Ten
Heaven knows when Feluda returned home. When I got up the next morning and came downstairs, it was a quarter past seven. Feluda’s door was shut. Perhaps he was still asleep. After all, he hadn’t slept for two nights in a row.
He opened his door at nine. He’d had a shower and shaved. There was not even a trace of tiredness on his face. When he saw me, he simply shook his thumb to indicate that nothing had happened during the night at the cemetery.
Lalmohan Babu arrived at half-past nine.
‘See if you like it!’ he said.
As promised, he had brought his grandfather’s watch. It was a silver watch, attached to a silver chain.
‘It’s beautiful!’ exclaimed Feluda, taking the watch from Lalmohan Babu. ‘At one time, Cooke-Kelvey as watchmakers were quite well known.’
‘But it’s not what you’re after, is it?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, a hint of regret in his voice. ‘This watch was made in Calcutta.’
‘Yes, but do you really want to give it to me?’
‘With my blessings and my compliments. I am older than you by three and a half years, so you shouldn’t object to my blessings!’
‘Thank you.’
Feluda wrapped the watch in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. Then he took a step towards the telephone, but before he could get to it, someone rattled the knocker on our door.
I opened it to find Girin Biswas standing outside. He had dropped a hint the day before, but I had not really expected him to turn up— and so soon, at that. He was dressed to go to work, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase in his hand.
‘Please don’t mind my barging in like this,’ he said, ‘I tried calling your number, but just couldn’t get through. I must have spent at least ten minutes dialling!’ Mr Biswas sounded a bit nervous and agitated.
‘No, why should I mind.’ It’s a miracle if a telephone works, isn’t it? What brings you here?’
Mr Biswas sat on a chair. Lalmohan Babu and I went back to the divan, and Feluda took the settee.
‘I couldn’t decide who to turn to,’ Mr Biswas remarked, wiping his damp forehead with a handkerchief. ‘I haven’t got a lot of faith in the police, frankly speaking. Since you happened to visit us. . .’
‘What is the problem?’
Mr Biswas cleared his throat. Then he said, ‘My brother was not hit by a tree.’
The next few moments passed in silence. Feluda finally broke it by saying, ‘No? What exactly happened?’
‘He was struck deliberately. That blow to his head was an attempt to kill him.’
Calmly, Feluda took out his packet of Charminar and offered it to Mr Biswas, who declined politely. Feluda then took one out for himself, and said, ‘But your brother seems convinced that it was a tree.’
‘That’s because he would rather die than name his son.’
‘His own son?’
‘Prashanta. His elder son. The younger one is in England.’
‘What does Prashanta do?’
‘It would be easier to tell you what he does not do. He’s involved in every possible illegal activity. He changed over the last three or four years. My sister-in-law—Prashanta’s mother, that is—died in 1970. About a month ago, my brother got fed up with Prashanta’s behaviour and threatened to cut him out of his will. He said he’d leave all his property to his other son, Sushanta.’
‘I see. Prashanta lives in the same house as you, I take it?’
‘He could—certainly he has the right to live with us, and there’s even a room meant for his use. But he doesn’t. It’s difficult to tell where he does live. He’s part of a gang. Low-down criminals, each one of them. I think he would have killed his father that day if that terrible storm hadn’t started.’
‘What does your brother have to say about all this?’
‘He insists it was a tree. He just doesn’t want to believe that his son might be responsible for his injury. But I have to say this. Prashanta may be my nephew, but if you don’t do something to stop him, he’ll try to kill again.’
‘If Naren Biswas makes a new will, his son will gain nothing by killing him, surely?’
‘No, but a financial gain can’t always be the only motive. He might just get furious and lose his head. People kill so often to take revenge and settle scores, don’t they? Besides, my brother won’t change his will. He cannot think straight. You have no idea, Mr Mitter, how far parental love can go.
‘I was at home all this while, but today I have to go out of town for a few days. That’s in connection with my business. So I came to you. Now if you will kindly . . .’
