Maria walked into the dining room, not bothering to put the light on, drank a glass of water and then knocked on Rosie’s door.
The room was empty. The bed was covered with sheets and pillows as if Rosie had just woken up. ‘Rosie,’ called Maria, keeping her voice low so that Prema in the room next door would not hear her.
‘I am here. By the window,’ whispered Rosie and then Maria saw her.
She was sitting at the window and looking out. Her face was full of terror. She pointed her finger and Maria looked out into the garden. The trees swayed in the gentle breeze and the moon was hanging like a huge lamp above them.
A man was sitting slumped on the edge of the garden wall, right next to the well. He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants. Even in the dim moonlight they could see the red stains on his shirt. His head was bowed as if he was asleep.
‘My god. Who is he? What is he doing there?’ said Maria, forgetting to keep her voice down.
‘How awful. Is he dead?’ asked Rosie, turning her face away.
The lights came on in the veranda just then and they heard footsteps and Deven’s voice shouting, ‘Cyrilo. Cyrilo. Come with me. There is someone in the garden. Bring the torch.’
‘Please, god. Let it not be another dead body,’ said Rosie.
‘He looks pretty dead to me. He could be a ghost,’ said Prema, coming out of her room. ‘The Happy Home should now be called the Dead People’s Home,’ she added and yawned. ‘Soon the entire village will be lying dead in our backyard. We’d better reserve our own plots from now otherwise we will not have place.’
‘Stop it, Prema. Don’t wish evil on our home,’ said Rosie as Maria turned to go out of the room.
Prema followed her but Rosie stayed near the window. She began to pray softly under her breath. ‘Our father thou art in heaven . . .’
The wind whistled through the branches as Deven walked into the garden. The light from the torch cast a beam of bright light and a few birds fluttered in the trees above them, angry to be disturbed. Cyrilo hesitated and remained standing near the door. He was wary of going too close to the man. ‘What if he is dead?’ he said to Deven. ‘We should call the police.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’m just going to check if he is all right,’ said Deven and went ahead.
As Cyrilo, Maria and Prema watched, Deven bent down and touched the man on his arm. Nothing happened. Deven gave him a gentle push and the man suddenly moved his head. Maria gave a start and took a few steps back into the house. Prema laughed and Cyrilo shrugged his shoulders nervously.
‘The fellow looks alive to me,’ he said, and walked out to join Deven.
‘Must be drunk,’ said Prema loudly.
The man lifted his head and stared at them. Maria gave a gasp. ‘Oh my god. He is Rana.’
‘Rana Hooda! What are you doing here at this time of night?’ asked Deven, shaking him roughly now.
‘You gave us a fright. We thought. You were . . .’ muttered Cyrilo.
‘We thought you were yet another dead body. We found one right here last week,’ said Prema loudly.
Rana lifted his arms to the sky and began to wail. ‘I killed her. I killed my wife. I know, Olga told me you found her body in this well. I am a murderer. I just wanted to see where she had died and now I will go to the police. I will tell them I am a murderer. I killed my wife. I thought she was in Dubai, shopping. She had sent me a message. Everything is so confusing. I cannot think straight any more. My mind is going. I have killed Rani,’ sobbed Rana.
‘You did not kill her. We found her body here but it was not in the well. You are mistaken, Mr Rana,’ said Cyrilo.
‘I killed her. Olga said I killed my wife. I did not know I had killed her in a fit of madness. I am a murderer,’ cried Rana, looking up at the tree. The crows, disturbed by his voice, moved restlessly on the branches.
‘Yes, we heard you the first time. But why did you hang her up on the tree?’ asked Deven.
‘Tree? Which tree? I killed my wife. I am a murderer.’ Rana banged his head on the stone wall.
‘If he says that again I will kill him and announce to the world that I am a murderer. What is he? A bloody parrot?’ said Prema.
‘Listen, Mr Rana Hooda. Calm down. Your wife’s dead body was not found in the well. We found her hanging from this tree,’ said Deven, pointing to the mango tree.
Everyone stood silently as Rana lifted his head and looked at the tree. His face was wet with tears and blood dripped from his nose, staining his shirt.
