Murder in Moonlit Square, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Paul Waters
Praise for Murder in Moonlit Square
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Foreword
Monday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Tuesday
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Wednesday
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Thursday
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Friday
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Saturday
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
A glossary of some Indian (mainly Hindi) terms and some Irish ones
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Also by Paul Waters
Blackwatertown
Praise for Murder in Moonlit Square
‘Takes us to the colour and crowds of modern Delhi, in pursuit of a killer. A charming start to a vibrant new mystery series’ Vaseem Khan, author of the Q and Malabar House series
‘Never cross a nun! Offbeat detecting duo Sister Agatha from Ireland and Avtar from India bring a fresh twist to cosy crime amidst the glamour and grime of deadly Delhi. I loved it!’ Robert Thorogood, creator of the Death in Paradise and Marlow Murder Club series
‘A pacy, charming thriller that mixes the romance of old Delhi with the energy of the modern megacity it has become. Can’t wait for the next one’ Amish Tripathi, broadcaster and author of the The Shiva Trilogy and Ram Chandra Series
‘Rich, layered and multi-faceted, this is Paul Waters at his best. Murder in Moonlit Square has everything you could hope for in cosy crime: unforgettable characters, a compelling mystery and a wicked sense of humour. Waters has established himself a masterful voice in crime fiction’ Awais Khan, author of No Honour and Someone Like Her
‘This colourful novel takes us through the streets and back alleys of Delhi where we can almost smell the spices and baking tandooris off the page. This is vivid and empathetic storytelling by a writer who can intrigue us with a mystery and knows India well enough to take us there and show us around’ Malachi O’Doherty
MURDER
IN MOONLIT
SQUARE
PAUL WATERS
For my wife, Aneysha
And to the memory of Sister Agatha McLoughlin,
of Ireland and India
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hill lands
W. B. Yeats
What home have I, an exile,
Other than the threshold of your hand?
R. Parthasarathy
FOREWORD
Before you begin this story, I should let you know that there’s a glossary at the back of the book that contains explanations of some of the Indian and Irish terms and people you will encounter. If you already know your eejit from your filmi and gupshup, you won’t need it. And from now on, they won’t be in italics. But if you find your brow occasionally furrowing in confusion or wonder, enlightenment may lie within the glossary.
MONDAY
CHAPTER 1
Sister Agatha Murphy surveyed the dusty, busy, noisy lane in front of the Delhi Haveli Hotel and knew she was about to give in to temptation. She was honest enough to admit to herself, if not to others, that she had a vice she could not quite kick.
But not here. Not in front of the shopkeepers sitting on their steps. Above them dangled bright red Santa Claus suits, with moulded plastic faces sewn in beneath the red hats. They were displayed on wooden poles threaded through the arms and hung out over the lane – like so many child-sized effigies of a crucified Father Christmas, with wispy white beards and artificial rosy cheeks. It reminded her of that scene at the end of the film Spartacus, with thousands of defiant rebels hanging from crosses along the roadside. She appreciated that Delhi did it to acknowledge Christmas approaching and intended it to be jolly, rather than macabre.
The chai wala on the corner tried to sell her a glass. ‘Nahi, ji,’ she told him. Her ‘no’ was unremarkable, but the added honorific surprised him. Delhiites were notoriously finicky over orders of precedence, but being foreign – let’s face it, white – gave her licence to subvert the elaborate rules of etiquette.
The seductive aroma of burnt sugar and syrup made her turn her head. But no, she could not do it by the jalebi wala with his hot sticky cauldron either. Nor in front of the street children scavenging discarded plastic bottles and rags. And definitely not inside the hotel – the scandal!
Sister Agatha had felt the yearning growing inside her since she had left the hospital that morning. Just visiting, thanks be to God. Part of her routine, visiting the sick, the lonely, the abandoned. Whoever had nobody else to turn to. Whoever could not summon up enough energy to tell her to get lost – which tended to narrow it down to old men and women barely clinging to consciousness in their final days.
It’s lucky I’m such a good conversationalist, she thought, because the bedridden patients don’t usually contribute much. Especially not the elderly gentleman she’d been sitting with this week. He said nothing. The staff knew nothing about him. Sister Agatha was not even sure if he was ever aware of her presence while she sat with him and talked, or prayed, or silently held his hand.
