by RV Raman
‘Are you absolutely sure that nobody saw you?’ Athreya asked.
‘Name one person who could have seen me,’ Murthy challenged, without answering the question.
‘Abbas.’
‘Did he say that he saw me?’ Murthy shot back. ‘Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.’
Athreya said nothing, and stared at Murthy, whose forehead had a thin film of sweat. Short of asserting that he had not been at Greybrooke Manor, Murthy had done everything to lead Athreya to believe so.
‘Are you telling me that you were not at Greybrooke Manor last night?’ Athreya asked.
‘You heard what I said,’ Murthy shot back. ‘Why do you want me to repeat it?’
Athreya sighed and rose.
‘You may want to rethink your story, Mr. Murthy,’ he said slowly. ‘You were seen at Greybrooke Manor and you were talked to. Despite the fog, you were also seen returning to the Misty Valley Resort in the wee hours.
‘Be aware that the police inspector is not a man to take kindly to disingenuousness. He tends to see things in black and white—innocent or guilty. If someone conceals evidence from him or lies to him, he is likely to assume that the person is guilty of murdering Phillip.’
‘But I didn’t kill Phillip!’ Murthy exclaimed angrily even as his face paled. ‘Don’t try to hang that around my neck.’
‘Did I say you killed him?’ Athreya enquired mildly with a hand on the door knob. ‘All I am telling you is what the inspector is likely to think. I know what I know, which is probably more than what you think I know. If I were you, I’d be careful.’
* * *
As Athreya stepped out of Murthy’s room, he felt his mobile phone buzz. It was his contact in Delhi, to whom he had spoken earlier in the morning.
‘Your photos are generating interest in certain quarters,’ the person at the other end of the line said when Athreya answered the call. ‘You said this painter retired to the Nilgiri Hills?’
‘That’s right. A short drive from Coonoor. What kind of interest are his paintings generating?’
‘A couple of them seem to be copies of little-known works of well-known painters. Excellent copies, from the looks of it. And the signature “Philipose” rings a bell too with a couple of people. Can you send me better photos of the paintings? Need some high-resolution close-ups too to study the brushwork. I need to send them to some people who know more about this matter, and see what more we can find out.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do. What can you tell me about Philipose?’
‘There was a painter in Austria by that name who seems to have vanished a few years ago. He first appeared in Europe in 2008, and is said to have come from India. Apparently, he was very good at converting photographs to paintings. Very good paintings, I’m told. But despite the painter’s obvious skill, works that were not original did not sell for much. As a result, Philipose found it difficult to make both ends meet, especially in Europe, where the cost of living is pretty high.
‘Wanting to take advantage of his unusual skill and sorry financial state, art sharks began commissioning him to make copies of famous paintings, which they then sold to gullible, wannabe art collectors for a huge profit.
‘Philipose himself is said to have received little for his efforts, but it at least provided a steady income that enabled him to put by some savings. It is unclear if Philipose knew that his copies were being passed off as originals.
‘One of the men I spoke to believes that Philipose might have begun suspecting this in his later years. Rather than risk the wrath of dangerous men by refusing to work for them, he may have decided to disappear quietly. He seems to have been caught in an unenviable situation. If he continued to work for the art sharks, knowing that his copies were being sold as originals, he would become an accessory to their crimes. On the other hand, if he refused to work for them, they might have killed him.
‘And so, in the year preceding his disappearance, he had apparently worked day and night to earn extra money. Once he had accumulated enough to leave Austria, he vanished.’
‘Were there any significant art thefts around the time Philipose disappeared?’ Athreya asked.
‘That thought occurred to me too, and I checked. No significant thefts took place, and absolutely none in the cities around where he lived.
‘When did he disappear?’
‘2012.’
‘That fits. Phillip came to the valley in 2012. Do me another favour, will you? Can you make a list of art-related crimes that happened around Vienna in 1994 and 1995? Thefts, deaths, anything significant, even if it is not a crime.’