‘How could she hang herself? She was dead. I killed . . .’ he mumbled and then shut his eyes.
‘Yes. Yes. Yes. You killed her. You are a murderer. We know it. You have told us a hundred times.’ Prema had come out of the house now. Maria followed her.
‘Mr Hooda, I think you are not feeling well. You nose is bleeding very badly. Please come into the house and rest. I think you have had a shock,’ said Maria.
Rana looked at her blankly, as if he did not know where her voice was coming from. He could hardly focus his eyes and kept jerking his head about.
‘I killed my wife. I am a murderer,’ he slurred, and then Prema rushed up and yanked him up by his arm. He looked at her, his eyes shocked and bewildered as he tried to pull his hand away. He began to whimper.
‘Listen to me, you idiot. You will stop this rubbish talk and come into the house with us at once. Otherwise we will drag you inside by your feet. You have told us a hundred times you have killed your wife. Say it again and I will give you a slap. Come with us, right now,’ she shouted as Rana cowered, trying to hide his face.
‘Don’t stand there. Follow us,’ said Prema, wagging her finger.
Rana bowed his head and quietly followed them into the house. They all went into the drawing room. As soon as Cyrilo switched the lights on, a pigeon flew out. ‘Oh my god. A bat. I hate bats,’ shouted Rana Hooda, covering his face.
‘Relax, man. It’s only a pigeon. We hardly ever use this room so the pigeon has claimed it,’ said Cyrilo, gently pushing Rana into the room. Maria quickly ran upstairs and brought a blanket from her bedroom while Deven helped Rana take his shoes off. He noticed they were covered in mud. He stopped and stared at the pointed leather shoes. They were the same expensive, imported leather shoes the dead woman had been wearing. He had seen the constable pick them up from the garden that day when they had brought the body down from the tree.
Deven stood silently as Prema gave Rana a wet towel to wipe his face and when he just sat still, sobbing and whimpering, she wiped his nose roughly for him as if he was a child. Then she threw the towel down and walked away muttering, ‘Stupid fool. Thinks he killed his wife. He can’t even wipe his own nose.’
‘Let him be. Poor fellow. He’s in a bad state. I think he is having hallucinations. Now, Mr Hooda, you just lie down and go to sleep. We will sort it out in the morning. Okay, Mr Hooda?’ said Cyrilo. When Rana obediently lay down, Cyrilo pulled the blanket over him and patted his head.
‘Go to sleep now,’ he said. ‘We will talk in the morning.’
‘Don’t leave me. She will come and get me. She won’t forgive me. She is waiting for me in the well,’ Rana began to whimper again, his face hidden under the blanket.
‘We will sit here. You go to sleep now. Nobody is coming to get you,’ said Cyrilo. And as Deven and he watched, Rana shut his eyes. His hands trembled as he clutched the blanket and then he began to snore, his bloodstained face distorted and crumpled with fear.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ROSIE WAS THE first person to wake up. She lay in bed for a few moments, listening to the birds calling in the garden, and then suddenly remembered last night’s incident. She opened her eyes at once. It took her a while to get ready since the water was still cold, her clothes had not been laid out by Leela and her wheelchair got stuck between the bed and the dressing table.
For once Rosie did not bother to put her make-up on, and just washed her face with cold water. She looked
at her face in the mirror and decided she looked quite good for her age even without make-up, and, wrapping a thin shawl around her shoulders, she wheeled herself out into the veranda. Deven was already up and looking very worried. ‘He has disappeared,’ he said as soon as he saw her. Rosie knew at once who he was talking about and moved her wheelchair towards the drawing room. The blanket lay crumpled on the sofa and the pigeon was pecking on something glistening on the floor. It was a gold watch.
‘I think that man is in a state of shock. He should not be left alone. He might harm himself,’ said Rosie.
‘What can we do now? I was planning to ask him a few questions and then call the inspector but he has vanished. Look, he has left his Rolex gold watch behind,’ said Deven.
‘He must really be in a state of shock,’ said Cyrilo, coming into the room.
‘I think you should both go to the police station and tell the inspector about him,’ said Rosie.
