Athreya stood still, a foot inside the chapel door, narrowed his eyes to slits and tried to mentally travel back in time to when the murder had taken place. He was, of course, familiar with the physical details of the chapel. What he wanted now was to get an intuitive feel of the place, and to put himself in Phillip’s shoes.
Why had Phillip come to the chapel?
That, Athreya knew, was the key to the riddle. If he could answer the question, he would take a giant stride forward in the investigation. There was something special about the chapel that had brought Phillip and his killer to it at around 12.30 a.m. that night. What was it?
Phillip would have entered through the chapel door–which Richie had lubricated sometime during the day–and would have stood where Athreya was now standing. The lights would have been off, but Phillip would have stood here and silently surveyed the dark chapel. Had he been expecting to find something or someone? Or had he just wanted to ensure that it was empty and he was alone?
Was the wheelchair with Phillip at that time? From the way blood had spilled all over the front of his shirt, down to his waist, Athreya was inclined to believe that Phillip had been sitting in the wheelchair when someone came from behind and slit his throat.
But where had the wheelchair and Phillip been when the killer had struck? Surely, such a deep ear-to-ear gash would have severed both the jugular vein and the carotid artery, and made blood gush out. Some of it must have spurted out on to the floor.
Where?
There hadn’t been the slightest trace of blood anywhere in the estate outside the chapel—not on the grass, the walkways or in and around the mansion. It then stood to reason that Phillip’s throat had been slit in the chapel.
Even inside, there was very little blood on the floor or the mats. The mat at the corner where the wheelchair had been found had only two spots of blood on it–which was nowhere near the amount that should have been there.
Had Phillip been killed somewhere else in the chapel and then wheeled to the corner? Likely. Very likely. Then, wherever he had been killed, the mats must have soaked in a fair amount of blood. But they had found no bloodied mats! That’s because the killer must have removed them. But bloodied mats would have left telltale signs on the floor underneath them!
Athreya spun to his right and strode along the space behind the pews until he came to the end where two mats were missing. He switched on his torch and crouched, studying the floor.
Five minutes of examination yielded no result. There was not the slightest trace of blood or discolouration. Athreya straightened up slowly. This meant that the two mats from here had been taken to replace the bloodied mats somewhere else in the chapel.
He could get two policemen and have them lift every mat in the chapel and examine the floor. Alternatively, he could guess where Phillip had been killed. A possible answer leapt at him. The one spot that was different from every other in the chapel was the altar.
He strode down the aisle and stopped in front of the altar, studying the mats on the floor. Two mats here showed less signs of wear than the ones beside them and the ones on the aisle. He bent down, picked up the corner of one mat and pulled it up. Immediately, he saw it.
On the floor was an irregular patch of discoloration the size of a football.
He picked up the other mat and moved it aside. Under it was another patch, a smaller one. A closer examination revealed that it was blood–blood that had soaked through the mats and stained the floor. He replaced the mats and stood with his hands on his hips.
So, Phillip’s throat had been slit in front of the altar! Visions of medieval blood rituals and human sacrifices rose to his mind. Suddenly, he recalled the words of Sarala, the wing commander’s wife, whom he had met on the toy train on his way to Coonoor. She had talked about devil worship and human sacrifice at Greybrooke Manor.
Whether that was true or not, what was certain was that something evil and malevolent had happened at the altar after midnight. Candles had been moved around, unlit. Someone wearing gloves had done something on the altar. The mats behind the altar had shifted under the weight of bodies. And then, someone without gloves, possibly the one who had slit Phillip’s throat, had wiped down the wheelchair.
What a gruesome night! An involuntary shiver ran down Athreya’s spine.
He was sure now that more than two people had been at the chapel that night. Not just Phillip and his killer, but other people too. But not one of those present that night had admitted to it. Before he could investigate further, a series of loud knocks sounded at the chapel door. It was Inspector Muthu and two policemen.
‘They told me you were here, sir,’ he said, his attitude towards Athreya having undergone a sea change. ‘Did you find anything new? Our forensics team went through the chapel with a fine-tooth comb.
‘I’m sure they did,’ Athreya said. ‘What did they say about the blood spots under the mats?’
‘Blood spots?’ Muthu scowled more out of habit than from any disrespect to Athreya.
‘The ones in front of the altar. Under the mats.’
‘Show me!’
Two minutes later, Muthu was berating a forensic man over the phone. Athreya slowly walked out of the chapel, his face set in grim lines. He had to call out the bluffs now. Just as he had said to Varadan, he had to strip away the extraneous. Only then would he be able to look at the core.
He found Dora
