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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: A Harith Athreya Mystery
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Book 3 in the critically acclaimed cosy murder mystery series set in contemporary India, featuring the wise and gentle detective Harith Athreya – perfect for fans of Richard Coles, Ian Moore and Janice Hallett 'Athreya is a fine detective with a curious mind' New York Times 'An impressive force in the world of whodunnits' CrimeReads ________________ ISOLATION Detective Harith Athreya is taking a well-earned break at a boutique hill in the Himalayan footfills. But his holiday is cut short when mysterious bloody handprints appear on the walls around the resort. INCRIMINATION When a guest falls to her death, the hotelier casts suspicion on five young people who checked in at the same time as the victim but who all claim not to know her – or each other. INTRIGUE Does one of these guests have something to do with the tragedy? Harith Athreya must get to the bottom of the case before the murderer strikes again… ________________ PRAISE FOR THE HARITH ATHREYA MYSTERIES 'Hugely engaging' Sunday Times 'A slice of sheer pleasure… a proper, thorny puzzle' Observer 'Like stepping back into the Golden Age of the classic mystery' Rhys Bowen 'Perfect for fans of Agatha Christie [and] Arthur Conan Doyle' Harini Nagendra
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PRAISE FOR THE HARITH ATHREYA SERIES
‘A slice of sheer pleasure… blends the feel of classic crime with the modern world, while presenting a proper thorny puzzle’
Observer
‘Like stepping back into the Golden Age of the classic mystery’
Rhys Bowen, author of The Tuscan Child
‘Athreya is a fine detective with a curious mind’
New York Times
‘Perfect for fans of Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle and readers who – like me – just can’t get enough of atmospheric mysteries’
Harini Nagendra, author of The Bangalore Detectives Club
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE FIVE DUBIOUS GUESTS
PROLOGUE
7 september 2010 north 24 parganas, west bengal
The old building stood well back from the street. Built at a time when land was less precious, the owners had left generous space all around the house. The upper floor of the decades-old structure comprised a single flat where the owners lived. The ground floor was divided into two halves, both of which had been rented out. A shop occupied the front, street-facing half, while a young couple with a baby lived in the rear. Both floors had low ceilings, and the traditional wooden windows were small and not particularly conducive to good ventilation.
Dusk had fallen and a murky darkness shrouded the entire street and beyond. Low clouds, typical of the season, hung overhead oppressively. The area was in the midst of another prolonged power outage. Dim yellow light from lamps and candles flickered through most windows. The few houses that had battery-operated emergency lamps, or still had a charge in their inverter batteries, enjoyed the luxury of a brighter white light.
The dark street was deserted, but the ominous roar of rioting was not far away. One of the mobs that had been sweeping through the district, looting, breaking and burning as they went, had reached the main road at the end of the street. The acrid smell of smoke hung in the still air. Fear was palpable on both sides of locked doors.
Silent and lightless, the ground floor shop had long since been locked and shuttered. Its doors and wooden windows were shut fast against potential rioters. The first streams of smoke escaping from under the doors and through the gaps between warped windows went unnoticed in the murky darkness. Had anyone been watching, the yellow light from the fire within might have been taken for lamplight. Only when the surging flames burst out through the windows did the neighbourhood realize that something was amiss.
But it was too late by then.
Cans, buckets and drums of paint, thinner and other combustible material that were stored in the shop had caught fire. It did not have a permit to stock flammable material. Yet, the storage area was full of it. As were the spaces under the staircase that led to the upper floor.
Once these illegally stowed incendiaries caught fire, all hope was lost for the middle-aged couple on the upper floor. With an inferno roaring up the stairwell and with all the windows barred, there was no escape.
The tenants in the rear part of the ground floor were luckier, even though they were singed and burnt by the roaring flames. But their one-year-old baby was not lucky enough. Smoke got into her little lungs as they made a dash through the leaping flames. She would succumb within forty-eight hours.
As a crowd began gathering on the street, a girl rushed out of the apartment block opposite the burning house.
‘Ma!’ she screamed as she ran headlong across the street. ‘Baba!’
The roaring flames, fuelled by the incendiaries, singed her hair and scalded her skin as she darted towards the blazing building. She rocked back and screamed again, her eyes wide and wild.
‘Ma! Baba!’
A younger boy—her brother—stared horrified and mute as the girl made another attempt to approach the burning house. A neighbour threw his arms around her waist and held her back.
‘There’s nothing you can do!’ he yelled in Bengali. ‘You’ll only kill yourself!’
The girl’s music teacher, who lived in the apartment block, emerged from it and hugged the girl, pulling her back across the street foot by foot. Her husband took charge of the boy and they backed away from the flames.
By then, a mob had entered the street. Seeing the rioters, the neighbours fled back to their houses. The music teacher and her husband hustled the newly orphaned girl and the boy and took them away to their flat.
The flames took little time to reduce the old building to ashes as the rioters fled the scene and residents watched from afar. By the time the fire engines arrived, the destruction was complete. The two corpses they found in the charred remnants of the house were beyond recognition, but the police eventually identified the bodies from the jewellery they were wearing.
