Free The Cambridge Curry Club by Saumya Balsari Page B

lists to her own. Soon David no longer left the house, and the sons no longer visited.
    Returning from an afternoon in the Central Library, Mr Chatterjee was met by an excited Banerjee outside the lane. The neighbour, David, was dead. That was not all, said Banerjee, falling into step with Mr Chatterjee as he began to walk towards his home; it was murder.
    Mr Chatterjee paused.
Murder
. The word reverberated in his head, growing louder until it was a horn blasting over the treetops and chimneys in the quiet square, flew over the Cherry Hinton Park, past the swans and over the railway and onto the speeding track, returning over the fields of Grantchester and along the ripples of the River Cam to the police car parked outside the house on Newton Square.
    Arriving at his home, he noticed that an over-zealous police officer had extended the cordon to include the Chatterjee entrance, erroneously giving the impression of multiple crimes. Mr Chatterjee stared up at the house next door in disbelief as Banerjee narrated the succession of events. He felt betrayed. Had he not been reading the pages of the
Telegraph
at the library, he would have been at home;
he
, as Neighbourhood Watch Co-ordinator, would have been the one the police would have approached for assistance.
    Perhaps it was still not too late. Striding up to the officer in the police car, he introduced himself, declaring himself ready for a lengthy interview on the neighbourhood and its inhabitants, but the officer merely had instructions to stay outside the house for a further hour. He knew nothing other than that there had been a murder, that the elderly lady had been taken away and that she was unharmed.
    Mr Chatterjee walked up past the front lawn to his home along with Banerjee. Swarnakumari had little to add; she had been praying in her room, unaware of the commotion outside, and Mallika was away in London for the day. Mr Chatterjee sat still and small on his favourite leather armchair. He was afraid, and wondered whether he should write a note to the neighbours , but lacked the words. The motive for murder had to be burglary; the cold-blooded assassin had evidently noticed a helpless invalid and an elderly lady who stayed indoors and rarely received visitors. The man would have stood behind the privet hedge to observe the house at close quarters; indeed, he was lurking in the neighbourhood, waiting to strike again, and this time the target could be the Chatterjee household.
    The presence of the police car was initially reassuring , but the officer drove off an hour later. Mr Chatterjee bolted every door and window in his house, placing chairs and tables and heavy objects against every exit. He wondered whether he should leave the lights on, but the electricity bill during Durga Puja and Diwali had been high, and prudence prevailed.
    Long after Swarnakumari was asleep, Mr Chatterjee continued to sit upright in his bed, a torch and the cordless phone at his side, the cord from his pyjamasdangling nervously as he trembled. He felt the warmth from Swarnakumari’s soft folds touching his thigh. How peacefully she slept! The last words she uttered before she closed her eyes were that God and Guru Ma had taught her to fear nothing. He marvelled at his wife’s composure; she squealed at the sight of a cockroach , but could be as steady as a lighthouse in a storm. Her faith in her mentor had been an irritant until this moment; perhaps it was time to test her Guru Ma’s wisdom.
    He leaned over and felt his way to the prayer book that he knew lay on her bedside table. Shining his torch low, he stared at the first page. Under the picture of a woman with streaming black hair was the blueprint for a spiritual life. He read Tagore’s words from
Gitanjali
, and, inspired, decided he, too, would make his life simple and straight like a flute made of reed for the Divine One to fill with music.
    Mr Chatterjee continued to read with increasing respect, discovering the philosophy of