The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

BLOOD ON THE GHAT by Barry Maitland

CHRISTINE WOKE BEFORE dawn. The night air was warm and sticky, and she threw off the cotton sheet and went over to the window. Opening it, she breathed in the unfamiliar smells of spices and pungent wood smoke and… well, something less pleasant. Down below her was the great river, the Ganges, which, very soon now, would begin to emerge from the darkness. She had arrived late the previous night with only a fleeting and confused picture of the city, of crowded narrow streets draped with electric cables and lurid signs, of old buildings tottering against each other, and of people everywhere, on foot, in tricycle rickshaws or sprawled on the footpaths. The glimpses of the people – the women wrapped in colourful saris and the men in white dhotis – had thrilled and also frightened her a little, for their strangeness and their sheer numbers. Her hotel, the Dubashi Guesthouse, was a modest affair of small rooms and limited facilities, but with spectacular views out over the ghats – the great cascades of stairs and platforms that descended from the edge of the city straight down to the river. The owners of the guesthouse, Mr and Mrs Dubashi, had welcomed her and offered her food, which she was too tired to accept, and shown her up to her room. There she had sat for some time at the window staring down at the spectacle on the ghat below, a line of priests performing a fire ceremony before a great crowd of worshippers and tourists, boats passing by on the edge of the darkness, the sound of chanting, bells and rhythmic clapping.

Now she quickly made use of the bathroom at the end of the short corridor, taking care not to swallow any of the tap water, and returned to get dressed and go downstairs to the lobby. An elderly woman wearing a bright orange sari and with white hair and pale European skin was there, talking to Mr Dubashi, who introduced them.

“Ah, Mrs Darling, please allow me to introduce Christine, another Australian. You are both going to visit the ghat at dawn, I think?”

Mrs Darling shook Christine’s hand. “How nice to meet you. Your first visit to India?”

“Yes.” She seemed a warm and enthusiastic woman, eyes bright with interest, although Christine thought that she detected some effort beneath the surface, as if perhaps she had been unwell and was struggling with fatigue.

“And this is your first day? How exciting for you. It is one of the great sights, dawn on the Ganges, the pilgrims drawn to the sacred river.”

“Have you been here for a while?”

“A couple of days, but I have visited Varanasi many times before. And you? Do you have a special reason for coming here, Christine?”

Mrs Darling was giving her such a penetrating look that Christine felt compelled to tell her the truth. “I… would like to understand death better,” she said, and saw the momentary look of consternation on the other woman’s face.

“But you are so young,” Mrs Darling said. “We must talk later.” And Christine was saved from replying by Mr Dubashi, who said, “You should be going now, ladies. See, the dawn is breaking and the people are arriving.”

Through the open door Christine saw that the street outside was filling with a stream of people heading for the ghat. The two women stepped outside and were immediately caught up in the crowd. Christine felt the excitement of becoming part of a great throng, and almost tripped over a woman sitting on the ground with a large basket of brilliantly coloured flowers. Nearby the driver of an ancient tricycle rickshaw was gesticulating to his two fat female passengers that they must get out now and walk because the way was becoming too congested. The crowd jostled and Christine found herself being squeezed back behind Mrs Darling. Ahead of them the street narrowed and the dark buildings on either side closed in, packing the crowd still more tightly together, and Christine felt a throb of panic as she tried to keep her companion in sight.

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.”

“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.

“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.

At that moment the policeman, Sub-Inspector Gupta, knocked at the front door and came in. “Ah,” he said, seeing the suitcase, “has Mr Darling arrived?”

“He arrived,” Mr Dubashi said, “and then left in a great hurry, very upset after reading the will that his mother had left in the hotel safe, to see the lawyers who drew it up.”

“Really? Any idea why he was upset?”

So Mr Dubashi told him.

“To an ashram? Golly. Do you know which one?”

Mr Dubashi told him that too, and then added, with a disingenuous air, “By an amazing coincidence the business manager of that ashram came here earlier this morning, insisting on reading that will, which gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? What amazing timing! Mrs Darling writes a new will in their favour and they only have to wait two days until her fortune drops into their laps, like a ripe mango, before her son arrives and has the chance to talk her out of it.”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“Oh, dear me, no! But you know what some of these ashrams are like, Inspector, only interested in milking tourists for their dollars, and I must say that business manager was a pretty ruthless type. If I weren’t such a trusting man I might imagine her capable of, well, almost anything.”