That day would go down as one of the blacker days in West Bengal’s history. Many shops had been looted and buildings gutted. The next week, the police listed the preliminary cause of the fire in the old, two-storey building as ‘rioting and arson’.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
1
Harith Athreya gazed in amusement at his friend across the table as they sat outdoors, sipping tea at the Naini Retreat, a popular hotel in Nainital. Javed Rais, a large-built, bearded man of sixty, sucked on his pipe and gazed back enquiringly. He had just invited Athreya to Peter Dann—his boutique hotel—a couple of hours drive from Nainital.
‘To help solve a riddle?’ Athreya asked, cocking an eyebrow. ‘You want me to come to Peter Dann for that?’
‘I don’t see you having anything better to do,’ Javed drawled in his gravelly voice, as he scratched his head through his thick greying mane. ‘Your wife is soon going overseas to be with your daughter. Your son is travelling extensively as usual. What are you going to do at home all by yourself? Mope? And with no case on hand, you are not fruitfully occupied either.’
‘Still… a trivial riddle, Javed?’
‘I don’t think it is that trivial. Don’t judge before you hear what it is. Who knows, it may be the beginning of something larger. Besides, you have been promising to visit me. You’ve come all the way to Nainital—virtually a stone’s throw from Peter Dann. Why not drive back with Asma and me?’
Asma was Javed’s twenty-three-year-old daughter. She and Athreya’s wife—Veni—were shopping at the local market, leaving the two old friends in each other’s company.
‘Fair enough.’ Athreya sat back. ‘Let’s hear about the riddle.’
Javed glanced around the outdoor restaurant paved in an alternating pattern of maroon and beige square stones. All the other tables were unoccupied and the hut that was used in the evenings for barbecue was empty. Nobody was within earshot. All around them were the Himalayan foothills.
‘I was here at this very hotel in Nainital six weeks ago for a business meeting,’ he began. ‘We were having lunch at the restaurant indoors when I noticed a group of seven people at the far corner. I happened to look in their direction several times during the fifteen minutes they were there. I couldn’t see two of them who were hidden behind pillars, but I saw the other five quite well. I didn’t think much about it at that time, except that one of the five was Linda, Asma’s friend from her Gurgaon days.
‘The group was totally engrossed in a very serious discussion. When I was halfway through my lunch, they finished their meal and left the restaurant. Apart from telling Asma later that I had seen her friend, I dismissed the matter from my mind.
‘Until four weeks later, when the same group checked into Peter Dann. I was in for a surprise. Each of them arrived and checked in separately, completely independent of the others. They came at different times and in different vehicles. I discovered later that they had also made their bookings individually. What really foxed me was this: they acted as if they were strangers meeting for the first time!’
‘Sure that it was the same group?’ Athreya asked.
‘Oh, yes! Only this time, they were five and not seven. And one of the five was Linda. When I asked them if they knew each other from before, they all replied in the negative. I was supposed to believe that they were meeting each other for the very first time.’
Javed paused to relight his pipe as Athreya waited for him to continue. Crisp mountain air blew gently across the outdoor restaurant.
‘Linda too insisted to Asma that she was meeting the other four for the first time,’ Javed resumed shortly. ‘When I casually inserted Nainital and the Naini Retreat into a conversation, they—in all seriousness—denied familiarity with the town and the hotel. Now, why would a group of young adults, most in their twenties, want to do such a thing?’
‘Some sort of a practical joke?’ Athreya suggested. He was amused at the riddle and wasn’t taking it very seriously.
‘Their denials were far too strong for that. I began wondering if there was something clandestine about their Nainital meeting. If so, was their visit to Peter Dann also fishy in some way? Or, as you say, was this all an elaborate, but innocuous, joke of some sort?’
‘How long did they stay at Peter Dann?’ Athreya asked, his interest rising.
‘A couple of days. They were to go on a trek, but they cancelled for some reason. They cut short their stay and left. So, this is my little riddle of the five guests: a group of twenty-somethings who know each other but pretend to be strangers. What do you think of it?’
‘Curious, but not worrisome.’
Athreya ran his long fingers through his uncommonly fine hair that had recently acquired its first flecks of grey. Save the silvery tuft in the front, the rest of his head was largely black. His fine-haired beard too was mostly black, except at the chin where a small patch of silver matched his forehead.
‘It gets more curious,’ Javed replied. ‘Want to hear it?’
Athreya nodded, making the silvery tufts catch the sunlight and shine.
‘The same group,’ Javed continued, ‘has checked into Peter Dann once again.’
‘The same five?’
Javed nodded. ‘Including Linda. They checked in last night.’
‘But this time, they can’t pretend to be strangers to each other, right?’
‘They can’t. Not after meeting each other on their first visit.’
‘And the purpose of their visit this time?’ Athreya asked.
‘To go on a trek… the one they missed the last time.’
‘I don’t see why this bothers you, Javed. Looks like a bunch of the young doing some silly thing.’
‘Hang on,’ Javed rumbled in his deep voice. ‘There is more. A strange thing happened when the five guests made their bookings for their first visit. Peter Dann was fully booked for the dates they were to stay. Three other parties had made bookings for the same dates. Now, this is pre-season, and we almost never have a full house. But oddly enough, we were booked full to capacity. I was, of course, pleased. But two days before the five arrived, all the other parties cancelled their bookings within four hours of each other.’
‘All?’ Athreya asked, his eyebrows rising enquiringly.
‘All,’ Javed nodded. ‘All except these five.’
‘Maybe the other guests were a single group.’
‘That’s what I thought, but they weren’t. The bookings were made by three different people in three different cities.’
