It was the oppressive humid heat, Christine thought, coupled with the heavy smell of burning timber down here on the ghat, not to mention that glimpse she had just had of Mrs Darling’s white foot sticking out from among the logs.
“Are you all right?” Sub-Inspector Gupta had taken hold of her arm and was offering her a bottle of water. His face was full of concern.
“Yes, thank you, Sub-Inspector…”
“Please, it is time you called me Deepak. That is my first name… much shorter.’
Christine smiled at him. “Thanks, Deepak. I was just thinking of my own mother’s funeral, not long ago but very different from this.”
“Ah, I understand how you must feel, this is all a bit confronting. But that is the point, I think, to fully embrace the reality of death. And although people are sad, they also find relief. They believe that the fire sets the dead person’s soul free. Often the souls are so happy to be set free that you can see them dancing in the flames. Sadly, though, I must go. This second murder is causing turmoil. Australian diplomats are here from Delhi to be briefed, and my bosses are trying to persuade them not to issue a tourist travel warning about Varanasi.”
Once Swami Bhatti lit the pyre from the sacred flame it took over three hours for the fire to burn down and for Mrs Darling’s ashes to be scattered in the river. During that time Christine had a chance to consider Deepak’s words. They seemed convincing, and the cremation was certainly a powerful experience, yet she couldn’t feel that it had much to do with the living Mrs Darling she remembered.
Eventually she got to her feet and made her way up the ghat, planning to walk back to the hotel. As she approached the head of the stairs she saw a man who appeared to have been watching the ceremonies turn away and disappear down an alleyway. She thought he looked like the Jain monk, Mr Nemichandra, who hadn’t come to the funeral, and she decided to follow him.
The man pacing through the crowded streets ahead of her looked very like the monk, but Christine couldn’t be sure. They came to a place that was wide enough for street food sellers to set up their stalls down one side. The man had stopped by the first vendor and was buying something. He paid and as he turned to go she caught his profile and was convinced it was Mr Nemichandra – why, yes, he had his whisk tucked under his arm, although he wasn’t using it to sweep the street in front of him.
She made her way to the food seller and said hello.
“Hello, madam. I am your aloo tikki walla. You will have some?”
“What’s in it?”
“Potatoes, madam, with mint harri chutney. Very tasty.”
That was odd, for Mr Dubashi had told her that potatoes were forbidden to Jain monks. Christine handed over a few rupees and took the snack, which was indeed delicious. As she ate she saw that Mr Nemichandra, or his double, had stopped at another stall further along and was eating something else. She worked her way closer and was surprised by a delicious smell of frying meat. This time the vendor explained that the man had bought several shami kebab mince patties. “Lamb mince, lady, filled with green mango. He is very hungry, your friend. He comes here every day.”
Meat? That was impossible, surely. Mr Nemichandra was a vegan. Christine saw the man disappear down a narrow alleyway ahead and went after him, but just at that moment she saw something else that gave her a sudden fright – a figure very like the sinister-looking man in the dirty red turban whom she had seen watching her several times before was lurking in a doorway. He turned away as she caught sight of him, and she wondered what to do. Should she phone Deepak? But he would be tied up in important business and anyway she didn’t want to lose sight of Mr Nemichandra, so she hurried on, into the alleyway.
The buildings closed in around her – old blackened stone walls, heavy timber doors, timeworn paving stones and steps. She turned a corner and was confronted by a cow, blocking the lane. She was forced to climb a few steps up to the door of a tiny temple, then squeeze around the cow’s haunches and step down, straight into the puddle of dung it had freshly dropped.
“Ah.” She stared at her shoes, then looked up and saw Mr Nemichandra, twenty metres away, staring intently at her with blazing eyes.
“Excuse me.”
Christine turned at the sound of a girl’s voice behind her – a small girl, smartly dressed in clean white socks and tartan skirt, with a backpack, on her way home from school. Christine let her pass and when she turned back found that Mr Nemichandra had vanished.
She hurried on, determined now to speak to the Jain. She turned a sharp corner and gave a cry as a hand closed tightly on her arm and yanked her through an open doorway and began to drag her down a narrow passage into a tiny courtyard, half filled with stinking rubbish. The man was incredibly strong, his panting breath filled with the fumes of lamb kebab.
“You stupid woman,” the monk hissed, crushing her back against the wall. “You should have minded your own business.’
Christine looked with horror at the weapon in his free hand, the handle of the monk’s whisk, from which protruded a long narrow blade.
“You killed Mrs Darling…” Christine croaked as he clutched her throat “…and her son.”
“And now you,” he growled.
Eyes swimming, Christine looked over his shoulder and saw the man in the red turban watching them, an evil smile on his lips.
She didn’t see the club in the turbaned man’s hand, but she heard it as it landed on Mr Nemichandra’s head with a shocking crack. Mr Nemichandra released her and dropped to the ground.
“Christine!” the turbaned man cried. “Are you all right?”
She knew the voice, but could hardly make sense of it. “Deepak? Sub-Inspector Gupta? It’s you?” She fell forward into his arms in a dead faint.
Later, after Deepak had called for armed police to take Nemichandra away, and after he had escorted her back to the guesthouse for a long bath and several cups of Mrs Dubashi’s rejuvenating tea, he returned, dressed now in his usual dark suit, to see how she was. She couldn’t help noticing how elated he was, barely able to contain himself.
“I am a hero, Christine, the man of the hour. My bosses are overjoyed. They are talking about promotion, a medal, a Bollywood movie… and all thanks to you. How did you do it? What made you suspect him?”
She had to confess that it had been a matter of luck, seeing him eat the forbidden food, and following him so that he panicked and gave himself away. “And you’ve been following me in that… amazing disguise.”
“Yes. My bosses took over the case straight away, putting me back on routine duties, but I was worried that Mrs Darling’s murderer might target you as a possible witness, and I decided to keep an eye on you.”
“You gave me the willies in that outfit.”
“You spotted me?” He looked downcast.
“You saved my life, Deepak,” she said, reaching for his hand. He cheered up immediately.
“Anyway, he has made a full confession. He really was once a Jain monk, apparently, until he lost his calling and resorted to thieving to survive, becoming a hardened criminal and a paid assassin. We will probably never know how many people he has killed during his criminal career. When Mr Darling realized that his mother was intent on giving away all her money to the ashram, he made contact with Nemichandra on one of his business trips and arranged for him to kill her on her next visit. Unfortunately for Mr Darling she had already made her new will when she was murdered. When he realized Nemichandra had bungled things they had a furious row and Darling said he wouldn’t pay him. They fought and Nemichandra killed him and dumped his body in the Ganges. The Jain monk was a perfect disguise for a murderer, of course, no one believed him capable of violence, but in the end his appetites betrayed him. Pretending to be virtuous is not so easy.”