‘Did he give that to Charlotte?’
‘No, he gave it to no one. He told his daughter before he died that it should be buried together with his body. Charlotte fulfilled his last wish, and found much comfort from that.’
‘What was that object?’
‘Charlotte calls it “Father’s precious Perigal repeater”.’
‘Eh? What on earth is that?’
‘That,’ said Feluda, ‘is where even your Feluda has drawn a blank. According to my dictionary, a repeater can be a gun—like a pistol— or a watch. Perigal might be the name of the manufacturer. Even Uncle Sidhu isn’t sure. I went to his house early this morning, before you got up. Now I must speak to Vikas Chakravarty and see if he can throw some light on this matter.’
Vikas Chakravarty worked in Park Auction House in Park Street. Feluda knew him well. They had got to know each other when Feluda’s investigations had taken him to the auction house, in connection with a case. He had had to pay more than one visit.
‘I passed that shop only the other day. There were a lot of old clocks and watches displayed in the window. I have a strong feeling Godwin’s repeater was a clock, not a gun.’
Feluda then proceeded to tell me more about what he had read in Charlotte Godwin’s diary. Apparently, Charlotte had mentioned a niece. She had referred to her as ‘my dear clever niece’. This niece had done something to offend her grandfather, Thomas. But Thomas forgave her before he died, and gave her his blessings.
Charlotte had also talked about her brothers, David and John. We had seen David’s grave in the cemetery in Lower Circular Road, John had returned to England and killed himself there. Charlotte did not know why.
Lalmohan Babu turned up a little later. ‘Until yesterday,’ he told us, ‘I was in a dilemma. Pulak had told me to write a new story for his next film—one with a devotional theme. So I couldn’t decide whether to stay at home and start writing, or stick with you and see how this case develops. After what happened yesterday, I have no doubt left. Thrill is better than religion. By the way, did you find anything in that casket?’
‘Yes. I found diaries nearly one hundred and twenty-five years old. They told me that, if Thomas Godwin’s grave was dug up, one might find a Perigal repeater.’
‘Peter? What Peter?’
‘Let’s go out. How much petrol have you got?’
‘Ten litres. Filled my car only this morning.’
‘Good. We have a lot of travelling to do.’
Feluda frowned as we stepped into Park Auction House.
‘Mr Mitter! How are you? Do come in. This must be my lucky day. Are you here on a new case?’ Mr Chakravarty came forward to greet us. He was plump, his cheeks bulging with paan. Something in his appearance immediately made me think he was from north Calcutta.
‘I can see that you’ve had quite a lot of luck,’ Feluda remarked. ‘I saw about eight clocks—big and small—in your window quite recently. Have you sold them all?’
‘Clocks? You want a clock? What kind? A wall clock, or an alarm clock?’
Feluda was still looking around. I knew instinctively that Mr Chakravarty was not the kind of person who would know anything about a clock with a long and difficult name. Feluda asked him, anyway.
‘Repeater? That’s probably some sort of an alarm clock,’ he replied, ‘but I’ve no idea what Perigal might mean. But don’t worry, I know someone who knows a lot about clocks. I’ve heard that he has two hundred and fifty clocks in his house. He’s completely mad about clocks.’
‘Really? Who is he?’
‘Mr Choudhury. Mahadev Choudhury.’
‘A Bengali?’
‘Yes, but I think he was brought up somewhere in western India, or perhaps the north. His spoken Bengali is not that good. In fact, he speaks English most of the time. He’s a very clever man. I believe he was in Bombay before he came here. He’s been buying whatever he can lay his hands on, as long as it’s an antique. Those clocks that you saw here before are now all in his house. He really is quite knowledgeable. Why don’t you go and talk to him? He put an ad in the papers. Didn’t you see it?’
‘What advertisement?’
‘If anyone has an antique clock for sale, he should get in touch with Mr Choudhury.’
‘So he must be extremely wealthy!’