‘So?’ Athreya countered.
‘Remember I told you that the five have checked in again for a second time?’
‘Yes. You said that they checked in last night.’
‘And guess what? We had three other bookings till three nights ago. This time too, Peter Dann was fully booked. And the other three parties cancelled their bookings the day before yesterday. Just like the first time! Now, once could be a coincidence, but twice?’
‘The parties who cancelled… were they from different cities this time too?’
‘Yes—Bangalore, Delhi and Pune.’
Athreya paused to reflect on what Javed had said. He had to acknowledge that there were too many coincidences here and that the modus operandi on both the occasions were too similar. That the three parties—other than the five guests—had cancelled their bookings at the last moment on both occasions, was intriguing. ‘The riddle of the five guests’, as he was starting to think of it now, was beginning to appeal to him.
‘That is strange,’ Athreya conceded. ‘Anything peculiar about these five guests?’
Javed shook his head. ‘They seem to be regular young people. As I said, most of them are in their twenties.’
‘No sign of the other two? The group had comprised seven people in Nainital.’
‘Not yet, but two people are to check in tomorrow. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t know if they are the other two.’
‘This is intriguing,’ Athreya admitted. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘You will probably disagree with me,’ Javed replied, scratching his beard pensively. ‘But I sense that something is amiss. I fear the five might be planning something that I’m clueless about.’
‘The immediate questions to answer are these,’ Athreya said. ‘Who are these parties who booked and cancelled twice? Were they the same both times? Are they genuine or fake? Were those bookings orchestrated by the five guests?’
‘Precisely! This is more than a mere riddle. Something strange is at play here, and I would like you with me when it plays out.’
Athreya’s interest was indeed piqued. A grin spread on his face, drawing an answering smile from Javed.
‘Like old times, eh?’ he asked.
Large and heavy, Javed was six-foot-three and well over a hundred kilos. With a wide, ruddy face, broad shoulders, heavy biceps, large hands and a hawk nose that had been knocked askew in a fight, he looked like a prize fighter. Nobody would have guessed that he had once been a police psychologist.
He and Athreya had served together in the police force years ago. While Athreya had been at the forefront of investigations, Javed helped in interpreting actions and words of witnesses, suspects and victims. Their discussions would often go on late into the night. On more than one occasion, Athreya’s vivid imagination and Javed’s understanding of the mind had combined to crack cases.
Both had taken early retirement within a few years of each other. While Athreya had continued investigating crime in a private capacity, Javed had turned a hotelier and converted his wife’s family estate into a heritage hotel.
‘Old times,’ Athreya reminisced. ‘Yes.’
‘So, what say you?’ Javed asked. ‘Like to come?’
Before Athreya could answer, a chubby, gregarious, middle-aged woman walked up to them—Athreya’s wife, Krishnaveni, who was called Veni. Her wavy hair was shot generously with grey, and her merry face hinted at garrulousness. The five-foot-two lady was, more often than not, seen talking, for she had the remarkable ability to find something to talk about in any situation. With Veni was Javed’s daughter, Asma.
‘Come where?’ the affable Veni asked as she sat down, deftly inserting herself into the conversation.
‘Javed wants me to go with him to his hotel,’ Athreya replied.
‘Good idea!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why don’t you go? Asma assures me that Peter Dann is a beautiful place. You are at a loose end anyway. I would have liked to come had I not been going abroad in a few days.’
‘You’ll have to return to Delhi alone.’ Athreya glanced at her with a trace of concern.
‘No big deal,’ she replied, waving her hand. ‘There’s a large group leaving tomorrow. I’ll be fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Absolutely! Go have fun at Peter Dann. I’m sure you won’t miss the polluted city air when you are there.’
‘Okay.’ Athreya turned to Javed. ‘Peter Dann, it is. When do we leave?’
2
Athreya and Javed stood on Peter Dann Castle’s rooftop terrace, gazing eastward as the sun began setting in the west behind them. They were awaiting one of the most spectacular sights the Himalayan foothills had to offer. The orange-red rays of the dying sun were about to illuminate the distant Nanda Devi peak and make it glow as if it were wrapped in vast sheets of gold foil. When awash with the rays of the setting sun, it was a glorious sight to behold. Craggy, snow-clad ridges undulated away on either side of the peak, adding to the distinctiveness of the view.
Standing tall and lean behind his tripod and camera, Athreya fidgeted with the remote control as he waited for the right moment to start clicking. The gleaming peak would first glow golden. And as the sun sank, it would turn coppery before surrendering to the night’s embrace.
As was always the case when facing the Himalayas, Athreya was awestruck by their vast magnificence and nature’s grandeur. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Nanda Devi standing tall and proud like an ancient goddess watching over her domain and her people. In his vivid imagination, she seemed to be frowning at five children—representing Javed’s five guests—playing hide-and-seek among the trees.
Clad in cargoes and a denim shirt, Javed lounged beside Athreya, sucking on his pipe and speaking between puffs of blue-grey smoke, which the brisk breeze whisked away. They had arrived at Peter Dann Castle half an hour ago, and had quickly adjourned to the terrace to witness the sunset.
The hundred-year-old stone edifice upon which they stood had ambitiously, if not a little immodestly, been named Peter Dann Castle by its builder. Despite lacking towers, battlements, drawbridges and other elements normally associated with castles, the name had stuck. The only thing that remotely resembled a castle was a crenellated parapet wall around the roof.
