Book Excerpts

Can Colonel Acharya Solve His Most Challenging Case Yet? | EXCERPT

It begins with a simple mystery – elderly widow Violet William’s van goes missing after her granddaughter Pia forgets to lock the door when using it to cater for a wedding reception. But this is Ramsar, and soon, a simple case turns sinister when ASP Timothy Thapa finally finds the missing van, and promptly discovers a dead body inside it. Enter Colonel Acharya, Ramsar’s resident amateur sleuth, with his merry band of bridge-playing Watsons. Can he solve his most challenging case yet? Read an excerpt:

On Pinewood Street, a myopic woman parted her window curtains and peeped at the two arguing men who stood at the gate of Negi Mansion, the imposing building across the street. Her house was the last one on the eastern side of the street that veered to the left to join the wider Laburnum Street. From the distance, the arguing men appeared unrecognizable to the woman.

It was 2 in the afternoon and, having finished her lunch, she was lolling on the chair near the window of her bedroom when she heard the men quarrelling.

Well known as the nosiest woman in town, Laxmi Badola liked to be on top of things, pleasant as well as unpleasant. Arguments, estrangements, brawls were of special interest to her and, in the past forty-five years, she had made it her business to dig into the private lives of the locals. A widow and a busybody, she was the originator of gossip in Ramsar and nothing escaped her keen ears and watchful eyes.

Laxmi, who had come to Ramsar after marriage, knew everyone in town. Negi Mansion held an added attraction for her. At one time, she had nursed a soft corner for Major Ratan Negi, the suave and dashing officer who inherited the house from his father. The rambling house lay gathering cobwebs and dust as long as the man served in the army. The officer found the mansion a burden to maintain.

A confirmed bachelor with no hobbies, Negi found time hanging heavily on his hands after retiring from the army. He had no inclination to spend his life in the huge house, so he booked a modest apartment in Kathgodam, which was a four hour drive from Ramsar.  The apartment was close enough to spend a few days at Negi Mansion whenever the mood struck him. At the same time, Kathgodam was the railhead that offered a convenient connection to New Delhi.

His visits that used to take place once a month soon petered out to once in six months and then once every eight or nine months till the medical problems took over. The mansion, which was already in a state of disrepair, now wore a desolate air. Unfortunately, the man was too fond of drink. Ratan Negi died of excessive drinking, his liver giving up on him. He died at the military hospital, unloved and alone.

With him dead, the sprawling mansion began crumbling like old bread. Like a doddering old man, it shivered through the frosty nights, waiting for a bright sun to arrive so the rays could warm its worn-out walls. With its bricks beginning to show under the peeling plaster, the garden overgrown with weeds, the gate creaking on rusted hinges, it was a creepy place. And one fine day, ten months after Ratan Negi’s death, his widowed sister, Sita Gudyal, and her son, Umesh, came to live in the mansion.

Either they lacked the money to renovate the house, or they had no wish to spend any on repairs. The duo did up a few rooms for comfortable living and locked up the rest of the house. Curiosity got the better of Laxmi. Carrying a bowl of thechwani, the woman had called upon the newcomers at the mansion. A strong smell of cigarettes hung inside the house. It permeated the worn curtains and upholstery, making her feel nauseous.  The son was a chain-smoker, she learnt within the first five minutes of her visit.

Laxmi’s overture was firmly rejected by the surly sister, who made it clear that she was not looking for company. The son, a shifty-eyed fellow, turned out to be equally rude. ‘Thank you for bringing food, but my son doesn’t enjoy Kumaoni cuisine,’ said Sita, nevertheless accepting the bowls offered by Laxmi.

While the woman emptied the bowls in the kitchen, Laxmi looked around the sparsely furnished hall, which needed a coat of paint. It was a cold and forbidding place with grim memories. Involuntarily, the woman shivered.

‘I am sure it is haunted,’ she went on to tell people later. ‘I could feel an eerie presence.’

The same evening, Laxmi’s friends, who had gathered at her house for a session of gossip, nodded their heads with understanding. Ghosts never spared a house that lay uninhabited for a long time, they agreed. Over a period of time, all that the neighbours could glean was that the son worked as a sales officer for a company and travelled almost twenty days a month. The mother, emotionally unstable, spent much of her time cleaning the place.

Two years had passed since the mother and son arrived. In those two years, they made not a single friend nor visited anyone in the neighbourhood.

Cursing her short-sightedness, Laxmi Badola returned with a pair of spectacles, which she had placed on top of the refrigerator while working in the kitchen. Now, armed with her glasses, she looked at the duo, recognizing one of them as Umesh Gudyal, the ill-mannered nephew of Ratan Negi. As usual, he was smoking like a chimney.

As the woman stood peering from behind the window curtain, she noticed the other man waving his arms angrily at the mansion. Although the two were shouting at each other, she could hear only snatches of the conversation. Deciding to get to the bottom of the affair, she moved to the tiny kitchen garden, which was closer to the road. Once there, she crouched behind the lush hedge, unseen.

 

To read more, order your copy of An Invitation to Die today!

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