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 letter from Bhaskar Fernandez. 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 Deshpande. From the 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 much knowledge and understanding of such matters.
Unfortunately, my physical state 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 in person 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, that too inscribed with a fountain pen. These days, letters that were not electronic were invariably printed. Except for the signature at the bottom, such letters had little by 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 that he has written 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 you need to know,’ 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 get-together 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 it was originally intended by Bhaskar’s father. He wants to wipe the slate clean and let the family start over afresh.