‘Idyllic and utterly peaceful, isn’t it?’ Javed rumbled, as he scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. ‘Not just the mountain range and the sunset, but everything around us.’ He waved a muscular arm at the lush green slopes surrounding the estate. ‘Man and nature are at peace with themselves and each other.’
‘Why shouldn’t they be?’ Athreya asked, as he began clicking his camera using the remote control. Nanda Devi had begun gleaming golden.
‘Why indeed?’ Javed agreed, blowing out a cloud of smoke and watching the breeze snatch it away. ‘This is as close to heaven as you can get on Earth.’
‘The perfect place for an ex-policeman to retire after a lifetime of watching over sin, eh?’
‘Indeed. Clean air, pure water, uncontaminated food. The only sounds that intrude upon your solitude are the chirping of birds.’
‘And yet?’ Athreya asked, throwing Javed a glance. The dying rays of the sun bounced off the silvery tufts on his head and chin as he turned his head, making them gleam briefly. ‘There is always a “yet” or a “but” with you.’
‘And yet…’ Javed favoured his friend with an indulgent smile. ‘And yet, human nature is the same here too… as it is everywhere else.’
Athreya contemplated Javed’s rugged profile for a couple of seconds before returning his gaze to Nanda Devi.
‘Go on,’ he murmured.
He knew from experience that his friend’s abstract musings were often precursors to weighty discourses. He kept his eyes on the distant peak and continued snapping photographs. The sun was sinking rapidly, and Nanda Devi’s golden gleam was giving way to a copper sheen. The show would end very soon.
‘Even in this veritable Shangri-La,’ Javed went on, ‘human passions run the full range—ambition and greed, joy and grief, love and hate, desire and jealousy. Every emotion you encounter in our crowded, smelly metropolises, you will find here too. This tranquillity you see around you hides them. It’s but a shroud. In the few years I’ve been here, I’ve seen it bring out the worst in some people.’
Athreya didn’t respond immediately. The reflected sunshine had dimmed into a ruddy alpenglow that turned Nanda Devi and the adjacent peaks into hewn chunks of tarnished copper. Athreya hurriedly clicked to capture the last few images of the famed sight. In the dying light, the camera was taking longer and longer to capture each subsequent shot. Soon, the light had faded to an extent that it made photographing a distant peak impossible.
A short distance away from the men, Linda began talking excitedly to Asma about the spectacle that she had enjoyed immensely. Her animated voice grew louder as they joined the others. Athreya pocketed the remote control and began dismantling the tripod and the camera.
Petite, fresh-faced and wearing a red scarf around her neck that matched her lips, Asma Rais had enjoyed her favourite sight for the umpteenth time. Despite having watched it from childhood, she had not tired of it. Her little hawk nose, which she had inherited from Javed, seemed incongruous on her amicable face as she listened indulgently to her friend’s excited outpouring.
A plain-faced girl of similar stature as Asma, Linda’s distinguishing feature was her glossy black hair that hung gracefully down to her shoulders. She looked guileless and had an engraved silver cross hanging from a thin chain around her neck. Glancing at her, Athreya found it difficult to believe that she was one of the five involved in deception. She seemed utterly ingenuous and entirely at ease. Her open, candid face made it difficult for him to suspect her of any malintent.
Athreya placed his palms on the parapet wall and peered down from the terrace. Seventy feet below, a massive lawn, almost a hundred yards across and twice as long, stretched out across the flat tabletop that crowned the hillock on which the castle stood. The ground fell away steeply on all sides and was covered with trees and bushes. A single road snaked up the hill, wrapping possessively around it as it climbed.
Lights were just coming on at a few places on the lawn and along its periphery. Only the staff quarters, the stable and a couple of small buildings challenged the dominance of the grass.
Presiding over the east end of the lawn was a viewing deck offering an unobstructed view of rolling hills opposite and its magnificent peak. Land’s End, as it was called, was now lit with soft yellow lights. A small group was gazing westward from it.
Athreya turned as a tinkle of glasses sounded behind him. A clean-shaven, amiable young man a little short of thirty, with neatly trimmed hair and a friendly smile, was approaching them with a waiter in tow.
‘Some apple cider, gentlemen?’ he asked, waving the waiter forward. ‘Our own house stock, made from the last crop of apples from our orchard.’
‘Thank you, Maazin,’ Javed nodded. ‘I was just thinking of calling for some.’ He picked up two full glasses and handed one each to Athreya and Linda. Asma picked up a glass for herself. ‘The last crop of apples was particularly good. That shows up in the cider.’
Maazin was Asma’s cousin on her mother’s side, whom Javed had taken under his wing a few years ago. Coming from the hinterland, Maazin had known nothing of the hospitality industry or of running establishments. He hardly spoke any English. Under Javed’s tutelage, the eager young man had learnt quickly and had blossomed so well that Javed now left much of the day-to-day running of Peter Dann to him. In response to the faith reposed in him, the young man had grown in confidence as his natural friendliness became an asset in the hotel business.
‘This is excellent!’ Athreya exclaimed after taking a sip. A subtle blend of spices tingled his tongue. ‘I haven’t had such good cider in ages. There isn’t much alcohol in this, right?’ he asked.
