For over thirty years, he had been Bhaskar’s right hand, from before Bhaskar became a cripple, from when he ran a flourishing antique business—first in Europe, then in India. In Bangalore and Chennai, and later, after Thomas Fernandez’s death, at Greybrooke Manor as his caregiver, secretary and major-domo.
Now with Sebastian gone, Bhaskar was at a complete loss. He seemed paralysed physically and mentally, unable—or unwilling—to be the dominant force he had always been. Since morning, Manu had stepped into the vacuum left by Sebastian’s death, taking charge of the mansion and administering tender care to his father. Dora, too, had stepped up to the occasion, quietly working with Manu to run the household.
Looking down at Bhaskar, Athreya felt sorry for him. The man in the wheelchair had faced the prospect of his own unnatural death with equanimity, even élan. He had devised a scheme to thwart his would-be killers, and had written two conflicting wills. But the murder of Sebastian seemed to have blindsided him.
Be that as it may, Athreya still had a job to do. Bhaskar had commissioned him to solve the crimes, and he was on the verge of doing so. But first, he had to confront the older man and get him to speak of the secrets he had so far withheld.
‘It is time,’ he said softly to Bhaskar, ‘for us to have a little chat. The time has come for you to take the cover off what has been hidden for over twenty years. Only then will there be a resolution to this affair. Only then can you rest in peace.’
Bhaskar looked up at Athreya with hollow eyes and said nothing.
‘I know about Marcel Fessler’s death,’ Athreya continued. ‘About the Künzi Brothers and the Balsano landscapes. And about Jacob Lopez. I have all the information that is publicly available in Vienna, and some that is not. I have also spoke to Enrico. But there are gaps that only you can fill. What you choose to tell the world is entirely up to you. But having commissioned me, you must let me into your confidence.’
Bhaskar let out a long sigh and slowly nodded his head.
‘I owe it to you,’ he concurred. ‘If you indeed know about what you just mentioned, I am astonished. Today is only the third day after Phillip’s murder. How you managed it is beyond me. But you have more than justified the faith I put in you.’
He looked out of the window and went on.
‘Shall we go outside?’ he asked. ‘The vale is bright and sunny today. The fog seems to have lifted. Do you really know who killed Sebastian?’
‘I do.’
‘Then the fog has lifted in your mind as well. It’s appropriate that we go outside. I hope you don’t mind a stroll.’
Five minutes later, they were moving slowly along the walkways, Bhaskar in his wheelchair and Athreya walking beside him.
‘I believe you have called for a gathering at 7 p.m.?’ Bhaskar asked. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I hope to introduce you to Sebastian’s murderer.’
‘Really? I look forward to it. But now, let me tell you what I haven’t told anyone since I let my father into the secret. He carried it to his grave, as did my dear wife Sujata.
‘As you know, I used to deal in antiques and other forms of art. I ran a tidy business for many years in Vienna, a crossroads for art of all forms. Sitting between eastern and western Europe, cheek by jowl with Italy and other cradles of art, a stone’s throw from France and the erstwhile Soviet Union, Vienna saw a lot of art pass through its hands. Even decades after the Second World War, it was not uncommon for a forgotten Nazi treasure to surface every once in a while. The collapse of the Soviet Union unleashed another wave of discoveries. In other words, Vienna was just the place to be for someone like me.
‘Sujata and I had decided to return to India soon. Manu was approaching ten, and we wanted him to grow up in his country. We had already delayed our return by three or four years more than we had intended, and so Sujata and Manu moved to India. That was 1993. I was to follow in two or three years. I was not a cripple then.
‘But one day—a single day—in 1995 changed our lives. Forever.’
Bhaskar pulled out his pipe, filled it slowly with tobacco from a leather pouch and lit it. He fell silent as he puffed on it, gradually building the fire in the bowl, his eyes gazing unseeingly past Sunset Deck at the hills beyond. Athreya waited, leaning against a stone bench.
‘It was a fine day that dawned, with no indication that it would wreck my life in so irreversible a manner. Sebastian had gone out to show some pieces to a customer, and I was alone in my shop. What I did not know was that something had happened the night before that would plunge me into hell.
‘The Künzi Brothers, along with their break-in man, Jacob Lopez, had entered the house of Marcel Fessler, a reclusive art collector. Two days earlier, Fessler had anonymously purchased four paintings by the famous Fabian Balsano. Fessler’s agent had purchased four landscapes for an astonishing twenty-seven million dollars.
‘The four canvases were still in their packaging—long metal tubes—when Jacob and the Künzi Brothers broke into Fessler’s house. They were yet to be catalogued and added to Fessler’s list of paintings. The world was not aware that he had bought them, and did not expect to see the four paintings for many years.
‘Reclusive collectors, who purchase art anonymously, often keep them
