‘Enrico?’ Manu asked as Sebastian went away to make the call.
‘An art valuer,’ Bhaskar replied. ‘Art critic too. Didn’t I tell you that I’m having my painting collection valued? Enrico happens to be in India now, and I thought I’d use the opportunity.’
‘Oh, the valuer,’ Manu nodded, his face clearing. ‘I didn’t know his name.’
Just then, Michelle returned, in time to hear the last bit of the conversation. She was totally composed now, and smiled pleasantly at Athreya. She had changed into fawn-coloured trousers and a dark woollen top. Her black–brown hair was brushed back and hung just below her shoulders.
‘The valuer is coming?’ she asked. ‘When?’
‘It’ll take a few days,’ Manu replied. ‘There’s been a landslide. The road is blocked. No casualties, thank heavens. We escaped it by a whisker.’
‘Landslide?’ she asked in alarm. ‘Where?’
‘On the main road, before you turn into the valley; it came down not more than a dozen yards behind our jeep.’
‘Oh!’
For a brief moment, Michelle’s features froze. Just when Athreya thought that she was going to commiserate with her cousins on their close shave, she excused herself and went to the French windows, where she pulled out her phone and began texting.
‘Dora,’ Bhaskar growled. ‘Are you going to leave me thirsty, girl?’
‘Thought it might do you good to be sober for a little while,’ Dora rejoined cheekily, winking at Athreya. ‘Your usual poison?’
Bhaskar grunted something unintelligible that Dora seemed to understand. She picked up a glass from the bar counter and walked over to a cupboard near the French windows at the far end of the room, which was in shadows. She opened the cupboard to reveal a row of bottles, a collection of finer liquor.
‘And give Mr Athreya something decent from my cupboard,’ Bhaskar called after Dora. ‘Not your varnish that passes for whisky.’
Just as Dora was about to bring down a bottle from the upper shelf, a figure came in through the French windows. In his hand was a polished cane about three-feet long, which he was trying to twirl between his fingers. In the low light, he didn’t see Dora and almost cannoned into her. He managed to avoid her, but his cane, out of control from his clumsy twirling, did not.
The swishing end of the stick struck the glass in Dora’s hand and shattered it. With a hiss of pain, she dropped the remaining shards. The next moment, maroon blood oozed across her palm and began to drip on to the wooden floor.
‘Richie!’ Manu called with suppressed anger as he sprang forward and switched on a light. ‘Watch where you are going, man!’
‘Who, me?’ the newcomer retorted petulantly. ‘She was in the way! What is she doing in front of the French windows?’
‘Fixing me a drink, you blundering oaf!’ Bhaskar bellowed. ‘Now make yourself useful and fetch the first-aid kit. You have cut your sister’s hand!’
For a brief moment, Richie Fernandez seemed to contemplate a tart response. He quickly thought the better of it, and ran the length of the room and out of the door. It didn’t escape Athreya’s notice that he had neither expressed regret at having hurt his sister, nor shown any form of remorse. The sole emotion on his strikingly handsome face was anger.
‘It’s nothing, Uncle,’ Dora said in a small voice, coming to her brother’s aid. ‘It’s just a cut, that’s all.’
‘When will you stop defending your brother, girl?’ Bhaskar asked in a voice that reminded Athreya of muted thunder. ‘Now let the doctor look at your hand.’
Michelle was already striding towards Dora, saying, ‘Let me see, Dora.’
On studying the injury for a second, she called to Manu over her shoulder, ‘Can you fetch my medical bag from my room, Manu? This is going to need some dressing. Bring it to the hall; I’ll need more light.’
‘Is it bad, Michelle?’ Bhaskar demanded darkly.
‘A little deep at one end, but nothing that won’t heal in a couple of days. Dora has seen worse. Come, Dora, let’s go to the hall.’
Michelle had wound a napkin from the bar around Dora’s hand to stem the bleeding. She was calm and assured as her doctor persona took over. Her earlier edginess was nowhere in sight.
As Michelle and Dora walked out, with Manu in tow, an elderly man with a serious face walked in. He was roughly Bhaskar’s age, but was balding and clean-shaven. His rimless glasses glinted in the dim light of the drawing room as they caught and reflected the brighter light from the hall.
‘What happened?’ he asked in a quiet, cultured voice. ‘Dora seems to have hurt herself.’
‘A small accident,’ Bhaskar rumbled. ‘Cut her hand. Michelle says it’s not serious. Let me introduce you to Mr Athreya. Mr Athreya, this is Varadan, an old friend of mine and my lawyer for many years.’
Athreya shook hands with Varadan, looking with interest at the man who had helped Bhaskar write the two curious wills.
‘Did you drive up from Coimbatore?’ Varadan asked after pleasantries had been exchanged.
‘No,’ Athreya replied. ‘I took the toy train from Mettupalayam.’
‘How on earth did you manage to get a ticket for it at such short notice?’ Bhaskar asked. ‘Some government connection?’
Athreya smiled enigmatically and changed the topic.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I met someone on the train who knows you.’
‘Who?’
‘One Wing Commander Sridhar and his wife.’
‘Ah! Sridhar!’ Bhaskar exclaimed softly. ‘Entertaining man. Did he say anything about Greybrooke Manor?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Must have talked about “English buggers” and “Englishwalas”, I guess?’
‘Yes!’ Athreya grinned. ‘Does he always do that?’
‘He is a pukka sahib, that man. Would fit in perfectly if you were to send him back a hundred years into the past and insert him into the British–Indian army.’
‘He is air force, Bhaskar,’ Varadan teased, flashing a quick, mischievous smile at Athreya. ‘Not army.’
‘There was no air force a hundred years ago, genius,’ Bhaskar shot back. ‘Sridhar would have to settle for the army.’
‘I also met Ramanathan and his wife. They too spoke about you.’
‘Ramanathan?’ Bhaskar asked.
‘The retired postmaster.’
Bhaskar let out a guffaw.
‘Been making enquiries about me,
