“Certainly,” Byomkesh replied, rising to his feet.

Santosh-babu said, “Well then, I’ll go and take some rest. I’m feeling a bit fatigued.”

He strode out of the room with firm steps. There was no sign of weariness in his body. Perhaps it was fatigue of the mind. After such a calamity in the house—Santosh-babu had revealed his secrets with neither evasion nor subterfuge, made no effort to justify himself. When one must speak the profound truths of life, it is best to speak plainly. Yet, his ruthless honesty could not help but trouble me. He was a seasoned businessman and a shrewd politician; perhaps his character would have been better without that dark stain.

A.K. Ray asked Byomkesh, “And now?”

Byomkesh said, “Come, let’s take a look at Hena’s room.”

“Let’s go. Shall we go up to the roof as well?”

“We shall. Since we’re here, let’s see all that needs to be seen.”

Near the round table in the hall, the remaining police officers were conversing in low voices. Except for Ravi Verma, none of the household members were present. Hena’s room lay diagonally across from the dining room, at the far end of the hall. [See plan.] The door to Hena’s room was slightly ajar, a light burning within. The three of us entered. Ravi Verma followed close behind.

The room was quite large. On the main road side, a large arched window; on the east wall, another ordinary window. In front of this window stood a table and chair, beside them a bookshelf. On the other side of the room, a narrow, simple cot was made up; beneath it, two large suitcases were visible. In the corner of the north wall, a narrow door led to an adjoining bathroom. The room was free of clutter, and so appeared rather neat. Perhaps Hena herself was of a tidy disposition.

Standing in the center of the room, Byomkesh looked around and asked, “Was the door open?”

A.K. Ray replied, “No, it was locked. In the deceased’s hand was a leather handbag, and inside it we found a key ring. Here it is.” He produced a bunch of keys from his pocket.

Taking the keys in hand, Byomkesh said, “So Hena locked her room before going up to the roof.”

A.K. Ray said, “That’s how it appears.”

Ravi Verma made a sound like a cough, his fist before his mouth. When Byomkesh turned to him, he said, “Hena never stepped out of her room without locking the door. Never left it open, not even for a moment.”

Byomkesh asked, “Is that so? Was it always this way, or did something prompt it?”

“Always this way.”

Byomkesh said nothing further. Examining the key ring, he said, “I see there are five keys. One must be for the door lock. And the others?”

A.K. Ray replied, “Two of the others are for the suitcases. The remaining two—we haven’t identified what they open.”

Byomkesh examined each key in turn and said, “One of them has a number engraved on it—”

Byomkesh Samagra

remains—number 7. See if this key fits anywhere.” A.K.R. examined the key and said, “No. Of the two locks whose keys are missing, this is one.” “There aren’t any padlocks on the table drawers?” “There are. But all the drawers are open. The keys are missing.” “Hm. What do you think?” The two men exchanged glances for a moment. Finally, A.K.R. said, “Hard to say. Often the lock goes missing, but the key remains on the ring.” Byomkesh looked at Rabivarma and asked, “Can you say anything?” Rabivarma shook his head. “I know nothing about this room. This is the first time I’ve entered it.” Byomkesh made a sound in his throat, handed the bunch of keys back to A.K.R., and went to stand before the table.

On one side stood a table with drawers, covered in red baize, with nothing atop it but a couple of books. Then his eyes fell upon a single red rose lying on the red baize. There was no vase in the room, and the rose had been left there so carelessly, it seemed strange. Byomkesh did not touch the flower. He leaned forward to examine it closely, then raised his eyes to the open window at the head of the table and said, “Fresh flower. Are there roses in the garden?” The view beyond the window was lost in darkness. Rabivarma replied, “Yes.” Byomkesh turned to A.K.R. and asked, “What do you think about the rose? Why is it lying on the table like this?” A.K.R. silently pointed outside the window. Byomkesh nodded in agreement. “That’s what I think too. When Hena was not in the room, someone plucked the rose from the garden and tossed it onto the table through the bars of the window.” All our eyes turned to Rabivarma, the same question in each gaze—who could have thrown it? But Rabivarma avoided our questioning eyes, glancing here and there, and finally said, “I don’t know anything.” Byomkesh sighed and began opening the drawers one by one. I went to stand before the bookshelf.

Two rows of books. In the first row: Rabindranath’s *Sanchayita*, Satyen Dutta’s *Kabyasanchayan*, Nazrul’s *Sanchita*, and a few novels by modern writers. The second row held many cheap editions of English novels. Hena read foreign mysteries and thrillers too. “Ajit, look.” I turned to see Byomkesh had taken a photograph from a drawer and was staring at it intently. Mounted on cardboard, postcard-sized—a portrait of a woman. I glanced at it and exclaimed, “Hena’s photo.” Byomkesh shook his head. “No. The photo is several years old, see how yellowed it is, yet the woman can’t be less than twenty-five. It can’t be Hena, perhaps Hena’s mother. Now I see where Hena got her beauty.” I had never seen Hena alive; I had guessed her beauty from her corpse. Now, looking at this photo, it felt as though I was seeing her in life. Not just beauty—an inexhaustible vitality.