Athreya sighed and rose.
‘You may want to rethink your story, Mr Murthy,’ he said slowly. ‘You were seen at Greybrooke Manor and you were talked to. Despite the fog, you were also seen returning to the Misty Valley Resort in the wee hours.
‘Be aware that the police inspector is not a man to take kindly to disingenuousness. He tends to see things in black and white–innocent or guilty. If someone conceals evidence from him or lies to him, he is likely to assume that the person is guilty of murdering Phillip.’
‘But I didn’t kill Phillip!’ Murthy exclaimed angrily even as his face paled. ‘Don’t try to hang that around my neck.’
‘Did I say you killed him?’ Athreya enquired mildly with a hand on the door knob. ‘All I am telling you is what the inspector is likely to think. I know what I know, which is probably more than what you think I know. If I were you, I’d be careful.’
As Athreya stepped out of Murthy’s room, he felt his mobile phone buzz. It was his contact in Delhi, to whom he had spoken earlier in the morning.
‘Your photos are generating interest in certain quarters,’ the person at the other end of the line said when Athreya answered the call. ‘You said this painter retired to the Nilgiri Hills?’
‘That’s right. A short drive from Coonoor. What kind of interest are his paintings generating?’
‘A couple of them seem to be copies of little-known works of well-known painters. Excellent copies, from the looks of it. And the signature “Philipose” rings a bell too with a couple of people. Can you send me better photos of the paintings? Need some high-resolution close-ups too to study the brushwork. I need to send them to some people who know more about this matter, and see what more we can find out.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do. What can you tell me about Philipose?’
‘There was a painter in Austria by that name who seems to have vanished a few years ago. He first appeared in Europe in 2008, and is said to have come from India. Apparently, he was very good at converting photographs to paintings. Very good paintings, I’m told. But despite the painter’s obvious skill, works that were not original did not sell for much. As a result, Philipose found it difficult to make both ends meet, especially in Europe, where the cost of living is pretty high.
‘Wanting to take advantage of his unusual skill and sorry financial state, art sharks began commissioning him to make copies of famous paintings, which they then sold to gullible, wannabe art collectors for a huge profit.
‘Philipose himself is said to have received little for his efforts, but it at least provided a steady income that enabled him to put by some savings. It is unclear if Philipose knew that his copies were being passed off as originals.
‘One of the men I spoke to believes that Philipose might have begun suspecting this in his later years. Rather than risk the wrath of dangerous men by refusing to work for them, he may have decided to disappear quietly. He seems to have been caught in an unenviable situation. If he continued to work for the art sharks, knowing that his copies were being sold as originals, he would become an accessory to their crimes. On the other hand, if he refused to work for them, they might have killed him.
‘And so, in the year preceding his disappearance, he had apparently worked day and night to earn extra money. Once he had accumulated enough to leave Austria, he vanished without telling anyone.’
‘Were there any significant art thefts around the time Philipose disappeared?’ Athreya asked.
‘That thought occurred to me too, and I checked. No significant thefts took place, and absolutely none in the cities around where he lived.
‘When did he disappear?’
‘2012.’
‘That fits. Phillip came to the valley in 2012. Do me another favour, will you? Can you make a list of art-related crimes that happened around Vienna in 1994 and 1995? Thefts, deaths, anything significant, even if it is not a crime.’
13
When he returned to Greybrooke Manor, Athreya found a buzz of activity around the chapel. A police wagon and a clutch of policemen had arrived in his absence. While the wagon waited in the driveway for the body, a forensics team was busy at the chapel collecting physical evidence. Relentless in his pursuit, Inspector Muthu had ordered a man to collect the fingerprints of all the people at Greybrooke Manor–residents, guests and staff.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked Athreya on his return. ‘We need to take your fingerprints.’
‘At the Misty Valley Resort,’ Athreya replied. ‘I’ve just discovered that the victim’s housekeeper cleaned his house earlier today. Whatever evidence–’
Athreya broke off as Muthu let loose a colourful curse. He summoned two policemen and sent them to Phillip’s house with instructions to prevent anyone from entering it. He also sent orders that nobody should leave the Misty Valley Resort.
He then hailed the fingerprinting man and told him to take Athreya’s prints. On seeing Athreya, the man threw him a salute, flummoxing Muthu in the bargain.
‘You want to take his prints?’ the fingerprinting man asked in surprise. ‘He is one of us. He’s the one who solved the Ooty double-murder case.’
‘Eh?’ Muthu stuttered. ‘Eh?’
‘It’s all right, my friend,’ Athreya cut in. ‘You have to take the prints of all the people who were here during the murder. How else will you identify all the prints you find? My prints are already there on the chapel door and on one of the windows.’
‘But, sir–’ the man protested, only to be cut off by Athreya again.
‘Do as the inspector says. Also take the prints of the dead man and everyone else who was here. Do you have a complete list?’
‘I have a list of all the residents, guests and staff.’
‘Add two more names to the list–Mr Murthy, who is