‘Mr Biswas,’ Feluda flicked the ash from his cigarette into an ashtray, ‘I am very sorry to tell you that I’m already involved in a different case. Certainly your brother should receive some form of protection, but if he continues to insist that he was hit by a tree, no police force on earth can do anything to help him.’
Girin Biswas left. Until his arrival, we had all been feeling quite cheerful as the sun had come out after many grey and wet days. Girin Biswas had managed to spoil our mood.
‘How very strange!’ Feluda remarked when he’d gone, and finally made the phone call he was about to make when Mr Biswas arrived.
‘Hello, Suhrid? This is Felu.’
Suhrid Sengupta and Feluda were classmates in college.
‘Listen. Once I saw a copy of the Presidency College magazine in your house. It was a special issue, to mark its centenary. I think it belonged to your brother. Published possibly in 1955. Do you think he might still have it? . . . Oh good. Can you leave it with your servant before you go to work? I’ll drop by at around half-past ten and collect it. All right? Thanks a lot.’
We finished our tea and left. Feluda had three ports of call—Naren Biswas, Bourne & Shepherd, and the Park Street cemetery. I was surprised to hear him mention Naren Biswas. ‘That’s because,’ Feluda explained, ‘I can’t really dismiss what his brother just told us. So I ought to visit Mr Biswas once more. You two needn’t go to the cemetery afterwards, but I think I’ll ask you to come along for tonight’s vigil. You must see and feel the atmosphere there, in the middle of the night. Or you’ll miss an extraordinary experience.’
‘Jai Santoshi Ma!’ said Lalmohan Babu. A little later, he added, ‘Tell me, can’t one make Son of Santoshi, like Son of Tarzan?’ That could only mean that he was still thinking of Pulak Ghoshal’s offer.
Naren Biswas was physically a lot better. He told us he was no longer in pain, and his bandage would come off in a few days. Nevertheless, he did not look very happy. In fact, he looked decidedly morose and depressed.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Feluda said, ‘I won’t take long.’ Mr Biswas cast a suspicious glance at him and asked, ‘If you don’t mind my asking, are you conducting an investigation? I know you are a detective, so . . .’
‘Yes, you are quite right. It will help me a lot if you don’t try to hide the truth.’
Mr Biswas closed his eyes, as if he was trying to deal with some inner pain. Perhaps he had guessed that it would not be easy for him to answer Feluda’s questions.
‘When you regained consciousness in the hospital,’ Feluda began, ‘you mentioned a will.’
Mr Biswas did not open his eyes.
‘Why did you do that?’
This time, Naren Biswas opened his eyes. His lips moved and trembled a little, before he spoke. ‘I am not obliged to answer your question, am I?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘In that case, I won’t.’
Feluda remained silent. So did we. Mr Biswas looked away. ‘Very well,’ Feluda said after a few moments, ‘let me ask you something else.’
‘I reserve the right to remain silent.’
‘Yes, you certainly have that right.’
‘Well?’
‘Who is Victoria?’
‘Victoria?’
‘Er . . . I have to make a confession here. I looked at the contents of your wal
let. There was a piece of paper . . .’
‘Ah . . . ha ha ha!’ To our amazement, Mr Biswas suddenly burst out laughing. ‘That’s a very old story. I’d almost forgotten all about it. You see, when I was still working, one of my colleagues was an Anglo-Indian. His name was Norton, Jimmy Norton. He once told me he had several letters in his house, all written by his grandmother. I never saw them. Apparently, his grandmother was in Behrampore at the time of the mutiny—she was only about seven. The letters were written much later, but she referred to her childhood experiences. Since there’s some interest these days in such matters, and books are being written, I’d told Norton that I’d let him have the addresses of a few foreign publishers. Norton himself knew nothing about such things. Wait, let me get hold of that piece of paper.’
Mr Biswas stretched an arm to open the top drawer of a table and took out his wallet. There he found the slip of paper.
‘Here, look! Bourne & Shepherd. I wanted to tell Jimmy to find out from Bourne & Shepherd if they had any old photos of his grandmother. And the rest are the initials of various publishers. I never got the chance to pass this piece of paper to Jimmy Norton. He went down with jaundice, and was off sick for six weeks. After that he left his job.’
