The Cosmic Clues (17 page)

“I can't be sure, but I think it was around six.”

“Right. Go on.”

“Mrs. Gandhi was in the garden doing some work, but when her husband returned she followed him inside. I took the cheques to him a few minutes later and she was still with him. I think they were in the midst of some . . . discussion, but they stopped when I entered the study.”

Her hesitation did not go unnoticed by Sonia. “Do you know what they were talking about?” she pressed.

“I haven't a clue.” Reema's response was prompt. Too prompt. “Mr. Gandhi signed the cheques and I returned to the office,” she concluded, on a note of relief.

“And after that, did you hear or see anything fishy?” the Sub-Inspector prompted.

Reema considered the question seriously before replying. “No. Though I was in the office for a while. But I've been thinking, something wasn't right—it was different, something odd. . . .” She paused, frowning.

The other three waited expectantly. Reema continued to concentrate, apparently unaware of the silence fallen in the room.

“Yes! No wonder it registered unconsciously!” She looked up at Sonia triumphantly. “Mr. Gandhi is—was—ambidextrous. He would use both his hands for activities, but he always signed his cheques with his right hand. Now I remember what puzzled me all evening. This evening he signed the cheques with his
left hand
!”

“Are you sure?” Sonia asked.

“Positive! I couldn't miss such an overnight change in habit!”

Sonia nodded, her face thoughtful. “Anything else?”

“No, not that I can think of.”

“In that case, thank you, Reema. That will be all for now, although we may need to talk to you again later.” Sonia smiled at the girl, who stood up readily. “Oh, by the way, is it possible for you to bring me your horoscope?”

“
Horoscope?
I'm afraid I don't have it here. It could be at home.”

“Home is . . . ?”

“In Mumbai.”

“Well, then, you better ask your family to send you the birth details, or better still, fax your horoscope to you immediately.”

“Yes, I can do that. But, why do you need my horoscope?” Reema couldn't hide her curiousity.

Sonia shrugged. “Operative technique.”

The Secretary nodded, unconvinced, but Sonia merely smiled and said, “Could you please send Mrs. Gandhi in?”

Reema slipped out of the room. Sonia exchanged glances with the other two.

“A smart woman,” Jatin remarked.

“And an excellent actress,” Inamdar added.

“Do you really think so?” Jatin countered. “I thought she was so genuine!”

“He's right, you can never know . . .” Sonia responded absentmindedly.

A knock on the door preceded the arrival of Mrs. Gandhi. The widow was short and plump, clad in an expensive sari of blue silk. The tears had dried, leaving a mottled pattern on her round cheeks. She seemed too absorbed to care. A woman unconscious of her looks. Kind? Sonia had a distinct impression that this woman would put the needs of others before her own. Sometimes Sonia's intuition played havoc with her reasoning, she decided. She had to curb it, especially where a murder case was concerned! She needed hard-core logic, she chided herself severely, not instinctive emotional responses to people which could capsize rational thought.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Gandhi. We know that this is tough on you, but you understand that this is standard procedure . . . ?” Inamdar began.

The lady of the mansion nodded. “I don't know how I can help you. I don't know
anything
at all! I'm just too stunned to talk. Memories of the days spent with him, the intimacy, the loneliness, the life we led together—all that seems so pointless now! I feel so deceived, so humiliated, so betrayed by . . . by everything! Why did this happen?
How
did this happen? I'm so confused, I don't know what is right from wrong anymore! I don't know anything myself, how can I explain things to you or anybody else, for that matter?”

The tears were coursing down her cheeks, her control buckling under emotional pressure. Sonia left her seat and spontaneously hugged the weeping woman. Mrs. Gandhi's agitated sobs finally receded and she rubbed her eyes angrily.

“I'm sorry, I'm a fool! I should learn to accept what's happened, but somehow I can't. All those wasted years, the irreversibility of it all—it's a shame. I just don't know how to cope!”

“I understand, Mrs. Gandhi. Death is a strange thing. Irreversible, yes, and final. But not the end of the world for those staying back,” Sonia supplied in a quiet voice.

Silence ensued as Mrs. Gandhi struggled to get a grip on her emotions. Sonia watched the woman sympathetically. Why did she get the impression that she had entered the climax stage of the story, Sonia wondered. So many incidents may have elapsed until this moment, in the lives of the Gandhis; episodes fraught with secrets left to be unearthed, leading to the final climax scene of this evening's experience. And would
she
be successful in leading the story to a favourable, satisfactory end? Sonia stared at Mrs. Gandhi's drooping shoulders and spent expression and wondered. . . .

“I'd like to ask you just one question. Do you think you could answer that?” Sonia asked the widow.

Mrs. Gandhi nodded, producing a kerchief and sniffing noisily into it.

“You were in the garden when your husband returned from his walk tonight. You went inside and then you two had a talk. Could you tell me if you were arguing?”

Mrs. Gandhi looked a little startled. For a second, the myriad expressions on her face evaded capture and then her face froze into indifference.

“Arguing or discussing—it's the same with us, Anand and me. We had our tiffs. But we hardly spoke tonight because Reema arrived with some cheques to be signed, and then I left, too.”

“And did you notice something different, or odd, while your husband was signing the cheques?” Sonia persisted.

A thoughtful expression flitted across Mrs. Gandhi's face, then she shook her head slowly. “No-o-o.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gandhi. That's all for now, but we may wish to speak to you later, when you're more inclined to talk.”

The widow rose and walked towards the door, her silk sari trailing behind her, and her troubled thoughts already far away from the room.

“Hmm . . . Intense!” Jatin expelled a sigh. “And definitely genuine!” he insisted.

