MURDER MYSRERY

                             "SHERLOCK MURDERS -PART ONE"

The bus creaked its way up the mountain, and each time it made a sharp turn, Abhay Adani’s heart settled in his throat. Heights were never his forte, and he’d sooner have stayed in the comfort of his home had it not been the prospect of a legendary prize that awaited him on the mansion which loomed ahead – a 42 page booklet which supposedly contained an unpublished Sherlock Holmes story that was written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

It had started almost two weeks ago, when an anonymous ‘Sherlockian’ had announced a Sherlock Holmes quiz for all fans of the hat detective. Ten lucky winners would get an all-expense paid trip to Ooty for three days, where they would have to tackle another quiz which was promised to be much harder, and the winner of that would receive the fabled prize, along with a cool cash reward for fifty-thousand rupees. The preliminary quiz had gone wild on the Internet and Holmes fans from all over the country had flocked to Mumbai where the quiz had been held. Nearly seventeen thousand people had participated, and the winners had been announced a couple of days ago. Abhay was one of them.

The bus swayed as it traversed the winding turns of the Ooty roads and Abhay willed himself not to look out of the window and see the expanse beneath. He looked at his co-passengers and found that they didn’t look very pleased either. At the front, just behind the driver was an old man – sitting alone. He gripped the armrest of the seat so tight that Abhay thought he’d wrench it off. Behind him sat two teenage girls who were looking intently at their phones. They tried hard not to look afraid, but Abhay saw that the girl on the left was trembling. On his right were two men who looked a lot like Laurel and Hardy. The fat man was chewing on his lip and glancing furtively at the window and the thin man was reading a copy of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, probably brushing up for the quiz later that day.

Abhay glanced back to the couple directly behind him. They were young and wore matching rings on their fingers, which said that they were recently married. The woman was holding the man’s hands very tight and he seemed to be whispering words of comfort into her ear. The two men seated at the very end were the only ones who looked at ease. The fair one with the brown hair was looking intently at the mountains outside with a small smile on his face and the big man on the right was fast asleep, his chin resting on his barrel chest. He sighed and went back to wishing that he could crawl into a hole and die. The bus gave another shudder and the woman behind him gave a tiny squeak.

“How much longer do we have to sit in this contraption, man?” said the husband behind him.

The driver glanced at the rear-view mirror. “Only fifteen minutes more, sir!” he said and resumed driving the vehicle of doom. To take his mind off things, he kept his eyes level on the huge mansion that was nestled in the mountain. It was a big, sprawling thing with more windows than he could count. It was painted white and blue and a balcony jutted out from the west end, from where you could probably see the whole of Ooty. Abhay decided that he would never step foot in it. The mansion itself looked like someone had started out to build a castle and then decided that it wasn’t worth his while.

The bus finally took one last turn and rolled to a stop in front of the mansion. The door opened and there was almost a mini-stampede to get out. Abhay stepped out gingerly and stretched his aching limbs. He slung his bag over his shoulder and waited for the others to dismount. A simple white slab had been erected outside the front door which bore the legend – 221B. Abhay smiled and looked expectantly at the front door, hoping to see this mysterious Sherlock Holmes fan who had spent so much money and was willing to part with such an important document. The others probably had the same idea as they put their various suitcases and travel-bags down on the ground and waited for the doors to open.

Finally, with a huge creak, the doors swung open and a man emerged out of it. He was slim and dark haired who wore a red sweater pulled over a black shirt. He rushed out into the grounds and started to carry the bags inside. Abhay and the others looked at each other and followed him. Abhay preferred to carry his bag himself, and so did a couple of others. They made their way into the house and Abhay had a good look around. It had been recently furnished, he noted, and the chairs and tables were scrubbed clean. The floor was tiled and it squeaked when the couple on the bus walked on it with fluffy slippers. The man from the house turned and spoke in a halting voice.

“Welcome to 221B. My name is Shrenik.” Abhay had half hoped it would be Watson.

“Please remain in the hall for a moment. I shall be back with the name register and your keys.” He slipped into a room on the side and the ice broke.

“First time I’ve come to Ooty actually,” said the man beside Abhay. He was the man who had been sitting on the last seat, looking outside the window. Abhay noted that he had a small goatee which he kept stroking and his eyes were clear and focused.

“Peter Roy,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Abhay Adani.” They shook hands.

“Don’t go making friends now,” said the fat man who had been sitting to Abhay’s right – the Hardy doppelganger. “We’ll be against each other when the quiz starts, anyway. Don’t think I’ll go easy on you kids.”

