Sister Agatha liked dogs. She’d never met a bad one. A few fierce ones as a girl, but she blamed their owners for that. And packs of strays could be threatening to lone walkers on Delhi’s streets at night, but poverty and hunger was at the root of so much that was wrong in the world. She liked this dog. Small. White coat. Indeterminate breed.
He appeared to be investigating an elderly lady in a baggy brown salwar kameez, head wrapped in a plain dupatta. The woman jerked her toes away from the dog’s tongue and gave Sister Agatha a flash of heels a lot higher than she would have expected for a woman of that age. A lot flashier than the rest of her outfit, thought Sister Agatha, not that I’m any fashion template myself. She made a quiet kissing sound to lure the dog away from the woman. Some people were uncomfortable around dogs, even when they were small and well-behaved like this one.
The woman glanced from underneath her veil. Sister Agatha caught a glimpse of green eyes, and smiled back. Green eyes always reminded her of Ireland. The woman looked away, and the dog graciously permitted Sister Agatha to rub his head, between his ears. Unusually calm for a stray, she thought. Perhaps he isn’t one. He seemed connected to an elderly pilgrim sitting in the courtyard, to whom he kept returning.
The old man scratched the dog’s neck. Then he revealed a piece of biscuit in one hand, and held out his other hand flat, staring the dog in the eyes. Waiting. Until the dog sat and put a paw on the open hand, and then, etiquette properly observed, the man let the dog politely take the biscuit.
Sister Agatha smiled at the dog, and then at his benefactor. “Yours?” she asked.
“Too soon to say,” the man replied. “We are only getting to know each other.”
She had been aware of a member of staff demanding Mr Mehta’s attention. A person in his position must be constantly on call. She was only half listening, until she caught the whispered mention of a body.
She turned to Avtar. “Please excuse me, Mehta-ji, but I have some experience in that area.”
Avtar turned back to her, not understanding. “Pardon me, Sister, duty calls.”
“I can help, Mehta-ji,” she persisted, speaking quietly. “I imagine that” – and she made a gesture like a cricket umpire slowly indicating a four, or an undertaker unveiling a corpse freshly beautified for family viewing – “is an occasional part of hotel life everywhere. I spend much of my time visiting the hospital.”
She could see the hotel manager gradually realise what she was talking about. “Sometimes my presence can be a comfort for family.” Enough, she thought. Do not push any harder.
The hotel owner looked her in the eye for what felt like a very long second. Then he nodded. “Thank you, Sister. Please come. But we will not rush.”
They rose. Mr Mehta smiled a little and indicated to the hotel housekeeper to lead the way as if they were merely off to investigate a troubling spillage. An impressive man, thought Sister Agatha. No sign of panic.
Mr Mehta pointed to the stairs rather than the lift. “Something I learned from a New York firefighter who stayed here,” he explained, making conversation as they climbed. “Never run into the fire. Walk briskly to give yourself time to properly assess the scene, and do what is needed.”
Manto’s cleaning trolley was parked outside the bedroom. Mr Mehta pushed open the door. Over his shoulder Sister Agatha saw a man lying under a sheet up to his neck, eyes closed, mouth open, jaw slack. He could be just napping, but the pallor of his skin suggested that he had embarked on his final sleep.
She immediately closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer: Eternal rest grant unto him, oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen. She could not tell what the man’s faith had been, if he’d had any at all, but she felt that prayer would only comfort, not offend, whoever he was.
When Sister Agatha opened her eyes again, she noticed the housekeeper, Manto, tugging at his employer’s sleeve, whispering. It was almost as if he was embarrassed, which struck her as a strange reaction to death. Fear, sadness, denial and sometimes relief – those she had encountered. Embarrassment was a first. “It is okay. The Sister may be able to help. Is there any family present?”
“Nahi, ji. He is a pilgrim. But look…”
Sister Agatha tore her eyes from the dead man’s face and let them travel down the shape of his torso until she spotted…
“Oh!” She hadn’t meant to react aloud. Agatha, she reprimanded herself, don’t let yourself down in front of these people. You should not let a little thing like that surprise you at your age.
But it was not little at all. The sheet was tented over a particular area of the dead man. Just below the waist. She could not help blinking. She was no stranger to the reality of the human body after life had departed, but this was something very unusual.
There was a collective intake of breath and they all stepped back.
Mr Mehta was the first to collect himself. “My apologies, Sister. I was not aware…”
“Please think nothing of it. Do what you need to do. I imagine you have a doctor you contact on these occasions. Perhaps I can help whoever was with the gentleman?”
“Thank you, Sister, but the pilgrims were all single guests. And this man should not even be here.”
“It can seem that way, Mr Mehta, but this is an inevitable part of life.”
“No, Sister. The room should be empty. The pilgrims all left this morning to return to Pakistan.”
“It looks like he missed the bus. At least he died doing something fulfilling.” Mr Mehta looked at her in shock and then back to the protuberance under the sheet. Sister Agatha’s expression remained impassively vague.
“I meant of course being on holy pilgrimage.”
“Of course,” agreed Mr Mehta, reddening. “And I know it is wrong of me, but I cannot help imagining the newspaper headline: ‘Pilgrim Dies in Delhi Hotel’. It will not help business.”
“Please don’t worry. Elderly people must pass on in hotel rooms with some regularity. I do not think you will make the front pages in a busy city like Delhi. It’s not as if it’s murder.”
Excerpted with permission from Murder in Moonlit Square, Paul Waters, Bedford Square Publishers.
