A Will to Kill

by RV Raman

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Athreya greeted him non-committally in response.

  ‘You’ve had a look at all the paintings?’ Richie asked briskly.

  ‘Not the ones on the upper floor. I believe there is a similar gallery upstairs?’

  ‘Not of consequence.’ Richie dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s half-empty, and what is there is not of much value.’

  ‘Do you share your uncle’s interest in art?’ Athreya asked mildly.

  Richie’s face split into a roguish grin.

  ‘To the extent that they represent a valuable investment, yes,’ he responded unabashedly. He cast a quick glance around the hall and lowered his voice. ‘I know that you haven’t had the time to make a detailed assessment, but do you have a ballpark estimate of how valuable the collection is?’

  So, Richie was making the same mistake that Abbas had committed earlier. For a moment, Athreya wondered if the two were good friends. They seemed to be of a similar mould at first glance.

  ‘I am not the valuer your uncle has invited,’ he said aloud.

  Immediately, as if a switch had been turned off, Richie lost interest. His expression suggested that he had mentally dismissed Athreya the moment he learnt that he was not the valuer. With neither apology nor acknowledgement, he turned on his heel and strode out of the front door.

  * * *

  Michelle had been right. The view of the hills to the south-east of the mansion was indeed impressive. The hills began their gradual ascent at an intermediate distance, after which they grew steadily steeper. The undulating skyline, from the rolling hills on the left, to the hilltop from where Dora had shown him the valley, to the gentler slopes on the extreme right, made a fine sight. The velvety green fuzz on the slopes of the rightmost hill looked like tea gardens. Closer in the foreground, the mud road by which he had come to the estate snaked up the hill.

  But the sunlight that Athreya had hoped for was playing truant. It was patchy and far too intermittent. Propelled by a steady breeze, dark, low clouds had darkened much of the western horizon. The hills and the slopes under them had already grown misty and taken on the familiar grey mien. Rain seemed to be falling in some places too. Within half an hour, Athreya guessed, gloom would reclaim Greybrooke Manor and mist would shroud the hills. That was all the time he had for sketching.

  He took a seat on a stone bench beside the long south- eastern wall of the mansion and balanced his sketchbook on his knee. Two minutes later, he was engrossed in reproducing the vista before him. His pencil sped across the paper, laying down confident strokes–some short, some long; now faint, now dark.

  Soon, a grey picture in the likeness of what he was looking at took shape. It was not nearly of the class of Phillip’s creations, but the likeness to the landscape was unmistakable. Fifteen minutes later, he sat back and studied the sketch critically. Not bad, but he could think of at least a dozen improvements he could have made.

  He looked up at the sky and found that the first traces of grey were reaching over the mansion. Perhaps there was time for one more sketch. But what should he draw? Another scene that was before him, or something that existed only in his mind’s eye? Perhaps the latter.

  As he was about to begin, a familiar voice sounded from behind him. He turned and realized that the bench he was sitting on was close to a window, which he guessed was the study’s. Through it came Bhaskar’s voice.

  ‘What did Murthy say?’ he asked. ‘Did he agree to stay here?’

  ‘No, Uncle,’ said Michelle’s voice. ‘He’d rather stay at the resort, he said.’

  ‘Heaven knows you can’t afford it,’ Bhaskar growled.

  ‘Why does he waste your money so?’

  ‘Well…he is not paying.’

  ‘Not paying?’ Bhaskar demanded. ‘Is Abbas letting him stay for free?

  ‘Yes. He and Abbas are discussing a business proposal.’

  ‘Business proposal!’ Bhaskar sounded alarmed. ‘Don’t touch his proposals with a bargepole, girl. You will lose every rupee you have.’

  ‘We are not investing any money, Uncle. Abbas is.’

  ‘Out of love and affection? Don’t tell me that Abbas has turned altruistic all of a sudden.’

  ‘Well…not really.’

  ‘Then what? Out with it, girl.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to see you about, Uncle.’ Bhaskar made an unintelligible sound that reminded

  Athreya of a bear’s growl.

  ‘The land that you are bequeathing to me…’ Michelle said slowly.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘We want to use it to start a resort.’