Chapter 13
When he returned to Greybrooke Manor, Athreya found a buzz of activity around the chapel. A police wagon and a clutch of policemen had arrived in his absence. While the wagon waited in the driveway for the body, a forensics team was busy at the chapel collecting physical evidence. Relentless in his pursuit, Inspector Muthu had ordered a man to collect the fingerprints of all the people at Greybrooke Manor–residents, guests and staff.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked Athreya on his return. ‘We need to take your fingerprints.’
‘At the Misty Valley Resort,’ Athreya replied. ‘I’ve just discovered that the victim’s housekeeper cleaned his house earlier today. Whatever evidence–’
Athreya broke off as Muthu let loose a colourful curse. He summoned two policemen and sent them to Phillip’s house with instructions to prevent anyone from entering it. He also sent orders that nobody should leave the Misty Valley Resort.
He then hailed the fingerprinting man and told him to take Athreya’s prints. On seeing Athreya, the man threw him a salute, flummoxing Muthu in the bargain.
‘You want to take his prints?’ the fingerprinting man asked in surprise. ‘He is one of us. He’s the one who solved the Ooty double-murder case.’
‘Eh?’ Muthu stuttered. ‘Eh?’
‘It’s all right, my friend,’ Athreya cut in. ‘You have to take the prints of all the people who were here during the murder. How else will you identify all the prints you find? My prints are already there on the chapel door and on one of the windows.’
‘But, sir–’ the man protested, only to be cut off by Athreya again.
‘Do as the inspector says. Also take the prints of the dead man and everyone else who was here. Do you have a complete list?’
‘I have a list of all the residents, guests and staff.’
‘Add two more names to the list: Mr Murthy, who is staying at the Misty Valley Resort, and Father Tobias. You may want to check up on some of the others staying at the resort too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I hope someone is dusting the chapel for prints? Make sure they pay close attention to the wheelchair and the altar. We need to dust every square inch of the wheelchair and identify every print on it, full or partial, clear or smudged.’
‘Leave it to me, sir. If you’ll come with me for a moment, I’ll take your prints.’
‘Oh, Inspector Muthu,’ Athreya said as he turned to go with the fingerprinting man, ‘I need to go out for an hour or so. I will report to you as soon as I return.’
Leaving a baffled Muthu behind, they went into the mansion. Fifteen minutes later, Athreya was being driven by Dora to Father Tobias’s church. They found the cleric fussing over his altar and preparing it for the next morning’s service.
‘Ah!’ he said as he straightened up and peered myopically at the newcomers. ‘Hello, Dora. Welcome, sir.’ He didn’t seem to recognize Athreya.
‘We met last night at Greybrooke Manor,’ Athreya reminded him.
‘Yes, of course. Mr Athreya, isn’t it? Welcome, sir.’ After greeting the priest, Dora had gone straight to the altar, before which she knelt and offered silent prayers. Watching her, Father Tobias seemed to sense that something was amiss.
‘What is it?’ he asked Athreya softly. ‘Something is troubling the child.’<
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‘Mr. Phillip has been killed,’ Athreya replied. ‘In the chapel.’
Father Tobias blinked and stared at Athreya. He remained silent for a long moment and then nodded slowly.
‘He died under Christ’s eyes,’ he mumbled, referring to the mural in the chapel. ‘He is blessed. Excuse me.’
He went to the altar, where he knelt and removed his glasses. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and concentrated hard on a long silent prayer. Only his lips moved. Minutes passed, during which Dora completed her prayer and rose. As they watched Father Tobias silently, a solitary tear dropped from his eye to the ground. With that, he rose and wore his glasses again.
‘A prayer for Phillip’s soul,’ he explained softly. ‘The best prayer is one that comes from the heart and brings tears. The pain that Phillip must have suffered before his death deserved a tear.’
‘Pain?’ Dora asked.
‘Death is often painful, my child, even if the suffering lasts for a brief time. Unless one passes away in their sleep, of course. Phillip must have endured pain for a few moments.’
