‘From what you say,’ Athreya went on, ‘both wills would be considered equally valid.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then which one will take effect when your father… er… passes away?’

Manu dropped his spoon and touched his lips with a napkin.

‘That would depend on the manner in which he dies,’ he replied.

Athreya’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

‘I’m afraid you lost me there,’ he said.

‘It… it’s like this…’ Manu stuttered. ‘If Dad dies of natural causes, one will takes effect. But if he dies… unnaturally, the other one comes into force.’

‘By “natural causes”, you mean—’

‘Old age or a naturally contracted illness,’ the younger man explained.

‘But if he dies as a result of anything else, the other will takes effect?’

‘Yes. That includes death by accident as well.’

‘I see,’ Athreya murmured, frowning as his right index finger traced invisible figures and words on the tabletop. Clearly, the developing puzzle had captured his imagination. As a retired 9investigator, his interest in commonplace crimes had waned. Although no crime had yet been committed, the situation at the Fernandez family mansion intrigued him.

‘Does your father expect to die… er… unnaturally?’ he asked Manu.

‘That is a question you should ask him.’

‘I can’t, as he is not here. But you are, so tell me what you know.’

After an uncertain pause, Manu’s face suddenly broke into an apologetic smile.

‘Some say that a curse hovers over Greybrooke Manor, our family mansion. According to legend, every past owner of the house has died a violent death, and every future owner will die violently too. I don’t know if it is true, but I remember my grandfather laughing it off when I was a kid. My grandmother was furious that he had talked about this dark legend with us kids.’

‘How did your grandfather die?’ Athreya asked softly.

‘In an accident. He was standing by the open door of a moving train, smoking his pipe, when he slipped and fell out. His head was crushed when he hit a rock. Death must have been instantaneous.’

Athreya sat back and gazed at the younger man for a long moment, stroking his fine-haired beard, which had a patch of silver at the chin.

‘An accident, no doubt?’ he asked.

‘Of course. No reason to believe otherwise. He had been drinking heavily on the train.’

‘And who had owned the mansion before your grandfather?’

‘A string of Britishers. I don’t know much about them, except the last one, whose heir sold the estate to my grandfather. This was after the heir’s father had died.’

‘And how did that Englishman die? Do you know?’10

‘Had his throat slit when he was asleep in bed. He was said to have molested a local girl the day before. The girl’s father slipped into the mansion at night and killed him.’

‘I see… am I to assume that your father wrote two wills on account of this legend?’

‘It could be the legend, or it could be his fascination with crime fiction. He absolutely devours those books. Sometimes I feel that he lives in a world of his own—part fictional, part real. I really can’t think of any other reason. As I said, this is a question that is best put to him directly.’

‘Tell me,’ Athreya asked as he stirred his coffee, ‘who benefits from your father’s death?’

Manu squirmed in his chair. It was apparent that he had hoped Athreya wouldn’t ask this question. But he answered it nevertheless, presumably due to his father’s instructions.

‘That depends on which of the two wills comes into force. The contents of one will—let’s call it the first will—are common knowledge. This is the one that takes effect if he dies of natural causes. But the contents of the second will are a secret known only to Dad.’

‘OK. Who are the beneficiaries in the first will?’

‘Several people, but I benefit the most. As his only child, I inherit the lion’s share of the estate, including Greybrooke Manor.’

‘And who are the other beneficiaries?’

‘My cousins and some neighbours. What they will receive isn’t trivial by any yardstick. The pieces of the estate due to them are pretty valuable at today’s prices.’

‘Not trivial, eh? Your father seems to believe that the chances of his dying unnaturally aren’t trivial either.’

Athreya took a sip of his coffee and studied Manu over the rim of his tumbler. He was beginning to understand why Manu’s 11father, Bhaskar Fernandez, had invited him to Greybrooke Manor.

‘One practical way of looking at it,’ Athreya went on when Manu didn’t respond, ‘is that some people have a reason to kill your father. But if they do, they will not inherit their share. It’s a stalemate of sorts. Is your father trying to protect himself by writing two wills?’

Manu shrugged and dropped his gaze.

