The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  The monk said nothing, but flicked his whisk at a fly that might have been planning to get into his mouth, which was no longer covered by the muslin square.

  “Perhaps the fall has erased his memory,” Mr Dubashi offered. “It may return with time.”

  “That’s possible,” the sub-inspector conceded. He thought about this and then said to Mr Nemichandra, “I must insist that you stay in the vicinity for a few days, until I agree that you can leave.”

  “He can stay here with us,” Mr Dubashi said. “It would be an honour to accommodate a Jain saint in our house.”

  At that moment a man burst into the lobby from the street and said breathlessly, “B. K. Gungabissoon, assistant crime reporter for the Aaj newspaper.” He looked at Mr Dubashi. “You are the detective in charge of the murder-on-the-ghat case?”

  “No,” Sub-Inspector Gupta said. “I am. I have nothing to say at this time.”

  “But it is said that you have two witnesses to the crime. You, miss?” He looked at Christine, who shrugged. “And the monk, yes? The word is that this is a terrorist attack on westerners. Is that right, Inspector?”

  “No, there is no evidence of such a thing. You must not...”

  “But there was the attack just last December by Indian Mujahideen here at Sheetla Ghat.”

  “That was a bombing. There is no suggestion that this is in any way connected.”

  “What is the name of the victim?”

  “I have nothing further to say at this time. You must go now.”

  “At least give me a photograph, please. Everyone smile...”

  They all posed stiffly and the camera flashed, then Mr Dubashi escorted the reporter to the door, giving him a handful of the guesthouse business cards and murmuring a few words in his ear.

  Before he left, Sub-Inspector Gupta took Christine aside. “I must ask you to stay here where I can speak to you again, miss, but I am worried about your safety. Were you a close friend of Mrs Darling?” “No, I only met her this morning for the first time. I’m sure I’ll be all right.’”

  Christine was touched by his concern. He seemed a very sincere young man, rather out of his depth, and she felt sorry for him. The truth was, she realized, that she didn’t much care if she became a second victim. It shocked her a little to acknowledge that.

  The next morning Christine went again to the ghat at dawn to see the sun rise over the Ganges. It was less crowded today, and she found a place to herself on the steps to watch the people passing by - the pilgrims and priests, the tourists with their guides, and the families of mourners who, Mr Dubashi had told her, came to have a dead relative cremated on the open fires beside the river. As she sat there she shed a tear for Mrs Darling whom she had known so briefly, and also for her own mother who had caused her to come to this place.

  When she returned to the hotel, Mr Dubashi was proudly brandishing the morning’s edition of the Aaj, in which was published the photograph the reporter had taken the previous day, the four of them standing grinning foolishly around the seated Jain monk, Mr Nemichandra. Since the paper was in Hindi, Mr Dubashi had to translate: “Inspector Gupta of Varanasi CID grills witnesses to ghat slaying. And it goes on to mention the name of our guesthouse. What a publicity coup!”

  “What a piece of stupidity!” his wife snapped back. “We’ll be sitting ducks if they decide to strike again. And what about Christine and Mr Nemichandra? They’re named as witnesses. The murderer will have them in his sights now.”

  Mr Dubashi looked stricken - this hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Where is Mr Nemichandra?” Christine asked. “I thought I might have seen him at the ghat.”

  “He’s in his room meditating on the soul of Mrs Darling,” Mr Dubashi said. “Of course he spends most of the day meditating. He refuses to use the bed in his room, preferring to sleep on the floor, and is extremely self-denying, eating practically nothing.”

  “Actually he seemed rather peckish,” Mrs Dubashi said. “He’s already had breakfast. Are you ready for yours, Christine?”

  “Yes, please.” She felt suddenly ravenous.

  They went into the small dining room and Mr Dubashi sat with her at one of the tables. “It’s a little awkward feeding a Jain,” he said. “They are vegans, and extremely particular about avoiding harming living things. That’s why they have to sweep the ground in front of their feet, and in the monsoon season they have to stay indoors altogether so that they don’t step in a puddle and inadvertently kill some tiny creature. We were going to have aloo paratha for breakfast this morning, but it contains potatoes, and Jains will not touch root vegetables, because you kill them when you dig them up, whereas with rice, for example, you can harvest it without killing the plant. So instead we are having mutter paratha, although without the ginger, which is also a root vegetable, of course.”

  “That is tricky,” Christine said. “They sound very interesting, the Jains. Perhaps Mr Nemichandra would tell me more.”

  Mr Dubashi looked keenly at her. “Ah, you are looking for enlightenment, Christine! I remember that you told Mrs Darling yesterday that you wanted to understand death.”

  She’d forgotten that. It must have been the last thing she’d said to her fellow guest. Christine felt a surge of emotion and tears pricked in her eyes. “I lost my mother recently, you see,” she said. “I nursed her at the end. We were very close, and I was heartbroken.”

  She hadn’t meant to tell anyone about this, but suddenly it had just spilled out. It was this strange place, and being with people that she would never meet again.