‘I have two requests for you, Father,’ Athreya interposed softly. ‘We need your help.’
‘At your service, Mr. Athreya. What can I do for you and the stricken household at Greybrooke Manor?’
‘Phillip was killed sometime during the night, and I am making enquiries to see if we can find anything that points to how and why he was killed. I have spoken to everyone at the mansion, and I thought I must speak to you too.’
‘Certainly.’ Father Tobias blinked rapidly, and gazed at him with muddled benevolence. ‘How can I help?’
‘You spent the night at the annex. Did you happen to hear or see anything during the night that might help us understand this crime?’
The cleric bowed his head and stayed silent for a long moment, trying to remember.
‘Sebastian very kindly showed me to my room after dinner,’ he said slowly, at length. ‘Once there, I removed my cassock, washed and said my thanks for the night before retiring to bed. One of the blessings I enjoy is that of deep, undisturbed sleep. I slept soundly till about five in the morning, when I rose out of habit, said my prayers and left the estate.
‘Unfortunately, I didn’t hear anything during the night, neither from the chapel nor elsewhere. Poor Phillip. He must have had no time to shout. I’m sorry, Mr. Athreya, I wish I had some information that could throw light on this tragedy. But don’t be disheartened. Our prayers will be answered, and light will dawn on this affair.’
‘Did you see or hear anyone when you left early in the morning, Father?’
‘Only Bahadur at the gate. Nobody else.’
‘Did you hear any voices or sounds from the rose garden or the rock garden?’
Father Tobias shook his head slowly.
‘Did you pass anyone on the road?’
‘No…it was still dark when I left. The few people who might have been about at that time would have been in their houses that day. It had been an unusually murky night.’
‘It was,’ Athreya agreed. ‘And you had lost your way until you saw the lights of Greybrooke Manor. Did you pass anyone or hear any voices when you were approaching the estate?’
‘Once again, I am forced to answer in the negative. I’m sorry; I can’t throw any light on this tragedy. But, as I said, the Lord will show the way, don’t fret. Light will shine on the misdeeds of men. All will be revealed.’
‘Thank you, Father,’ Athreya replied with a bowed head. ‘With your blessings, I’m sure it will. My other request is to ask you if you recognize any of these things.’ Athreya opened a cardboard shoebox with a number of items and showed it to the cleric. On top was a dark-blue silk scarf, which Father Tobias picked up and examined.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t recognize it.’
He dropped the scarf into the lid of the shoebox and picked up the next item. It was a silver cigar case with intricate carvings depicting the three kings visiting the infant Jesus on the night of His birth. The gleaming silver box was coated with clear lacquer to keep it from tarnishing.
‘Ah!’ the cleric exclaimed, as he picked it up appreciatively and opened it. ‘A beautiful piece. This is from Mr. Fernandez’s collection, isn’t it?’
‘Are you sure, Father?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it in the display case next to the dining room door. And this next one …’ He dropped the silver box and picked up a glass paperweight. ‘Is from Mr Fernandez’s study.’
The paperweight had small purplish bubbles frozen in the glass, and at the centre was a splash in an eye-catching shade of bright red.
‘You are an observant man, Father,’ Athreya commented. ‘I am hoping you would recognize this, too.’
He pulled out his mobile phone and showed the priest the photograph of the dagger they had recovered from the stream. After gazing at it for long moment, Father Tobias shook his head.
‘No, what an evil thing it is. Is it the murder weapon?’
‘Yes.’ A disappointed Athreya pocketed his mobile phone and closed the shoebox. ‘Thank you, Father.’
‘I will come to the estate after the Sunday morning service tomorrow,’ Father Tobias said, turning to Dora and blinking rapidly. ‘If there is anything I can do to ease the pain, I will be delighted to do it. And we must hold a service for poor Phillip.’
‘If you could let me know when you wish to come, Father,’ Dora said, ‘Manu or I will come and pick you up.’