  ‘A resort? Here? You want to create another Misty Valley? Are you out of your mind, Michelle?’

  ‘Well…Abbas and Murthy say that Misty Valley is not doing well because it doesn’t have access to the main road. People can reach it by the narrow side road, and that makes the resort difficult to find.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The piece of land you are giving me is on the main road. It connects the main road with Misty Valley.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ Bhaskar exclaimed. ‘I think I am beginning to see.’

  ‘If we merge my land with Abbas’s, we’ll have a larger resort that has access from the main road. It should do well.’

  ‘Let me guess the rest of the proposal…Abbas wants you to put in your piece of land as your investment and he will bring in the money to develop it. Is that right?’

  ‘Exactly! And for investing the land, Abbas will give us a stake in Misty Valley too. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘Did he ask you to give the land on a rent-free lease for ten or twenty years?’

  ‘Ye—yes.’

  A long, inarticulate rumble sounded from Bhaskar. At the end of it, he spoke slowly, as if addressing a child.

  ‘I’ll say this as gently as my ornery disposition allows me,’ he said. ‘You are a good doctor, Michelle. But you are a bad judge of character, just as Sarah was. And you make a terrible, terrible businesswoman.’

  ‘Uncle!’

  ‘Do you think this is the first time this proposal has been made? Abbas’s father approached me years ago with something similar. Get this into your head, girl—Abbas is a cheat and a swindler. Don’t do any kind of business with him. He will take away your money, and leave you high and dry. What will you have once the property I give you is also gone?’

  ‘If you have such a low opinion of him,’ Michelle asked hotly, ‘why are you inviting him to the party?’

  ‘We have to be neighbourly,’ Bhaskar said evenly. ‘In this out-of-the-way place, we have no other option. In times of crisis, we have only neighbours to turn to. And they have only us to lean on. Inviting him to a party and doing business with him are entirely different things.’

  ‘Coming back to the proposal,’ Michelle went on after a pause, her voice calmer, ‘we don’t have to put in any money and we’ll still get a share in the business. We can be settled for life.’

  ‘Indeed? You may as well kiss the land goodbye. Does Abbas have the money to develop a whole new resort?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Do you know where he gets his money from, Michelle?’

  ‘How does that matter? Let him beg, borrow or steal.’

  ‘Misty Valley is sucking more money than it generates.’

  ‘Okay. So?’

  ‘And Abbas’s father was never a wealthy man.’

  ‘I don’t get the point.’

  ‘Then were does he get his money from? Developing a resort will take crores.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll tell you. He gets it from selling drugs.’

  ‘Uncle! That’s just a rumour.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. He supplies drugs along the Western Ghats, from Kodai to here to Coorg.’ Bhaskar’s voice had risen. ‘That makes all the bloody difference. What kind of a character do you think a drug pusher has?’
>
  ‘So you won’t help me, Uncle?’ Michelle asked after a pause.

  ‘I have always helped you, and will continue to help you. But I will not become party to your financial suicide. My notion of doing you good is not falling into Abbas’s traps. You are a fool, Michelle, and I have to protect you from yourself.

  ‘Your grandfather gave one-third of his wealth to Sarah, and your father squandered it. Murthy will do exactly the same thing with your land. History repeats itself, Michelle, history repeats itself. One would have thought that, after growing up with a father like Gonzalves, you would have known better than to hook up with a similar man. But no, you go and choose Murthy, another loafer.’

  ‘Uncle!’ Michelle wailed. She let out a wretched sob. ‘Won’t you let the past be the past? I will not have you speak ill of my mother.’

  ‘You are right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought Sarah into this. Poor thing; her only fault was that she trusted the wrong man. Unfortunately, you are making the same mistake.’

  ‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll leave this place tomorrow.’

  ‘No, Michelle. We will have visitors for three days. The family must stick together and present a common face. Let’s not wash our dirty linen in public.’

  ‘Some family!’ Michelle retorted. ‘A family where people don’t help each other.’

  A long pause dragged in silence. Athreya imagined Bhaskar being angry and Michelle crying. When Bhaskar broke it, his voice was soft and injured.