“And extremely in love with her husband,” Sonia added with a sigh.

She leaned against her chair, feeling disturbed. And upset. Was it the woman's helpless ramblings? she wondered. The human mind was a labyrinth, so cryptic. The detours that thought processes took made it an impossible task to peg down fiction from fact. Not to mention the bulwarks that the mind set up. It wasn't so easy to turf out the fabrication, if there was any, from the morass of all that hurt.

Out of the blue, an idea began cavorting around the conscious edge of her mind, but she couldn't grasp it and pin it down. Well, later; she would think about it later.

Swapnil Gandhi was more in control than his mother and more willing, too, to answer any questions. But he hadn't much more to contribute than what he'd already told Sonia.

“You said you had something important to discuss with your father,” she reminded him. “Can you tell us what it was about?”

Swapnil hesitated for a minute, then shrugged. “Well, okay, you're bound to find out sooner or later anyway,” he remarked, matter-of-factly. “I've run into some heavy debts and needed money from him.”

“You're a gambler,” Sonia confirmed.

“Not an accomplished one. I just had bad luck once, that's all, but Dad refused to help me. I had to talk to him and convince him to pay up for me, one last time, but I never got the chance. He . . . He—” Swapnil stopped abruptly. His carefree tone and façade slipped, revealing raw pain.

Was it the pain of the loss of a father or frustration at facing the hounding debtors, Sonia wondered. Swapnil excused himself and quit the room. Sonia sighed and turned to her assistant.

“Jatin, I think it's time to begin our Modus Operandi—to collect the horoscopes from the family. Could you do it now?”

“Yes, Boss.” Jatin stood up with alacrity.

Inamdar excused himself, too, saying that he needed to question the servants. Alone in the room, Sonia couldn't help but feel a little lonely. Odd. No case had ever elicited such a reaction from her. Like a personal loss. Like a core being slowly and deliberately removed! She felt pinioned to this case and even responsible! That was absurd! Or was it something more? A moral responsibility,
a human responsibility
?

She stared out the window, into the night. Then, impulsively, she extracted the two horoscopes sent to her that day by Anand Gandhi, placing them side by side on the table. Two minutes, just two minutes . . . The rectangles with their constellations suddenly focused before her eyes, defining new statements. Was it possible? My God, if that was true
. . . Why hadn't she thought of this before?

Jatin returned with three horoscopes and a fax. So Reema had managed to obtain her horoscope from home.

“Thank you, Jatin. Now I need some quiet. Could you just hang around in the hall while I go through these? Keep your eyes open. If you see anything of the slightest importance or suspicion, get right back here,” Sonia instructed.

“Right, Boss!” Jatin grinned. He wished he could provide her with some music, but that would certainly be in bad taste in a house where a death had occurred! “We still have Daaima to talk to,” he reminded her.

Sonia nodded absently. “After I finish with these. And Jatin—I think I shall want to make some phone calls. Can you also find out if they have Internet facilities attached to this computer?”

“Straightaway!” He returned a few minutes later. “You can use the phone and the computer in this room.”

Sonia nodded, as Jatin left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Automatically her favourite music began playing in her head and she closed her eyes, swaying slowly. Then as the tempo in her head increased, she moved across the room, with slow, swirling movements. Jatin popped his head in and stared in astonishment. What in heavens was his boss up to!

Sonia appeared to be dancing in the silence. No, not quite, he realized with a start. The totally absorbed expression on her face with a faint smile touching her lips and her graceful rhythmic hand and body movements seemed to penetrate into the silence, and elicit a melody entirely of a different kind. The feeling was so compelling that Jatin could almost pick up the rhythm in her head! He shook his head in amazement, then slowly withdrew, leaving his boss alone with her brilliant experiments.

Slowly Sonia opened her eyes, smiling to herself. If anybody saw her, he would think she was quite mad! But this refreshing feeling of energy was so invigorating, it was worth being called batty, she decided as she turned to the horoscopes.

She sensed the uncoiling of an inner excitement as she unfolded the booklets. She placed the two horoscopes sent by Anand Gandhi on the top. Right below them, she placed Mrs. Maya Gandhi's horoscope. Virgo as zodiac sign as well as the ascendant; Venus in the seventh house in the zodiac sign Pisces; Sun, Neptune, and Uranus in the fifth house . . . Sonia stared at the horoscope, her breath quickening. Mrs. Gandhi's horoscope told a story, a very sad story. Lacerations of the past! She flicked open Anand Gandhi's horoscope and gasped. It was an exact duplicate of one of the horoscopes which had been posted to her. Gemini in the ascendant. The Moon, Sun, and Rahu in the eighth house; and the seventh house accumulated with Mars, Saturn, Mercury, Venus, Uranus, and Neptune! What a unique combination! Her eyes traveled along the triangles, calculating and judging. Her hands suddenly felt clammy and she rubbed them against her dress. Had the night suddenly gone cold? She turned her attention resolutely to Swapnil's horoscope, simultaneously consulting Reema's. Certainly something on between the two of them. Harmless? Not quite, but nothing that could not be controlled. Reema's horoscope, her parents . . . She needed to check that out, Sonia decided. She stared contemplatively at the four horoscopes on the table and then at the fifth one, disconnected and isolated, sent to her by Anand Gandhi. What had he mentioned in his letter? That the two people were going to meet and one of them was going to be hurt! Did he mean himself? Had he known that he would die? And who was the second person? If her assumptions were right . . . An image of a group of people sitting on a wooden bench rose in her mind. When one person moved or shook his leg, the whole bench moved and all the rest of the people moved. . . . Wasn't it exactly like that? The repercussions of a deliberate act influenced the actions of others. . . .