‘Why does he want me to come to Greybrooke Manor?’ Athreya asked.

‘Honestly, Mr Athreya, I don’t know.’ Manu’s gaze was riveted to the tabletop. ‘But I suspect he wants to consult you. Besides, being crazy about crime fiction, he would love to chat with you. He has his own stories to tell, too. He’s wanted to meet you since he heard about you from a mutual friend. We are having a house party with family and neighbours. He probably wants to take advantage of that and have you, too.’

Fifteen minutes later, Athreya was dialling the number of the mutual friend on his mobile phone, a retired judge by the name of Suraj Deshpande. On the table was the invitation. It was a single sheet of off-white handmade paper. In the top left corner was an inscription in bold dark-grey lettering: ‘greybrooke manor, nilgiris’. The top right corner read: ‘bhaskar fernandez’.

The rest of the sheet was covered with an old-school slanting cursive. The letter was written in purple ink, with a broad-nibbed fountain pen:

Dear Mr Athreya,

I heard of you from our mutual friend, Suraj Deshpande. From the first time Suraj spoke of you, I have wanted to meet you. I would be greatly obliged 12if you would consent to spend a few days with me at my estate in the Nilgiri Hills.

I have been an aficionado of crime writing (both fiction and non-fiction) for much of my later years, and would truly welcome an opportunity to talk to someone who has so much knowledge and understanding of such matters.

Unfortunately, my health does not permit me to travel as much as I used to. I have therefore asked my son (the bearer of this letter) to extend a personal invitation on my behalf. I can promise you excellent food, a comfortable stay and company that you will find both varied and interesting.

As an additional inducement, may I point out that Greybrooke Manor is a colonial-era mansion? It has been renovated to offer every modern amenity one could reasonably expect. It is a salubrious retreat away from the crowds and bustle of Ooty and Coonoor, and is as close to nature as one can get without sacrificing comfort and convenience.

I do hope that you will not disappoint me. I look forward to receiving your acceptance.

I am also wondering if you could help me professionally on a personal matter. We could perhaps discuss it when we meet.

Yours faithfully,

Bhaskar Fernandez

8 November 2019

As Athreya waited for Suraj Deshpande to answer the call, he tried to recall the last time he had received a formal handwritten letter, particularly one inscribed with a fountain pen. These days, 13letters that were not electronic were invariably typed. Except for the signature at the bottom, such letters showed little in the way of character.

But Bhaskar Fernandez’s letter was pleasingly different. The firm writing hinted at a man of strong will, while the choice of words suggested grace. The distinctive letter paper, which was clearly expensive, was indicative of wealth and refinement. And the colour of the ink spoke of the individuality of the writer.

Even without considering the riddle of the two wills that Manu had spoken about, Athreya found himself inclined to accept Bhaskar’s invitation. The opportunity to spend a few days at a colonial-era mansion in the lap of nature was a temptation that was difficult to resist. All that remained was to have a word with Suraj.

‘What can you tell me about Bhaskar Fernandez?’ he asked the retired judge, once the niceties were behind them.

‘A cultured man with excellent taste,’ Suraj replied. ‘You will agree once you see his collection of antiques and paintings. It must have taken a lot of time and effort to build a collection such as his. Not to mention money, of which he has plenty.

‘At the same time, he is a tough nut to crack. He can be more stubborn than a mule. When he digs his heels in, there is no power on earth that can move him… except perhaps his niece Dora. He is a fascinating man, even if some of the stories he tells are a little over the top.’

‘What did he do before he retired to the Nilgiris?’

‘He was an antique dealer. I think he used to deal in paintings, too. He has travelled widely, especially in Europe and Asia, but also a bit in the Americas. He lived in Vienna for a number of years. Made a pile of money and returned to India twenty-five years ago.’

‘Do you know he has two wills?’ Athreya asked.14

‘Two wills?’ Suraj repeated. ‘I know of one.’

Athreya summarized what he had learnt from Manu.

