Banquet on the Dead (9 page)

Still no tears, Nagarajan thought. This woman either did not love her mother or she was very, very tough. He asked her, ‘What happened then? Can you tell us where the rest of the family were at this time?’

She looked strained. ‘I was looking mainly at the corpse, Inspector. But I could see out of the corner of my eye that Swami had stumbled out of his room, his face groggy. Raja had heaved himself out of his chair and crawled out.

Hamid Pasha asked, eagerly, ‘Tell me, behen, what did you see on
his
face?’

‘Surprise, I think,’ she said, considering her words. ‘Could have been shock. He pushed his body along the wall near the bed and called out to our mother. Then he came close to her body and called her name again.’ Her voice now became low, as if he were in a trance, and her eyes looked away into the distance. ‘When she did not answer, he raised his hand and struck her across the face, shouting at her to wake up.’

‘And Swami saab?’

‘Swami just stood there, his head leaning against the doorway, his hands folded. I thought he had gone into shock. I thought—I remember thinking, “He is going to fall over. He is going to fall over.” But he didn’t. He walked up and sat by mother’s feet. Then he said something quite stupid for the occasion, if you ask me—he said there were too many bedbugs and they were not letting him sleep.’

Hamid Pasha asked, ‘Was he talking to your mother?’

‘No—well, it did not
seem
as if he was talking to anyone in particular, you know? But he did look up at her first, then after seemingly having ascertained to himself that she was indeed dead, he looked up at me and repeated what he said.’

‘About the bedbugs,’ Nagarajan said.

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘That convinced me both of them were gone in the head. Praveen, who was rubbing her hands, was doing no better either. He was weeping and muttering something quite unintelligible.’ She gave them a small smile. ‘It seemed to me that the men were doing the women’s job, so I decided to do what a man ought to do in that situation.’

‘Which was what, madam?’

‘Well, the woman was dead. No possible use could come out of crying over her. I called my son, who then called you, I understand...’

Nagarajan nodded. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘I called my daughter in Hyderabad but I got no answer. Quite understandable, as I found out later, because thirty or so minutes after I’d placed the call, there she was in person.’

‘Oh, so she did not come after she had come to know the news?’

‘No, she was going to come anyway, she said. She was on the way when I called her.’

‘But there was no prior intimation of any kind that she was going to arrive?’

Prameela shook her head. ‘No. We don’t usually expect Karuna here.’

‘Ah,’ said Hamid Pasha, making a gesture of sympathy. ‘We heard—the memsaab has a “condition”, doe she not?’

‘Oh, yes, that is there.’

‘And by that, madam, do you mean there is something else too?’

‘Well, Inspector,’ said the woman, and Nagarajan noticed her hands had started to move again. ‘I suppose you cannot expect all your family to get along well with one another—but Karuna and Swami do not, and that is putting it very mildly.’

‘And what is the reason for this—enmity, if you will?’

Prameela said, ‘They are not alike at all, Inspector. For example, Swami is a bit liberal with his money—some would say too liberal—and Karuna is—well—’ she paused delicately, ‘she is not’.

‘Surely that’s not enough reason to become enemies,’ said the Inspector. ‘My wife and I come from the same opposing schools of thought and we get along fine.’ He paused and added, ‘Mostly.’

‘You are right. In itself I agree the reason is not big enough to make enemies out of two people. But it is never that simple, is it? Things happen because of those reasons, and words get said, and neither Swami nor Karuna is the sort of person who is comfortable saying sorry.’

Inspector Nagarajan said, ‘Right, so what did you do after Karuna arrived?’

‘With Karuna’s arrival my load was a bit easier, of course,’ she said, smiling just a little. ‘I left her in charge of the men and went up to tell Venkataramana.’

Hamid Pasha eased forward and asked, ‘And how did he react, behen?’

‘Oh, with Venkataramana you don’t expect a reaction, bhaisaab. Also, he is the only one of the sons that has a family to whom mother did not mean
everything
in the world.’

‘So he did not show any strong signs of grief, then?’

Prameelamma went on, taking no note of the interruption. ‘And he got married to a—let us say—
feisty
woman. That sort of marriage can break any man—’. She looked up at Nagarajan, who had asked the question, and said: ‘No, no signs of grief, but definitely a sign of relief, I’d say.’

