Beni-Sanghar

One

It was morning. Byomkesh sat in his Keyatala house with a cup of tea and the newspaper. It was a winter morning, around eight o’clock. I, Ajit, had already hurriedly finished my tea and gone out—there was a meeting to be had with a famous author. The gentleman had promised to give me a copy of his new book, but celebrated writers have many suitors; it was necessary to secure the book in advance.

After finishing the advertisements in the newspaper, Byomkesh lifted his teacup. The remaining tea had grown cold; with a single gulp he emptied the cup and picked up the paper again. Now it was time to read the news.

These days, reading the newspaper makes it clear that the world is not in its right mind. Earthquakes, tidal waves, floods, droughts—these are ever-present, but beyond that, people themselves seem to have gone mad. War, revolution, internal strife, strikes, lockouts, bombs, tear gas, lathi charges. Perhaps it is because the population has grown so vast that no one finds peace anymore. Where there is such crowding and congestion, how can peace be found?

He did not need to turn the page. On the very first page was the account of a dreadful murder. The killing had occurred the night before last, was discovered yesterday morning, and today it was in the paper. It had happened in South Calcutta, not far from Byomkesh’s own home; a short walk south along the main road brought one to the immense three-storied house, with the name “Benimadhab” inscribed in large letters across its forehead. Byomkesh had passed by the house many times, but had never made the acquaintance of its inhabitants. From the newspaper he learned that the owner, the elderly Benimadhab Chakraborty, and his bodyguard had both been murdered in a brutal fashion.

Byomkesh read the account of the murder with keen attention, then absentmindedly lit a cigarette. Such a ghastly crime had taken place in the neighborhood the night before last, and yet he had heard nothing of it. Rakhal was the local inspector; surely he had taken charge of the investigation, but had not informed Byomkesh. Perhaps the matter was straightforward, with no mystery or complexity, and so Rakhal had not come. These days, even a truly intricate mystery had become a rare thing—

The telephone rang. Byomkesh reached out and held the receiver to his ear. From the other end came a voice: “Byomkesh-da? It’s Rakhal. Have you read today’s paper?”

Byomkesh replied, “I have. Beni-Sanghar?”

“What did you say—Beni-Sanghar? Oh yes, yes, Beni-Sanghar indeed, along with Meghraj-badh. I’m speaking from the scene itself.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The matter seems a bit tangled. I’ve been investigating since yesterday morning. Still no—”

No trace could be found. Are you very busy?' 'No.' 'Then could you come over here once? It’s not far from your house, just five minutes away. The house is called Benimadhab.' 'I know it.' 'When will you come?' 'Immediately.'

Two

Benimadhab Chakraborty had amassed a fortune as a contractor for the government’s military department. His sprawling three-storied house on Sadar Road in South Calcutta was but a modest testament to that wealth.

Benimadhab was a man of shrewd intelligence. Years of contracting had stripped him of faith in the honesty of mankind. Yet, for all that, his heart had not grown narrow. He accepted the faults of his family—and his own—with a smile.

Benimadhab’s household was not large. He had become a widower soon after reaching manhood; his wife left behind a son and a daughter. When they came of age, Benimadhab arranged their marriages. The son, Ajay, grew into a thorough good-for-nothing; after squandering some of his father’s money in failed business ventures, he returned to rest on his father’s shoulders. Benimadhab made no further attempt to employ him. He himself spent most of his time away from home; Ajay lived on the second floor with his wife Arati and their children, Makaranda and Laboni. Benimadhab provided for their household expenses.

He had married off his daughter well; his son-in-law, Gangadhar, had inherited property. But, emboldened by his wealthy father-in-law, Gangadhar lost everything at the races. His daughter, Gayatri, returned to her father in tears. Benimadhab took in his daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter Jhillika; just as he gave his son a monthly allowance, he allotted the same for his daughter.

Benimadhab’s house, as I have said, was three stories high. The top floor had only three rooms, the rest was a vast terrace. Benimadhab kept this floor for himself; if he was away, it remained locked. The second floor had eight rooms and a continuous veranda in front; here, Benimadhab arranged for his son Ajay and daughter Gayatri to live side by side. Their kitchens, of course, were separate. There was no harmony between the two households, but neither dared quarrel openly. Benimadhab was fond of his children, but he was a man of gravity, and knew how to be strict.

On the ground floor was a massive hall, furnished in the English style like a drawing-room: a low round table in the center, two sofas and several heavy, cushioned chairs around it, and a few more stiff-backed chairs lined up against the wall. But the room was rarely used; only on the rare occasion when a visitor called would a guest be seated there. The remaining five rooms, though designated for guests and visitors, were locked up most of the time.

But they did not remain locked for long. Benimadhab had two younger maternal cousins, both long since deceased...

Beni Sanhar

...had gone; their two sons, Sanat Ganguli and Nikhil Haldar—cousins by their mothers—worked in Calcutta. They did not have good lodgings, so Benimadhab brought them into his own house. They stayed in two rooms on the ground floor.

So it appears: Benimadhab’s sons, daughters, grandchildren, and two nephews—seven dependents in all. There were no male servants in the house; two maids came during the day to do the chores and