‘This is pretty mild,’ Asma answered. ‘If you’d like to try stronger stuff, you should check out Clarkson’s apple brandy.’
‘Clarkson’s?’ Athreya echoed.
‘A homestay run by an Irish-American by the name of Dave Clarkson and his French wife, Margot,’ Javed explained. ‘It’s a mile and a half away. We can go there shortly if you wish. Dave’s apple brandy is famous, and for good reason, as you’ll discover.’
‘While you do that,’ Asma chirped, ‘we’ll go down and mingle with the others. See you later.’
Asma, Linda and Maazin strolled away towards the staircase, chatting and laughing. Punctuated by Maazin’s throaty laughs and Asma’s measured voice, Linda’s bubbly chatter faded away as the three went down the front stairs. The waiter placed a jug of the cider on a nearby stone table and followed the three down by the rear stairway.
A companionable silence enveloped the terrace once they were gone. Javed poured out a second round of cider and refilled his pipe as Athreya sipped, comfortable and content in the silence and the darkness that had fallen over the terrace. A match flared to life as Javed relit his pipe and puffed like a steam engine before letting out a soft sigh.
‘I’m worried, Athreya,’ he rumbled at length. ‘Worried about Asma going on the trek with the five guests.’
‘Putting herself in danger, you think?’ Athreya asked.
Javed nodded. ‘She insists on going as Linda is a very close friend. Besides, she goes on the first trek every year.’
‘Aren’t you blowing this riddle out of proportion, Javed?’ Athreya said, smiling.
‘I hope I am, but I have an unease of sorts, Athreya… like a premonition.’
Athreya’s smile faded.
‘Subconsciously you’ve gathered something that bothers you?’ he asked.
The psychologist in Javed was of the firm view that there was nothing psychic about premonitions. Instead, they were a natural outcome of recognizable mental processes. Premonitions, he maintained, were manifestations of unease brought about by pieces of information a person had picked up subconsciously. Sometimes, the person was aware of the information but was not conscious of its significance. When the subconscious saw the significance, it revealed itself as a premonition. Athreya shared that view.
‘Yes,’ Javed agreed. ‘I might have picked up on something.’
Athreya studied Javed’s profile in the ruddy glow of the pipe. Experience had taught him to respect Javed’s premonitions. As a psychologist, he noticed more than the average person did.
‘How long have you been having this… premonition?’ he asked.
‘For over a month. From when the five checked in the first time. What if they are planning something nefarious during the trek? Asma disagrees—she believes that their pretence is some sort of a practical joke.’
‘Well, if you can’t stop her, do the next best thing—send an escort.’
‘Yes. I’m sending Maazin and another man, Chetan. Chetan is an experienced tourist guide and a very dependable fellow. He knows the foothills like the back of his hand. He will come in handy if trouble strikes. And I know that Maazin will give his life for his cousin.’
‘Will they be armed?’
‘Maazin will carry my automatic. Chetan always has knives on his person.’
Athreya looked away and stared unseeingly into the darkness that had enveloped Peter Dann. The puzzle, which had begun as a riddle, seemed to be deepening. His gut was beginning to suggest that it might not be an innocuous prank after all. He decided to find out more about the guests who had cancelled their bookings at the eleventh hour.
Ten minutes later, they were in Javed’s office downstairs. Javed pulled up the details of the three guests who had made reservations for two weeks ago and cancelled them at the last moment. Athreya sat beside him with his hand on the desk telephone, picked up the handset and dialled the first number.
‘Good evening,’ he said when the call was answered. ‘I am calling from Peter Dann Hotel. Can I speak to Mr Vinod Kumar please?’
‘Wrong number!’ the woman at the other end snapped and cut the call.
Unfazed, Athreya called again.
‘I’m sorry to bother you again, ma’am,’ he said when she answered again, ‘but one Mr Vinod Kumar had made a reservation with us and gave this as his contact number. Is your address in Koramangala, Bangalore?’
‘No, this is Indira Nagar,’ the woman replied. ‘There is no Vinod Kumar here.’
‘Did anyone else from this number make a booking at Peter Dann Hotel, ma’am? Maybe in some other name?’
‘Can’t be. Only my daughter and I live here, and there is no Vinod Kumar or any other man here. Now, will you stop pestering me, please?’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Athreya said. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Fake number?’ Javed asked as Athreya hung up.
‘So it seems. Let’s try the next one. It’s a mobile.’
Athreya dialled the number and waited for the beep-beep-beep sound to play out until a connection was made. But instead a recorded message sounded: ‘The number you dialled does not exist.’
Athreya tried once more, with the same result.
‘Another fake,’ Javed growled. ‘Try the third.’
The third number did not exist either. All the three parties that had made reservations for two weeks ago were bogus.
‘Now,’ Athreya said, ‘let’s try the parties that had made bookings to coincide with the second visit of the five guests and had cancelled their bookings.’
Two calls went to addresses that didn’t match with the ones provided by the guests. Nor was there anyone of the name in which the reservation had been made. The last number didn’t exist.
‘I don’t like this,’ Athreya growled, as he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. ‘Someone has gone to great lengths to ensure that there are no other guests around when the five stay here.’
‘Indeed. They booked out the hotel to prevent a random guest from arriving.’
‘I’d love to check the credit card numbers, but we can’t do that without involving the police.’