‘Good idea. I will get ready quickly and then we can go. On the way we can stop and buy some . . .’ said Cyrilo.
‘Shut up. I know what you were going to say. We are not stopping by the fish market. We are going straight to the police station and I am going to drive,’ said Deven and walked away.
Cyrilo stared at him and then made a face like a sad clown. ‘Grumpy old Deven. Grumble. Grumble. I was just planning to go via the Siolim church. I have some books and toys for the children.’
‘Better not annoy him or else he will complain about you to Maria. You know how he likes to get us into trouble. I am going to check on Yuri to see if he needs anything. Leela can push my wheelchair up the ramp. Poor Yuri. He still can’t talk properly. Do you think he really had a stroke?’ said Rosie.
‘Can’t tell. Whatever happens to us at this age, people blame it on old-age problems. If I fall into a well tomorrow that stupid doctor will say it was due to old age. ‘I’d better get ready quickly or else Mr Deven Grumpy will start yelling again.’
Rosie moved her wheelchair slowly to the kitchen and began helping Leela with breakfast. She carefully peeled boiled eggs, buttered toast and spooned jam into small bowls. ‘You are the only one who helps Miss Maria and me,’ said Leela, smiling at her. ‘The others just sit around doing nothing but chatting and demanding tea.’
‘I want to help more but you both don’t let me. I cannot walk but my hands work very well, you know. Listen, Leela, I want you to take me up to Yuri’s room. We will make some scrambled eggs for him and feed it to him with a spoon. He must be tired of soup,’ said Rosie.
Maria joined them and they worked quickly to get breakfast ready before the others arrived. The oven was giving out a delicious aroma of cinnamon buns but Rosie was not hungry today. She kept worrying about Yuri. Would he ever recover?
‘You know, that man might be telling the truth,’ said Leela.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Maria, still feeling sleepy and tired. She had slept very badly last night, dreaming about Francis and Tina. The image of Rana Hooda’s face with blood dripping from his nose kept popping up. Then Bobby had made an appearance and taken her away in a boat made of coconut palm leaves. She had finally fallen asleep planning her future life with Bobby. She must stop thinking about Francis. He was out of her life, over and done with.
‘He could have killed her and hung her dead body in our garden to make it look like suicide,’ said Leela. ‘She looked like an evil, bad-tempered woman. I would not have liked to live with a woman like that.’
‘Do not speak badly of the dead, Leela,’ said Rosie.
‘You should hear the women in the parlour. They do nothing but talk about all the dead people they know. They also wish some of their relatives were dead. As I polish their nails and scrub their feet, I have to listen to all this. But it is great fun,’ said Leela, putting a large vessel of milk to boil on the gas stove.
‘Do you like working at the beauty parlour? I’m glad Joni is paying you now,’ said Maria, taking the buns out of the oven.
‘I love working there. One day I may open my own parlour. Who knows,’ said Leela, laughing.
‘You will, my child. By god’s grace, you will. I will help you,’ said Rosie.
‘You can open a parlour next to the Tip Top Cafe. There is plenty of room there,’ said Maria.
Leela looked at them and smiled, her eyes sparkling with happiness.
‘Yes, ladies can have coffee and cake and go for a pedicure, or the other way around. Okay, now I have to peel potatoes for lunch. Beauty parlour dreams can wait,’ said Leela.
* * *
The police station was crowded with a group of tourists when Deven and Cyrilo arrived. There was no place to sit so they went back their van, which they had parked in the side lane.
‘I wonder why there are so many people here today,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Must have lost their luggage or wallets. Tourists are always losing things. I hate tourists. Why don’t they stay at home like us?’ said Deven.
‘Tourists are good for Goa, they bring money, but they should not spoil our village by throwing all their junk around. By the way, do you think Rana Hooda was telling the truth? So many husbands kill their wives. You read about it in the papers every day.’
‘Quite a few wives murder their husbands too,’ said Deven.
‘Yes, especially the quiet types. They suffer silently for years and then suddenly one day erupt like a volcano and choke their husbands to death.’
‘It’s easy for a wife to kill her husband. She can add a lethal dose of poison in his tea, push him downstairs or electrocute him while he is shaving.’