Feluda rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Biswas, that will be all. There’s just one thing, though, that I think is most regrettable.’
‘What is it?’
‘In future, if you work in a library, please do not tear or cut anything out of an old book or magazine. That’s my only request. Goodbye.’
We left the room. Mr Biswas could not bring himself to look anyone in the eye.
From Naren Biswas, we went to Feluda’s friend, Suhrid Sengupta’s house in Beni Nandan Street. His servant handed a huge tome to Feluda. It was the special centenary issue of the Presidency College magazine. On the way to Bourne & Shepherd, Feluda went through the magazine very carefully and, for some reason I failed to fathom, said, ‘Just imagine!’ at least three times.
It took Feluda only ten minutes to finish his business at Bourne & Shepherd. He came out carrying a large red envelope. Obviously, it contained an enlarged photograph, or perhaps there was more than one photo in it.
‘Whose photo is that?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.
‘Mutiny,’ Feluda replied. Lalmohan Babu and I exchanged glances. Feluda’s reply clearly meant that the photo—or photos—were not meant for the public.
‘Let’s go to the cemetery,’ Feluda said, ‘but you two don’t have to go in with me. I’ll just check if everything is all right.’
Lalmohan Babu’s driver parked the car in front of the cemetery. As Feluda passed through its gate, I saw the chowkidar, Baramdeo, give him a smart salute.
Feluda returned in a few minutes and got back into the car. ‘Okay,’ he said. It was decided then that we would go back to the cemetery that night, at half-past ten.
Something told me that we were very close to the final act in our play.
Eleven
Feluda and I had travelled to so many different places trying to solve mysteries—Sikkim, Lucknow, Rajasthan, Simla, Varanasi—and had had plenty of adventures everywhere. But I had no idea that this time, we would get involved in such a bloodcurdling experience without even stepping out of Calcutta.
Lalmohan Babu called the final day a ‘black-letter day’, but changed it later to ‘a black-letter night’. I had to agree, when he asked me, that we had never been in such a fix before.
Lalmohan Babu was always punctual, but ever since he’d acquired a car, he’d become more strict about punctuality. That night, when he returned to our house, he knocked smartly on our door instead of rattling the knocker. Feluda and I had had our dinner and were ready. I was wearing my own hunting boots. Mine had been bought only the year before; Feluda’s were eleven years old. Perhaps they were not in very good condition because I saw him fiddling with a sole and making repairs. Now he was limping a little. Perhaps he should have gone to a cobbler. Surely it wouldn’t do to hobble if the night ahead was likely to be full of danger?
We got to our feet as soon as we heard the knock on the door. Feluda had a brown leather shoulder bag. A portion of the red envelope from Bourne & Shepherd was peeping out of it. He had instructed us to wear dark clothes. Lalmohan Babu was wearing a black suit.
He walked into our living room, saying, ‘You wouldn’t believe what modern medicine can do. My doctor told me about a nerve-soothing pill—it’s got two “x”-s in its name! At his suggestion I took one after dinner, and already I feel charged and ready to take on the world. Dear Tapesh, come what may, we’ll fight to the end, won’t we?’ He had no idea who he was supposed to fight, nor had I.
Feluda decided that our car should be parked at some distance from the main gate of the cemetery. ‘If its colour matched your dark clothes, I wouldn’t have worried,’ he said. The driver, Hari, was told to stop the car even before we reached the crossing at Rawdon Street after passing St Xavier’s. ‘You two go ahead,’ Feluda said, ‘I have to leave some instructions with Hari.’
We left the car and walked on. God knows what Feluda’s instructions were, but it was clear from Hari’s general demeanour that he was most intrigued by our activities, and perfectly willing to join in.
Feluda came back in a few minutes. ‘You are very lucky to have found such a good driver,’ he told Lalmohan Babu. ‘He seems most reliable. I’m quite relieved, now that I’ve asked him to handle certain responsibilities.’
‘What responsibilities?’
‘Nothing, really, if all goes well here. If it doesn’t, a lot will depend on Hari.’
Feluda refused to say any more.