“Hmm.” Sub-Inspector Gupta pondered that. “Well, my superiors have taken over the running of the case now. Clearly it is very high-profile, and they are worried about the possible terrorist angle. I only came by to meet Mr Darling, and also to make sure that you were all right, especially you, Christine.”

“That’s very kind of you, Sub-Inspector.”

He gave her one of his beautiful big smiles. “I was extremely concerned by the report in the Aaj. I want to give you my mobile number, and you must contact me, day or night, if you see anything suspicious.” He gave her a card.

“Thank you.”

He grinned, looking suddenly coy and very young. “Promise you will contact me.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now, Mr Dubashi, perhaps you can give me the details of this dodgy ashram.”

“With the greatest pleasure, Inspector.”

That afternoon Christine set out to explore Varanasi, using the map and guidebook given her by Mr Dubashi. She took a tricycle rickshaw to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, a complex of shrines dedicated to Shiva, the destroyer god, and one of the most sacred sites in the Hindu religion. The place was crammed with visitors, its entrance protected by armed guards. It left a vivid impression, but she found it hard to penetrate its meaning. From there she walked through narrow streets to the river, and followed the great terraces of the ghats along the shore of the Ganges, seeing the columns of smoke from the funeral pyres rising into the hot still air. After a while she found herself not far from the ashram, which Mr Dubashi had marked with a cross on the map, and she struck back into the densely packed city, trying to maintain her bearings until she came to a sign with a painted image of a venerable figure squatting in the lotus position beneath the name Atmapriksa Ashram.

She cautiously pushed through a screen of beads and entered a dark corridor down which echoed a sound of distant chanting. She came to a door marked Office, and was confronted by the impressive figure of Dorothy Yanamandra scolding a typist. She whirled around and beamed at Christine.

“Ah! The lady from the Dubashi Guesthouse. You have come to us!”

“Yes. I thought I should find out more about the ashram.”

“Excellent. Come into my office.”

It had rough whitewashed walls, but contained smart office furniture and the latest computer equipment.

“Atmapriksa is Hindi meaning soul-searching, Christine,” the business manager said. “That is what we do here, following the ancient spiritual tradition of guru-shishya, in which shishya, or disciples, are mentored in their soul-searching by a guru, which in our case is Swami Bhatti. I have many leaflets here that will be of interest to you, but first I would ask you to fill in a questionnaire.”

Christine filled in the sheet asking for basic information about herself, but with a blank space left at the end to answer the question, Why are you here? Christine wrote, To come to terms with the death of my mother, then wondered if that was really the right way to put it. Could you come to terms with death? Perhaps Swami Bhatti would tell her.

Mrs Yanamandra studied her answers, nodding sagely over the final reply. “You have come to the right place, Christine.” She typed into her computer an appointment time for the following morning for her to meet the guru. “Now I shall take you on a quick tour of our facilities.”

They followed the corridor to an open courtyard paved with stone flags. In the arcade that surrounded it Christine saw about a dozen people, mostly young and Western in appearance, performing exercises or domestic chores – washing sheets by hand in a large tub, sewing and cleaning.

“It is part of the discipline by which the shishya learns respect for the guru,” Mrs Yanamandra explained. “There are other Australians here, and Americans, and people from all over.”

They moved on to a wing of rooms, very simply furnished, in which disciples slept, then to a yoga class and another courtyard in which people sat in meditation. As they moved on again Christine tried to imagine Mrs Darling here.

“Now we’ll collect your leaflets and say goodbye until tomorrow,” Mrs Yanamandra said, and led her back to the street door. Christine went out with a feeling of hope that this peaceful place in the heart of the ancient city might be able to help her.

Unfortunately the map wasn’t able to help her find her way back to the hotel, and she became lost in the labyrinth of narrow streets. At one point she stopped, realizing that she was going around in circles, and turned to go back, and as she did so she saw a man watching her from a doorway. She had a split-second image of an evil-looking face, a grubby dhoti and a red turban, before he darted away into the shadows and disappeared around the corner of an alley.