“Alok Bumra, right?” said the thin man who had been sitting next to him. “I heard you paid your way into the finals,” he said, smiling viciously.

Hardy – Alok Bumra – turned a dark shade of red and turned away in a huff. Abhay raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Shrenik was back. He was holding a piece of paper and a bunch of keys on a key holder.

“I will read out the names of the winners now, and you must show me your IDs. If I find them to be in order, you will be given your room key. You may go up to your room and freshen up. The master will meet you at 8 pm. Now…” he said and looked at the paper in front of him.

“Mr. Alok Bumra,” he called out. The fat man walked towards him and produced what looked like a driving license. Shrenik nodded and gave him a key. He directed him to a set of stairs that Abhay had surprisingly not noticed till then.

“Your rooms are numbered. Please note that the rrooms have automatic locks. The room locks when you shut the door, but you need the key to open it. Please hang on to your key, there are no duplicates.” Said Shrenik and resumed calling out names. The thin man turned out to be Vishwa Patel, the couple were Mr & Mrs. Sinha, the old man who had been sitting at the front was Ashik Saha, the two teenage girls were Neha and Joy and the man who had been asleep was Guru.

When Peter Roy’s name was called, he swaggered forward and took it. Abhay’s name was called last, and Shrenik pored over his Voter’s ID for a good five seconds before handing him the key. It was numbered 5. Abhay trudged along and walked up the stairs. For an instant, a sweet smell wafted over him. He inhaled deeply. It was the smell of strawberries. He stood a moment on the stairs, taking in the wonderful fragrance, and just like that – it was gone.

He raised an eyebrow and turned to see where it had come from, and he spotted the picture which was framed over the door. It was a stunning portrait of a beautiful woman in a lush green garden. The woman posed classically, one hand on the sun-hat on her head and the other on her hip. Her mouth was slightly parted in a smile, and her hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders. The portrait itself was about six feet by eight. Its frame was solid iron, Abhay noted.

It must weight a ton, he thought.

“Rhea Arora,” said a voice behind him. Abhay turned. It was Vishwa Patel – the thin man. He was looking at the portrait with shrewd eyes. His face was frozen in a scowl.

“The singer?” asked Abhay. The tragic news had been all over the papers a month ago.

The man nodded. “This house used to be hers,” he said, turning away from him. “Then some anonymous buyer wrapped it up in an auction after she died.” Vishwa Patel walked up to his room and strode inside, shutting it behind him.

Abhay looked at the portrait again, and made his way to his room. It was the last room on his left. He slipped the key inside and stepped into the room. It was decent enough, with a bed, a table and a cupboard. He smiled when he saw the Sherlock Holmes books stacked on a shelf by the bed. He settled in and began to unpack. Once the cupboard was full with clothes, he lay back on the bed and wondered. He’d caught one of the teenage girls – Joy – staring sullenly at the walls of the mansion. He’d also noticed that the wife – Mrs. Sinha kept glancing furtively, as if she expected someone to leap out from the shadows and attack.

It was also mysterious that their host had been into welcome them. Nobody even knew who he was. The announcement of the quiz had been random, and the people had been too caught up in the reward to properly learn who was in charge of it. It was only after a haze of interviews and talk shows when people started to question who was behind all this. But the winners had been announced and they had been flown to Chennai from where they had been picked up by the waiting bus and deposited in Ooty. As the hours ticked by, Abhay wondered if there was more to just a simple quiz waiting for them.

At 8pm, everybody had gathered in the dining room. They had been requested by Shrenik to take a seat around the huge round table. Abhay immediately noticed that Mrs. Sinha had not joined her husband, a fact that was spotted by Shrenik as well. Mr. Sinha explained that his wife had severe vertigo and that she was resting. It was met by much grumbling by Shrenik, but he decided not to press the matter. Abhay glanced around the table and saw that everybody looked edgy. They kept glancing at the front door, expecting to see the owner stride in, but they had been unsuccessful so far.

“Say, when is your master going to make an appearance anyway?” asked Peter Roy. Abhay privately thought he was more interested in the dinner making an appearance first. It had started to rain outside, and thick, heavy drops were beating against the window panes.

“I believe he will be here soon, sir. The rain has hampered him, I’m sure.” Said Shrenik, looking a little condescending.

“Have you ever seen him in person?” asked Vishwa Patel, who had his fingers steepled together. The others looked up at this question, evidently curious to know who this mysterious master looked like. Shrenik cleared his throat.

“Ah, no sir. I was asked by my agency to begin work here a week ago. I have only received phone calls from the master. I have never seen him, no.” He said.

