Abrupt silence descended on the room. They had been harshly recalled from their fond memories of Phillip to the cold reality of a murderer being in their midst.
‘Remember last evening’s bizarre conversation?’ Michelle asked in a hushed voice. ‘The one about women preferring poison, and men preferring blades and other violent means. Do you agree with Manu, Mr. Athreya? Do you think the killer is a man?’
‘You are a doctor, Michelle,’ Athreya said slowly. ‘You have seen both the wound and the weapon. What do you think? Was it an act that was beyond a woman?’
Michelle looked down at her large hands and sinewy arms. Slowly, she shook her head.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I think I could have managed it … if I took him unawares. It would be easier if he was sitting.’
‘Keen on digging your own grave, girl?’ Bhaskar growled.
‘I don’t think she is, Mr. Fernandez,’ Varadan said slowly. ‘It’s quite apparent that she and Dora have the strength to do it.’ He glanced at Jilsy, who was nervously crushing her little kerchief in her hand. ‘Jilsy may be a little different, though.’
‘Coming back to the question of motive,’ Dora went on, ‘isn’t there a fundamental question here? Did the murderer kill Phillip knowing that it was Phillip? Or did he kill him by mistake? Did he think he was killing someone else?’
‘Meaning me?’ Bhaskar rumbled.
‘Isn’t that a possibility, Uncle? After all, he was in your wheelchair and wearing a shirt similar to the one you were wearing last evening. The two of you don’t look very different from behind. Remember, it was a foggy, foggy night. Besides, heaven knows there are enough people with a motive, your two wills notwithstanding.’
‘What’s with the girls of this family today?’ Bhaskar snapped fiercely. ‘Why do you two insist on putting your necks into nooses? Most women would have tried to make the case that it was an outsider who killed Phillip.’
‘We are not putting our necks into nooses, Uncle,’ Dora said. ‘Mr. Athreya is a very sensible man. He would not be swayed by such talk. In fact, it may work the other way. If we made a specious case for an outsider being the murderer, he would smell a rat.’
‘I give up.’ Bhaskar groaned and rubbed his beard vigorously with both palms. ‘And they used to call me venturesome! I never shot myself in the foot. You girls are something else. May heaven protect you from yourselves.’
* * *
It was only when Athreya returned to his room did he realize that he had not bathed or changed. He had gone out for an early morning stroll in his track pants, and had remained in them through the day. Other than to collect his lock picks and jacket, and then to return them, he had not been to his room. As he entered it now, he noticed his laundry lying on his bed. What had been collected the previous morning had been returned, neatly folded and ironed. As he stared at it, a thought flashed through his mind. Simultaneously, a knock sounded on his door. It was Gopal.
‘I’ve come to pick up your laundry, sir,’ he said.
‘Do you do laundry every day, Gopal?’
‘Yes, sir. When we have guests.’
‘Do all the guests give you laundry, like I did yesterday?’
‘Yes, sir. There are more guests today. We are collecting everyone’s laundry. They are just returning to their rooms.’
‘I assume you wash the clothes right away. When do you iron them?’
‘As and when they dry, sir. The thicker clothes are mostly done late at night or early morning.’
‘And you always return them the next morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you, Gopal. Give me a minute. I’ll also give you the clothes I am wearing.’
After Gopal had gone, Athreya had a slow and preoccupied shower, his mind on the discussion he had just had with Gopal. Then, he slowly brushed back his uncommonly fine hair. It was beginning to grey—except for the silvery tuft in the front, the rest of his head was still largely black. His fine-haired beard, too, was mostly black, except at the chin where a small patch of silver matched the tuft on his head.
Tall and lean, he was sometimes compared by his friends to a weeping willow, especially when he let his hair grow. At other times, his beard, which made his already long face look even longer, was compared with that of a Bearded Collie.
Five minutes later, he was on the phone, talking to his friend Rajan, the retired IPS officer in Coonoor. He briefed him on what had happened, and sought his help in finding out as much as possible about Phillip, Abbas, Ganesh and the people at Greybrooke Manor. He asked him to speak to the retired postmaster and his wife, and to anyone else who might be able to throw light on the backgrounds of these people. He also asked him to tap the police network in Ooty and Coonoor if he could.
He then went to the art gallery and photographed all of Phillip’s paintings. He returned to his room, called a Delhi number and spoke on the phone for ten minutes. After hanging up, he sent the photographs of the paintings via WhatsApp to the person in Delhi.
Then he went upstairs to Phillip’s room and examined it thoroughly without leaving fingerprints or smudging any that were already there. With a pencil or the tip of his shoe, he opened the cupboards. But he didn’t find anything out of place. A few clothes hung in the cupboard and Phillip’s bag lay open in one corner of the room. The bathroom had nothing other than his toiletries.
After a fruitless fifteen minutes, he opened the door and found Dora waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
‘Can I speak to you?’ she asked softly.
‘Certainly. Where would you