‘Yes, sir. He owns cloth mills, cinemas, tea gardens, jute mills, race horses, business in imports and exports . . . just name it!’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Yes. He has a house in Alipore Park in Calcutta, and another one in the country, by the Ganges. I believe his cotton mill is somewhere nearby. He’s probably in Calcutta at the moment, but I suggest you go and see him in the evening. Right now he’ll be in his office . . . Wait, let me go and get you his address.’
We took Mahadev Choudhury’s address, and left the auction house. ‘Why don’t you,’ said Feluda, ‘drop me at the Esplanade reading room of the National Library, and go back to the Park Street cemetery? See if there’s anything to report?’
‘Rep-p-port?’ Lalmohan Babu’s voice suddenly sounded unsteady. ‘Yes. All you need to do is take another look at Godwin’s tomb. Today you’ll find that area quite dry; it hasn’t rained in the last couple of days, has it? Have a look around, then come back and collect me. We’ll have lunch somewhere. There won’t be time to go back home for lunch . . . we have a lot to do today. Don’t forget we must also return to Ripon Lane.’
Feluda had brought Mr Godwin’s casket—wrapped with brown paper—and was carrying it under his arm.
‘In broad daylight, of course, there’s no reason to feel afraid,’ Lalmohan Babu observed. ‘It’s only after dark that a visit to a cemetery is . . . er . . . difficult!’
‘You wouldn’t be afraid of spooks and spirits—any time of the day—if your mind wasn’t crammed with superstitions!’ said Feluda.
Our car got held up for a while in a traffic jam on the way to the reading room. While we were waiting for the jam to clear, Lalmohan Babu said, ‘This clock, or watch, or whatever you’re looking for . . . might it be a pocket watch?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, not yet.’
‘If it’s an old pocket watch, I have one of those.’
‘Whose was it?’
‘My grandfather’s. I have three things that were once his. A watch, a walking stick and a turban. The late Pyaricharan Gangopadhyay. I say, where did the name “Pyaricharan” come from, do you think?’
‘Nowhere. It was always here, in this country. You are a writer, and you don’t know the meaning of “Pyari”? It’s another name for Radha, that’s all.’
‘Thank you, sir. Anyway, I’d like to give you that watch.’ Feluda looked quite taken aback. ‘To me? Why?’
‘Well, I wanted to give you something—you know, to show my appreciation. After all, you made such a significant contribution to the success of my Hindi film. And this car is a result of that. Now, if you look at this watch, who knows, you might find that it’s a Peripeter, or whatever.’
‘No, that isn’t likely. But I am very grateful for your offer. Your watch will be very well looked after, I promise you. I cannot, of course, use it every day—not if it’s so old and goes back to the nineteenth century. But certainly I am going to wind it regularly. Does it still work?’
‘Beautifully.’
By the time Lalmohan Babu and I reached the cemetery, having dropped Feluda at the reading room, it was almost twelve o’clock. When we finished our business there, we’d pick him up and go to Nizam’s for mutton rolls. That was Feluda’s plan, and it would be his treat. But, before we went for lunch, we would have to go back to Ripon Lane to return that casket.
Park Street had far less traffic running on it now. The cemetery was therefore quiet. We entered through the main gate and looked for Baramdeo, the chowkidar. He was nowhere in sight, and did not emerge even when we called out to him. Perhaps he had disappeared behind a bush to cremate another dead rat.
We went
down the path that cut across the cemetery. Although both Feluda and I made fun of Lalmohan Babu’s fears, and Feluda dismissed them as mere superstition, I had to admit that there was something creepy in the air. It wasn’t just the tombs, but the abundance of trees and bushes and undergrowth. They added to the generally eerie atmosphere. Nevertheless, Lalmohan Babu’s responses seemed a trifle exaggerated. It was, after all, broad daylight and I failed to see why he was so afraid. He proceeded slowly, looking at the tombstones out of the corner of his eye, and muttering constantly, as if he was chanting a mantra. What was he saying? I had to strain my ears to catch the words. They were certainly worth hearing.
‘Please, Mr Palmer, please, Mr Hamilton, and you, too, Miss Smith; please don’t break our necks, please let us get on with our work. You’ve given so much, taken so much, taught us so much, even beaten the hell out of us . . . Mr Campbell, Mr Adam, and—I say, I can’t even pronounce your name!—but anyway, I beg of you, all of you, if you’re no more than handfuls of dust, do stay that way . . . dust to dust, dust. . . dust. . .!’