There were renewed whispers at this point. At the other side of the table, Ashik Saha was talking animatedly to Guru, who looked the least interested, and the two girls were huddled together, whispering ferociously. Joy kept shaking her head harder and harder. The arrival of food proved to be a welcome distraction, as the whispers quietened down.

Dinner dragged on till 10 pm. There were fervent discussions of Sherlock Holmes theories, the possibility of flaws in several stories and much speculation as to what the unpublished story may contain. Vishwa Patel told everyone who listened that it contained hard evidence that Irene Adler would marry Sherlock Holmes. Abhay gave him a wide berth.

All the dishes were finally cleared out, and the master didn’t look as if he was arriving any time soon. The rain had worsened and was absolutely beating down on the house. Flashes of lightning and thunderclaps had evoked gasps more than once, and it didn’t look as if the rain would relent any time soon. Abhay and the others made their way up the stairs slowly, and he noticed that they had all seen the portrait of Rhea Arora over the front door.

He saw Joy look at it darkly, arms crossed in front of her. Ashik Saha gave it a once-over and turned back, apparently unimpressed. Guru started at it for a long time, his hungry eyes seemed to bore into it. There’s something about that guy, thought Abhay. He shrugged off the feeling and resumed walking to his room. He looked forward to a nice long sleep.

But there was a bit of a commotion around the door to his room. Mr. Sinha was standing in front of Room 6, the one opposite to Abhay’s. He seemed to be shouting for his wife who was inside and getting no reply. Joy’s friend Neha was trying to help him by shouting his wife’s name, but she wasn’t getting any response either. Abhay felt a strange sense of foreboding and walked up to him.

“Why don’t you try calling her?” he suggested.

“I’m not getting a signal in these wretched mountains!” said Mr. Sinha, looking agitated. That was true. Abhay hadn’t been able to get a signal all afternoon.

“Is the door locked?” asked Vishwa Patel.

“What’s going on?” asked Joy.

Mr. Sinha was sweating now. He wiped his brow with his sleeve and resumed knocking. There was still no answer.

“Yes, it is locked,” he said, now sounding positively afraid. “The key is inside.”

“Break it down,” said a low voice from behind them. They all turned to look. It was Guru. He was staring at the door intently. The tube light cast a shadow on the side of his face, which made him look like a feral being. Abhay felt a chill down his spine.

Guru, Mr. Sinha and Peter Roy prepared to ram the door down. Abhay predicted it would break in two tries. It took four. The door splintered and the men crashed into the floor. Abhay got a quick glimpse of a violet nightdress, and something else…something red and orange. Then, the screaming started.

It was the girls, Neha and Joy. They screamed and screamed till Abhay thought his ear drums would shatter. Mr. Sinha uttered a guttural roar and tried to fling himself at the bed, but he was caught by Guru. Abhay stepped into the room and he knew that he would never forget what he saw.

Mrs. Sinha lay on the bed, her head resting on the headboard. Her throat was covered by what looked like a shiny rope, which caught the light and shimmered brightly. Her face had turned a deep shade of blue, and her tongue was sticking out. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, and only the whites showed. She had been strangled to death.

“No!” cried Mr. Sinha, clawing at his face. He beat the floor with his hands and cried like a baby in Guru’s arms. The girls behind him were still screaming when Shrenik came into the room. When he saw the body, all the colour went out of his face.

It’s not possible, thought Abhay. It’s not possible because…

“The room was locked,” said Joy in a terrified whisper, voicing what he was thinking. “Locked from the inside.” She squeaked. “How did the killer get out?” she said.

This was met by another roar by Mr. Sinha as he leapt out of Guru’s arms and began to search under the bed and inside the cupboard. Abhay half-expected a murderous axe-man to leap out. But there was no one.

A locked room mystery, thought Abhay, feeling a little sick. His eyes went to the rope coiled around her neck. It was thick and strong. The pale light made it glitter so much that it hurt his eyes to look at it. He couldn’t bear to look at her face again, grotesque in death.

“There’s something written there,” said Guru, pointing. Above Mrs. Sinha’s head, there were words visible, written on the wall. It was partially obscured by the curtains on the window. Guru walked up to it and pulled the curtains aside.

Everybody gasped.

Abhay looked at the message and felt the air go out from his lungs. He looked at it and his gaze fell towards the victim’s neck. Nine other pair of eyes followed him. They looked at the message, and then at the shiny, glittering rope that had caused the victim’s death. Then they looked at the message again.

On the wall, over the victim’s head, in shiny red ink were three words.

THE SPECKLED BAND

To be continued…

                                                                                                                    SOURCE BY-YEDU17

PUBLISHED BY-OURHELLO.COM