Byomkesh munched on a savoury for a few minutes, then suddenly asked after a sip of tea, ‘Does anyone in the village own a horse?’

Balaram-babu’s eyes began to protrude, while the young men exchanged glances. ‘No one in the village owns a horse,’ Balaram-babu answered eventually.

‘Anyone have a gun-licence?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I’ve been told of a young man named Nadu, I don’t know what his full name is. I’d like to ask him a question or two.’

Balaram-babu looked at the young men, who exchanged glances again. Then Patal said, ‘Nadu left for his wife’s parents’ house with her yesterday.’

‘Where do they live?’

‘In Kailashpur. You have to take a train; it’s three or four stations from Santalgola.’

Byomkesh finished his tea, lost in thought. Nadu may have been innocent, but why had he fled? Was he afraid? Not surprising—who would not be apprehensive if their name were dragged into a murder?

Suddenly one of the young men said, ‘There’s Sadananda-da.’

We turned our heads as one. A gentleman was approaching along the road. Although he looked rustic, his attire was far from rustic; he was dressed in a silk kurta and a warm shawl, with burnished shoes on his feet and a canvas bag in his hand.

‘Have you seen how nattily Sadananda-da’s dressed?’ whispered one of the young men to another. ‘He must have been to Calcutta.’

As he was passing us, Patal called out, ‘Have you heard what’s happened, Sadananda-da?’

Sadananda-babu stopped, observed Byomkesh and me, and asked, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Amra’s died,’ answered Patal.

‘Died!’ Unadulterated surprise surfaced in Sadananda-babu’s eyes. ‘Died of what?’

‘He wasn’t ill,’ Patal told him. ‘He was shot dead. No one knows who killed him.’

Sadananda-babu’s face turned to stone, he stared fixedly. ‘You’d better go home now since you’ve only just arrived, you can hear the whole story later,’ Patal said.

Sadananda-babu hesitated for a few moments before proceeding on his way slowly.

After he had disappeared from sight, Byomkesh asked Patal, ‘Didn’t Sadananda-babu have a canvas bag and a steel trunk when he left?’

‘You’re right,’ replied Patal, ‘that’s what Hiru the headman had said. Where did he leave his trunk?’

No one had a suitable answer. Looking around him, Byomkesh rose to his feet. ‘It’s getting on for evening, we’ll be on our way now. It would have helped to have had a word with Sadananda-babu, but he’s only just returned …’

Before Byomkesh could finish, a loud explosion shook us momentarily. Then Byomkesh leapt on to the road and raced towards Sadananda Sur’s house. We followed. That was where the sound had come from.

Arriving at Sadananda Sur’s house, we discovered that the main door had collapsed on the front terrace, on which lay Sadananda Sur’s blood-soaked body. The stench of gunpowder was spreading on the evening breeze.

Byomkesh and I climbed on the terrace, while those following us gathered at one corner and stared in round-eyed silence.

It was clear at a glance that Sadananda Sur was no longer alive. It was true that his body was relatively untouched; his right hand still firmly gripped the lock, and his left hand, the key. But his head had been almost entirely severed from his body and twisted backwards, a mixture of blood and grey matter oozing from his crushed skull, and one side of his face was missing altogether. It was a gruesome sight. To think that someone who was alive even three minutes ago was now in this condition made one tremble in nervous trepidation—the limbs ran cold.

The villagers had been speechless all this while. Patal was the first to regain his voice. ‘What’s going on in our village, Byomkesh-babu!’ he asked, his voice shaking.

Byomkesh was examining a piece of welded iron near the shattered door—he probably didn’t hear Patal. Tossing the piece of iron aside, he said, ‘Hand grenade! Where’s the canvas bag gone?’

The bag lay in shreds on one side. Going up to it, Byomkesh examined its interiors. There were some garments, old and new. A new table clock had been flattened by the explosion, while a bottle of hair-oil had been broken, leaving the clothes sodden. There was nothing else.

‘Stay here, Ajit,’ Byomkesh told me. ‘I’ll take a quick look inside the house.’

Not only had the panels of the door collapsed, the arch above the door had also been blown off, leaving several bricks precariously suspended. I couldn’t contain myself when Byomkesh entered through this opening on slow footsteps. Who knew where in this accursed house a ghastly death was lying in wait? If something were to happen to Byomkesh, how would I face Satyabati?

‘I’m coming too,’ I said, taking my life in my hands and following him in.

Turning his head, Byomkesh smiled. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ he said. ‘The threat is now gone, just like Sadananda Sur himself.’

It was getting dark meanwhile, and the light inside the house was dim. ‘Take a look at whatever you need to quickly. It’s getting dark,’ I said.

There were two rooms in the front half of the house, while the kitchen was at the back. None of the rooms held anything of interest. The room whose door had been shattered contained only a broken bedstead; in the next room, the mattress and pillows on another cot made it clear that this was the master’s bedroom. There was nothing besides a few dirty clothes in a cupboard set in the wall, its doors open.

The kitchen was in the same state. There were a few plates and glasses, pots and pitchers, and cooking utensils. The clay oven was dirty too, ash heaped inside it. ‘Sadananda Sur did not seem to have been particularly well off,’ I observed.

‘Hmm,’ said Byomkesh. ‘Did you notice that door?’ He pointed at the door.

I went up to it for a closer look. The kitchen door led into the backyard. It was shut, but opened at a touch.