“How terrible for you,” Mr Dubashi murmured sympathetically.
Christine wiped her eyes. “Before she died, Mum told me about a trip to India she had made when she was my age, and about Varanasi. She said I should go. I think she hoped I might find some comfort here.”
“Ah, well, you have come to the right place, and perhaps Mr Nemichandra is the right person for you to speak to, for the Jains are certainly much concerned with death.”
Just then there was a knock on the door. An Indian woman wearing a bright orange sari just like Mrs Darling’s was there. “Namaste,” she said, pressing the palms of her hands together in greeting. “May I ask if this is the place where Mrs Darling was staying?”
“Indeed.” Mr Dubashi rose to his feet. “Namaste. I am the owner of this guesthouse.”
“My name is Dorothy Yanamandra. I am coming from Mrs Darling’s ashram.”
“Her ashram?” Mr Dubashi looked at her in surprise. “Mrs Darling attended an ashram?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, very much so.”
Dorothy Yanamandra was a large, powerful woman, who took up a lot of space in the small dining room. She said, “Mrs Darling was a regular visitor to our Atmapriksa Ashram and a devoted follower of our Swami Bhatti. Unfortunately we were full up when she arrived this time and she had to stay here until her room was ready, otherwise this terrible thing might have been avoided.”
Mr Dubashi bridled at this and said, “Madam, it was hardly the fault of the Dubashi Guesthouse that Mrs Darling was murdered.”
Mrs Yanamandra dismissed this with a wave of her hand, flashing the gold and diamonds of her rings. “I have come to collect Mrs Darling’s things.”
“Impossible! They must stay here until her son arrives to collect them.”
“He is coming here?”
“He is flying in from Kolkata this morning.”
Mrs Yanamandra made a sound like a low growl. “Hmm… Well, I believe Mrs Darling left some documents which must be examined urgently, concerning her death.”
“Her death?”
“Yes, she spoke at length with Swami Bhatti about it. Are you aware of any documents?”
“She did leave some in the hotel safe,” Mr Dubashi admitted reluctantly.
“Fetch them.”
Mr Dubashi looked for a moment as if he might say something rude, but then relented and left the room. Mrs Yanamandra turned to Christine. “You are a tourist?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you have come to Varanasi for spiritual enlightenment?”
“I believe I have.”
“Then you should speak to Swami Bhatti.” She reached beneath the folds of her sari and produced a business card. “That is the address of the Atmapriksa Ashram, and on the back is a map of how to get there. Call in any time.”
“You work there?”
“Yes, I am Swami Bhatti’s PA and Business Manager.”
Mr Dubashi returned, accompanied by his wife, who wanted to see what was going on. He carefully opened the large envelope he was carrying and emptied its contents on to the table. “The police took her passport,” he said. “Here is her notebook and her airline tickets…”
“What’s that?” Mrs Yanamandra pointed at a plain white envelope, sealed.
“I don’t know. The police didn’t open it.”
“Well, we must,” Mrs Yanamandra insisted, and reached for it, but Mr Dubashi was quicker, snatching it up.
“Certainly not. It may be confidential.”
However Mrs Dubashi promptly took it out of his hand, reached for a knife on the table and sliced it open. There were several documents inside, and when she opened the first she read its typewritten title out loud: “Instructions in the event of my death.”
“Aha!” Mrs Yanamandra cried.
Mrs Dubashi read on: “When I die I wish to be cremated in Varanasi in the traditional manner according to the instructions of Swami Bhatti, and my ashes cast into the Ganges.”
“There you are,” Mrs Yanamandra said. “It was important to know that, wasn’t it?”
“It is signed by Mrs Darling and witnessed by a Mr Nath, of Prasad Nath, Notary Services, Advocates and Lawyers,” Mrs Dubashi said, and opened the second document. “Oh, goodness, it is a will…” She looked at the foot of the page. “It is dated two days ago, and also witnessed by Mr Nath.”
Mrs Yanamandra grabbed it and read it greedily. “Ah!” Without another word she folded it up again and returned it and the other document to the envelope and handed it to Mr Dubashi. “You must put this back in your safe until Mrs Darling’s son arrives. You are responsible for its safekeeping.”
“Yes,” Mr Dubashi said, looking quite put out. “I was before.”
Mrs Yanamandra left, and Christine watched her march across the street, sari flowing, other pedestrians ducking out of the way of her relentless progress. Christine thought that she was undoubtedly a bully, but perhaps her abrasive manner was just her way of being businesslike and getting things done. In any event Christine felt that there was something fortuitous in her appearance. She read the business card again, wondering if Swami Bhatti might have been Mrs Darling’s gift to her.
When Mrs Darling’s son arrived at the Dubashi Guesthouse later that morning, Christine was in the dining room where Mr Nemichandra had interrupted his meditations to get a glass of water from Mrs Dubashi. She had strained it through muslin in the prescribed manner, to avoid the possibility of the monk killing any tiny creature in the water. She had also washed his dhoti overnight and got rid of the bloodstain.
Jeremy Darling looked disgruntled and out of sorts, as if he’d had a disagreeable journey from Kolkata. He accepted the Dubashis’ commiserations with an indifferent grunt, and gazed around at the guesthouse with a look of disgust. “She stayed here, did she?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Mr Dubashi nodded enthusiastically. “She was very comfortable here. She told us how much she enjoyed staying with us.”
Darling muttered, “Good grief,” then did a double-take when he noticed the monk sitting in the corner.
“Mr Nemichandra was a witness to your mother’s murder, sir,” Mr Dubashi explained. “The police have insisted that he stay here until they have finished their enquiries.”
Jeremy Darling stared at Mr Nemichandra. “He… saw who did it?”
“Possibly, sir, but he received a bump on the head and cannot remember.”
“I see. The police have questioned him, have they?”
“Oh, yes. And the police examined some documents your mother left in the hotel safe. Perhaps you would care to see them?”
He fetched them and they all watched Mr Darling turn them over and pick up the envelope of documents. He opened the first and gave a snort of disgust. “Apparently she decided she wanted to be cremated here. Oh, well.” He shrugged and opened the second document, the will, and his face darkened, and then he roared, “What!”
Mr Dubashi took a step back. “Bad news, sir?”
Darling swore, read the document again and snarled, “Prasad Nath, lawyers. Where the hell can I find them?”
Mr Dubashi checked the address and showed Mr Darling the city map. “Near the jail, sir.”
“I’ll need a taxi. Look after my suitcase, will you?” And Jeremy Darling rushed away.
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Mr Dubashi said. “He is very upset.”
“I wonder what was in the will?” Christine said.
“I believe,” Mr Dubashi said vaguely, “that Mrs Darling decided to leave all her wealth to Swami Bhatti and the Atmapriksa Ashram.”
“You read it?”
Mr Dubashi gave a guilty little smirk, then looked at the monk, who had risen unsteadily to his feet, a worried frown on his face. “Are you all right, Mr Nemichandra?”
“I must go back to my room and meditate,” he said, and shuffled off, sweeping the floor before him with his brush.