The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (78 page)

The following morning, Feluda himself summoned me to his room. After Lalmohan Babu had dropped us the previous night, Feluda had had a shower and finished his dinner within half an hour. Then he had gone straight to his room and shut the door. I had not been able to sleep very well. It was clear that we had got embroiled in a bizarre mystery. It was like being lost in a maze . . . something perhaps even more complex than the Bhoolbhulaia in Lucknow. I had no idea where to turn; my only hope was Feluda. But did Feluda know the way out of the maze?

I found him seated on his bed. In front of him was Thomas Godwin’s casket. Its contents were strewn over the bed. There were two white pipes that could be filled with tobacco—but they looked different from any pipe I had seen before; a snuff box; a pair of spectacles set in a gold frame; and four red leather-bound notebooks.
Each had the word ‘diary’ inscribed on the cover in gold letters. The piece of silk in which they had been wrapped was lying on one side, together with the blue ribbon with which the parcel had been tied. Feluda offered me one of the notebooks, saying, ‘Turn the first page— be careful!’

‘Why, this is Charlotte Godwin’s diary!’

‘Yes. These are all her diaries, from 1858 to 1862. Her writing is as clear and lucid as her language. It took me all night to read the whole thing. Imagine, this priceless object was lying in a dark corner in Ripon Lane! Incredible.’

I stared at the first page, not daring to turn it, for I could see that each page was fragile and brittle.

‘Arakis opened that diary,’ said Feluda.

‘How do you know?’

‘If you turn a page quickly and carelessly, the top right-hand corner tends to break. Look!’ Feluda gave a quick demonstration. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘here, look at this ribbon. It is quite worn in some places, as it had remained tied and knotted for more than a hundred years. But look, apart from those worn bits, the ribbon is crushed and twisted in places. That’s because a new knot had been tied. Whoever untied it did not bother to knot it in exactly the same place. If he had, it would have been more difficult to be sure.’

‘Why do you have a black stain on your finger?’ I asked. I had noticed it as soon as I entered Feluda’s room.

‘This is another clue, but I’ll explain it later. It came from that snuff box.’

‘What did the diaries tell you?’ I asked breathlessly.

‘They speak of the last few years of Thomas Godwin’s life. He was penniless by that time, and cantankerous. One of his sons was dead, and he neither loved nor trusted his other son, David. In fact, he trusted no one, not even Charlotte. Yet Charlotte loved him, prayed for him and took care of him as best she could. He had gambled everything away. Charlotte earned a little money by sewing for the local English ladies, and making carpets. Godwin had sold most of the expensive gifts he had received from the Nawab. All he had left were three items—that casket, the snuff box which he had allowed Charlotte to have, and the third was the first gift Sadat Ali had given him.’

‘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.

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.

‘Tell me,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘did those scavenger birds in ancient Calcutta sit on parapets and call, in the hope of getting some food?’

We were sitting close to a window facing the street. A crow was sitting on the parapet over it, cawing loudly. Hence Lalmohan Babu’s question.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Feluda replied, ‘but they certainly used to sit
on compound walls and railings. There is enough evidence of that in old pictures drawn at the time.’

‘I don’t even know what those birds looked like!’

‘We could go to the zoo; that’s one way to find out. Or we could go via Corporation Street. The municipal building has its crest on the front wall. There’s a picture of a scavenger bird in it. I can show it to you.’

‘Do you still call it Corporation Street?’ Lalmohan Babu asked with a smile.

‘Oh sorry. It’s got a new name, hasn’t it? I meant Suren Banerjee . . .’.

Feluda stopped. The look in his eyes had changed. He fished out his notebook from his pocket and took a quick look. Then he began to fidget as the waiter had not yet brought our bill. ‘Waiter!’ Feluda called impatiently, which was rather unusual for him.

When the bill had been finally brought and paid, we got back to the car at once. Feluda told the driver where to go. As soon as we reached Suren Banerjee Road, Feluda began looking at the number of each building. Not all of them had a number clearly displayed— an unfortunate feature of houses in Calcutta. ‘Keep going,’ he told the driver, ‘Topshe, if you can spot 141, tell me immediately.’

Suddenly, I remembered something. 141 SNB. Surendra Nath Banerjee. My heart began beating faster.

‘Look! There’s 141.’

The car stopped. There was a sign outside the building. ‘Bourne & Shepherd,’ it said. BS! We had found it.

