‘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 in her.
‘Bit of a chequered history, Greybrooke has,’ he heard the wing commander say. ‘Rather dark, unfortunately. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.’
Athreya brought his attention back to the elderly man.
‘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. ‘Coming 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’d like to meet.’
‘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 continued to voice his gratitude each time they met.
‘I think I’ve heard Greybrooke Manor being mentioned a couple of times, 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