Nagarajan lifted an eyebrow and held his silence.

Prameelamma said defensively, ‘You should not blame Venkataramana for that cold reaction, Inspector. He is a harried man. A woman ought to be able to manage a house with whatever money the man brings in every month. It is not the man’s fault if his wife isn’t an efficient manager of her budget.’

‘So,’ said Nagarajan, ‘Venkataramana is in some financial straits?’

She looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t say straits, but I would not say he was doing very well, no.’

‘Okay, can we say then that he is the sort of man to whom an extra couple of crores would come in handy?’

‘But Inspector,’ she protested, ‘that is true of everyone in the world’.

Hamid Pasha, who had been examining his fingernails, asked, ‘Did you happen to meet your brother’s wife when you went up to their house, behen? Did you happen to see what
her
reaction was?’

Prameela’s voice grew immediately icy. ‘I am not concerned about what
she
felt about my mother’s death,’ she said. ‘For all I know she may have jumped for joy, that—’

‘So you did not happen to see her, behen?’

‘No.’

‘And after you went down?’

‘Well,’ she said, shrugging. ‘There was not much more to be said. By that time the men had “recovered”, so to speak. So they looked after everything. Kotesh came soon after, and things just—happened from then on.’

Hamid Pasha asked her in a measured tone, ‘Behen, you remember all of this so well. You have such an excellent memory. I think you are a very good judge of characters, are you not?’

‘I think I am.’

‘Then tell me, behen, who do you think killed your mother?’

Nagarajan saw that the woman opened her mouth almost immediately to speak. But she caught herself. The hands tightened around one another. She said slowly, ‘That is not for me to say, bhaisaab. Even if I did tell you who I think could have done it, it would only be an old woman’s opinion. Nothing more.’

‘I would still like to have it, behen.’

She thought about it, but then shook her head. ‘No, sir. I do not think it is right at this time to tell you my opinions.’ She got up to her feet. ‘If you have no other questions... ‘

After the door had closed on her Hamid Pasha rubbed his hands together in glee and said to the Inspector, ‘So, miyan, tell me what you think of
that
.’

‘A very tough woman, by the sound of it. To keep her wits about her like that with her mother killed must not have been easy.’

‘Ah, yes, yes, not easy at all.’

‘Mind you,’ continued Nagarajan, ‘that is what you would expect if the woman was the killer herself’.

Hamid Pasha smiled. ‘Very good, miyan. But do you not think that if she was the murderer, she would have gone to the trouble of putting on an act of grief?’

‘She might have, or maybe she anticipated that we would be expecting a double bluff, and played it straight.’

‘Yes—yes, that might be so. You think, then, that she has the temperament for murder?’

‘I don’t really buy into the temperament theories, Hamid bhai. All human beings can kill, full stop. I’ve learnt that the bitter way in my job. What a person needs is a reason big enough, and an opportunity.’

‘So you think, then, that this woman had the opportunity?’

Nagarajan looked at the older man squarely. ‘Do you not think so? Whose word but hers do we have for her whereabouts at the time of the murder?’

‘She said she was playing chess with her grandson, did she not?’

‘That was before the splash was heard, Hamid bhai. At the time of the splash she said she was sleeping in one of the upstairs rooms. I wonder if anyone else in the family will back that up.’

Hamid Pasha murmured, ‘We will see.’ In a louder voice he asked, ‘Do you think, then, that she has a reason big enough to kill her own mother?’

Nagarajan said doubtfully, ‘It is too early to say now, but I will say this. She is way too cool about her mother’s death. Women—especially of that age—are not like that.’

‘Maybe she has seen death before, my friend,’ said Hamid Pasha, ‘and therefore it does not shock her any more’.

‘Even so, I think this woman knows something more than what she has let on. Did you see how she kept twisting her hands? She was nervous—I wonder about what.’

Hamid Pasha nodded slowly. ‘Yes, my friend, I agree with you there, most wholeheartedly! I wonder what she is nervous about. Maybe one of the other members of the family will tell us.’

The constable standing outside opened the door and said, ‘Swami saab is here.’