Lalmohan Babu and I went in with Feluda. There was a lift to go upstairs. As we emerged, we found ourselves in a reception area on the first floor. One of the staff came forward to greet us. Feluda hesitated a little before he asked a question. Whatever he said was bound to sound foolish.

‘Er . . . do you have any pictures of Victoria?’ he said finally.

‘The Victoria Memorial?’

‘No, Queen Victoria.’

‘I’m afraid not. We’ve got pictures of only those who came to India. There’s Edward VIII, when he was the Prince of Wales, and George V, the Delhi Durbar . . .’

‘Their photos are still available?’

‘Yes, but there’s no ready-made print. We have the negatives, so prints can be made from those if anyone places an order. We’ve got
all the negatives of photos taken since 1854.’

‘What! 1854?’

‘Bourne & Shepherd is the world’s second oldest photographic studio.’

‘But that means you’ve got thousands and thousands of negatives!’

‘Yes. If you come with me, sir, I can show you everything. See that photo hanging on the wall? It was taken from the top of the Monument in 1880.’

I hadn’t noticed it so far, but now my eyes went straight to it. The photo probably measured 1’ x 5’. It showed Calcutta as she had appeared almost a hundred years ago from the Monument. There was Dalhousie Square, the Esplanade, and then it stretched northward, offering an unbroken view. The church spires rose over every other building. Not a single highrise was anywhere in sight. It was a quiet and peaceful city, there could be no doubt about that.

We were then taken to the room where the negatives were kept. My eyes nearly popped out. Shelves rose almost from the floor to the ceiling. Each was crammed with square brown boxes, bearing the date and description of their contents.

Feluda inspected the shelves and peered closely at some of the dates. Then he glanced at his watch and said, ‘Why don’t you two go for a walk? You can come back in an hour. I have some work to do here.’

We went back to the lift. ‘Your cousin’s wish is my command,’ said Lalmohan Babu, ‘I could never say no to him. He has such a tremendous personality! Anyway, let’s go to Frank Ross.’

We left the car parked in Suren Banerjee Road and walked down Chowringhee towards the Grand Hotel. I had no idea why Lalmohan Babu wanted to go to a chemist, nor did I need to know. Our only aim was to kill time.

We proceeded through the crowded streets, trying to avoid bumping into others. After a while, Lalmohan Babu asked, ‘Do you have any idea what your cousin is thinking?’

I was forced to admit that I was completely in the dark. All I could guess was that someone other than Feluda had read Charlotte Godwin’s diaries and that was somehow linked with Thomas Godwin’s grave being dug up.

‘Do you know that a skeleton can remain intact even two hundred years after the body is buried?’ Lalmohan Babu asked me.

His question reminded me of a story Feluda had told me about Job Charnock’s tomb. I repeated it to Lalmohan Babu. Two hundred
years after Charnock’s death, a priest at St John’s Church suddenly grew suspicious about what lay underground. Had Charnock really been buried there, or had someone simply erected a tombstone? His doubts began to worry him so much that the priest had the grave dug up. At first, his men dug four feet, and found nothing. Then they dug deeper, and another couple of feet lower, the arm of a skeleton slipped out. The priest quickly had the grave refilled.

We entered Frank Ross. Lalmohan Babu walked up to the counter. Just as he had started to say, ‘One Forhans for the gums, family size,’ I spotted a man coming into the shop, and recognized him. It was Naren Biswas’s brother, Girin Biswas. He did not recognize us immediately. I saw him glance at us two or three times before a smile appeared on his face. In his hands was a large parcel. The words Hong Kong Dry Cleaners were printed on it. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘I’ve come to buy some medicines for my brother.’

‘How is he?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.

‘Better, thank you. Oh, by the way, that other gentleman who was with you that day . . . I believe he is the detective, Pradosh Mitter? My brother told me. I had heard his name. In fact, I was thinking . . . ’ Girin Biswas stopped. He was frowning, and seemed a bit preoccupied. Then he said, ‘When is he usually at home?’

‘That’s difficult to say,’ I replied, ‘but you will find our number in the telephone directory. You can give him a call before you come to our house.’

‘Hmm. I wanted to . . . never mind, I will ring him. Tell Mr Mitter I will come and see him, if need be . . . heh heh!’

We returned his ‘heh heh!’ politely, and left the shop.