  ‘Michelle,’ he said slowly, ‘look up, girl.’ Another long pause. ‘Look up…that’s the spirit. Now, look me in the eye and repeat what you said. Say that I don’t help you.’

  Michelle sobbed uncontrollably, and when she finally calmed down, she apologized profusely.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that, Uncle,’ she concluded. ‘I’m sorry. You pay the rent for my clinic and my flat. It was uncharitable of me to have said what I said. I’m terribly sorry. Will you forgive me, Uncle?’

  ‘Of course, girl. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘But what am I to do, Uncle? I’m stuck.’

  ‘Do what you should have done a couple of years ago. Do what your mother should have done after you were born. Had she cut your father loose, you wouldn’t have been in this plight. Sarah was a wealthy lady once, wealthier than I am now. You do what I say, and I’ll reconsider every decision I made about you.’

  ‘You mean…’ Michelle trailed off.

  ‘Reclaim your life, Michelle. Cut Murthy adrift. Divorce him.’

  Chapter 7

  The party was nicely underway in the spacious drawing room, which could have easily accommodated double—or even triple, in a pinch–the number of people there in it. Bhaskar had planned to have twelve people in all, exactly a dozen. Eleven was an unlucky number for the Fernandez clan, he had insisted, and thirteen even more so: it was the unluckiest number of them all, especially for dinner. That, in part, explained why he had invited Abbas.

  ‘I don’t want this to be my last supper,’ he had said earlier. ‘And today is Friday. The number thirteen and the day do not mix well either.’

  Coming from a brutally pragmatic man, this had surprised Athreya. The other members of the family had nodded in agreement, especially Michelle. Athreya had wondered who the thirteenth person could potentially have been. Murthy? He could think of no one else.

  The room was lit dimly by several low-wattage lamps that together cast a soft radiance. Cocktail snacks were placed at different spots within easy reach of where people had gathered, and Murugan was continuously replenishing the plates. Bhaskar, with a bright red- and-green woollen blanket covering his legs, was in his wheelchair at the centre of the room along with Sebastian, playing the sociable host to Abbas, Phillip and Varadan.

  Abbas was immaculately dressed in expensive clothes, while Varadan was neatly turned out in understated professional attire. Phillip’s shirt was similar to Bhaskar’s, but the overall look was that of a shabby painter.

  The four cousins were having a ball of a time near one of the French windows, all of them sounding pleasantly inebriated. Michelle looked charming in her grey divided skirt and white frilly shirt. Dora’s light-blue jeans looked freshly ironed under her purple kurti. Manu and Richie were in jeans too, but with very different t-shirts. Manu’s was light grey and minimalist, while Richie’s was bright maroon.

  Athreya found himself with Major Ganesh Raj and his pretty wife, Jilsy, the latest residents of the vale he had met. Ganesh was talking enthusiastically about his favourite topic, of which Athreya knew little: superheroes. It appeared that comics and graphic novels were the primary reading material the retired major consumed despite his pushing fifty. While he drank only strong dark rum, Jilsy, who looked to be in her early thirties, was clearly enjoying her red wine.

  Dressed in a canary-yellow wrap-around that ended at her knees, she was the inevitable centre of attraction. Along with matching heels, an orange scarf and maroon lips, she did make for an attractive sight, and male eyes in the room frequently drifted towards her. Even without the get-up, she was an undeniably attractive lady. As she tried to conceal her ennui at her husband’s incessant monologue about superheroes and their powers, her eyes darted over to people of her own age, lingering especially on Manu.

  Both pairs of French windows in the drawing room had been flung wide open so the smokers could step outside for their nicotine shots if they wished to. The mist outside was thicker than it had been the previous evening, and the low-hanging clouds flashed intermittently, lighting the murky night with an aura of diffused luminescence.

  The clouds had dumped their burden earlier in the evening, drenching the vale and thickening the all-pervading mist. Even the walkways, which were but a few yards away from the French windows, couldn’t be seen. The world outside was an unmitigated sea of grey. Barely a leaf stirred. It was just the kind of milieu to arouse the crime-fiction aficionado in Bhaskar. He rescued Athreya from Ganesh’s tiresome discourse.