Christine took a deep breath, feeling her heart pounding, and wondered if she should ring Sub-Inspector Gupta, but by the time she got back to the hotel she decided that she had been overreacting.

Mr Dubashi and his wife were having an argument when Christine came down after breakfast the next morning. She gathered that it had been sparked by her mentioning her appointment to meet the Swami Bhatti.

“Christine is here to learn,” Mrs Dubashi said. “Why should she not find out what the ashram has to offer?”

“All I’m saying is that she should be careful what those people’s motives are,” her husband said stubbornly.

“You should never have said those things to the police inspector yesterday. You made it sound as if Mrs Yanamandra had stabbed Mrs Darling with her own hands.”

“Well, that wouldn’t surprise me!” Mr Dubashi insisted truculently.

“Rubbish! I admired Mrs Yanamandra’s nitty-gritty approach. She calls a spade a spade. I bet she keeps those mystics in line.”

“A strong woman,” Mr Dubashi groaned.

Christine left them to it. She found her way to the ashram more easily this time, with only one disturbing moment, when she thought she caught another glimpse of the dirty red turban belonging to the evil-looking man she suspected had followed her the previous day, but she couldn’t be sure.

She was met by a young woman of about her own age, with an American accent, dressed in an orange sari. She was one of the Swami’s shishyas, she explained, and launched into a gushing account of the life of the ashram, the sense of comradeship among its guests, and the profound experience of its spiritual life. By the end of it Christine felt that she had been thoroughly softened up.

She said, “Did you know Mrs Darling?”

“Oh, poor Elizabeth. We were so devastated. She was like a second mother to me – well, a first mother actually. I had some problems back home with my mother and her fourth husband.”

“She was happy here, was she?”

“Oh, yes. She’s been coming here every spring for quite a few years. She and the Swami were very close… in a spiritual sense, I mean. He’s been in deep retreat ever since it happened. You’re about the first person he’s agreed to see since then. Come along, I’ll take you to him.”

Swami Bhatti was a small man with a large white beard, wrapped in an orange shawl and with a matching orange bindi on his forehead. He was sitting in the full lotus position on a plain cotton mat, and gestured to Christine to sit facing him. His eyes gleamed at her through large rimless spectacles, which reflected the flames of candles set up around the room.

“Christine,” he said, in a voice so soft that she had to lean forward to hear his words. “You have set out on a great spiritual journey. You feel like a traveller without a map, a sailor without a rudder, a bird without a sense of direction.”

“Yes.”

“You grieve for your mother.”

“Yes.”

“You are deeply troubled by your loss.”

‘Yes.”

“You seek closure.”

Christine hesitated. She wished he hadn’t used that word.

“Here we can help you to find closure, and to put this behind you, so that you can move forward in your spiritual journey.”

The Swami closed his eyes and a deep murmuring sound filled the room. It took Christine a moment to realize that it was coming from him. It stopped and he opened his eyes again.

“Often there are impediments to closure – a feeling of guilt, for example.”

“Oh, yes!” Christine nodded vigorously.

“Property, for example. Things that the dead beloved left behind.”

“My mother left me her house.”

“Exactly. It weighs upon you, like a debt, it fills you with guilt.”

The guru blinked and gave a little cough, as if he were getting ahead of himself. “But we can speak of that later. For now it is enough to recognize your need for forgetfulness and closure, so that you can begin again your spiritual journey, here, with us.”

He was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside in the courtyard. A woman – Mrs Yanamandra perhaps – was shrieking and then a man shouted, “Where is that thieving bastard!”

The door of the meditation room in which Christine and the guru were sitting crashed open and Mrs Darling’s son stood there, a furious expression on his face. “Ah, there you are!” He glared at Swami Bhatti, who was scrambling to his feet in alarm. “Come here, you little scumbag. I’m going to wring your bloody neck!”

Christine watched in alarm as Jeremy Darling charged into the room. The candle flames flickered and the Swami stumbled back against the wall as the furious interloper lurched forward, hands bunched into fists, and then several young men, some in dhotis and some in jeans, came running in and grappled him, falling to the floor in a struggling heap.

Mrs Yanamandra appeared, wild-eyed. “Swami! Are you hurt?”

Swami Bhatti had pulled himself together. He took on the dignified stoop of a martyr. “I am perfectly fine, thank you, Dorothy. This poor man is sadly deluded.”