‘There is a bit of history there,’ Suraj said, his voice dropping a notch or two. ‘The Greybrooke estate has been the subject of a long and bitter legal battle. Bhaskar’s father bequeathed it solely to him, his eldest son. But Bhaskar’s sister and brother challenged the bequest. After years of delay, the challenge was finally thrown out of court early this year, and the estate came completely into Bhaskar’s hands. In the meantime, both his brother and sister had passed away.

‘Bhaskar, being the man he is, made a voluntary pledge—in public—that he would not leave his nephew and two nieces unprovided for. However, the will stipulates that their bequests will go to them only after his death. Similarly, Bhaskar has bequeathed things of considerable value to neighbours and servants.’

‘In other words, there are people waiting for him to die?’ Athreya asked.

Suraj paused. Athreya imagined his friend’s mind working in high gear. He was relieved that he had called Suraj. During the twenty-odd years they had known each other, Athreya had always found Suraj to be reliable—both as a source of information as well as in his assessment of people. Suraj too had often relied upon Athreya’s uncanny knack of imagining potential possibilities and opening up new avenues to explore. Consequently, a strong bond had formed between the judge and the investigator, and had lasted beyond retirement.

‘If that is so,’ Suraj responded slowly, ‘Bhaskar is in no hurry to oblige. There are many more years in him. He may be wheelchairbound, but he is only sixty-five.’

‘And what is this party he is organizing next week?’ Athreya continued. ‘Do you know anything about it?’15

‘He wants to put an end to the acrimony the legal battle has created. He wants the family to come together again, as originally intended by Bhaskar’s father—wipe the slate clean and let the family start over afresh. I believe they are all gathering at Greybrooke Manor: Bhaskar’s nephew and two nieces, along with a few neighbours.’

‘When did Bhaskar’s siblings die?’ Athreya asked.

‘Bhaskar is the eldest. Mathew, his brother, died three years ago, and Sarah, his sister, passed away last year. Their children are all that’s left of the extended family. Bhaskar’s wife passed away almost ten years ago—a wonderful lady who died too young.’

‘Yes,’ Athreya agreed. ‘That’s what I was thinking… too young. Bhaskar is the oldest of them all and he is only sixty-five. All the others—his siblings and his wife—seem to have died too young.’

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Nilgiri Mountain Railways’ toy train crawled up the incline like a fat blue caterpillar. It was perhaps the slowest way to get from Mettupalayam to Ooty; from the foothills to the plateau at the top. At an average speed of less than ten kilometres per hour, the train—a part of the Mountain Railways of India, collectively deemed a UNESCO World Heritage Site—took almost five hours to cover the forty-six kilometres that separated the two towns. In the first half of its journey, it ran even slower, inching along at a little over eight kilometres per hour.

With time at his disposal, Athreya had decided to make a vacation of the travel by taking the much-acclaimed train, which was the only one of its kind in the country: a rack railway that used a rack-and-pinion arrangement to climb the steep hills. How he had managed to get a ticket at such short notice was a mystery. He had already sent ahead his suitcase to Greybrooke Manor the previous day from Coimbatore, so he could travel light on the toy train.

Sitting across from Athreya in his first-class compartment was an elderly man with a stiff, pointed moustache that would have done Hercule Poirot proud had it not been for its unmitigated whiteness. Swathed in a muffler and a hat, the jacketed man had a bearing that hinted at a background in the armed forces. Next to him sat a snow-haired lady, who had her arm around a little girl.

The train, with its steam engine, had left Mettupalayam behind and begun its wheezing ascent, when the man, who had been watching Athreya with twinkling eyes, broke the ice.

‘On vacation, sir?’ he asked in a good-natured baritone, with a friendly smile that stretched the ends of his moustache further apart.17

‘Sort of,’ Athreya responded with a smile and a nod. ‘I have an invitation to spend a few days in the Blue Mountains.’

‘This is a good time of the year to visit, Mr—?’

‘Athreya. Harith Athreya.’

‘How do you do?’ The man stretched out his hand for Athreya to shake. ‘I’m Wing Commander Sridhar.’ He gestured to the woman and girl sitting next to him. ‘My wife, Sarala. And my granddaughter.’