‘A husband can push her downstairs too or throw her off the roof. He can add poison to her tea . . . but very few women allow their husbands to make tea for them. Too fussy. I would just throw her off the train. Easy and neat,’ said Cyrilo.
‘You sound like an expert. How many wives have you killed?’ asked Deven, giving him a cold look.
‘Not a single one. My beloved wife died peacefully in her sleep. God bless her kind soul. I was just chatting, killing time. I think that Rana Hooda was just rambling on. He seemed to be not quite sane. Do you think he had taken some drugs? These rich people are always doing party drugs, I am told.’
‘Yes, he did seem a bit deranged. His eyes had a peculiar gleam, like a person who’s hallucinating. Why did he come to the well? Do you think that girlfriend is trying to get him to confess to a murder he never committed? What does she gain from it, I wonder?’ said Deven, tracing his fingers on the window.
‘Missing your blackboard and chalk? It is so boring just sitting here. Shall we go home? Maria can call the inspector and he will come running at once. I need to go to the bathroom again,’ said Cyrilo.
‘Not again. We have just come from the house. Why didn’t you go then? Look. The tourists are leaving. Come, let’s go in before some other people turn up.’ Deven opened the door of the van and got out. Cyrilo looked out as the crowd of tourists walked past the van and saw that none of them were wearing shoes. They were limping and hobbling as the gravel jabbed their bare feet, muttering angrily in a foreign language.
Constable Robert looked up and smiled at them as they walked into the police station. ‘Welcome to the Trionim police station. How can we help you today?’ he grinned and lisped in his girlish voice, his huge hands folded in a clumsy greeting.
‘What is the matter with you? Are you training to become an air hostess?’ asked Deven, rudely rushing past him.
‘We have been ordered to say this when someone comes into the station but most people never stop to listen to me,’ mumbled Robert, looking sheepishly down at his feet.
Inspector Chand was standing at his table gazing at a map of Goa on the wall. He was tracing an area with his baton and did not turn around when Deven greeted him.
‘If you have been robbed of your rubber slippers, sandals or shoes from the temple, please report to Constable Robert. Do not bother me. I am busy.’
‘We have come fr
om the Happy Home to report what Rana Hooda has said to us. It is very important,’ said Deven curtly, and Inspector Chand quickly turned around.
‘Oh. It is you again. Mr Sherlock Homes of Trionim and his sidekick. What do you people want now? Have you found another dead body in the Happy Home? You should rename your house the Unhappy Home,’ he growled. ‘I feel sorry for Miss Maria, having to put up with you crazy lot day after day.’
Deven stood silently for a few moments and then cleared his throat.
He cannot talk unless he has his beloved blackboard in front of him, thought Cyrilo.
‘Miss Maria has sent us here with a message for you,’ he said, and Inspector Chand immediately turned around.
‘Why didn’t you say so earlier? Come. Sit down.’ He grinned.
‘She said to tell you she is getting married soon,’ said Cyrilo with a smile.
‘Married to whom?’ shouted Inspector Chand so loudly that Robert rushed into the room.
‘You called, sir?’ he asked, saluting smartly.
Deven glared at Cyrilo and turned to Inspector Chand. ‘We want to tell you about Rana Hooda. We found him in the Happy Home garden in the middle of the night and brought him in. He was very upset and kept rambling in a confused manner. He said he had killed his wife and was coming to confess to you. He had stopped on the way at the Happy Home to see where she had died,’ said Deven.
‘What are you talking about? Are you mad? At your age you should be singing bhajans, not trying to solve a murder which was never a murder. For your information, Rana Hooda’s wife just came to report that he has been missing for two days. He went to Tiracol in his private boat and has not come back yet. She says he has been kidnapped by some drug dealer called Ziriko with whom he had illegal dealings,’ said Inspector Chand. ‘I was looking at the map of Goa. Tiracol is almost in Maharashtra. This is a matter for the Maharashtra police. Not my area at all.’ He pointed to the map with a broad smile.
‘Tiracol is in Goa. The last fort in Goa,’ said Cyrilo.
Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged Page 18