“Yes, yes.” Mrs Yanamandra pulled out a mobile phone from beneath her sari and called the police. On the floor the bodies had stopped struggling. The young men got to their feet, hauling Darling upright. “What shall we do with him, Dorothy?”

“Lock him in the store room,” she snapped. She turned to Christine. “Come with me.”

As she waited in the office, Christine thought back over her meeting with Swami Bhatti. There had been the disconcerting mention of property just before Jeremy Darling had appeared, but the guru’s words before that had also made Christine feel uneasy. All that talk of closure – he seemed to want to numb her feelings about the death of her mother and cover them up. But she didn’t want forgetfulness. She was angry at its unfairness and she wanted to hang on to her anger and fight against those awful memories, not blank them out.

“Christine!”

She looked up and saw Sub-Inspector Gupta in the doorway.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She described what had happened.

“So you heard Darling make threats against Swami Bhatti’s life?”

She nodded reluctantly. “He was very angry. He said the Swami was a thief.”

“That’s absolute rubbish,” Mrs Yanamandra said, coming out of her office. “The man’s a menace. You must arrest him for attempted murder.”

“Where is he now?”

“We have locked him up in a store room. I’ll show you.”

Sub-Inspector Gupta followed her out to the corridor, where two uniformed policemen with rifles were waiting, and they set off to make the arrest. A little later they were back, the sub-inspector giving orders to the other two, who ran out into the street.

“He broke through the tiled roof of the store room and climbed down into the alley behind the ashram,’” Gupta said, getting out his phone. “He’ll be miles away by now.”

When he finished his call to headquarters, Christine said that she felt sorry for Jeremy Darling. In a way they were both the same, seeking answers to the death of a mother, both angry at the unfairness of it. And although Mr Darling’s anger at Swami Bhatti might be financial in nature, that may just be a mask for his deeper feelings of loss.

Sub-Inspector Gupta looked at her with a smile. “You try to see the best in people, Christine, although in this case I think Mr Darling’s motives are straightforward. His mother’s legacy consisted almost entirely of her house, in an expensive part of Sydney Harbour, worth many millions of dollars. She left it to Swami Bhatti to establish an ashram there, to further his work.”

A house, Christine thought – another parallel.

“So long as Mr Darling is free, we shall have to post a guard here to protect the Swami.”

“And meanwhile Mrs Darling’s killer is on the loose.”

“That’s true. My superiors who have taken over the case are not making much progress. The autopsy has shown that she was stabbed by a long, narrow blade, but we have no record of such a weapon, no terrorist group has claimed responsibility, and we still have no eyewitnesses coming forward, even though she was surrounded by dozens of people when she was killed. It is a baffling case. If only I could solve it, I could make a considerable name for myself.”

Christine remembered the impression that Mrs Darling had made on her when they had met so briefly before her death. “It would be nice to think that some good might come of it,” she said.

Christine returned to the Dubashi Guesthouse feeling disappointed by her visit to the Atmapriksa Ashram. Perhaps she hadn’t given Swami Bhatti a fair trial, she thought, but his words had not resonated with her.

Mr Dubashi called out to her when she stepped inside. “You do not look uplifted by your meeting with the guru, Christine.”

She told him what had happened, and he nodded smugly. “You confirm my suspicions. He is all right for gullible tourists who want to pay a lot of dollars for a mild taste of Indian mysticism, but not for a serious pilgrim like yourself.”

“What should I do, then?”

“If you ask me, fate has brought the answer right here to your side. Here, under this very roof, is a true student of the mysteries of life and death.”

“Mr Nemichandra?”

“Exactly, a Jain monk. If anyone can help you it is surely he. And do you know, Christine, it may help us in another matter if you talk to him.”

“How is that?”

“Jain monks and nuns live by the five mahavratas, the five ‘great vows’, which are non-violence, truthfulness, honesty, asceticism and celibacy. Of these, the first, ahimsa, non-violence, is the most important, and if there is a clash it takes precedence over all the others. So, what if telling the truth would cause someone to suffer violence? A Jain would then have to remain silent, and I am wondering if this, rather than the knock on his head, is what is preventing Mr Nemichandra telling us who he saw kill Mrs Darling, for the Indian Penal Code prescribes death as the penalty for murder.”

