When we drove up to the gates of Golap Colony, it was a little short of eight o’clock. But the heat was already growing in intensity. We paid off the taxi and entered the compound.

The garden was deserted. None of the gardeners were at work. The huts too, looked abandoned. We looked around and couldn’t spot a soul anywhere.

When we reached Nishanathbabu’s house, Bijoy stepped out. His hair was dishevelled and his feet were bare. He had a thin shawl draped around him and his eyes were bloodshot. In a hoarse voice, he said, ‘Please come in.’

Once we had entered the drawing room, Byomkesh suggested, ‘Come, let me take a look around first. Then you can give me an account of it all.’

Bijoy led us into the next room. It was the same one in which we had taken our siesta the other day. The window was open. The bed stood at one end. On it lay the corpse, covered with a sheet.

We went and stood by the bed. Carefully, Byomkesh lifted the sheet.

Nishanathbabu looked as if he were sleeping. He wore silk pyjamas. The rest of his torso was bare. His face looked a bit puffy, as though a surfeit of blood had flowed through it. But otherwise his body was unmarked by signs indicating death or its cause.

After examining the body in silence for a few minutes, Byomkesh suddenly pointed and exclaimed, ‘What on earth …! Socks!’

I hadn’t noticed—the soles of Nishanathbabu’s feet were partly covered by the material of his pyjamas—what I now saw: He was wearing socks. Byomkesh bent to examine them closely. ‘Woollen socks,’ he mused. ‘Was he in the habit of wearing socks to bed?’

Bijoy was standing there like one in a trance. He shook his head and replied, ‘No.’

Byomkesh pulled the sheet back over the corpse and said, ‘Okay, I’ve finished. Have you sent for a doctor? You’ll need a doctor’s certificate.’

Bijoy replied, ‘Mushkil has taken the buggy and gone into town. Nagen Pal is a well-known doctor in these parts. But what conclusion have you drawn, Byomkeshbabu?’

‘We can discuss that later. Where is your Kakima?’

‘She is still lying in a faint.’ Bijoy led us to the next room. We parted the curtains at the door and found that this too was a bedroom. Damayanti Devi lay unconscious on the bed. Dr Bhujangadhar sat by it, ministering to her; he was sprinkling water over her face and head and holding an open bottle of ammonia to her nose.

On seeing us, Bhujangadhar came over. His face was dolefully sombre, his natural devil-may-care briskness a trifle subdued. In a low voice, he whispered, ‘She’s still unconscious, but it won’t be long now before she comes to.’

The conversation went on in hushed tones. Byomkesh asked, ‘Since when has she been in this state?’

Bhujangadharbabu said, ‘For nearly three hours now. She was the first to discover him. When she woke up this morning, she must have gone into his room and found him like that. She screamed and fainted on the spot. She’s yet to regain consciousness.’

‘Have you seen the body?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘What do you think? Was it a natural death?’

The doctor’s eyes widened as he looked at Byomkesh. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘I do not have the right to express my opinions on the matter. Let the “real” doctor arrive. He’ll tell us whatever there is to say.’ With these words, Bhujangadharbabu returned to Damayanti Devi’s bedside.

We returned to the drawing room. In the meantime, Brojodas had come in and was standing by the door. He bowed low in greeting. Grief and distress showed on his face as did a sharp anxiety. In a broken voice, he said, ‘How could this befall us! We are so used to the shelter of a high mountain, what will happen to us? Where will we go now?’

We seated ourselves. Byomkesh said, ‘In all likelihood, you won’t need to go anywhere. The farm will continue to run as before. Please sit down.’

Brojodas remained on his feet. With a resolute look on his face, he stood with his back to the window.

Byomkesh asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Nishanathbabu yesterday?’

‘In the evening. He seemed to be fine at the time.’

‘Did he mention anything about his blood pressure?’

‘Nothing at all.’

Mushkil’s vehicle pulled up outside. Bijoy went out and returned with Dr Nagendra Pal. The doctor carried a bag in his hand. A stethoscope hung out of his pocket. He was an elderly man, but quite nimble in his movements. Murmuring practised phrases of comfort and commiseration in an undertone, Dr Pal followed Bijoy into the next room. I caught the tail end of his words of consolation: ‘… there is a cure for all illnesses except the one called death …’

Once he had gone into the next room, Byomkesh asked Brojodas, ‘Is Dr Pal a frequent visitor here?’

‘He drops by once in a while. He is the farm’s official doctor. Of course, Bhujangadharbabu takes care of everything here. Dr Pal is summoned only when necessary.’

Dr Pal emerged from the room fifteen minutes later, followed by Bijoy and Bhujangadharbabu. His features were arranged in a professional mask of condolence. Dr Pal darted a quick glance at Byomkesh—it appeared as if he had already obtained the latter’s particulars from Bijoy. He took a seat, brought a letterhead notepad out of his bag and made as if to write on it.

Byomkesh leaned towards him and asked, ‘Do forgive me, but are you about to write out the death certificate?’

Dr Pal raised an eyebrow as he looked up and replied, ‘I am.’

‘So you believe it was a natural death?’ Byomkesh asked him.

A corner of his lips tilted up as Dr Pal smiled and observed, ‘There is no such thing as natural death; every death is unnatural. It