Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Missing Servant

She said nothing in response. Her expression betrayed both alarm and helplessness.

"It's my guess you've known what he is for many years. Perhaps he confided to you at university. Or you discovered it by chance," prompted Puri.

There was a long silence and then Tisca Kapoor said in a quiet voice, "It was at university. Everyone else teased me about my weight. None of the other boys gave me a second look. But Mahinder was always kind to me. We used to talk for hours and hours. About everything under the sun. I suppose I fell in love with him. One day I told him how I felt, but he ran from my room and after that he didn't talk to me for two weeks. Then, one day, he came to see me and told me that we could never be together. That was when he revealed his secret." She lowered her voice. "That was when he told me he was born a eunuch."

Tisca Kapoor's throat had gone dry and so Puri poured her a glass of water.

"You mustn't be embarrassed, my dear," he said. "In my profession I'm often called upon to put aside the detective and become the psychologist. There is little I have not heard."

Tisca Kapoor sipped the water gratefully and nodded.

"Understand, Uncle, this is something I've never told another living soul. Mahinder made me promise. He said his parents had hidden the truth from the world at his birth. Otherwise the hijras would have come and claimed him."

"They were right to do so," interjected Puri. "They would most certainly have taken him."

"That is why all through his childhood they kept it a secret. But also, had anyone at school ever found out, he would have been the laughingstock. That is why Mahinder has always been an extremely private person. He's kept himself to himself. But he's very sweet, I can assure you."

"So now all these years later you're getting married. Is it only for convenience sake?" asked Puri.

"I've always loved Mahinder," she said. "But, yes, partly it is for convenience. There's so much pressure to marry, Uncle. My mother has been after me for so long! Now at least she'll be off my back!"

"She'll be after you for grandchildren next," said Puri. "What will you do?"

"We'll adopt," she answered. "One girl and one boy."

"It's all decided, is it?" asked Puri

"We have it all planned out."

The detective nodded knowingly. "Well, it's as I suspected. Just I wanted to check you weren't being taken advantage of."

"So you won't tell anyone?"

"My dear, you can trust me on that score. Confidentiality is my watchword, actually," said Puri with not a little bravado.

Tisca Kapoor, soon to be Gupta, sighed with relief. "You're too kind, Uncle. I can't thank you enough."

The detective beamed with pride. "No need for thank you, my dear. I'm only doing my duty."

They walked back through reception and Puri saw her to her car. "What will you tell my grandfather?" Tisca Kapoor asked before driving away.

"I'll tell him you're betrothed to a good man," answered Puri, but it was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

Puri's Hindustan Ambassador reached the Jaipur courthouse at a quarter to five the following afternoon.

It was the first day of the Ajay Kasliwal "Maidservant Murder" trial and the proceedings had been under way for a couple of hours.

Outside the main entrance, the media had gathered in full force. Six uplink trucks were parked on the pavement, their satellite dishes emblazoned with the logos of the nation's English and Hindi 24-hour news channels. Eager, earnest reporters posed in front of cameras mounted on tripods, relaying live developments to tens of millions of potential viewers spread across the three million square kilometers that separated Kashmir from Kanyakumari. Photographers in sleeveless khaki jackets sat bent over their WiFi-enabled laptops transmitting the images they had captured an hour earlier of Kasliwal being led into court. Meanwhile a clutch of grizzled hacks milled around the chai stand, smoking laboriously, swapping disinformation and falling prey to their own self-deluding rumors.

Had any of them but known the identity of the shy, frightened young Jharkhandi woman who passed within a few feet of them, they would have surrounded her in much the same way Indian crows will ring and taunt a street cat if they spot it out in the open.

But the press-wallahs' scoop passed up the steps of the courthouse undetected.

Once inside, Puri led Mummy, who in turn was holding Mary by the hand, down the busy corridors until they reached the door of Court 6.

Already a crowd was waiting outside, all of them jostling for position and trying to cajole the peon on the door to let them in despite the sign that stated boldly, HOUSE FULL.

For once, Puri's powers of persuasion failed. The peon would not budge. "Naat possi-bal," he kept saying.

Mummy scolded her son for his failure.

"That's no way to go about things, Chubby," she said after he had been rebuffed for the third time. "How a son of mine ended up with cotton wool in his brain, I ask you? Evidently, a woman's touch is required, na. I will take care of it."

Puri bristled. He had had grave misgivings about bringing along Mummy. But he had been left with no choice. Mary needed a chaperon and Rumpi needed to be at home to oversee the preparations for Diwali.

"Mummy-ji, please. I told you, don't do interference. I will sort it out," Puri insisted.

"Chubby, when you'll accept you don't have power over everything, na? A helping hand is required from time to time."

Mummy's words echoed those spoken to Puri by Chanakya in the dream he'd had in his office; for once, he was dumbfounded.

"What did you say, Mummy-ji?" he asked her.

She tutted impatiently. "It's time to put away your pride, Chubby. I'm your mummy, after all. I've your best intentions at heart. Right now, a woman's touch is required. Now, you two go and sit. Jao!"

For once, Puri did as he was told and took a seat with Mary on a bench a few feet down the corridor.

With all the noise created by so many people coming and going from the various courtrooms, Puri was unable to make out what Mummy said to the peon on the door. But gradually the man's demeanor softened and then tears welled up in his eyes.

Finally he signaled to the detective that he could enter the court after all.

"What all you said to him?" asked Puri.

"No time for explanations, na," she answered. "Let us say mummies have their uses after all. Now go quickly. Might be he's changing his mind. So corrupt these people are. We'll wait right here."

Inside the courtroom, the gallery was packed with spectators, all of them sitting in silent, rapt attention to the cross-examination of Inspector Shekhawat by the defense counsel, Mr. K. P. Malhotra, who was living up to his reputation as a fearsome advocate.

"Inspector, you say you found bloodstains in the accused's Tata Sumo," he was saying. "But I put it to you that this blood could have come from anyone. Another passenger with a bleeding nose, perhaps."

"There is no doubt in my mind that the blood is the victim's," answered Shekhawat.

"Surely it is the responsibility of the police to offer proofs, is it not? Two and two should always equal four. Is that not correct, Inspector Shekhawat?"

"I can provide three witnesses who saw Ajay Kasliwal pull up in his Sumo and dump the servant girl's body on the Ajmer Road," he answered.

"We will come to that in a moment," said Malhotra. "But let us first consider these bloodstains. I put it to you…"

Malhotra lost his train of thought as he read the note Puri had managed to pass to him.

"Mr. Malhotra?" prompted the judge. "Are you with us?"

"My apologies, Your Honor," answered the lawyer, looking up from the note with a bewildered expression. "I have just been informed of what could well be an extremely dramatic breakthrough in my client's defense. Might I take a moment of the court's time to confer with one of my associates?"