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 it over to me.

I examined it thoroughly. It was difficult to decipher at first. There was nothing left of the ink, only a few words could be guessed at from the scratches left by the nib—

Trouble … needmon

Or else … father … desperate … your … badd …

I conveyed my reading to Byomkesh. ‘Yes, that is what I thought too. Let me keep this.’ Folding the piece of paper, he put it in his pocket.

‘The writer was probably not very well educated,’ I said. ‘He wrote “badd”.’

‘The word may not be “bad”,’ responded Byomkesh.

‘Let’s go,’ said Shashanka-babu a trifle impatiently. ‘What’s the use of rummaging in the ash heap. Kailash-babu must be awake by now.’

‘Yes, I see his ghostly window is open,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Let us go.’

Approaching the house, we saw Kailash-babu at the window. A withered, pale face—if this had been night and not morning, no one who saw him suddenly at the window would have doubted that he was a ghost.

He invited us upstairs. Byomkesh ran his sharp eyes swiftly over the ground beneath the window. A thick carpet of green grass rolled all the way to the house; it betrayed no telltale signs.

Entering Kailash-babu’s room, we saw that tea had been laid out. Although we had already had a round of tea, we had no objection to another.

The tea was accompanied by conversation. The continuous deterioration of the local weather, the continuous improvement in medical treatment, the qualities of empirical medicine, black magic, exorcism—nothing was omitted. In the course of this conversation, Byomkesh asked, ‘You sleep with the window shut, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ answered Kailash-babu. ‘Ever since its appearance, I have been forced to sleep with the window shut—although the doctor has forbidden it. He wants me to breathe as much fresh air as possible—but I am caught in a bind. What do you think I should do?’

‘Has it helped to keep the window shut?’

‘Not particularly. But at least there’s no sighting. Since it appears at the dead of night to rattle the window, I simply cannot sleep alone in the room; one of my servants sleeps on the floor.’

Rising to his feet when we had finished our tea, Byomkesh said, ‘I shall now examine the room carefully. Please don’t take it amiss, Shashanka—I am not casting aspersions on your—that is to say, the police’s—abilities; but muninancha matibhrama —even the sages lose their heads at times. I am conducting this examination just in case something escaped your attention.’

‘Very well—go ahead,’ responded Shashanka-babu scathingly. ‘But if you can unearth a clue to Baikuntha-babu’s murderer after all these days, I’ll consider you a wizard.’

‘By all means,’ smiled Byomkesh. ‘But never mind all that. Was there no furniture at all in this room on the day of Baikuntha-babu’s death?’

‘I’ve already told you there was nothing but the bed made on the floor, a jar of water and the paan-case. Oh yes, a