by RV Raman
A WILL TO KILL
RV Raman
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by RV Raman
Cover and jacket design by Georgia Morrissey
ISBN: 978-1-951709-07-5
eISBN: 978-1-951709-34-1
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First published in 2019 by HarperCollins India
First hardcover edition published in October 2020
by Polis Books, LLC
www.PolisBooks.com
44 Brookview Lane
Aberdeen, NJ 07747
Chapter 1
The visitor was ill at ease, fidgeting with his watch’s metal strap, locking and releasing the clasp repeatedly. He had made two attempts to convey the message he was carrying, and had pulled up short both times. Across the table at Chennai’s New Woodlands Hotel, 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 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.”
Manu nodded and seemed to take a mental plunge.
“You see, Mr. Athreya, Dad has written two wills,” he blurted. “Both 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, in the presence of a lawyer. Neither of the two wills can be said to supersede the other.”
“In that case,” Athreya asked, “both would be considered equally valid, wouldn’t they?”
‘Yes.’
‘Then which one will take effect when your father … er … passes away?’
‘That would depend on the manner in which he dies.’
Athreya’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
‘I’m afraid you lost me there,’ he said.
‘It…it’s like this…’ Manu stuttered. ‘If he 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.
‘Does your father expect to die … er … unnaturally?’
‘That is a question you should ask him.’
‘I can’t, since 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 running 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?
‘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 softly 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.’
‘Okay. Who are the beneficiaries in the first will?’
‘Several of us, 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 father, 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 slowly.
‘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 over.’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Athreya was dialling the number of the mutual friend, 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. On 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 De
shpande. From the first time Suraj spoke of you, I have wanted to meet you. I would be greatly obliged if 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
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, letters that were not electronic were invariably printed. 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.
‘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 passed 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.
‘If that is so,’ Suraj responded slowly, ‘Bhaskar is in no hurry to oblige. There are many more years in him. He may be wheelchair-bound, but he is only sixty-five.’
‘And what is this party he is organizing next week?’ Athreya continued. ‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘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.
‘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 slowly. ‘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.’
Chapter 2
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 top of the plateau. 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 Mettupalayam and Ooty. In the first half of its journey, it ran even slower, inching at a little over eight kilometres per hour.
With time at his disposal, Athreya had decided to make a vacation of it 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 up 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 with a hat on his head, 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 elderly 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 farther apart.
‘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, yo
ur 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.’
‘A lot of mist, eh?’ Athreya asked dreamily, watching the fog shrouding the far-away 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.’
‘First time to these hills, Mr. Athreya?’ the snow-haired 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.’