‘My name is Mariebelle,’ the little girl chirped, her big brown eyes taking in Athreya’s smiling, avuncular visage, topped by a fine-haired mane that had a patch of silver in the front that matched the patch on his chin. ‘I am a fairy queen.’

‘Hello, Queen Mariebelle.’ Athreya humoured her with a mock bow. ‘Have you hidden your wings? I can’t see them.’

‘That’s because ordinary humans can’t see them unless they are princes.’

‘Oh, I’m no prince! But, Your Highness, where is your wand?’

‘Wand?’ the little girl asked, perplexed.

‘Fairies have magic wands, don’t they?’

The girl cocked her head to one side, looking uncertain.

‘Would you like a wand, Queen Mariebelle?’ Athreya asked.

The girl nodded, her eyes sparkling in anticipation. Athreya reached into his duffel bag. Slowly and theatrically, he pulled out a pencil a foot-and-a-half long. The girl’s eyes lit up and her little hand reached for the enthralling object.

‘Say “thank you” to the nice gentleman, darling,’ her grandmother urged, but the little one’s attention was fully taken up by the unexpected gift.

‘As I was saying,’ Wing Commander Sridhar said, taking up the conversation again, ‘this is a nice time of the year to come here, if you don’t mind the mist and the rain. The summer rush is long gone, and the winter chill is not yet upon us.’18

‘A lot of mist, eh?’ Athreya asked dreamily, watching the fog shrouding the faraway hilltops and distant valleys.

‘It can get pretty tricky, especially if you are not watching where you are going. What with it being slippery underfoot and hazy all around, a misstep is never very far.’

‘I can imagine,’ Athreya replied, glancing at the steep, rugged ground outside the window and the patches of loose, slushy soil left behind by cascading rainwater.

‘First time to these hills, Mr Athreya?’ Sarala asked.

‘Oh, no,’ said Athreya with a laugh. ‘I’ve been to Ooty a few times, but usually for work. Even on the few occasions when it was not, I found the town a tad commercialized.’

‘That it is! That it is!’ the wing commander agreed enthusiastically. ‘You need to stay away from the hustle and bustle of it all, Mr Athreya. Somewhere a few miles out where you can enjoy nature. Then it can be divine. You are going to Ooty, I presume?’

‘I’m getting off at Coonoor. The last leg of my journey will be by road. My destination is somewhere north, I believe—towards the border with Karnataka.’

‘Ah! That’s welcoming wilderness, all right. As close to nature as you can get. Where are you staying?’

‘A place called Greybrooke Manor.’

Abruptly, the wing commander’s face seemed to freeze. His wife’s eyes widened a trifle, and the polite smile on her face faltered. But only for a moment. She recovered her poise and averted her eyes, busying herself with her granddaughter.

‘Ahem!’ The wing commander cleared his throat more loudly than necessary. The twinkle in his eye had faded.

‘Greybrooke indeed! Interesting place, interesting place! So, Bhaskar has invited you to his place?’

‘You know Bhaskar Fernandez?’ Athreya asked, wondering why the mention of Greybrooke Manor had ruffled the couple.19

‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I knew his father too, Thomas Fernandez. Tom, we called him. Bit of a shock when he died. He fell off a train, you know.’ His voice dropped. ‘Poor old Tom. Going to stay at Greybrooke, eh?’

‘Yes. I’m quite looking forward to it.’

‘Are you?’ the wing commander asked doubtfully. Sarala’s eyes had returned to Athreya’s face. They were guarded now. As she held his gaze, Athreya thought he sensed a trace of apprehension.

‘Bit of a chequered history, Greybrooke has,’ he heard the wing commander say. ‘Rather dark, unfortunately. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about Greybrooke,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can enlighten me?’

‘It’s an old mansion. Quite old, quite old. Was built by the Brits at the cost of how many native Indian lives, I don’t know. An imposing structure, strong as a fortress. I wonder how they hauled all that stone to such a remote place. Why the English buggers chose such a location in the first instance beats me. Must have been the back of beyond when it was built.

‘Anyway, an English bugger built it, but he didn’t enjoy it for more than a year. Lost his footing one misty night and fell into a ravine. Broke his neck. The mansion passed on to another Brit. Every English blighter who owned it thereafter—there were three or four of them, I think—fell prey to something or the other, and the mansion began acquiring a reputation. Greybrooke Manor is no stranger to violent death, Mr Athreya.’

