Lying back in an easy chair, Byomkesh replied, ‘The ghost made an appearance.’ Sighing, he added, as though talking to himself, ‘But Barada-babu’s ghost and Kailash-babu’s ghoul have joined hands to make the whole thing exceedingly complicated.’

The following day was Sunday. As soon as he had awakened in the morning, Byomkesh told Shashanka-babu, ‘Let us pay a visit to Kailash-babu.’

‘Do you want to see the ghost again?’ asked Shashanka-babu. ‘But what use is it visiting in daylight? The formless one can be seen only at night.’

‘But we may see what does have form—what is material.’

‘Very well, let us go.’

We arrived at our destination even before seven o’ clock. Kailash-babu’s house was not completely awake yet. A drowsy servant was sweeping the veranda downstairs; the door to the householder’s bedroom upstairs was still shut. ‘No harm done,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Let us explore the garden meanwhile.’

The grass was moist with dew. The puckered surface of the deodar leaves glittered in the golden sunlight. The autumn morning was exquisitely spotless. We roamed all over the garden.

The garden was not less than an acre and a half in area, but there were no flowerbeds. A few balsam and oleander bushes were scattered, flowering in neglect. There was no gardener—possibly Baikuntha-babu had not employed one either. When the weeds grew too thick they were probably removed by the servants themselves.

We discovered evidence of this at the western extremity of the garden. A heap of refuse lay by the wall. Ash from the oven, kindling, scraps of paper, garbage … all of it was piled here. Compressed by the sun and the rain, there was a mound of refuse from many years.

Climbing upon the heap, Byomkesh looked around enquiringly. Toeing the earth and ash aside, he peered within. Finding an old tin, he examined it thoroughly before throwing it away. ‘And what might you be looking for in the garbage?’ asked Shashanka-babu, observing his actions.

Without lifting his eyes from the heap of ash, Byomkesh quoted Tagore, ‘As our ancient poet has said, wherever you see ash, look beneath the surface, for you may find … what’s that?’

A cracked, discarded lantern chimney lay there; picking it up, Byomkesh examined the shell. Then, gingerly inserting his fingers, he extracted a tattered piece of paper. It had probably been driven inside the chimney by the wind; and then made a long-standing home of it. Throwing the chimney away, Byomkesh looked closely at the paper. I went up to him in eagerness.

It was a portion of a printed handbill; it seemed to have indistinct images of animals. The elements had discoloured the paper; even the ink had faded so much that discerning the writing seemed impossible.

‘What are you looking at?’ asked Shashanka-babu. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Nothing.’ Turning the piece of paper over, Byomkesh raised it closer to his eyes. ‘There’s something written by hand here. See if you can read it,’ he told me, handing