‘Thank you, my child. Meanwhile, if you need me there at any time, do tell me. I will come immediately. Please ask your uncle when he would like to hold a memorial service.’
* * *
Back at Greybrooke Manor, Athreya strolled through the dining room into the kitchen, where dinner was being prepared. He complimented the cook and her helping girls on the previous night’s excellent dinner. Having missed lunch, he sat down and snacked on some of the dishes Bhuvana was preparing for dinner.
As he munched, he struck up a casual conversation, which Bhuvana and her girls were more than willing to participate in. They had heard about his interviewing the others, and showed an unholy interest in anything he had to say.
It turned out that one of the girls had heard the whir of the wheelchair sometime at night, but was unable to pinpoint the time. Murugan, who was also in the kitchen, dismissed it as a combination of fertile imagination and morbid curiosity.
‘Sebastian tells me that the front door had been kept unlocked last night,’ Athreya said to Murugan. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. Those were Mr. Fernandez’s instructions. Guests were to be completely free to come and go as they pleased.’
‘I see that you keep the doors in good condition. The bolts of the front door are lubricated with just the right amount of oil. Not too much, not too little.’
‘Yes, sir,’ a pleased Murugan nodded. ‘The house has many old teak doors. They need to be taken care of properly. That’s why I don’t let anyone else attend to them.’
‘I noticed that all the doors here are mostly noiseless. My bedroom door too.’
‘Mr. Fernandez is a light sleeper, sir. Creaking doors wake him up, especially after that horrible break-in we had. I make sure that none of the doors or windows in the house make noise.’
‘The chapel too?’
‘No, sir. It doesn’t matter if the chapel doors creak. In fact, you have to struggle with one of the side doors to open it. If I hear a creak, I know that someone is there.’
‘Did you hear a creak last night?’
Murugan was stumped. He stopped what he was doing and stared unseeingly across the kitchen. The girls watched him wide-eyed.
‘No, sir,’ Murugan said at length. ‘I didn’t hear the door creak.’ He swept the kitchen with his imperious gaze and barked in Tamil, ‘Did any one of you hear the chapel door make noise?’
All the staff in the kitchen shook their heads, including Gopal an
d another boy who was cleaning the grinder.
‘Where do you keep the oil dispenser?’ Athreya asked, studying a piece of cauliflower Manchurian appreciatively.
‘There, sir.’
Murugan pointed to an open cupboard near the back door of the kitchen, where a number of tools were neatly arranged. Athreya ambled over to it and picked up a small plastic oil dispenser with a round body and a long, slender snout. Oil had spilled out, and had made the surface of the dispenser greasy. It had also left a ring of oil on the shelf. He touched the oil with the tip with his finger and smelled it. It smelled the same as the oil on the chapel door’s hinges.
Murugan hissed when he saw that the dispenser was greasy. He strode up with a piece of cloth and offered it to Athreya.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I always wipe it after the work is done. Not everyone does that,’ he said, shooting Gopal a dark look.
‘Not me, sir,’ Gopal yelped. ‘I didn’t use it.’
‘Then who did?’ Murugan demanded when the other boy also shook his head. ‘None of the girls are allowed to touch the tools. And I wiped it the day before yesterday after I oiled the front door.’
‘I don’t know, sir. Honest.’
‘Leave the poor boy alone,’ Bhuvana called from her stove, furiously stirring the contents of a large vessel.
‘He didn’t do anything. That oil dispenser was borrowed yesterday.’
‘Borrowed?’ Murugan asked, turning around. ‘By whom?’
‘Richie.’
* * *
From the kitchen, Athreya went in search of Bhaskar and found him in the library, reading a collection of short stories from the nineteenth century. He looked haggard and pale in his unmotorized wheelchair as he looked up from his book.
‘Come, Mr. Athreya,’ he said and closed the book after inserting a bookmark into it. ‘I had hoped that we would meet in this library under pleasanter circumstances to chat about this treasure trove I have here.’