I could contain myself no more. ‘What are you going on about? What’s all this about dust?’ I asked.
‘Dear Tapesh, I read about all this as a child. Dust thou art, to dust returnest. All these people have been reduced to dust.’
‘In that case, what’s there to be afraid of?’
‘That’s what a poet wrote. Poets aren’t always correct in what they write, are they?’
We turned left. The fallen tree was still lying on the ground, and the ground was now dry. But there was rather a lot of earth spread around Thomas Godwin’s grave.
‘Dust . . . dust . . . dust . . .!’
Lalmohan Babu continued to chant that word like a robot—perhaps in order to gather courage—and moved towards Godwin’s tomb. Then he stopped, gasped, said ‘Sk-sk-skel-skel-skel-!’ and promptly keeled over, like a felled tree, landing on top of the mound of earth.
Quite close to the spot where he had fallen was a chasm. The earth had been dug quite deep. In the centre of that chasm, still half-buried in the ground, was a human skull.
Eight
I had to shake Lalmohan Babu at least ten times before he opened his eyes. Had he not come round, I would have really been in trouble since I’d never found myself in a similar situation before. Finally Lalmohan Babu picked himself up, dusted himself down, and announced that, when frightened, writers had a tendency to faint more easily than others, as their imagination was more powerful than other people’s.
‘What your cousin said about superstition is complete nonsense. I have no such . . . er . . . problem!’ he told me.
We did not waste another second, and left the cemetery at once to collect Feluda. He had finished his work in the reading room. Even if he hadn’t, I knew that after hearing our story, he would drop everything and go back to the cemetery with us. He saw how the grave had been dug up, thereby exposing the skull. Then he searched the area around the tomb most thoroughly—but found nothing except a spade. It was lying only ten feet from the grave.
This time, we met Baramdeo. He said he had gone to pass on some urgent message to his nephew in his paan shop, just round the corner on Lower Circular Road. He knew nothing about the grave being dug up. It was his belief that whoever was responsible had entered the cemetery the previous night by climbing over the wall. Feluda then asked him to lend a hand, and refilled the yawning hole with earth and fallen leaves. Before we left, Feluda told Baramdeo not to mention the matter to anyone else.
From Park Street, we went straight to Ripon Lane.
There was a slight delay as we got to 14/1 and were about to go up the stairs. A young man was climbing down, a long leather case in his hand—a guitar case. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and looked very much like other young men who are seen around Park Street, particularly in the evenings. There is therefore no need for further description. This man had to be Chris Godwin. He would not return to Ripon Lane until late at night, after he finished playing at the Blue Fox.
When he had gone, we made our way upstairs. The first floor was not as silent as it had been before. Raised voices reached our ears from Mr Godwin’s living room. We recognized one of them. The other was probably Mr Arakis’s. The first voice was scolding and threatening. The second was whining and denying all allegations. Both were frequently using the word ‘casket’.
Feluda walked down the passage, and knocked on the door At once, three words shot out like bullet’s: ‘Who is it?’
We stepped into the room. The second gentleman’s skin was pale, with a yellowish tinge to it, and covered with freckles. His head was bald and he had two gold teeth. He was perhaps in his mid-sixties. Feluda went straight to Mr Godwin and unwrapped the parcel in his hands. ‘I just could not resist taking it away yesterday. It will help me a lot in my research,’ he said.
Mr Godwin simply stared for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.
‘So you fooled them, you fooled them! Those morons! Cheats, frauds, swindlers!’ Then he looked at the other man and continued, biting sarcasm in his voice, ‘Tom Godwin’s spirit walked off with that casket, did it? Is he Tom Godwin’s spirit? This gentleman? What do you think? Look, this is Mr Arakis, my neighbour from upstairs. The same man whose table prances around every Thursday, and ruins the entire evening for me.’