8

N
EVER IN
N
AGARAJAN’S LIFE
had he seen a man more appropriately named than the one who had stepped into the room and was now standing in front of them, hands easily resting along his sides. The hair was combed to perfection—not one strand of it looked out of place— and even the random grey streaks appeared to follow an underlying pattern, like the stripes on a stray street cat. His dull brown eyes rested on him first, then turned to Hamid Pasha. A slender, almost feminine eyebrow rose steadily as the survey progressed, and when he had satisfied himself he took his seat and sat forward in it, hunching a little. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and calmly twined his hands in front of him. His thumbs tapped against one another in a quiet, waiting rhythm.

Nagarajan had planned to go on the offensive against Swami, but at the look of him he could only begin with: ‘I am sorry we’re bothering you so after your mother passed away, Swami saab. I can see it has had quite a profound effect on you.’

His eyes regained focus at Nagarajan’s words. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘on all of us’.

Nagarajan exchanged a glance with Hamid Pasha and said, ‘We have reason to believe that there is some sort of—foul play—behind this death. That is why we have come to take a closer look at it. Mister Hamid Pasha here is assisting us.’

Swami inclined his head and lifted the corner of his mouth in acknowledgement at the elderly man. The skin on his face, Nagarajan noticed, was incredibly smooth, almost infant-like. Hamid Pasha bowed to him in a slightly exaggerated manner and murmured, ‘This a pleasure, miyan.’

‘Is this necessary, sir? The family has been through a lot already, and I can only imagine that this investigation will cause us all further duress.’ His speech was steady, with pauses coming at just the right places and lasting just the right lengths of time. His choice of words indicated an educated background.

Nagarajan said simply, ‘It is necessary, sir.’

‘Then we will go into it without delay. Ask me anything you wish.’

‘First of all, sir, we’d like to have your account of what happened during the day as closely as you can remember it.’

‘That ought to be easy, sir. It is not a day that I would forget in a hurry. Each moment of that day, each thing I said and did—yes, that should be no problem. Start at the beginning, then?’

‘Yes, please.’

Swami cleared his throat softly. ‘You should know, sir, that while I rise early, there are people in my house that wake up before I do. So when I got up that day—around seven in the morning—I was not surprised to hear Prameela in the kitchen. And there was Gauri with her too, I think.

‘I went into Mother’s room as soon as I woke up, to check on whether she had slept well enough. She is usually quite nice about the chlorine, sir, but she had been sick the night before, and she did complain that she did not want the foul-smelling things in her room. But she eventually did calm down and went to sleep, but I thought I should check on her just the same.’

‘Did you see your sister, Prameela, when you came out of the room?’

There was a moment’s pause at the question, but the answer came. ‘Why, yes, I did. Prameela told you that, of course.’ A faint note of irritation crept into his manner. ‘Nothing seems to happen in this house without someone or the other noticing.’

‘Understandable, is it not, miyan, in a house so full of people?’

‘Yes,’ Swami said, and nodded. ‘Yes, Prameela did see me as I came out of mother’s room. She did not ask me anything, but she had that mildly puzzled look on her face and I knew she wanted to know why I was there.’

‘You told her?’

‘Yes, of course. I told her mother was being a little troublesome, especially since the bags were going to be emptied that very morning.’

‘And what time did the “emptying” occur, sir?’

Swami looked at the Inspector and shrugged. ‘Around ten o’clock, sir, right after breakfast.’

Hamid Pasha asked, ‘Who took the lady’s breakfast into the room, miyan?’

‘I did, sir. Mother was sick the night before, so she wanted to be served in bed.’

‘Was this before your breakfast, miyan, or after?’

‘Before. I came out around nine o’clock, I think, and had something to eat with Prameela.’

‘Achha. Apologies for interrupting, miyan. Please continue.’

‘After breakfast I immediately started shifting the bags of chlorine myself. It required a bit of muscle, you see, they were hefty bags, so I did not want to wait too long after breakfast.’ He smiled faintly. ‘You know, laziness kicks in.’

‘Ah, how many kilos of chlorine does the well need, miyan?’

‘Around a hundred-and-twenty every six months.’

‘My word, that is a lot, is it not?’

‘Actually, it is not for a well of that size. We do not keep it as clean as we ought to, if you ask me. If we were to drink that water I think we would need at least two more bags per year.’