  “How terrible for you,” Mr Dubashi murmured sympathetically.

  Christine wiped her eyes. “Before she died, Mum told me about a trip to India she had made when she was my age, and about Varanasi. She said I should go. I think she hoped I might find some comfort here.”

  “Ah, well, you have come to the right place, and perhaps Mr Nemichandra is the right person for you to speak to, for the Jains are certainly much concerned with death.”

  Just then there was a knock on the door. An Indian woman wearing a bright orange sari just like Mrs Darling’s was there. “Namaste,” she said, pressing the palms of her hands together in greeting. “May I ask if this is the place where Mrs Darling was staying?”

  “Indeed.” Mr Dubashi rose to his feet. “Namaste. I am the owner of this guesthouse.”

  “My name is Dorothy Yanamandra. I am coming from Mrs Darling’s ashram.”

  “Her ashram?” Mr Dubashi looked at her in surprise. “Mrs Darling attended an ashram?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed, very much so.”

  Dorothy Yanamandra was a large, powerful woman, who took up a lot of space in the small dining room. She said, “Mrs Darling was a regular visitor to our Atmapriksa Ashram and a devoted follower of our Swami Bhatti. Unfortunately we were full up when she arrived this time and she had to stay here until her room was ready, otherwise this terrible thing might have been avoided.”

  Mr Dubashi bridled at this and said, “Madam, it was hardly the fault of the Dubashi Guesthouse that Mrs Darling was murdered.”

  Mrs Yanamandra dismissed this with a wave of her hand, flashing the gold and diamonds of her rings. “I have come to collect Mrs Darling’s things.”

  “Impossible! They must stay here until her son arrives to collect them.”

  “He is coming here?”

  “He is flying in from Kolkata this morning.”

  Mrs Yanamandra made a sound like a low growl. “Hmm... Well, I believe Mrs Darling left some documents which must be examined urgently, concerning her death.”

  “Her death?”

  “Yes, she spoke at length with Swami Bhatti about it. Are you aware of any documents?”

  “She did leave some in the hotel safe,” Mr Dubashi admitted reluctantly.

  “Fetch them.”

  Mr Dubashi looked for a moment as if he might say something rude, but then relented and left the room.
Mrs Yanamandra turned to Christine. “You are a tourist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you have come to Varanasi for spiritual enlightenment?”

  “I believe I have.”

  “Then you should speak to Swami Bhatti.” She reached beneath the folds of her sari and produced a business card. “That is the address of the Atmapriksa Ashram, and on the back is a map of how to get there. Call in any time.”

  “You work there?”

  “Yes, I am Swami Bhatti’s PA and Business Manager.”

  Mr Dubashi returned, accompanied by his wife, who wanted to see what was going on. He carefully opened the large envelope he was carrying and emptied its contents on to the table. “The police took her passport,” he said. “Here is her notebook and her airline tickets...”

  “What’s that?” Mrs Yanamandra pointed at a plain white envelope, sealed.

  “I don’t know. The police didn’t open it.”

  “Well, we must,” Mrs Yanamandra insisted, and reached for it, but Mr Dubashi was quicker, snatching it up.

  “Certainly not. It may be confidential.”

  However Mrs Dubashi promptly took it out of his hand, reached for a knife on the table and sliced it open. There were several documents inside, and when she opened the first she read its typewritten title out loud: “Instructions in the event of my death.”

  “Aha!” Mrs Yanamandra cried.

  Mrs Dubashi read on: “When I die I wish to be cremated in Varanasi in the traditional manner according to the instructions of Swami Bhatti, and my ashes cast into the Ganges.”

  “There you are,” Mrs Yanamandra said. “It was important to know that, wasn’t it?”

  “It is signed by Mrs Darling and witnessed by a Mr Nath, of Prasad Nath, Notary Services, Advocates and Lawyers,” Mrs Dubashi said, and opened the second document. “Oh, goodness, it is a will...” She looked at the foot of the page. “It is dated two days ago, and also witnessed by Mr Nath.”

  Mrs Yanamandra grabbed it and read it greedily. “Ah!” Without another word she folded it up again and returned it and the other document to the envelope and handed it to Mr Dubashi. “You must put this back in your safe until Mrs Darling’s son arrives. You are responsible for its safekeeping.”

  “Yes,” Mr Dubashi said, looking quite put out. “I was before.”

  Mrs Yanamandra left, and Christine watched her march across the street, sari flowing, other pedestrians ducking out of the way of her relentless progress. Christine thought that she was undoubtedly a bully, but perhaps her abrasive manner was just her way of being businesslike and getting things done. In any event Christine felt that there was something fortuitous in her appearance. She read the business card again, wondering if Swami Bhatti might have been Mrs Darling’s gift to her.

