Free The Case of the Deadly Butter Chicken by Tarquin Hall Page B

Lovingly tended flower beds ran along the outside wall, and the old peelu tree that burst out of the pavement shrouded half the facade with its umbrella canopy. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, marigolds and snapdragons in little terracotta pots lined the marble forecourt; and rosewood planter's chairs graced the edge of a small lawn.
    The bell summoned the Christian maidservant, Alice, to the front door, and Puri greeted her, as he always did, with the words, 'Namaste! How is Wonderland?' This elicited a shy giggle (as it always did) and Puri stepped inside.
    The living room had changed little from the first time he had visited the house in 1981. The rattan couch and armchairs remained in the same position around the Rajasthani cart-style coffee table. The British railway station clock up on the wall was still keeping good time, despite being a replica. The collection of curios the Mattus had picked up on their travels in various parts of India (an Assamese Japi hat; a pair of clay ornamental horses from Gorakhpur) and the two holidays they had taken to Europe (Eiffel Tower and Swiss cowbell) remained on the sideboard along with the family photos. Everything wore a faded look, like an old sepia print. But then - by God! - it had been some twenty-five years or more.
    Puri had been in his mid-twenties at the time - pencil thin and somewhat nervous. He and his parents had sat in a row on the couch, and Brigadier - then Captain - Mattu and his wife had sat directly opposite them. Although the two mothers had met on three occasions in the weeks preceding the meeting and laid their plans, they were careful to let their husbands take the lead.
    Formal introductions were made, tea and savoury biscuits were served, and the prospective groom's credentials and prospects were discussed. Mattu addressed him as 'young man', wanting to know details about his army career and where he saw himself in ten years. Puri answered confidently, explaining that he had recently been recruited into army intelligence and saw it as a lifetime career.
    This was a truthful answer. It had never been Puri's ambition to become a jasoos, private detectives being little thought of in Indian society (down there with midwives). It was the Shimla Affair that changed all that, forcing him to resign in the early 1980s.
    However, Puri did tell a lie that day - 'Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. No doubt about it at all, sir,' he'd stated when asked whether he was ready to marry.
    And then Meena walked into the room.
    She was wearing a simple cotton sari and a string of fragrant jasmine in her hair.
    Puri was rendered completely inarticulate.
    Two months later, they were married.
    The detective returned to the present, pausing by the sideboard to pick up the framed, black and white photograph taken of him and Rumpi on their wedding day. They were seated in front of the holy fire - he in a three-piece suit and a sehra. Through the curtain of flowers that hung in front of his face, you could make out his young moustache and thin features. Rumpi's eyes were cast down, a silk chunni draped over her head and a large nose ring chain encircling her right cheek. They both looked apprehensive; quite miserable, in fact.
    Funny. That had been one of the happiest days of his life. He'd loved Rumpi from the first. Proof that arranged marriages made for the strongest unions - for individuals and their extended families.
    He put the frame back and knocked on Brigadier Mattu's study door.
    'Enter!'
    Being a creature of habit and given that it was now exactly six o'clock, the Brigadier sat behind his desk sipping a cup of packaged tomato soup and listening to the news headlines in English on All India Radio.
    'Come, young man,' he said with a welcoming smile, motioning Puri into a cane armchair.
    The lady announcer, her dulcet voice a reminder of the more civilised days before the advent of hysterical 24-hour TV news presentation, spoke calmly about a massacre of police recruits by Maoist