“I see,” Christine said. “Yes, that would be a terrible dilemma, wouldn’t it?”

“Indeed. Come, let us pay a visit to Mr Nemichandra, and ask him to instruct you in his philosophy, and perhaps we may find a way to discover what he knows about Mrs Darling’s death.”

So they climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of Mr Nemichandra’s room. Christine heard a slight scuffling inside, and then the door was opened by the monk, dressed in his usual white robe, a square of muslin hanging in front of his mouth. Mr Dubashi explained their purpose and, reluctantly Christine felt, Mr Nemichandra invited them into his room. He and Christine sat on wooden stools by the window overlooking the Ganges, with Mr Dubashi perched on the end of the bed, and Christine explained about the death of her mother, and her search for a way to come to terms with it.

Mr Nemichandra cleared his throat, making the muslin square flutter. “A Jain believes that death is an inevitable part of the cycle of existence, by which each soul passes from life to death to rebirth in a form according to its karma, as some new living being. We believe there is no god, only the endless cycle of nature, of birth, death and rebirth, which a soul can only escape through the complete shedding of its karmic bonds to attain divine consciousness. Therefore your mother’s soul has already been reborn and there is no purpose to your grieving for her in her old life. We must learn to give up all such bonds and concentrate on living a pure life without attachments for people or things or places in this world.”

Christine tried to absorb this stark view of life. She could see that it might have its appeal as a way to cope with the chaos and pain of the world, but still, she found it rather chilling, and knew she could never abandon her mother’s memory. She was about to say something along these lines when Mr Dubashi jumped in.

“Tell me, Mr Nemichandra,” he said, ‘is it not the case that a murderer – say the murderer of Mrs Darling – will be reborn as one of the hellish beings, and must suffer the torments of hell until he has paid for his crime?’

Mr Nemichandra turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Yes, it is so,” he said softly.

“Therefore, would it not be merciful to him to help him on his way to the next life as rapidly as possible, since it cannot be avoided and must be endured?”

Mr Nemichandra clearly didn’t like this ingenious argument, but as he pondered an answer Christine had a sudden feeling that Mr Dubashi had been right. She said, “Mr Nemichandra, you know who murdered Mrs Darling, don’t you?”

The monk stared at her, a look of shock on his face. “You must go now,” he said sharply. “I have nothing more to say.”

The coroner having released Mrs Darling’s body, it was arranged for her cremation to take place the next day as specified in her final instructions. That morning Christine rose before dawn as usual to join the pilgrims on the ghat below the guesthouse. Today she decided to take one of the boats that plied up and down the river, and joined three Indian women in bright saris in a boat rowed by an old man and a boy. They went upstream first, along the great wall of buildings that formed the edge of the city on the river’s left bank, passing the succession of ghats, the flights of steps that spilled down to the Ganges, some crowded with people and boats, some with just a few people sitting on the steps and bathing in the sacred river, and others with women washing laundry and spreading it out on the bank to dry. The far side of the river was quite different, a low bank of silt that vanished into the hazy morning light.

The boat turned at a place that the old man said was the Harishchandra Ghat, one of the two burning ghats, where bodies were brought to be cremated on the shores of the river. This one was open to people of all religions, he explained, while the other, Manikaran Ghat downstream, was for Hindus only. Christine looked at the stacks of timber piled up on the shore, and realized that this was the place where Mrs Darling’s body would be brought later in the day. She swallowed, wondering how she would deal with that, and the old man, seeing her expression, reached under his seat and offered her a bottle of water with a toothless smile.

They took up the oars again and pulled, gliding downstream more quickly, as far as the Manikaran Ghat, a darker place with many weirdly shaped temple domes wreathed in smoke, where they turned to go back to their starting point. As they approached the quay they became aware of a commotion at the foot of the ghat, below the flight of steps where Mrs Darling had been murdered. Men were shouting and gesticulating, and the boy leaped up on to the prow of the boat to try to see what was going on. Then they heard the howl of a siren and the boy pointed to the top of the ghat, where the crowd was parting for a group of men who came charging down the steps – three of them in uniform and one, who looked very like Sub-Inspector Gupta, in a dark suit. Christine blinked, feeling as if she were having a dream, replaying the scene of Mrs Darling’s death but now seen from a distance, from the river.