Sister Agatha was no saint. Just semi-retired. And that’s what semi-retired nuns do. Try to be useful without being disruptive. Which was why she had fought her craving throughout her time on the ward, then restrained herself while still in the grounds of the hospital, and held back until she was well away from anywhere where ill people were being treated. To do otherwise would have been an insult both to the sick and to those caring for them.
But the time had come. She was going to crack.
Delhi is a city of youth and vivid colours, but Sister Agatha did not look out of place in her light grey habit with her head covered. Lots of older people wore loose robes, and head coverings too, for modesty or against the dust and sun.
She noticed a group of bushy-bearded old men milling around outside the ornate hotel entrance, one of them slowly bending down to scratch a stray dog under its chin. Most of the men wore embroidered skull caps. Pilgrims from Pakistan touring the Islamic shrines in the city, she guessed. They would not welcome her using them as camouflage.
But maybe… She glanced sideways from under her cowl down the alley that led along the side of the hotel. It seemed empty, though you could never be sure where people would be living or sleeping in this vast city.
The front of the hotel looked like it belonged to an ancient monument, all elaborate curves and stone carvings. The arched entrance at the top of broad steps rising from the lane could have graced the Taj Mahal. The decorative tiled walls visible between the large studded wooden doors could have graced a palace.
But Sister Agatha was not interested in what lay within. She swished casually but confidently away from the lane, along the much plainer side of the building, towards where the alley turned behind it, not knowing whether the passage kinked and carried on, or ended round the corner.
It led to a smal l yard. All quiet. Just bins, some discarded bits and pieces, and stacks of flattened cardboard that had once been boxes. A fire escape door. A far cry from the regal front of the hotel. And a risky place for a woman to linger on her own. But she reasoned it was far too early and bright for that sort of threat.
Sister Agatha carried no bag. Her hands were clasped under her scapular, the cloth that hung down in front and behind her habit. Unseen, she delved inside her robe to a discreetly sewn pocket. A woman should always have pockets. A small packet of cigarettes and a lighter emerged in her hand.
She didn’t smoke. Not officially. She’d given up a long time ago. It had been one of the bad habits she had discarded when she had donned the holy habit of the religious life. But she was semi-retired now, and there were some days that just demanded it. And this was one of those days.
She noticed a newspaper folded neatly in half on a plastic tub. The Hindustan Times. Headlines about a terrorist attack somewhere in the east of the country. A college principal cleared of abuse charges. And a panel advertising Ma Veena’s spirituality column inside the paper. Sister Agatha squinted at the newspaper date. It was today’s. Somebody had been out here already, and might return soon. She should hurry.
She tapped out a cigarette. Gold Flake Lights. A terrible brand. Nothing like the Majors of her youth in Ireland. She usually only smoked one and gave the rest away – which was, she knew, no mitigation. She bought lower strength cigarettes for the good of whoever received the packet after her. But it was a filthy, unhealthy habit, and leading other souls into harming themselves did not make it better. It did, however, sometimes help her think. She lit up. And drew in.
What to do with those girls? she thought. Hopefully a solution would present itself by the end of her smoke. It often did. She held in the smoke. And froze. A door banged open behind her. A man’s voice. Surprised. Then challenging.
‘Hello, sir,’ she heard. ‘May I ask your business here?’
She turned, cigarette concealed, still holding in the smoke.
‘Oh, excuse me, madam. My mistake.’ And then, ‘You are rather tall for a lady.’ The man collected himself, fixed his tie which was in no need of adjustment. ‘But the question remains. What are you doing lurking behind my hotel?’
Sister Agatha looked at him, not speaking. It was no good. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. She blew out the smoke in a long stream. And gasped.
‘Ah…’ he said.
‘Ah…’ she agreed.
He held up his own packet.
‘Ah…’ she repeated.
‘But why here, may I ask?’
Sister Agatha indicated her clothing and shrugged. ‘Not a good look for a religious sister. Not setting a good example.’
‘I know,’ he nodded. ‘It’s a weakness. But sometimes…’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sometimes…’
And then, whether out of genuine concern or simple nosiness, or because keeping the conversation going was less awkward than standing together in silence, she asked, ‘What was it this time?’
‘The microwave. They were very unhappy that the microwave in their room was not working.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s unusual. A microwave in each room? Don’t you have a dining room?’
‘We certainly do.’