‘Many locals don’t go near the mansion, you know,’ Sarala interposed. ‘They say that the man who built it was a devil worshipper. That’s why he built Greybrooke Manor in such an out-of-the-way place, far away from prying eyes. They believe that he even practised human sacrifice.’

‘Nonsense, Sarala!’ the wing commander boomed.20

‘Look at the way the chapel at Greybrooke Manor was built,’ Sarala persisted. ‘The sun never enters it. It’s always dark, even in the daytime. Exactly how the devil—’

‘Devil worship, my foot!’ the wing commander thundered. ‘Human sacrifice, my left eye! Nonsense and old wives’ tales, Sarala. Don’t you go about putting silly ideas into Mr Athreya’s head.’

Athreya suppressed a smile, thinking that was precisely what the wing commander had been trying to do.

‘I was only—’ Sarala began to protest, but her husband cut her off.

‘I know, I know, my dear. But there’s no need for that.’ He returned his attention to Athreya. ‘Don’t you believe the baloney people tell you, Mr Athreya. Don’t let anyone spook you. Remember, there is no terror on God’s earth that a reliable six-shooter can’t handle.’

‘Don’t worry, madam,’ said Athreya, turning to Sarala with a chuckle. ‘I’ve seen my share of spooks. I’ve spooked a few spooks, too!’

‘Now, that’s the kind of man I like. Drop in if you have the time, Mr Athreya. I can offer you some fine Scotch. We live not far from Wellington. Here is my card. Call me, and I’ll have my driver come pick you up.’

The wing commander pulled out a visiting card and gave it to Athreya.

‘Thank you,’ Athreya nodded, taking the card. ‘Back to Greybrooke Manor… you were telling me about the Englishmen who once owned it.’

‘Ah, yes! So I was, so I was. As the English buggers copped it, one after another, someone floated a myth about the mansion, saying that it was cursed. My own view is that the locals started it to get even with the Englishwalas. But, you know how it is… you 21repeat a thing often enough and you start believing it yourself. That’s what happened, and this silly legend took root.’

‘The one about the owners of the mansion dying violently?’

‘So, this is not the first time you’re hearing about it, right? Who told you?’

‘Manu Fernandez.’

‘Ah! Interesting, interesting. I didn’t think Manu believed it. Anyway, the Englishwalas also fell for the legend and grew scared. The last heir sold the mansion to old Tom Fernandez and fled. Sold it for a song, he did. With all that acreage around it.’

‘How are you planning to get from Coonoor to Greybrooke Manor, Mr Athreya?’ Sarala asked. She had regained her poise. ‘I hope you are not planning to find your way there? You seem to be travelling alone.’

‘He can’t find his way there, my dear,’ the wing commander boomed. ‘Not after all the road signs were washed away in the downpour we had last week. Most local taxiwalas and autowalas won’t take him there either. Too scared.’

‘Oh, I’m fine, madam. Manu has promised to pick me up late afternoon and drive me there. I’d like to spend a few hours in Coonoor first. I have an acquaintance there I’m meeting.’

‘Best to get to Greybrooke Manor before sunset, Mr Athreya,’ Sarala said.

‘Nonsense, Sarala!’ the wing commander barked. ‘Manu knows his way around. He is no kid.’

Pleasantly satiated after a traditional four-course lunch at a popular restaurant, Athreya and Rajan strolled leisurely along the streets of Coonoor, making their way back to the latter’s house. An ex-Indian Police Service officer, and a widower, Rajan had settled in Coonoor after his retirement two years ago. Athreya 22had helped Rajan solve a couple of difficult cases, for which the latter voiced his gratitude each time they met.

‘I think I’ve heard of Greybrooke Manor, but I don’t remember in what context,’ Rajan said in response to Athreya’s question. ‘The name Bhaskar Fernandez is vaguely familiar. What do you want to know about him and his mansion?’

‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ Athreya responded. ‘Just curious, as I will be staying there. A retired air force officer I met on the train had some interesting things to say about the place.’

‘Unfortunately, I can’t help you there. I’ve been here only for a couple years, during which I have been away at my daughter’s place in Chennai more often than not. But I do know someone who would know about Greybrooke Manor. We can visit him if you like.’

‘A long-timer of these parts, is he?’

‘That’s right. A retired postmaster who has lived here for as long as anyone can remember. His wife was, at one time, one of the very few doctors in this part of the world. If anyone would know about Greybrooke, it’s them.’

‘That’s wonderful, thanks. Does he live far from here?’

‘Not at all,’ Rajan smiled. ‘He is my neighbour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘He should just be getting up from his siesta.’

‘Siesta?’ Athreya asked. ‘So early?’

‘He is a traditional man. Has brunch, not lunch. After a nice snooze, he wakes up to have his habitual afternoon coffee. In fact, we might just be able to get an excellent cup or two if we land up at the right time.’

‘Good idea!’ Athreya grinned. ‘Let’s gatecrash.’

To refresh his memory, he pulled out a piece of paper on which he had scribbled the Fernandez family tree and studied it. He had sketched it from a text message Suraj had sent him after their telephone conversation.23

Fifteen minutes later, they were settled in the front veranda of a quaint little cottage, with a strong aroma of coffee wafting towards them through the open door. Ramanathan, the retired postmaster, was swaying gently in his rocking chair, while Rajan and Athreya had occupied two cane chairs across from him, a small cane table between them. Beside Ramanathan was Susheela, his wife—a frail old lady with a kindly smile.

‘So, staying with Bhaskar, eh?’ Ramanathan asked in a sandpapery voice. ‘He is a colourful man, and generous too. Never a dull moment when he is around.’

‘Very energetic too,’ Susheela added. ‘Despite being in a wheelchair, he does so many things. I remember him being a live wire when he was younger. Full of beans and always trying out something new.’

‘Yes,’ her husband agreed with a nod. ‘Full of energy, but he has little respect for rules.’ He chuckled. ‘Just like his father, old Tom Fernandez. Very adventurous, old Tom was, and didn’t know the meaning of fear. Bhaskar has taken after him.’

‘Thank goodness, Manu hasn’t taken after them,’ the old lady said with a trace of approval. ‘Nice, decent boy, Manu is. I wish 24he would get married and settle down soon. Heaven knows he is old enough. What Greybrooke needs is a woman’s hand.’

Athreya listened happily as the old couple continued to talk unprompted. Rajan had warned him about the couple’s penchant for talking. They had little else to do in their old age, and all they needed was a willing listener. For a newcomer wanting to know about their region and its people, it was an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass.

‘Why, madam?’ Athreya asked.

‘It’s been a while since Greybrooke Manor had a woman running it. Since old Tom’s wife passed away, it has been run by servants. First, by Tom’s servants; then, after he died, by Sebastian and Bhaskar’s servants.’

‘Sebastian?’ Athreya asked. It was not a name he had heard before now.

‘Bhaskar’s loyal caregiver and major-domo of sorts. Also his secretary, when the occasion demands it. With Bhaskar largely confined to his wheelchair, Sebastian looks after everyday matters at the mansion. He does a good job, mind you; I’m not complaining. Very diligent and keeps the place clean and tidy. But it’s not the same as having a woman run the household.’

‘Bhaskar may be confined to his wheelchair, Susheela, but he does get around pretty well,’ the retired postmaster butted in as soon as he got the chance. ‘He has one of those newfangled electric wheelchairs and he zips around the mansion and its grounds. Even at his age, he manages to dash around as recklessly in the wheelchair as he had done in cars. Drives it too fast for his own good, if you ask me. What he doesn’t want is another accident.’

‘You know that Bhaskar almost lost his legs in a car crash, don’t you?’ Susheela asked when her husband paused for breath. ‘Was pushing a car way beyond the speed limit, I’m told. Lucky 25to have come out alive. But the poor man’s legs were mangled forever. He required half a dozen surgeries after the crash.’

