A Will to Kill

by RV Raman

  ‘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.

  ‘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.

  ‘Look at the way the chapel at Greybrooke Manor has been built,’ Sarala persisted. ‘The sun never enters it. It’s always dark, even in the day. 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.’

  ‘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 repeat 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, you’ve heard of it? 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 had 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 two 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 gate-crash.’

  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:

  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 him, a small cane table between them. Beside R
amanathan 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 his legs being nearly crippled, 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 softly. ‘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 he 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. A newcomer wanting to know about their region and its people was an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass.

  ‘Why, ma’am?’ Athreya asked.

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

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

  ‘Bhaskar’s loyal caregiver and majordomo 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 this age, he manages to dash around as recklessly in the wheelchair as he had done in cars earlier. 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 to 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 the next moment 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 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.’

  ‘What good would it have done had Tom 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 a scoundrel of a father, and growing up under the shadows of his misdemeanours, would have been enough for a young woman to 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 Michelle’s 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 had kept it running, and had allowed the extended family unrestricted access. That had been Tom’s wish.

  ‘Murthy, Michelle’s husband, also used to drop in often. Like Richie, he doesn’t have a regular employment either. 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. Murthy 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 has created. They are like brother and sister.’

  ‘The bad blood was only between Bhaskar and his siblings, Sarah and Mathew,’ 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?’

  Chapter 3

  Crown Bakery, in the heart of Coonoor, reputed to have been established in 1880, was among the oldest institutions of Coonoor and a veritable landmark. Manu had somehow managed to find a place to park his jeep on the crowded road that served as one of the main thoroughfares.

  Lounging beside Manu was a pleasant-looking young woman, who appeared cheerful and at ease in her light- blue jeans and dark pullover. Willowy like Manu, she was of a similar build that spoke of wiry strength and easy movement. Their faces were remarkably similar. Had Athreya not known that Manu was an only child, he would have taken her to be his sister.

  ‘This is Dora, my cousin,’ Manu said, as Athreya walked up to them.

  ‘Hello, sir.’ Dora’s agreeable face split into a grin as she shook hands warmly and with a surprisingly
firm grip. ‘Welcome to Coonoor. I hope you had no difficulty finding Crown Bakery? I was telling Manu that we should have picked you up from where you were.’

  ‘No difficulty at all,’ Athreya responded, returning the smile. ‘Everyone seems to know it. I hope I’ve not kept you waiting?’

  ‘No, no, sir. We arrived not more than five minutes ago. Shall we go? Your suitcase has already reached Greybrooke Manor.’

  Dora swung herself into the driver’s seat of the jeep they had been leaning against, and Manu insisted that Athreya sit in the front. It was, he said, far more comfortable than perching at the back. Dora wriggled into her jacket and zipped it up to her chin.

  A slight thrill ran down Athreya’s spine when he realized that the canvas hood of the jeep was down and the windshield had been laid flat on the bonnet. He would be experiencing the full rush of crisp mountain air as they drove to Greybrooke Manor.

  The jeep pounced forward and darted between bikes, buses and pedestrians as it made its way north, past the bazaar. From the effortless way Dora drove the jeep while keeping up a steady chatter, it was apparent that she was adept at handling the vehicle. With a suppressed smile, Athreya realized that if there was one thing she didn’t share with her cousin, it was his reserve. He decided that she was a fun-loving, likeable person.

  Soon, they had left the town behind as they head north. Dora pointed out various sights and places, reeling off names in the dwindling light. Wispy mist—sometimes white, sometimes grey—glided along the hillsides and dales, clinging to groves and lingering over ponds. Here and there, thicker fog cloaked the valleys and hilltops at a distance, veiling tea plantations and woods alike.

  Wherever the dying fingers of sunlight touched the scenery, the foliage erupted in different shades of green, from a bright pea hue to a dark olive. But where the grey mist enwrapped the slopes and shut out the sun, colour seemed to drain from the picturesque landscape.