‘Well, I suppose some people prefer to eat alone. Or to save money,’ said Sister Agatha, not sure why such a commonplace problem had driven him out to the back alley. Part and parcel of hotel life, she’d have thought. Though perhaps it was just the latest in a series of complaints from demanding guests. The proverbial straw that had broken this camel’s back. ‘I’m not sure what happens with microwaves. Were you able to fix it or do you send up a replacement?’
‘Neither,’ he said with some emphasis.
She turned to look at him more closely. Dark blue suit, well groomed – as you’d expect – except for an irrepressible sprig of hair springing up above a high forehead. Handsome maybe, but not Bollywood star looks. Not enough product in his hair for that. And his ears stuck out too much.
‘As a hotel with a fine kitchen, and room service, we do not provide microwaves in our rooms.’ He took another drag. ‘We do, however, provide guests with the courtesy of a strong, metal box with buttons on the door by which they can set a combination lock. Most guests use these to store valuables.’
‘Ah,’ said Sister Agatha.
‘Thankfully very few try to cook food in their hotel room safe.’
‘Not an easy mistake to make,’ said Sister Agatha. ‘Though I’m guessing you politely reassured your guest that the opposite was the case?’
He closed his eyes. ‘We work hard to keep our guests happy.’
‘A difficult job, no doubt,’ said Sister Agatha. ‘But I do have one concern…’
He opened his eyes, questioning her.
‘If your guest tried to heat up their lunch in the safe…’ Sister Agatha paused, giving him time to catch up with her, ‘is there a microwave elsewhere in the hotel with their jewellery stashed inside, just waiting for someone to cook it on full power for three minutes?’
He looked at her in surprise.
‘Now that,’ continued Sister Agatha, ‘would be a microwave even housekeeping would struggle to clean up afterwards.’
For a moment he said nothing. Then he gave a loud bark of a laugh as the tension flew out of him. He smiled and exhaled. Then scrutinised her.
‘You are not Indian. But I think that maybe you are also not English. The English can be very strange,’ he said, almost as an afterthought, ‘but you are surprising in a different way.’
She took another drag. ‘Irish.’ Here I go, she thought, letting down not just myself and the entire Order of the Sisters of the Amazing Grace, but the whole of Ireland too.
‘Oh well, that’s fine.’ He smiled. ‘The Irish are the Punjabis of Europe. You also like to drink and dance and enjoy yourself.’ He paused. ‘Though I do not know if that applies also to nuns?’
‘You know,’ said Sister Agatha, ‘I wasn’t always a nun.’
CHAPTER 2
Avtar drew on his own cigarette and grimaced. I should not have commented on her stature, he thought. That was impolite. Though she is very tall for a woman. For a man even. He stole a quick glance at Sister Agatha. Taller than me.
They stood together, nun and hotelier, enjoying a companionable break from the daily madness of Delhi. But cigarettes never last for long.
He noticed the tall Irish nun wondering what to do with her cigarette butt.
‘Allow me,’ he said, proffering an ashtray he retrieved from behind a bucket. She thanked him.
They now faced a dilemma, he realised. There’s no particular etiquette needed for beginning a chance meeting. It just happens. And it either works or it doesn’t. This one seemed to have worked. But how to part? Just nod and walk away? He suspected she might be a nodder. But that was not the Punjabi way. There are minimum standards of hospitality to be observed.
‘Oh!’ he said, as he realised, aghast, that he had fallen far below those standards. ‘My apologies. I have not introduced myself. My name is Avtar Mehta. Welcome to the Delhi Haveli Hotel.’ And he swept out an arm to take in their surroundings. ‘Inside is nicer,’ he quickly added.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the nun. He saw her pause for thought, but her question was one he’d heard before from foreigners. ‘The hotel name is a little unusual. What was that word in the middle?’
Avtar smiled. ‘Haveli. It sounds like – have jelly. Or, not on your Nelly.’
Now the nun was looking back at him as if he’d gone temporarily mad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he reassured her. ‘I use rhymes to help me remember hotel guests’ names. Usually I do not say them out loud. The word haveli describes the style of the building. It’s one of old Delhi’s historic mansions. Built around enclosed courtyards – very private, very peaceful.’
‘Thank you for explaining so clearly,’ said the nun. ‘If you ever get tired of hotel life, you could have a second career in the classroom.’
Avtar nodded slightly in acknowledgement of the odd compliment.
‘And it embarrasses me to have to admit – given the circumstances – that I am Sister Agatha Murphy from the Convent of the Sisters of the Amazing Grace, and the college next door to it.’