‘Never afraid to take risks, good old Bhaskar,’ the retired postmaster pronounced. ‘Just like his father. One must be careful as one gets older, you know. He doesn’t want another accident in the family.’ He squinted at Athreya through his thick glasses. ‘You know how old Tom died?’

Athreya nodded. ‘I believe he fell off a train.’

For a brief moment, Ramanathan seemed annoyed at having been denied the opportunity to narrate the incident. But he recovered quickly and continued nevertheless.

‘It was the middle of the night,’ he said, getting into the details unasked. ‘Old Tom must have had half a bottle of whisky inside him. He went to the compartment door to smoke his pipe. He probably liked to stick his head out and feel the air on his face. Think about it, Mr Athreya—a swaying train and a tipsy old man leaning out of the door. One hand must have been holding his pipe.

‘That meant that Tom must have been holding on to… whatever he was holding on to with just one hand. What would happen if that hand slipped? Eh? That was Tom for you, a devil-may-care outlook, and reckless.’

‘That’s when Greybrooke Manor passed on to Bhaskar Fernandez, isn’t it?’ Athreya prompted.

‘Yes,’ said Susheela, nodding. ‘That was a little hard on poor Sarah, Bhaskar’s sister. It was she who looked after Tom as often as she could, whenever she could get away from the scoundrel of a husband she had. Bhaskar visited her only rarely, what with him being wheelchair-bound. Tom should have left a part of the estate to Sarah. She was really upset about it. Cried her heart out when Tom’s will was read out. She never came back to Greybrooke Manor… except to be buried in the family cemetery.’26

‘What good would it have done if Tom had left a part of the estate to Sarah?’ Ramanathan demanded. ‘Sarah’s husband would have gambled it away within a year. Tom did the right thing in leaving her an annuity. In any case, Sarah’s health was failing. It was only a matter of time before she followed her father.’

‘It is astonishing how people don’t learn,’ his wife said, changing the topic. ‘I’m talking about Michelle, Sarah’s daughter. One would have thought that living with that scoundrel of a father, and growing up under the shadows of his misdemeanours, would have been enough to make a young woman avoid thugs like her father. But, no. As soon as she comes of age, Michelle goes and marries Murthy—a crook of the first water, just like her father was. Maybe worse. He has his eyes on the Greybrooke estate, I can tell you. And he wouldn’t think twice about gambling away her inheritance. Poor Michelle.’

‘History repeats itself.’ Ramanathan nodded sagely. ‘Michelle took after Sarah and is stuck with a scallywag of a husband.’

‘What about Bhaskar’s other niece and his nephew? Athreya asked. ‘His brother Mathew’s children.’

‘Ah, Mathew’s kids. Well, Richie, the son, has turned out to be a rascal as well. There isn’t one attractive young woman within miles of Greybrooke he has not propositioned or coveted.’

‘Does he live there?’ Athreya asked.

‘No, but he visits often enough. He holds no regular job, you see. He gets free food, drink and lodging at Greybrooke Manor. Even when the estate was under dispute, Bhaskar kept it running, and allowed the extended family unrestricted access. That had been Tom’s wish.

‘Murthy, Michelle’s husband, also used to drop in often. But one night, a few years ago, he got badly drunk and abused Bhaskar in the most profane terms. After that incident, he stopped coming to Greybrooke. Bhaskar and he are not on speaking terms now. 27Murthy still comes to Coonoor, but he stays elsewhere. He’s always trying to get Michelle to chisel Bhaskar out of some money.

‘Richie may be good for nothing, but Dora is an angel. Nice, sweet girl, with a good head on her shoulders. She will do well, I’m sure. Bhaskar loves her as he would his own daughter.’

‘Dora and Manu are sensible young people,’ Susheela agreed. ‘I’m happy that the estate will pass on to Manu. He will look after Dora, too—despite all the bad blood the disputed will created. They are like brother and sister.’

‘The bad blood was only between Bhaskar and his siblings,’ the retired postmaster protested. ‘Not between the cousins of the next generation.’

‘No?’ his wife asked sharply. ‘Haven’t you heard what Richie and Michelle have been saying? Not to speak of the venom Murthy spews when he is drunk?’

28