‘Something dark is at work here,’ Javed grunted with a worried frown. ‘Why else would five young people go to such lengths to keep out other guests? This can’t be a mere practical joke.’
‘These are but preparations, Javed,’ Athreya mused. His vivid imagination was already seeing nasty possibilities. ‘More might be in store. Could be something unpleasant.’
‘I can’t believe that Linda could be a part of this duplicity. She’s a simple, God-fearing girl.’
‘It’s too early to tell who is orchestrating this. Let’s keep this discovery to ourselves for now. I’ll meet the five guests and see what I can glean from each. If they are surprised to learn that I too am a guest, it would suggest that they are involved in this deceit.’
3
Javed’s blue Jeep Compass purred down the road from Peter Dann with Javed’s driver at the wheel. The woods on both sides were swathed in darkness that was mitigated only by the solar lamps set about a hundred feet apart, while red reflectors marked the edge of safety every twenty feet or so. The white light of the vehicle’s headlamps followed the road that wrapped itself around Peter Dann’s hillock like a covetous python.
‘We could have ridden to Clarkson’s on horseback,’ Javed said. ‘But that’s not a safe thing to do after dark. We’ll ride out tomorrow or the day after if you like. We can check out the valley and the slopes.’
‘I’d like that,’ Athreya replied. ‘I need to brush up my riding skills anyway. Maybe after breakfast?’
‘That’ll be a good time. Think you can spend a few hours on horseback?’
‘Come on, I’m not that old! At least, not yet.’
The ten-minute drive passed quickly as they chatted about trivial matters. There was nothing to be seen in the velvety darkness surrounding them, save what their headlamps illuminated. No man or beast, no other vehicle either. The narrow road curved frequently as it went down one hill and up another. Sounds of crickets and nocturnal birds reached their ears through the open windows, as did the occasional rustle of leaves and branches.
Soon, they pulled up in front of the only patch of light they had seen since leaving Peter Dann.
Clarkson’s turned out to be a low, horseshoe-shaped building on the slope of an adjacent hill. It had a sloping, red-tiled roof and used timber and brick in equal measure for its walls. The two arms of the horseshoe ran down the hill enclosing a tidy lawn that served as an outdoor dining area when the weather permitted it. The last two rooms at the far ends of each arm were the guest rooms—four rooms in all, while the other rooms were common facilities and the owners’ abode.
Dave Clarkson—a loud man with a red, bewhiskered face—welcomed Javed with a guffaw and a slap on the back as they entered through a wide doorway. His wife—a short and busy Frenchwoman—hurried forward to shake Javed and Athreya by the hand.
The Clarksons made an odd couple in many ways—height, complexion and demeanour. Margot Clarkson was at least a foot shorter than her husband and possessed less than half his girth. She also sounded far more soft-spoken.
‘Dinner tonight, Javed?’ Margot asked, once introductions had been made and they had settled down at a large, circular table. Athreya sat facing the doorway through which they had entered. ‘I can make some nice coq au vin and ratatouille.’
‘Not tonight, Margot,’ Javed replied. ‘We came down for Athreya to try Dave’s apple brandy and your liqueurs.’
‘That’s wonderful!’ she beamed. ‘Would you like to start with some apple brandy?’
‘Hey, that’s my department!’ Dave bellowed, waving his wife back to her chair. But she rose anyway and went into the kitchen. ‘First time here, Mr Athreya?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Athreya replied with a nod and a smile. ‘Lovely place you have, Mr Clarkson.’
‘Dave, if you please,’ boomed their florid host. ‘That’s what everyone calls me. “Mr Clarkson” is bit of a mouthful, especially after a couple of brandies. How are you with brandies? A connoisseur like Javed?’
‘I’m afraid not!’ Athreya laughed. ‘I’m a bit of an ignoramus, actually.’
‘That can’t be true! Javed’s friends cannot be rookies when it comes to spirits. Tell you what! I’ll give you three samples—small shots first. Tell me which you fancy, and you can have more of that.’
‘Wonderful! That’s kind of you, Dave.’
Dave lumbered away and returned with several small shot glasses and three bottles that bore no labels. The liquors were of different shades of brown. Meanwhile, Margot had brought some cheese wedges, pineapple slices and olives. The four of them sat down to sip brandies.
Soon, Athreya was in the midst of a veritable feast. Each variety of apple brandy was better than the previous one. Several flavours and aromas—some subtle, some sharp—took his taste buds on an enjoyable ride. He began feeling entirely at ease.
Javed too had relaxed visibly as merry chatter, punctuated by Dave’s guffaws and Margot’s tinkling laughter, livened the pub. Athreya learnt that brandy was Dave’s speciality while liqueurs and wine were Margot’s. While they had a local cook who rustled up meals for the guests staying with them and the occasional visitor who dropped by, special dishes—French, European and Indian—were Margot’s prerogative.
When she politely enquired about Athreya’s background and learned that he had been a police investigator, Dave rose abruptly.
‘Investigator?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Let me show you something.’
He went to a window at the back of the room and pointed to a glass pane. On the outside was a vivid mark: a print of a hand that was maroon-brown in colour.
The colour of dried blood.
The bony hand had long knobby fingers and a narrow palm. Someone had dipped his left hand in a viscous, maroonish liquid and pressed it against the windowpane.
It was meant to be a bloodied hand. A shiver ran down Athreya’s spine even as he heard Javed draw in his breath sharply. Coming on the heels of the riddle at Peter Dann, the bloody handprint felt ominous.
