Free The Case of the Love Commandos by Tarquin Hall Page B

he’d once written, “there can be no question of blind revolution.” By far preferable was a “steady and purposeful education.”
    The thought reassured her, and she walked over to the banyan tree to address the children. Class would begin tomorrow, she announced, and asked that they spread the word through the village.
    Between then and now, she would stock up on chalk and slate tablets. That was all that was needed in terms of equipment, Facecream reflected, remembering the example of biochemist Hargobind Khorana, who had received his early schooling from village teachers under a tree and went on to win a Nobel Prize.
    She also resolved to do something about the food situation. A visit to the pradhan was on the cards.
    But there was no forgetting why she had come to Govind in the first place, of course.
    Ram’s mother had been found dead in a canal a mile from Vishnu Mishra’s ancestral home, Puri had informed her. Facecream’s priority was to find out what had possessed Mrs. Sunder to leave the village on foot last night and to retrace the unfortunate woman’s final earthly steps.

Six
    The body lay on a table in a crude surgical theater that doubled as an autopsy examination room. A Lucknow Government Hospital bedsheet was draped over it. Where the crisp cotton had come into contact with the skin, damp stains had formed.
    That the deceased was a woman was immediately obvious to Puri. A shock of long hair, leaves and bits of twig caught in its gray tresses, hung over one end of the table. A petite hand, wan after hours lying in muddy canal water, and a set of pigeon toes, deformed by a lifetime of walking barefoot, also protruded from beneath the sheet.
    “To be honest, I’m not a forensics man,” said Dr. Naqvi, who had a big booming voice and was strangely jovial given the morbid surroundings. “Whenever a body turns up and they suspect foul play, a Jallad first cuts open the body and removes the organs and then the cops ask me to take a look. Lucknow doesn’t have a coroner. In fact I don’t believe there’s one in the whole of Uttar Pradesh. No one would want the job. Imagine training for all those years to be a doctor just to spend your time in some stinking place like this.”
    He went on: “I’ve done quite a bit of reading, of course—Dr.Ludwig’s handbook has come in very handy. And I’ve learned a lot from watching American crime shows as well.
House
is wonderful, but I think
Quincy
remains my firm favorite. Sometimes I feel a bit like him—Quincy that is. You know—trying to figure out how someone like this poor lady ended up in such terrible circumstances.”
    Puri, who’d persuaded Dr. Naqvi to allow him to take a look at the body, dearly wished he would shut up. His conversation would have been tedious at the best of times and Puri didn’t have much time. He’d passed Inspector Gujar in the corridor outside the “morgue,” and if he was discovered illegally examining the body, the police wallah could make his life difficult. Besides, if there was one thing the detective was averse to (apart from flying, working with Mummy and having to deal with Mrs. Col. P. V. S. Gill, Retd., at the Gymkhana Club), it was spending time around dead bodies. There were four more lying uncovered on the floor, and the stink of formaldehyde and the sight of all the surgical instruments, which looked like they belonged in a Spanish inquisitor’s torture kit, was making him light-headed.
    Puri remained scrupulously punctilious in his manner, however. Naqvi was under no obligation to help him. And as a doctor he commanded respect.
    “You’re certain it was foul play, sir?” asked the detective, who was holding his handkerchief over his mouth.
    “I didn’t get you,” said Dr. Naqvi.
    Puri lowered the handkerchief slightly and repeated the question.
    “Oh, without doubt,” came the reply. “Any first-year medical student could tell you that. This unfortunate lady met with a frightful end. She was