The old man said something to the boy and they began to pull strongly towards the shore, and as they came close they saw the police emerge through the mob at the water’s edge and go to one of the boats tied up there, where, accompanied by a great murmur from the crowd, they heaved a limp body up on to the stone steps. The old man steered his boat to a clear space further along and they all jumped out. It was impossible to get through the crush on the waterfront, and instead Christine climbed to the top of the ghat and watched from there as an ambulance arrived and two men carried a stretcher down. They returned after a while, followed by the man in a suit.

“Sub-Inspector Gupta!” Christine called, for it was he, and he turned and came to her.

“Christine! My goodness.”

“What’s happened?”

He took her to one side, shooing away the people nearby. “It is Mr Jeremy Darling, the murdered lady’s son. His body was found floating in the river by one of the boats.”

“He’s dead?”

“Very much so. He has a stab wound through the heart. Since the incident at the ashram we have been looking for him without success.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Indeed. I must make my report.” He hurried away.

According to Indian custom, cremation should occur within twenty-four hours of death, and Mrs Darling’s ceremony could not be delayed. Christine and Mr and Mrs Dubashi took tricycle rickshaws to the Harishchandra burning ghat at the appointed hour and made their way down to the shore where they recognized Sub-Inspector Gupta talking to Dorothy Yanamandra, business manager of the Atmapriksa Ashram, among a cluster of people. As they got close Christine recognized some of the young people from the ashram, and discovered that they were witnessing the Swami Bhatti having his beard and head ceremoniously shaved.

Mrs Yanamandra greeted her and explained, “Since Mrs Darling no longer has any family here for her cremation, following the tragic death of her dearly beloved son, the Swami has decided to represent her family and go through the rituals on their behalf.”

She pointed out a man who was supervising the arrangements. “He is a member of the Dome caste, who were given the sacred flame four and a half thousand years ago by Lord Shiva to light the first funeral pyre, and have been its guardians ever since. When the Swami has been shaved he will bathe in the Ganges to purify himself and will change into a pure white gown. Then he will go to the Dome temple nearby to buy the holy fire to light Mrs Darling’s pyre. Meanwhile his disciples from the ashram have been buying wood logs to build the pyre – three hundred kilos are required, at one hundred and fifty rupees a kilo, would you believe, not to mention some sandalwood at a thousand rupees a kilo, which is a necessary part of the rituals.” Mrs Yanamandra was tapping numbers into her iPhone. “Such a lot of cash, but we must do this properly for Mrs Darling. Anyway, the pyre is ready now, and Mrs Darling’s body has been placed on it, face up, and covered by a final layer. You do not look well, Christine. Do you need to sit down?”

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.”

His mobile phone rang and he listened for a while. “Yes, sir!” He rang off and said, “They want me for a news conference, Christine. TV! The world’s media! But you will not leave now, will you? I must see you again. If necessary I shall have you detained!” He gave an excited laugh.

“No,’” she said. “I won’t leave. Good luck with the media.”

“I shall be cool, like James Bond.”

When he had gone, Mrs Dubashi came and sat with Christine. “I’m afraid your spiritual journey in Varanasi has not been a conventional one,” she said. “Are you disappointed?”

Christine thought, then nodded sadly. “The Swami, the Jain, the burning ghat – they were all powerful experiences and gave me much to think about, but none of them have changed the hurt I feel when I think of my mother’s death.”

Mrs Dubashi said, “When I lost my first baby, I was heartbroken. Nothing could ease my pain. Then my mother told me that the pain was from the labour of creating a place inside myself for my baby. When I had finished doing that, the pain would ease and my baby would live for ever in my heart.”

“Oh.” Christine pondered her words, and as she did so it occurred to her that they might be the truest thing she had heard on her journey.

Later that evening they watched television together, to see the news. The lead item was the arrest of Mr Nemichandra, with Sub-Inspector Gupta the star. He spoke to the cameras in a clear, confident voice, more mature now, Christine thought.

Mr Dubashi said, “My goodness, he’s talking to the whole world,” but his wife corrected him. “No, look at his face, he’s talking to just one person – you, Christine. You’d better watch out,” she chuckled, “that young man’s in love with you.”