“Good!” The detective looked relieved and flashed Christine a broad smile. ‘I’m only a sub-inspector, by the way. This is my first real murder case. The forensic people will soon be here to examine the scene. Let us go to Mr Dubashi.”
He said a few more words to the uniformed men and then he and Christine set off, climbing back up the ghat.
When they reached the Dubashi Guesthouse they found the Jain monk sitting stiffly upright on a chair in the lobby, his flywhisk brush across his knees, while Mr and Mrs Dubashi fussed around him, applying a dressing to the back of his head. Christine introduced Sub-Inspector Gupta and told them the terrible news about Mrs Darling’s murder, which caused much consternation, Mr Dubashi in particular becoming very agitated, hopping around from foot to foot, in contrast to the monk who maintained a stoic immobility.
Sub-Inspector Gupta called for calm, and began by writing their names and addresses in his notebook. The monk’s name was Nemichandra, apparently, of no fixed address, since Jain monks were wanderers, obliged by their faith to move constantly so as not to become attached to any one place. Mrs Dubashi was able to provide Mrs Darling’s Australian passport from the hotel safe, causing another wave of agitation in her husband.
“Mrs Darling’s son is here in India,” he cried. “He is in Kolkata, she told me, on business. He must be informed.”
A further search of the hotel safe yielded a package of other personal items belonging to the murdered woman, including a diary with a note of her son’s Kolkata hotel number.
“I’ll get on to it,” said Sub-Inspector Gupta, who was having trouble making them do things in the correct order. “First I must know if you have any knowledge of what happened at the ghat. You, Mr Nemichandra, were close behind the lady when it happened, were you not? You must have seen the murderer.”
They all stared at the mystic who, a man of few words apparently, said, “I can tell you nothing.”
“But,” the sub-inspector insisted, “Mrs Darling was stabbed in the back at the same height as that bloodstain on the front of your dhoti. The murderer must have brushed his weapon against you as he withdrew it.” This produced a gasp from Mrs Dubashi. “It was probably he who knocked you down.”
The monk said nothing, but flicked his whisk at a fly that might have been planning to get into his mouth, which was no longer covered by the muslin square.
“Perhaps the fall has erased his memory,” Mr Dubashi offered. “It may return with time.”
“That’s possible,” the sub-inspector conceded. He thought about this and then said to Mr Nemichandra, “I must insist that you stay in the vicinity for a few days, until I agree that you can leave.”
“He can stay here with us,” Mr Dubashi said. “It would be an honour to accommodate a Jain saint in our house.”
At that moment a man burst into the lobby from the street and said breathlessly, “B. K. Gungabissoon, assistant crime reporter for the Aaj newspaper.” He looked at Mr Dubashi. “You are the detective in charge of the murder-on-the-ghat case?”
“No,” Sub-Inspector Gupta said. “I am. I have nothing to say at this time.”
“But it is said that you have two witnesses to the crime. You, miss?” He looked at Christine, who shrugged. “And the monk, yes? The word is that this is a terrorist attack on westerners. Is that right, Inspector?”
“No, there is no evidence of such a thing. You must not…”
“But there was the attack just last December by Indian Mujahideen here at Sheetla Ghat.”
“That was a bombing. There is no suggestion that this is in any way connected.”
“What is the name of the victim?”
“I have nothing further to say at this time. You must go now.”
“At least give me a photograph, please. Everyone smile…”
They all posed stiffly and the camera flashed, then Mr Dubashi escorted the reporter to the door, giving him a handful of the guesthouse business cards and murmuring a few words in his ear.
Before he left, Sub-Inspector Gupta took Christine aside. “I must ask you to stay here where I can speak to you again, miss, but I am worried about your safety. Were you a close friend of Mrs Darling?”
“No, I only met her this morning for the first time. I’m sure I’ll be all right.’”
Christine was touched by his concern. He seemed a very sincere young man, rather out of his depth, and she felt sorry for him. The truth was, she realized, that she didn’t much care if she became a second victim. It shocked her a little to acknowledge that.
The next morning Christine went again to the ghat at dawn to see the sun rise over the Ganges. It was less crowded today, and she found a place to herself on the steps to watch the people passing by – the pilgrims and priests, the tourists with their guides, and the families of mourners who, Mr Dubashi had told her, came to have a dead relative cremated on the open fires beside the river. As she sat there she shed a tear for Mrs Darling whom she had known so briefly, and also for her own mother who had caused her to come to this place.
When she returned to the hotel, Mr Dubashi was proudly brandishing the morning’s edition of the Aaj, in which was published the photograph the reporter had taken the previous day, the four of them standing grinning foolishly around the seated Jain monk, Mr Nemichandra. Since the paper was in Hindi, Mr Dubashi had to translate: “Inspector Gupta of Varanasi CID grills witnesses to ghat slaying. And it goes on to mention the name of our guesthouse. What a publicity coup!”
“What a piece of stupidity!’”his wife snapped back. “We’ll be sitting ducks if they decide to strike again. And what about Christine and Mr Nemichandra? They’re named as witnesses. The murderer will have them in his sights now.”
Mr Dubashi looked stricken – this hadn’t occurred to him.
“Where is Mr Nemichandra?” Christine asked. “I thought I might have seen him at the ghat.”
“He’s in his room meditating on the soul of Mrs Darling,” Mr Dubashi said. “Of course he spends most of the day meditating. He refuses to use the bed in his room, preferring to sleep on the floor, and is extremely self-denying, eating practically nothing.”
“Actually he seemed rather peckish,” Mrs Dubashi said. “He’s already had breakfast. Are you ready for yours, Christine?”
“Yes, please.” She felt suddenly ravenous.
They went into the small dining room and Mr Dubashi sat with her at one of the tables. “It’s a little awkward feeding a Jain,” he said. “They are vegans, and extremely particular about avoiding harming living things. That’s why they have to sweep the ground in front of their feet, and in the monsoon season they have to stay indoors altogether so that they don’t step in a puddle and inadvertently kill some tiny creature. We were going to have aloo paratha for breakfast this morning, but it contains potatoes, and Jains will not touch root vegetables, because you kill them when you dig them up, whereas with rice, for example, you can harvest it without killing the plant. So instead we are having mutter paratha, although without the ginger, which is also a root vegetable, of course.”
“That is tricky,” Christine said. “They sound very interesting, the Jains. Perhaps Mr Nemichandra would tell me more.”
Mr Dubashi looked keenly at her. “Ah, you are looking for enlightenment, Christine! I remember that you told Mrs Darling yesterday that you wanted to understand death.”
She’d forgotten that. It must have been the last thing she’d said to her fellow guest. Christine felt a surge of emotion and tears pricked in her eyes. “I lost my mother recently, you see,” she said. “I nursed her at the end. We were very close, and I was heartbroken.”
She hadn’t meant to tell anyone about this, but suddenly it had just spilled out. It was this strange place, and being with people that she would never meet again.