‘When did this happen?’ Javed asked with an edge in his voice.
Athreya glanced at his friend. There was an uncharacteristic tautness to his face.
‘Sometime last night. We discovered it this morning. It’s straight out of a horror movie. Gave Margot the willies.’
Athreya stared at it. He imagined a dark figure skulking outside Dave’s windows at night, peering in. The figure lifted its bony hand and pressed it against the pane, leaving a bloody mark. It felt grotesquely out of place in these lovely foothills. His gut told him that this was no idle prank. People didn’t wander about at night leaving bloody handprints on windows. He wondered if this had any connection with the five guests at Peter Dann.
‘Are there more marks?’ Javed interrupted his thoughts. His voice was tight.
‘Several. Two handprints on the guest room windows and at least three more on the walls.’
‘Show me one on a wall.’
Dave lumbered to the front of the building. He stopped a few feet beyond the door and pointed to a newly white-washed pillar. On it was the same bloody handprint, standing out starkly against the whiteness.
Javed touched the mark with his fingers and scratched it with his fingernail. It was dry and a red powder fell away under his fingernail.
‘Redstone powder,’ he growled, rubbing it between his thumb and middle finger. ‘Used by locals to colour their walls and floors. Also used as a red-brown paste for drawing rangoli designs.’
‘What do you make of it?’ Dave asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Javed muttered with a frown. ‘Just some tomfoolery, I hope. Has it happened before?’ His tone and words, Athreya thought, were not mutually consistent.
‘Never. First time.’
They returned to the pub and resumed their seats beside a worried-looking Margot. All sat in silence for a minute. Dave poured out some more apple brandy. Slowly, Javed stirred.
‘Nothing more than a prank, I suspect,’ he assured Margot with affected lightness. He changed the topic quickly. ‘Do you have any guests now?’
Athreya wasn’t fooled. Watching his old friend, he knew that the big man was worried and was trying to keep it from showing. Athreya himself was troubled, but if he read Javed correctly, the big man was seriously worried.
It turned out that the Clarksons had two guests staying with them. A man and a woman had come together and were staying in adjacent rooms. Javed’s eyes flickered towards Athreya when he heard this. Were these the last two of group he had seen in Nainital?
But Javed didn’t pursue the matter and began talking about all manner of things. Fifteen minutes passed quickly, and once Athreya began sampling Margot’s liqueurs, he began feeling light-headed from the accumulating alcohol. The bloody handprint receded to the back of his mind.
They were in the midst of an animated conversation when a petite, fresh-faced young woman walked in through the wide-open doors. Athreya estimated that the pleasant-looking woman was about twenty-five years old, and she was of Asma’s height and build but had larger eyes that were bright and clear. She had a small chin and mouth, and wore her black hair in a ponytail.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, as she stopped hesitantly after taking a couple of steps into the room. ‘I didn’t know you had company.’
‘Come on in, my dear,’ Margot twittered in response as she bounced up from her chair and invited the newcomer to join them. ‘Our neighbours stopped by for a drop of brandy. Come join us.’
‘Sure?’ A hesitant smile brightened the woman’s agreeable face.
‘Of course!’
The first impression Athreya got on seeing and hearing the newcomer was that she was very tentative. For some reason, she seemed vulnerable too. Her hesitation and timidity seemed to convey a picture of someone who was out in the world on her own with little help or protection. Why he got such an impression, Athreya didn’t know. Was it seeing her petite figure framed against the large doorway and dark night beyond? Was it the cautious look on her face, or the way she carried herself or something else in her body language? Or was it merely his overactive imagination that acted up from time to time? He didn’t know. Regardless, he got the feeling that she might be battling life out on her own. At once, he felt sorry for her. In response, he sensed an avuncular feeling developing towards her.
Unsure of what that might mean, he watched her as she walked up to their table taking small steps. While she was pleasing in appearance, she was not glamorous. She was simply but neatly dressed in black slacks and a light top. He noticed physical similarities with Asma, but the latter was much the more assured of the two. As the woman’s cautious eyes rested on him for a moment, he wondered if she was trying to hide her anxiety or if she was feeling intimidated in some way.
‘Have you found out anything about those awful hand marks on the windows and walls?’ she asked Dave, breaking into Athreya’s thoughts. She sounded frightened.
‘Nah!’ Dave dismissed it with an over-casual wave of his arm. ‘Don’t you worry about it. Just some silly prank.’
‘Introduce yourself, my dear,’ Margot interrupted, changing the topic. ‘I’m not very good at remembering names that are new to me.’
‘I’m Mrinal,’ the woman said simply and stood there smiling. As an afterthought, she added, ‘Oh! I’m staying here.’
‘First time in these parts?’ Javed asked after they had introduced themselves and Mrinal had sat down.
‘Yes, my first time here.’ Her voice was soft and low and didn’t carry very far. ‘I’d been told that it is beautiful here and have always wanted to come. But… you know…’
She left the sentence unfinished and smiled apologetically.
‘Did you watch the sunset? Javed asked. ‘It was an unusually clear day today.’
‘Sunset?’ She seemed confused. ‘No… should I have?’
‘It’s one of the popular sights here. The setting sun illuminates the Nanda Devi peak and makes it glow golden.’
