‘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’d 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. 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,’ Murthy shot back. ‘Why do you want me to repeat it?’
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,
