One morning in the month of Kartik, Byomkesh and I had just finished our tea and eggs in our Harrison Road lodgings and settled down with the newspaper. Satyabati was engaged in household chores inside. Putiram had gone to the market.

After Byomkesh’s marriage, I had proposed to find another place to live; after all, it is a friend’s duty to ensure the newlyweds’ life is undisturbed. But neither Byomkesh nor Satyabati would let me go. And so, for the past four years, we have lived together under the same roof. With Byomkesh, I no longer felt the want of a brother; with Satyabati, I found both a sister and a sister-in-law. Moreover, the prospect of a nephew arriving soon had recently become imminent. Life passed in unexpected happiness and peace.

We divided the newspaper between us. I took the front page, Byomkesh the inside pages. Byomkesh had little interest in the headlines printed in bold on the front; his mind wandered more in the bylanes than the main thoroughfares of the news.

Suddenly, looking up from the paper, Byomkesh asked, “Do you know the name Ishan Chandra Majumdar?”

I thought for a moment and replied, “The name sounds familiar. Who is he?”

Byomkesh said, “He was a professor of history. I was his student for a while in Berhampore. The gentleman has passed away.”

I said, “Well, if you were his student, he must have been old enough to die by now.”

“Perhaps so. But it wasn’t a natural death. He died of snakebite.”

“Oh.”

“Last year, where we went to recover our health, he went there this year. That’s where he died.”

That hill-encircled town in the Santhal Parganas! We had spent a few joyful weeks there; memories of those days, which had begun to fade, returned to me. Mr. Mohidhar, Purandar Pandey, Dr. Ghatak, Rajani—

There was a knock at the outer door. Opening it, I found the postman. An envelope, addressed to Byomkesh. Letters were a rare occurrence for us. Handing the letter to Byomkesh, I watched him with curiosity.

He read it and looked up with a smile. “Guess who it’s from?”

I said, “How should I know? I don’t have X-ray eyes.”

“From D.S.P. Purandar Pandey.”

In surprise I exclaimed, “Really! I was just thinking about him!”

Byomkesh nodded, “So was I. Not only that, the matter of Professor Majumdar—”

Durgarahasya 293

“—exists.” “Astonishing!” Byomkesh said, “Such strange things do happen from time to time. Someone I haven’t thought of in years suddenly comes to mind, and then, as if conjured, appears in the flesh. The pundits call it ‘coincidence’—samapattan. But the mystery runs deeper. Somewhere, there is a hidden connection, invisible to our eyes—” “Let that be. What has Pandey written?” “Read it for yourself.” “Read it for yourself.” I read the letter. The essence of what Pandey had written was this:

Recently, a mysterious incident has occurred here. Some distance from the city, atop a hill, lives a prosperous family; the master of the house had an elderly friend, Ishan Majumdar, who had come for a change of air. He died suddenly. The official cause of death is said to be snakebite, but both the post-mortem doctor and the police harbor suspicions. ... Byomkesh Babu is fond of mysteries; besides, it is winter now, and the climate here is most pleasant. If he, along with his companions, would come and accept the humble hospitality of this poor man for a few days, then both ‘seeing the chariot festival’ and ‘selling bananas’—that is, pleasure and business—would be accomplished at once.

When I finished reading the letter, Byomkesh asked, “Well, what do you say?” I replied, “Why not? It’s not as if you have much work here at the moment. But Satyabati—” Byomkesh said, “In her condition, I can’t take her anywhere—” “That’s true. But what if she wants to go? Or what if she refuses to let you go? At such times, women’s minds become so unfathomable, it’s impossible to know what they want—” I stopped, hearing footsteps from within.

Satyabati entered. Her face had grown gaunt, her figure like a fish heavy with roe. She came in and collapsed into a chair. We remained silent. Then, wearily, Satyabati said, “Send me to Dada’s place. I can’t bear it here any longer.”

Byomkesh and I exchanged glances. He said, “You can’t bear it? Why not?” Satyabati replied in a flat voice, “I can’t stand you two anymore. Just looking at you makes me angry.” This was surely a symptom of her condition, for there was no other reason to be angry at us. Byomkesh let out a pained sigh and said, “Go then, I won’t stop you. Ajit will take you to Sukumar’s place. —And perhaps, in the meantime, we too can take the opportunity to go somewhere.”

Upon receiving our telegram, Purandar Pandey himself was at the station to receive us, and took us to his home. There, as we demolished the ample spread of food, we inquired after familiar faces. Everyone was as before, except Malati Devi, who was no longer in this world; Professor Som had sold his house and moved away.

Then we turned to business. Purandar Pandey gave a detailed account of Professor Ishan Chandra Majumdar’s death. Along with this, we learned much about Ramkishore’s family affairs. The account of Professor Majumdar’s death was as follows:—He had been staying at the fort for about a month, his health much improved. A few days ago, after finishing his dinner as usual, he—

Byomkesh Samagra

He paced the courtyard; at that time, Master Ramapati was with him. Around half past nine, Ramapati returned home, leaving the professor alone. What transpired in the fort that night, no one knows. The next morning, Ramapati went to the fort again. There he found the professor lying dead near the door of his bedchamber. On his heel was the mark of a serpent’s bite, on the back of his head near the neck a