You know what they say, that Muzaffar Jang has more love for his books and his birds than he does for what really matters: the jewels, the fine clothes, the high-stepping Arabian horses, the beautiful slave girls, the catamites, I'm an outcast, Aapa."  Muzaffar Jang is an aristocrat bachelor in Shahjahanabad (Emperor Shahjanhan's Dilli, circa1656) with a taste for books, asking the right questions, and 'the new fangled brew - Allah, so bitter - called coffee that they sell in those qahwa khanas of Chandni Chowk'. With a modest but comfortable income, he has refused to indulge in the usual pursuits of other high ranking omrahs (noblemen), patronizing poets, minstrels, artisans or courtesans.
 
When, on a hot day in 1066 of the Hijri calendar Shahjanhanabad's most ravishing courtesan is found murdered (with a poisoned paan) and his friend stands accused of the crime, Muzaffar steps in to investigate. What's missing from Indian fiction is a good mystery series. Sprawling and dense thrillers like Sacred Games and Shantaram just won't cut it. The genre asks for something light, cleanly and crisply written, that you take to bed with you, puzzle a while and fall into peaceful slumber. Madhulika Liddle's The Englishman's Cameo (Hachette India) is a modestly entertaining period mystery and a satisfying whodunit. 

Set in Mughal India, the plot swiftly unfolds a little over 250 pages (a nice size for a mystery) through dialogue that is nimble and revealing. Its intimate picture of life in Emperor Shahjanhan's Dilli resembles a delicate Mughal miniature. Liddle's Muzaffar Jang is a likeable hero, and she surrounds him with several sympathetic characters that one hopes will keep turning up if The Englishman's Cameo becomes the first of a series featuring the young, maverick omrah detective. Zeenat Begum, his dependable and wise sister, Farid Khan, the Kotwal of  Shahjahanabd, the old boatman Salim and the romantic Akram, besotted by the 'pale, delicate' courtesan  Gulnar.  

She writes about the daily-goings on within the little circle of Mughal aristocrats, officers, courtesans, dancing girls and musicians with familiarity and easy style, as though she were a contemporary. Her hero, Muzaffar, like the other omrahs of his time, often visits the Qila Mubarak, home of the imperial court. Jang notes that there is little extravagant celebration at the court these days owing to the  "Maa'badaulat's extravagant tastes - the building of the Taj Mahal in Agra, the construction of the fort in Dilli, the exquisite jewels, the silk carpets…the Emperor after a lifetime of uncontrolled indulgence in opium and women was ailing. His favorite son, the scholarly heir apparent, Dara Shukoh, was more interested in mysticism than politics…" 

"But the Emperor, though his star may be in the descendant, stuck to tradition as far as he could. According to the usual practice, he had appeared at dawn under the gilded copper dome of the Mussamman Burj and shown himself to his subjects…Muzaffar had waited patiently while Maa'badaulat made his slow way back through his private apartments, the Khan Mahal, and on towards the Diwan-e-Aam, the hall of public audience. Behind him, the crowd of courtiers and attendants had begun to disperse, some of them moving off towards the Bazaar-e-Muzaqqaf or the Diwan-e-Aam, other heading back to their own havelis or to post within the fort. When the gardens adjacent to the Hayat Baksh Bagh had looked relatively deserted, Muzaffar had made his way there".  

The familiar details from this period are gently and unselfconsciously evoked: tendrils of Persian calligraphy, cool sherbets, the red sandstone haveli, Sufi music, and the muezzin's call from the minaret of the Jama Masjid.  The plot isn't gripping or clever, the conspiracy isn't shocking enough and the proceedings don't always hold your interest. But the whodunit element is quietly and finely done, clearing up the mystery nicely. Its accomplishment is its modest canvas, unpretentious plot, and not excoticizing this rich, intriguing period but writing about it matter of factly. 
    
What I particularly warmed to is that Cameo isn't overly ambitious, trying to overwhelm us with heavily researched historical detail of medieval Mughal India, or plunging us into the intricacies of court life. The little details are convincing - just so much and no more; not bogging us down with complexity and sweep. This isn't just about me liking my mysteries this way, but is important in its own way for mystery fiction in India: to offer a traditional mystery that observes the conventions of the genre with a companionable detective and an unusual setting that could become a diverting little mystery series.