Mr Arakis was gaping stupidly at the casket. Then he glanced at Feluda in silence, and shifted the same foolish gaze to the door. He began moving towards it, but had to stop. Feluda had called out his name.
‘Mr Arakis!’
The man looked at Feluda. ‘I think one of the items in that casket is still with you,’ Feluda said calmly.
‘Certainly not!’ Arakis thundered. ‘Besides, how would you know anything about it? Marcus, open that box and see if anything is missing.’
So Mr Godwin’s first name was Marcus. That explained the mystery of Arkis-Markis.
Marcus Godwin opened the casket and went through its contents. Then he said, with a somewhat embarrassed air, ‘Why, Mr Mitter, everything appears quite intact!’
‘Could you please take out that snuff box? Charlotte Godwin described it in her diary, and said it was studded with emeralds, rubies and sapphires.’
Mr Godwin took out the box and peered at it.
‘Can you see now that it’s a cheap, new snuff box, simply painted black? Mr Arakis tried to make it look like an antique!’
Within five minutes, Mr Arakis fetched the real thing from his flat upstairs. ‘I swear upon God,’ said Mr Godwin, ‘if I hear your table making any noise next Thursday, I will inform the police!’ Mr Arakis slunk out of the room like a thief, his face dark with embarrassment.
‘Thank you, Mr Mitter,’ said Mr Godwin, sighing with relief. ‘Have you any idea how valuable Charlotte Godwin’s diaries are?’
‘No. I didn’t even know that the casket contained such diaries. To tell you the truth, Mr Mitter, I am not even remotely curious about my forefathers. In fact, I am no longer curious about anything. I am simply waiting for death. The only thing I can call my own is that cat. In the past I used to visit a friend to play poker. Now, thanks to my gout, even that has come to an end.’
‘In that case, perhaps there’s no point in asking you a few questions.’
‘What questions?’
‘Your great-grandfather was called David, wasn’t he, and he was buried in the cemetery on Lower Circular Road?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did David have a brother or sister?’
‘Don’t know. One of my ancestors killed himself. I can’t remember if he was David’s brother.’
‘Was David’s son—your grandfather, that is—called Andrew?’
‘Yes, he was in the army.’
‘Charlotte talks of a niece. She was either your grandfather’s sister, or . . .’
‘My grandfather was an only child.’
‘Then it must be a cousin.’
‘I couldn’t tell you anything
about cousins. My memory has become quite weak. Besides, families in our community do not live together. We tend to go our own way, so we scatter and disperse—unlike your Bengali joint families!’
We were sitting at Nizam’s, opposite Society cinema. Over a plate of mutton rolls, Feluda asked Lalmohan Babu, ‘What did you think of Naren Biswas? I mean, as a person?’
Lalmohan Babu finished chewing, swallowed and said, ‘Why, he seemed quite a nice man! There was something rather impressive in his appearance, I thought.’
‘Yes, that’s what I had thought as well, at first.’
‘You don’t think so any more?’
‘No, but it must be said that one flaw doesn’t—or shouldn’t—ruin a man’s entire personality. Nevertheless, he did commit a serious crime.’
Lalmohan Babu and I stopped eating.
‘Remember those press cuttings in his wallet? Today, I saw for myself that they were removed with a blade from a hundred-and-fifty, or maybe two-hundred-year-old newspaper, preserved with great care in the National Library’s reading room. I think a man ought to be jailed for such a crime!’
I tried to imagine Naren Biswas in the reading room, holding his breath and secretly cutting out those reports, dodging the eyes of the library officials . . . but failed to picture the scene. It is truly impossible to guess, just by looking at a man, what he may be capable of doing.
‘This is a kind of ailment,’ Feluda continued. ‘Some people get a hideous pleasure from committing such crimes successfully, without being caught. They think they are more clever than anyone else, and feel very pleased with themselves. It’s all very sad.’
Having finished the mutton rolls, we ordered lassi. Feluda asked for the bill at the same time. It was half-past two. We had to kill another three hours before we could visit Mr Choudhury, the one who was said to be crazy about clocks. I knew Feluda would not give up until the matter of the Perigal repeater was cleared up.