‘Oh, really?’ Mrinal’s eyes opened a trifle wider. ‘I should try and remember tomorrow.’
‘Where are you from?’ Athreya asked.
‘Mumbai. I came the day before yesterday.’
‘Drove from Nainital?’
‘Nainital?’ A crease appeared on her brow. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve ever been there. I came from Delhi and hope to be hereabouts for a few more days.’
‘Hereabouts?’ Athreya echoed.
‘I’ll be moving to Peter Dann Castle the day after tomorrow. I’m going on a trek from there.’
‘Ah!’ Javed exclaimed and raised his glass in toast. ‘We’ll see more of you, then.’
A look of apprehension came into her eyes as she missed the import of Javed’s comment.
‘Javed is the owner of the blessed Peter Dann Castle,’ Dave explained.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry!’ Mrinal apologized, reddening in embarrassment. ‘I didn’t know. Please forgive me.’
‘Please don’t apologize!’ Javed brushed it off with a wave of his large hand. ‘We’d love to have you over. Staying for long?’
‘A couple of days after the trek. Is it true that the castle is a hundred years old?’
‘A little older, actually. It has a bit of history.’
‘Really?’ Mrinal’s smile widened. ‘I’d love to hear it.’
‘It would be my pleasure to hold forth.’ Javed inclined his head a shade. ‘Perhaps the first evening when you are staying with us?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’ She turned to Dave. ‘Blessed?’ she asked. ‘Did you say the castle is blessed?’
Dave nodded vigorously, making his jowls quiver. ‘Didn’t you know? Nothing bad ever happens there. Everything that happens at Peter Dann happens for the good. It’s a sort of lucky charm for us folks here.’
‘Wow! How did that come to be?’
‘There’s this story about a Christian bishop and Tibetan monk who took refuge there during a very bad night. Pursued by bandits and wild animals, they were at their wits’ end. The castle, with its stout doors and heavy iron grills, protected them for two days and two nights until British soldiers rescued them. Before they left the castle, the bishop and the monk blessed it.’
‘Nothing bad happens there?’ Athreya queried. ‘Surely, a hundred years would have seen deaths.’
‘Death is not necessarily a bad thing,’ Margot countered. ‘For the aged or the gravely ill, it is a relief.’
‘And for their loved ones too,’ Dave added. ‘Seeing someone suffer from an incurable illness can be heart-wrenching. Locals believe that anything that happens at Peter Dann happens for the good.’
Athreya didn’t pursue it further. He was acutely aware that Javed had fallen silent. His late wife, Naira, had died at Peter Dann a few years ago. Athreya knew no details, but he wondered how it could have been a good thing for Javed or Asma. Especially when Naira had only been in her late forties and Asma a teenager. It was curious that Dave and Margot, who were good friends with Javed and a very sensible couple, had so openly spoken about Peter Dann being blessed. That too in Javed’s presence. Mrinal, who seemed to be a perceptive young woman, had sensed something and fallen silent with a puzzled expression on her face.
Thankfully, they were interrupted by the entry of a man who had apparently been out for a run. His T-shirt, which was two sizes too small for him, was clinging to his well-muscled torso. He was wearing high-end running shoes and must be in his early thirties. He was the second person staying at Clarkson’s.
‘Howdy, Margot, Dave,’ he said breezily with an acquired Western accent. ‘Wonderful evening for a run. I must have done at least five miles.’
Dave beamed back at him as if the salubrious evening was of his making.
‘That’s a lot in such hilly terrain,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed that you did five miles!’
The newcomer shrugged and went on, ‘I can do more. By the way, you really must install a gym, you know. I crave some upper-body exercise. Running only exercises the legs.’
Dave’s smile vanished but he said nothing.
‘This is Kinshuk,’ Mrinal cut in, turning to Athreya and Javed. ‘My fiancé. He’s a celebrity trainer, you know. I don’t think I know a fitter person in all of Mumbai.’
Athreya’s eyes followed Kinshuk as he pulled out a mobile phone and clicked a couple of selfies of himself with the others at the table as the background. He inspected the photographs critically and decided to take two more from another angle.
He went over to a table and poured himself a large glass of water. He had short hair and was clean-shaven and friendly-looking, but the touch of hubris couldn’t be hidden. His well-toned body corroborated Mrinal’s opinion about his fitness.
‘I’m sorry if I offended you, Dave,’ Kinshuk said as he set down the empty glass. ‘Mrinal will tell you that I am a bit of an exercise freak. I go wonky when I don’t get my full quota. I realize that people who live in the hills don’t need a gym. They probably get their exercise just going about their work every day. My apologies.’
The smile that had vanished from Dave’s face, returned. Javed glanced at his watch. ‘We should be going shortly,’ he said.
‘One for the road, gentlemen?’ Dave asked. ‘I see that you are not driving.’
‘Thank you. I always bring a driver when I come here. I don’t fancy negotiating those bends after imbibing your brandy.’
As they were talking, Kinshuk put a protective arm around Mrinal and clicked another selfie of himself and his fiancée. Mrinal wrinkled her nose and pushed him away, telling him to go and bathe. With a grin, Kinshuk left.
‘We’ll come over to Peter Dann sometime in the early evening the day after tomorrow,’ Mrinal said to Javed. ‘Mrs Clarkson is cooking us a special French lunch tomorrow. I want to enjoy more of her cooking before we go over to the castle.’