  When Mrs Darling’s son arrived at the Dubashi Guesthouse later that morning, Christine was in the dining room where Mr Nemichandra had interrupted his meditations to get a glass of water from Mrs Dubashi. She had strained it through muslin in the prescribed manner, to avoid the possibility of the monk killing any tiny creature in the water. She had also washed his dhoti overnight and got rid of the bloodstain.

  Jeremy Darling looked disgruntled and out of sorts, as if he’d had a disagreeable journey from Kolkata. He accepted the Dubashis’ commiserations with an indifferent grunt, and gazed around at the guesthouse with a look of disgust. “She stayed here, did she?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” Mr Dubashi nodded enthusiastically. “She was very comfortable here. She told us how much she enjoyed staying with us.”

  Darling muttered, “Good grief,” then did a double-take when he noticed the monk sitting in the corner.

  “Mr Nemichandra was a witness to your mother’s murder, sir,” Mr Dubashi explained. “The police have insisted that he stay here until they have finished their enquiries.”

  Jeremy Darling stared at Mr Nemichandra. “He... saw who did it?”

  “Possibly, sir, but he received a bump on the head and cannot remember.”

  “I see. The police have questioned him, have they?”

  “Oh, yes. And the police examined some documents your mother left in the hotel safe. Perhaps you would care to see them?”

  He fetched them and they all watched Mr Darling turn them over and pick up the envelope of documents. He opened the first and gave a snort of disgust. “Apparently she decided she wanted to be cremated here. Oh, well.” He shrugged and opened the second document, the will, and his face darkened, and then he roared, “What!”

  Mr Dubashi took a step back. “Bad news, sir?”

  Darling swore, read the document again and snarled, “Prasad Nath, lawyers. Where the hell can I find them?”

  Mr Dubashi checked the address and showed Mr Darling the city map. “Near the jail, sir.”

  “I’ll need a taxi. Look after my suitcase, will you?” And Jeremy Darling rushed away.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Mr Dubashi said. “He is very upset.”

  “I wonder what was in the will?” Christine said.

  “I believe,” Mr Dubashi said vaguely, “that Mrs Darling decided to leave all her wealth to Swami Bhatti and the Atmapriksa Ashram.”

  “You read it?”

  Mr Dubashi gave a guilty little smirk, then looked at the monk, who had risen unsteadily to his feet, a worried frown on his face. “Are you all right, Mr Nemichandra?”

  “I must go back to my room and meditate,” he said, and shuffled off, sweeping the floor before him with his brush.

  At that moment the policeman, Sub-Inspector Gupta, knocked at the front door and came in. “Ah,” he said, seeing the suitcase, “has Mr Darling arrived?”

  “He arrived,” Mr Dubashi said, “and then left in a great hurry, very upset after reading the will that his mother had left in the hotel safe, to see the lawyers who drew it up.”

  “Really? Any idea why he was upset?”

  So Mr Dubashi told him.

  “To an ashram? Golly. Do you know which one?”

  Mr Dubashi told him that too, and then added, with a disingenuous air, “By an amazing coincidence the business manager of that ashram came here earlier this morning, insisting on reading that will, which gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? What amazing timing! Mrs Darling writes a new will in their favour and they only have to wait two days until her fortune drops into their laps, like a ripe mango, before her son arrives and has the chance to talk her out of it.”

  “Are you suggesting...?”

  “Oh, dear me, no! But you know what some of these ashrams are like, Inspector, only interested in milking tourists for their dollars, and I must say that business manager was a pretty ruthless type. If I weren’t such a trusting man I might imagine her capable of, well, almost anything.”

  “Hmm.” Sub-Inspector Gupta pondered that. “Well, my superiors have taken over the running of the case now. Clearly it is very high-profile, and they are worried about the possible terrorist angle. I only came by to meet Mr Darling, and also to make sure that you were all right, especially you, Christine.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sub-Inspector.”

  He gave her one of his beautiful big smiles. “I was extremely concerned by the report in the Aaj. I want to give you my mobile number, and you must contact me, day or night, if you see anything suspicious.” He gave her a card.

  “Thank you.”

  He grinned, looking suddenly coy and very young. “Promise you will contact me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. Now, Mr Dubashi, perhaps you can give me the details of this dodgy ashram.”

  “With the greatest pleasure, Inspector.”

  That afternoon Christine set out to explore Varanasi, using the map and guidebook given her by Mr Dubashi. She took a tricycle rickshaw to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, a complex of shrines dedicated to Shiva, the destroyer god, and one of the most sacred sites in the Hindu reli
gion. The place was crammed with visitors, its entrance protected by armed guards. It left a vivid impression, but she found it hard to penetrate its meaning. From there she walked through narrow streets to the river, and followed the great terraces of the ghats along the shore of the Ganges, seeing the columns of smoke from the funeral pyres rising into the hot still air. After a while she found herself not far from the ashram, which Mr Dubashi had marked with a cross on the map, and she struck back into the densely packed city, trying to maintain her bearings until she came to a sign with a painted image of a venerable figure squatting in the lotus position beneath the name Atmapriksa Ashram.