The large iron gate was standing open. How come? ‘Normally, at this time of night, it would be closed,’ Feluda whispered back when I asked him. ‘But tonight there’s a special arrangement. There are pieces of glass fixed to the edge of the compound wall, you see. Climbing over it would have been risky. But where’s Baramdeo?’
A light flickered in the chowkidar’s room, but it didn’t look as if anyone was in there. We searched the area around the room, and found no one. In the faint light that came from Park Street, I could see a frown on Feluda’s face. It meant that the chowkidar should have been in his room. That was the arrangement Feluda had made with him.
We decided not to waste any more time, and walked on, but not right down the central path this time. Feluda took a few steps, then turned left. We began moving through the host of tombstones. There was a strong breeze. Ribbons of clouds were flitting across the sky. A pale half-moon was peeping out fleetingly through them. When it did, the names on the marble plaques became visible just for a few moments, then they were gone. When we finally stepped behind a large tomb, the moon came out again, and I saw the name, Samuel Cuthbert Thornhill. This tombstone was not a long, tapering obelisk. There was something like a platform, surrounded by pillars which were covered by a dome. Three people could easily hide behind it. It was totally dark—the light from the main road did not reach that spot. However, if I looked to my right, I could see a portion of the gate through all the other tombstones.
Feluda spoke, possibly because he was reasonably sure there was no one in the cemetery except ourselves. But he kept his voice low. ‘Could you please sprinkle this around?’ he asked Lalmohan Babu, offering him a bottle with a stopper. He had taken it out of his shoulder bag.
‘Sp-sprinkle?’
‘Yes, it’s carbolic acid. Should keep snakes at bay.’
Lalmohan Babu did as he was told, and returned a minute later. ‘Well, that’s a relief! Even a nerve-soothing pill couldn’t take away my fear of snakes,’ he remarked.
‘What about your fear of ghosts? Has that gone?’
‘Totally.’
Frogs were croaking nearby. Crickets were chirping. One of them seemed to have set up its home right next to Thornhill’s grave. Scattered clouds were still flitting by. Perhaps some of them were thicker than the others, which was why the darkness all
around us was growing deeper every now and then. As a result, the tombstones were all dissolving into one black mass. Then, as the moon slipped out, they separated from one another and became dimly visible again.
Feluda took out a packet of chewing gum, and offered it to us before putting some in his own mouth.
The sound of traffic was growing less. I counted the seconds, and realized that for nearly half a minute, I had heard nothing but the frogs, the crickets, and leaves rustling in sudden gusts of wind.
‘Midnight!’ whispered Lalmohan Babu.
Why midnight? Only a couple of minutes ago, I had looked at my watch in the moonlight. It was then twenty-five minutes past eleven.
‘Why do you say it’s midnight when it’s not?’ I had to ask.
‘Oh, I said that only because . . . because midnight has a special . . . er . . . something, doesn’t it?’
‘What something?’
‘Midnight in the graveyard, you see? That’s special. I read it somewhere.’
‘You mean that’s when spooks come out?’
Instead of making a reply, Lalmohan Babu made a funny sound that ended in a hiss. A faint noise by my side told me that Feluda had struck a march, but had kept the flame hidden behind his hand. Then he lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew some smoke out, without removing his hand.
The clouds were getting thicker. The sound of traffic had stopped completely. The wind, too, was silent. Every noise, every sound had vanished. The crickets and the frogs had gone to sleep. My body felt cold, my throat was parched. I tried licking my lips, but they remained dry.
An owl hooted loudly. Lalmohan Babu promptly clapped his hands over his ears. Slowly, Feluda rose to his feet.
A car had stopped somewhere close by. It was impossible to tell exactly where it might be parked, but my instinct told me that the sound had come not from Park Street, but from Rawdon Street to the west. There was no gate facing Rawdon Street. There was only the compound wall, with pieces of broken glass fixed to its edge. I heard a car door slam.
Our eyes remained glued to the gate. Lalmohan Babu opened his mouth to speak, but Feluda stretched out an arm and gave his shoulder a light squeeze to stop him. No one came through the gate.