Nishanathbabu’s visit had stoked our stifled, sweltering lives with renewed vigour. So, when Byomkesh ended his conversation over the phone and came into my room with the words, ‘Ajit, wake up, we are going to Mohanpur,’ I wasted no time and leaped out of bed.

‘When do we have to go?’

‘Immediately. And Ramenbabu is invited too. I got the impression from Nishanathbabu’s remarks that he believes the ex-actress, Sunayana Devi, to be somewhere close at hand. If his suspicions are well-founded, then Ramenbabu has to go there and identify the culprit.’

We arrived at Ramenbabu’s house by eight o’clock. He was ensconced in his drawing room, reading the Anandabazaar . He was clad in a lungi and a sleeveless vest and he greeted us with delight.

On hearing of Byomkesh’s proposal, he stood up enthusiastically and exclaimed, ‘Won’t I go? You bet I will! Please give me five minutes and I’ll get dressed.’ He went inside.

True to his word, he was dressed in five minutes—the perfect dandy, just the way we had seen him the previous evening.

At the Sealdah station, he wouldn’t allow us to purchase the tickets, insisting on buying the three tickets for the first class compartment himself. It was as if his enthusiasm and impatience were greater by far.

In about an hour, we had reached our destination. The station was quite deserted; we went outside to find a man standing by the paan stall, chewing on one and nattering on with the shopkeeper. Byomkesh went up to him and asked, ‘Could you tell us the way to Golap Colony?’

The man shut one eye and inspected us thoroughly; then, he asked in a wry tone, ‘So you want to go to the zoo?’

‘Zoo?’

‘Well, it’s a zoo all right, Golap Colony is. Strange place … weird people. It even beats the Alipore Zoo. It’s not very difficult getting there. There, you can see the chariot from the zoo; climb on to it and it will roll on to its destination.’

We hadn’t noticed it, but in a corner of the station’s compound stood a ramshackle little buggy. It was long and narrow, like the vans that transported girls to school. It carried the name ‘Golap Colony’ in gold paint that had worn so thin that the letters were now hardly discernible. The horse was standing alone, occasionally flicking out a hoof to shoo away the flies; there seemed to be no other soul around.

We approached the carriage and found a man sitting on the footrest behind, lost in his enjoyment of a smoke. He was a Muslim and looked quite old. His beard was sparse, his face riddled with pockmarks, and a wealth of experience was etched into the bleary eyes. He wore shabby pyjamas and a vest. He dropped the beedi when he saw us, stood up and asked, ‘Are you from Calcutta?’

‘Yes. We’d like to go to Golap Colony.’

‘Yes, that’s right, the boss has told me to pick you up. But the problem is …’

So this was Mushkil Mian. Byomkesh asked, ‘What is the problem?’

Mushkil replied, ‘Rashikbabu was also supposed to be on this train. But he hasn’t come. So I’ll have to wait for the next train. But you gentlemen can wait inside the van.’

‘Who is Rashikbabu?’ I asked.

Mushkil replied, ‘One of the gentlemen who work at the farm; he commutes every day. I don’t know why he is late today. Do wait a while. The next train should be here any minute.’

Mushkil opened the doors to the buggy. Although there were four seats for passengers inside, the van was stuffed full of empty crates. It was evident that every morning, these crates brought greens and vegetables from Golap Colony to the station and sent them on their way to Calcutta; the empty crates from the previous day were sent back from the other end. The staff and workers too probably used the van as transport.

The sun was growing hot overhead. Deciding it was wiser to take refuge in the shade of the buggy than to stand around in the heat, we boarded the van.

Mushkil Mian was quite a chatterbox; he loved talking when he got the chance. ‘So, gentlemen,’ he asked. ‘I suppose you will be staying here for a few days?’

Byomkesh replied, ‘We’ll be returning to Calcutta this evening. You’re Mushkil Mian, aren’t you?’

Mushkil grimaced and said, ‘Well, you know, sir, my name is actually Syed Nuruddin. But the problem is that the gentlemen have fondly renamed me Mushkil Mian.’

‘So where’s the problem? How long have you been in Golap Colony?’

‘Nearly seven or eight years now. At the time, only the big boss was here. I am an old employee.’

‘Hmm. Your buggy and horse seem to be quite old too.’

Mushkil lamented, ‘Old is not the word for it. The horse is really on its last legs and it’s just by force of habit that it still draws the carriage. I have advised the mistress time and again to get rid of the van and the horse and to buy a new motor van. But the problem is that the mistress says there’s no money.’

‘The mistress? Nishanathbabu’s wife?’

‘Yes. She’s a gem of a lady.’

‘Is she the one who looks after the farm?’

‘That the boss does too. But the mistress is in charge of the finances and accounts.’

‘But why does Mrs Sen say there is no money? Isn’t the farm doing well for itself?’

A gleam appeared in Mushkil Mian’s unfocussed eyes, hinting at things unsaid. He said, ‘It is doing well all right—where are the ghee, butter, eggs, fruits and flowers going? But you know how it is, sir—the hand that sows the seed is not the one that reaps the harvest.’ He glanced at us conspiratorially.

Byomkesh may have gleaned more classified information from Mushkil Mian but at this point a train pulled into the station