Fifteen

Dinner invitation at Pandeyji’s house. The number of guests had increased: Dr. Palit, Miss Manna, Byomkesh, and I. We sat around the table to eat. The main dish among the fare—Kashmiri chicken korma.

Byomkesh placed a piece of meat in his mouth, savoring it with half-closed eyes, then said in a voice thick with emotion, “Pandeyji, I am going to steal.”

Pandeyji raised his brows with a smile. “What will you steal?”

“Your cook.”

Byomkesh Samagra

Pandeyji burst into laughter and said, “Impossible.” “Why impossible?” Pandeyji replied, “I am my own cook.” “You—so you cooked this ambrosia yourself! Then why bother with a job in the police? Open a hotel, and you’ll be rolling in riches within three days.” After a while of laughter and banter, Miss Manna said, “Byomkesh Babu, you have deceived me. That won’t do. You must tell the whole story from beginning to end. Tell me how everything happened—I want to hear it all.” Dr. Palit said, “I want to hear it too. These last few days I’ve been half-dead with worry, wondering if I was a suspect. Now, please tell us.” Byomkesh said, “Let us finish eating first. I’ll speak after the meal.” Having eaten our fill, we stepped outside and sat down. Byomkesh took the stem of the hookah in his hand, and Dr. Palit lit a thick cigar. Miss Manna, with a wad of jorda tucked in her cheek, smiled and said, “Now, begin.” Byomkesh drew a few slow, deliberate puffs from the hookah, then began to speak, his words unhurried and measured. “It was in this very room that I first saw Ratikanta. He had come to invite Pandeyji. Handsome face, blue eyes. He made a light jest at Dipnarayan Singh—called him a ‘great man, a kinsman.’ I didn’t know then how much venom was hidden behind that light jest. I knew nothing at the time, so even the word ‘kinsman’ didn’t prick my ears. Now, of course, I have learned that there was a distant connection between Shakuntala and Ratikanta; both were from Pratapgarh, both from once-prominent but now-fallen families, childhood sweethearts. “That night, Ratikanta didn’t learn who I was—Pandeyji had only said, ‘my friend from Calcutta.’ He had no reason to suspect anything. If he had known that the unworthy fellow’s name was Byomkesh Bakshi, who knows what he would have done—perhaps changed his plan altogether. But he was in a bind; there was no time to turn back, the crisis was upon him. “As far as I can surmise, the secret romance between Shakuntala and Ratikanta had a past. There were social obstacles to their marriage, so their wild passions found an outlet in clandestine love, deceiving the eyes of society; their reckless, unrestrained hearts took full advantage of modern permissiveness. Yet all was done in secret. They may have lacked moral shame, but they feared public disgrace; besides, ‘stolen love is a hundred times sweeter.’ There is an intense sweetness in hidden love. “Then, one day, Dipnarayan