  ‘Is it true that women murderers prefer poison, while men favour more physical means to kill?’ he asked Athreya loudly. ‘Is it because most women wouldn’t have the strength to wield, say, an axe?’

  ‘Or a heavy, blunt instrument,’ said Athreya, sauntering in relief towards the men at the centre of the room. ‘While it is very much a matter of strength, the choice of murder weapon depends more on three other factors: the victim, the nature of the motive and the opportunities the victim offers.

  ‘Pushing someone off a moving train or off a railway platform as a train approaches may not require the same strength as throwing the victim off the top of a tall building. Women have been known to do it even in our crowded railway stations and trains. All you need to do is to tip a person over or trip him. A woman pushed another out from a running Mumbai local train just last month.

  ‘Crimes of passion—love, hate, revenge, infatuation—tend be less planned, and are often opportunistic. Poisoners, on the other hand, are more likely to plan their crimes meticulously. Coming to the victim, it is obviously easier to poison a strong man than to physically assault him, especially if the killer is a woman or a smaller man.’

  ‘Access to firearms changes that, I suppose?’ Varadan asked.

  ‘Certainly, especially a silenced one. But here, access to guns is far more limited than it is in the western world, especially among the common public.’

  ‘And access to poison?’ Jilsy asked. She and her husband too had walked over to the group.

  Athreya turned and met her flattering gaze.

  ‘If you consider the entire spectrum from the crude rat poison that kirana shops sell, to naturally occurring toxins, to more refined substances like cyanide, you have plenty of access. Even potatoes can be poisonous, especially those that are green below the skin or ones that are sprouting.’

  ‘Wow!’ Ganesh exclaimed loudly. ‘I didn’t know that. So easy, eh? Supervillains always carry belts with pouches of p
oison.’

  ‘What weapon would you use, Mr Athreya?’ Dora asked mischievously. ‘If you were to commit murder, that is.’

  She and her cousins had gravitated to the centre of the room where everyone else sat or stood.

  ‘I would choose one that would result in death, but would leave no indication that it was murder,’ Athreya said. ‘The best way to go scot-free would be to not let even the faintest suspicion of murder arise.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ganesh cut in with a fatuous grin. It was clear that he hadn’t understood Athreya. ‘Me, I would go for a gun. Nothing as dependable and sure-shot as that. Boom! And khalas! The matter is over. The bugger is dead.’

  ‘Oh, let’s go around the room choosing our preferred weapons,’ Jilsy said excitedly. ‘Each of us will say how we will commit a murder. Come on, it’s just a game.’

  ‘A silenced gun for me,’ Richie declared, surprising Athreya by going first. He had shed his sullen reticence and had turned on his charm. He was gazing covetously at Jilsy. ‘If I can’t get one, I’ll settle for a long dagger. Wouldn’t want blood spilling on to my hands.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Jilsy tittered in morbid delight, her eyes wide. ‘I’ll choose poison, like Mr. Fernandez said. I can’t use any of Ganesh’s guns. The kick is so powerful that I would topple over backwards. I don’t think I can use a dagger either. I am not as strong as Michelle or Dora.’ She turned her flashing eyes to Bhaskar. ‘You go next, Mr. Fernandez. Choose your weapon.’

  ‘I carry an automatic, my dear lady, and I am a pretty good shot,’ he rumbled drily. ‘You probably know that I shot an intruder recently, but chose not to kill him. It was obvious that he had come to stab me. I would have been well within my rights if I had killed him. Self-defence.’

  This was greeted with stunned silence, and Athreya quickly scanned the faces in the room. Stumped, Jilsy was staring at Bhaskar, wide-eyed and with her mouth open. Ganesh had a stupid expression on his face. Sebastian’s jaw was set and he looked grim. Manu and Varadan remained impassive, while Dora and Michelle’s eyes had widened. There was a contemplative look on Phillip’s face, in addition to the perpetual half- smile he always wore. Athreya couldn’t see Abbas and Richie’s faces.