Suddenly the street came to an end and the sky opened up overhead. They were at the head of the ghat, the great flight of steps running down to the Ganges, which appeared ahead of them as a broad silver sheet. Through the press of bodies Christine saw orange flags and electric lights on tall poles overhead, and raised platforms on which bearded holy men prayed and priests held up offerings to the dawn. Along the margins of the concourse squatted beggars and hawkers selling garlands of flowers, bunches of sandalwood sticks and brightly coloured shawls and saris.
For a moment the press of people came to a stop, and she caught sight of Mrs Darling’s orange sari ahead, about to begin her descent of the ghat, and then the crowd closed in between them again. Suddenly a shock seemed to pass through the crush. There were shouts, people staggered and fell into one another. In front of her, immediately behind where she had glimpsed Mrs Darling, a tall, thin man with a shaved head tripped backwards and tumbled against a brightly painted scarlet shrine, hitting his head with a crack against the stonework. Christine dropped to her knees beside him, trying to pull him to one side so that he wouldn’t be trampled in the panic. She quickly took in the features of the unconscious man – his bare feet, his brown, weathered skin, his white dhoti and, the strangest thing, a piece of white muslin cloth tied with a string in front of his mouth.
“Miss Christine!”
She heard a shout, recognizing the voice of the hotelkeeper, Mr Dubashi, and saw him struggling through the crowd to reach her.
“What on earth is going on?” he cried. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, but this man was knocked over and hit his head.”
Mr Dubashi squatted beside her. “Ah, it is a holy man, a Jain!”
“What’s that covering his mouth? Is it a mask?”
“No, no. It is part of his philosophy of aimsha – non-violence to all creatures. It is to prevent him swallowing a fly by mistake.”
Christine looked at him, wondering if he was teasing her, but he seemed perfectly serious. He was gazing around. “There must be… ah, there it is!”
He reached beside the shrine and raised what looked like a longhandled brush or flywhisk. “You see, Jain monks must sweep the ground in front of them to make sure that they don’t tread on any insects.”
“Well, unfortunately he’s suffered some accidental violence himself.”
At that moment the monk groaned and blinked open his eyes.
“Yes, we must get him back to the hotel and look after him. Sir! Can you get up?”
With some difficulty they helped the man to his feet, Mr Dubashi supporting him. Fortunately the monk seemed to be very light, while Mr Dubashi was stocky and strong.
“Look,” Christine said, pointing to a bloodstain on the front of his white gown.
“Perhaps he has suffered a cut,” Mr Dubashi said. “I shall take care of it. But what about Mrs Darling? Where is she?”
“I don’t know, I lost sight of her.”
“Find her. Make sure she is all right. I shall look after the holy man.”
Christine agreed and struggled through the milling crowd at the top of the ghat. People were shouting and gesticulating to each other, as if trying to describe what had happened, but since they were speaking in Hindi, or perhaps Urdu, she couldn’t understand a word. She looked around but couldn’t see any sign of Mrs Darling’s orange sari. About twenty metres further down the broad flight, a knot of people seemed to be the focus of much pointing and staring from people on the platforms and terraces above. She made her way down. As she approached, a man burst out of the throng, shouting into a mobile phone, “Dead, I tell you! Quite dead!” Christine felt a thump in her chest as she peered down between the legs of the clustered men and saw a head of white hair lying on the stone steps.
Christine cried out and the crowd parted for her, watching with bright eyes as she knelt beside the motionless body of Mrs Darling. For a moment it almost seemed as if she were asleep, but there was something unnatural in her pose, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath the other, and when Christine stretched a tentative hand to her wrist she could find no trace of a pulse.
“The police have been called, madam,” one man reassured her eagerly.
“Police?” Christine felt as if time were moving very slowly. “An ambulance, surely?”
“But she is quite dead!” the man insisted, and then, with an unnecessary relish, added, “Murdered!” and gestured with his hand up the flight of steps, where Christine saw a trail of dark stains. “Blood, madam. Blood on the ghat! The lady has been most atrociously stabbed!”
“But, who…?”
He broke off and everyone turned their heads back up to the city at the sound of a siren’s wail, the scream of braking tyres, and then the clatter of boots as three men in berets and uniforms, carrying rifles, came down the steps of the ghat, followed by another man in a dark suit. Immediately the man who had been talking to Christine began speaking to them in a rapid stream of Hindi, while they frowned at the body, and at Christine, with suspicious glares. The man in the suit stooped to look more closely at Mrs Darling. He pressed his fingers to the side of her throat, then he lifted the back of her sari, and Christine saw that it was saturated with blood, and she gave a gasp.
The policeman looked up at her and got to his feet.
“Good morning. I am Sub-Inspector Gupta of the Varanasi CID. What is your name?”
Christine told him, watching him take out a notebook and write.
“And do you know this woman?”
“Yes,” she said. “Her name is Mrs Darling.” She felt absurdly exposed, standing like this surrounded by all those silent listeners as she answered his questions. He sounded very serious and severe, but this gravity was somewhat undermined by his youth, for he didn’t look much older than Christine herself, who was twenty-four. “We are staying at the same hotel, the Dubashi Guesthouse.”
“Aaah…” A murmur spread out through the crowd as the information was repeated.
The policeman coughed loudly and they fell silent. “And did you witness what happened?”
“No. I was behind Mrs Darling when we reached the top of the ghat, but I couldn’t see her because of the crowd. Then something happened, people began struggling and shouting…” heads nearby were nodding their agreement “…and the man next to me fell down and I tried to help him. Then Mr Dubashi found us, and by the time I came looking for Mrs Darling, she was like this.”
“Hmm.” Sub-Inspector Gupta turned to the crowd and called in a loud voice, and in several different languages, for anyone who had seen what happened to the white lady in the red sari to come forward. A babble of conversation started up, but no one moved. The man who had spoken to Christine earlier did speak up, saying that he had been standing nearby when he saw the body tumble down the steps, “like a sack of potatoes”, but confessed he hadn’t seen her attacker. Nor, it seemed, had anyone else.
Christine had a thought. “Inspector,” she said, “it’s possible that the man I told you about, who was knocked down when it happened, may have seen something. He must have been very close behind Mrs Darling, and there was blood on his dhoti. He may have seen the murderer.”
“Really? What was he like, this man?”
“He is a Jain monk. He was very shaken up, and Mr Dubashi was taking him back to his boarding house. He may still be there.”