‘That’s wonderful, thanks. Does he live far from here?’
‘Not at all,’ Rajan smiled. ‘He is my neighbour.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘He should just be getting up from his siesta.’
‘Siesta?’ Athreya asked. ‘So early?’
‘He is a traditional man. Has brunch, not lunch. After a nice snooze, he wakes up to have his habitual afternoon coffee. In fact, we might just be able to get an excellent cup or two if we land up at the right time.’
‘Good idea!’ Athreya grinned. ‘Let’s gatecrash.’
To refresh his memory, he pulled out a piece of paper on which he had scribbled the Fernandez family tree and studied it. He had sketched it from a text message Suraj had sent him after their telephone conversation:
Fifteen minutes later, they were settled in the front veranda of a quaint little cottage, with a strong aroma of coffee wafting towards them through the open front door. Ramanathan, the retired postmaster, was swaying gently in his rocking chair, while Rajan and Athreya had occupied two cane chairs across him, a small cane table between them. Beside Ramanathan was Susheela, his wife–a frail old lady with a kindly smile.
‘So, staying with Bhaskar, eh?’ Ramanathan asked in a sandpapery voice. ‘He is a colourful man, and generous too. Never a dull moment when he is around.’
‘Very energetic too,’ Susheela added. ‘Despite his legs being nearly crippled, he does so many things. I remember him being a live wire when he was younger. Full of beans and always trying out something new.’
‘Yes,’ her husband agreed with a nod. ‘Full of energy, but he has little respect for rules.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Just like his father, old Tom Fernandez. Very adventurous, old Tom was, and didn’t know the meaning of fear. Bhaskar has taken after him.’
‘Thank goodness Manu hasn’t taken after them,’ the old lady said with a trace of approval. ‘Nice, decent boy, Manu is. I wish he would get married and settle down soon. Heaven knows he is old enough. What Greybrooke needs is a woman’s hand.’
Athreya listened happily as the old couple continued to talk unprompted. Rajan had warned him about the couple’s penchant for talking. They had little else to do in their old age, and all they needed was a willing listener. A newcomer wanting to know about their region and its people was an opportunity that could not be allowed to pass.
‘Why, ma’am?’ Athreya asked.
‘It’s been a while since Greybrooke Manor had a woman running it. After old Tom’s wife passed away, it has been run by servants. First, by Tom’s servants; then, after Tom died, by Sebastian and Bhaskar’s servants.’
‘Sebastian?’ Athreya asked. It was not a name he had heard.
‘Bhaskar’s loyal caregiver and major-domo of sorts. Also his secretary, when the occasion demands it. With Bhaskar largely confined to his wheelchair, Sebastian looks after everyday matters at the mansion. He does a good job, mind you; I’m not complaining. Very diligent and keeps the place clean and tidy. But it’s not the same as having a woman run the household.’
‘Bhaskar may be confined to his wheelchair, Susheela, but he does get around pretty well,’ the retired postmaster butted in as soon as he got the chance. ‘He has one of those newfangled electric wheelchairs in which he zips around the mansion and its grounds. Even at this age, he manages to dash around as recklessly in the wheelchair as he had done in cars earlier. Drives it too fast for his own good, if you ask me. What he doesn’t want is another accident.’
‘You know that Bhaskar almost lost his legs in a car crash, don’t you?’ Susheela asked when her husband paused for breath. ‘Was pushing a car way beyond the speed limit, I’m told. Lucky to have come out alive, he was. But the poor man’s legs were mangled forever. He required half a dozen surgeries after the crash.’
‘Never afraid to take risks, good old Bhaskar,’ the retired postmaster pronounced. ‘Just like his father. One must be careful as one gets older, you know. He doesn’t want another accident in the family.’ He squinted at Athreya through his thick glasses. ‘You know how old Tom died?’.
Athreya nodded. ‘I believe he fell off a train.’
For a brief moment, Ramanathan seemed annoyed at having been denied the opportunity to narrate the incident. But he recovered the next moment and continued nevertheless.
‘It was the middle of the night,’ he said, getting into the details unasked. ‘Old Tom must have had half a bottle of whisky inside him. He went to the compartment door to smoke his pipe. He probably liked to stick his head out of the door and feel the air on his face. Think about it, Mr Athreya–a swaying train and a tipsy old man leaning out of the door. One hand must have been holding his pipe.
‘That meant that Tom must have been holding on to whatever he was holding on to with just one hand. What would happen if that hand slipped? Eh? That was Tom for you … a devil-may-care outlook … and reckless.’
‘That’s when Greybrooke Manor passed on to Bhaskar Fernandez, isn’t it?’ Athreya prompted.
‘Yes,’ said Susheela, nodding. ‘That was a little hard on poor Sarah, Bhaskar’s sister. It was she who looked after Tom as often as she could, whenever she could get away from the scoundrel of a husband she had. Bhaskar visited only rarely, what with him being wheelchair-bound. Tom should have left a part of the estate to Sarah. She was really upset about it. Cried her heart out when Tom’s will was read out. She never came back to Greybrooke Manor … except to be buried in the family cemetery.’
‘What good would it have done had Tom left a part of the estate to Sarah?’ Ramanathan demanded. ‘Sarah’s husband would have gambled it away within a year. Tom did the right thing in leaving her an annuity. In any case, Sarah’s health was failing. It was only a matter of
