At length, a frustrated Muthu gave up and dismissed him. Throughout the gruelling one hour, Athreya had answered all of the inspector's questions promptly, but had offered nothing–views or information–proactively.
As Athreya brought his borrowed cycle to a halt at Misty Valley’s gate, he was surprised to find the same security guard he had seen early in the morning. On seeing Athreya, he threw a salute and grinned as he had done earlier in the morning, showing crooked, discoloured teeth.
‘Still here?’ Athreya asked. ‘I thought your duty ended at 8 a.m.?’
‘The manager asked me to stay, sir,’ the guard said conspiratorially. ‘Something has happened at the mansion, he said. I may be wanted.’
‘Smart man, your manager,’ said Athreya, nodding in approval. ‘Tell me, do you know if Mr Phillip has a maid or someone who helps him keep the house clean?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs Carvallo. She goes there every day and tidies up his house.’
‘Where can I find her?’
‘Here, sir. In the resort. She works here and does a part-time job for Mr Phillip. Do you want me to call her?’
‘Yes, please.’
Five minutes later, Athreya was talking to a kindly widow of about sixty, who was wearing her cross prominently. Athreya had left the cycle with the security guard and was walking with Mrs Carvallo on the mud road running between the resort and Phillip’s house.
‘Is Mr Phillip all right?’ she asked as soon as she joined Athreya on the road. ‘They say something has happened to him.’
‘All in good time, Mrs Carvallo,’ Athreya replied. ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions first. When were you inside Mr Phillip’s house last?’
‘Why, sir, four hours ago. I cleaned the house.’
Athreya swung around and stared at her. If she had cleaned the house, whatever evidence there might have been would now be lost.
‘You cleaned the house?’ Athreya repeated after her stupidly.
‘Yes, sir. I have a key. I clean it every day. Even when he is not at home. I usually go there earlier, but as he is away, I went today at about noon.’
‘Did you find anything out of place?’
‘No, nothing. Everything was as usual.’
‘Nothing missing?’
It was Mrs Carvallo’s turn to be astonished.
‘No, sir!’ she exclaimed. ‘Missing? Good Lord, no. This is a safe place.’ She peered at Athreya shrewdly. ‘So, something has happened to Mr Phillip!’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Athreya told her the minimum he could get away with, without telling her outright that Phillip had been murdered. She shed copious tears and spoke about how the Lord always took back the best of His flock. In response to a question, she declared that Phillip had been a very good and kind man who couldn’t have had any enemies. Athreya steered the conversation towards his dealings with neighbours.
Yes, there had been a few altercations, she said, but then who didn’t have a few disagreements in this day and age? There were bound to be misunderstandings between people, but the right thing to do was to talk it over and sort it out. Take Thursday’s quarrel with Ganesh, for instance. There had been raised voices between Phillip and the retired major, who had been upset with the painter.
Someone had overheard Phillip call someone else a mongrel, and the major had got it into his head that it was him that Phillip had been referring to.
But Phillip had been patient and had explained that he had not called Ganesh a mongrel. If he had indeed called someone a mongrel, it would certainly not have been a man who had fought for the country. After about ten minutes of altercation, the major had left, and as far as Mrs Carvallo knew, the matter had been sorted out.
Was she sure that she had heard it right? After all, ‘mongrel’ was an English term that didn’t translate well to Tamil. No, sir! Mrs Carvallo was affronted. She had, in case Mr Athreya didn’t know, studied in an English-medium Catholic missionary school. She knew English well, and even read novels.
After apologizing for his error and tasking her with the Herculean burden of not telling anyone about Phillip’s death, Athreya went into the resort in search of Murthy, who turned out to be a handsome moustachioed man, a little on the shorter side. His long, luxurious hair was brushed back at an angle, and his lean face could be charming, especially to women. This Adonis-like charm, Athreya couldn’t help thinking, was a common quality that united Abbas, Richie and Murthy. Perhaps the three men had more in common too.
Murthy nodded warily as Athreya introduced himself; he showed no surprise at seeing him. Michelle had had all the time in the world to relay the developments to him.
‘On what basis do you believe that I was at Greybrooke Manor?’ Murthy asked Athreya, as they sat in his room, facing each other. An open packet of Gold Flake cigarettes lay on the table. ‘Did anyone see me? Did anyone hear me? Michelle will tell you, if she hasn’t already done so, that she didn’t see me all day yesterday.’
‘Couldn’t anyone else have seen you?’ Athreya asked.
‘Who?’ Murthy countered. ‘I am not on speaking terms with Bhaskar, and do not enter the mansion. I have not met anyone else from the family recently, except Richie. I met him here, at the Misty Valley Resort.’
‘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 on it. 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,’
