Two days later, Feluda’s ad came out in the Times. Surprisingly enough, someone rang Feluda the very next day at 8 a.m. ‘A man called Archibald Cripps,’ Feluda told me, replacing the receiver. ‘He sounded rather aggressive. But he said he could tell me something about Peter Dexter. He’ll be here in half an hour. Go and tell Lalmohan Babu. This may prove to be quite interesting.’ Lalmohan Babu was dressed and ready. He came over to our room and said he had never dreamt a little notice like that would fetch such a quick result. At a quarter past nine, someone knocked at our door. The man who entered looked as rough as were his manners. He glared at Lalmohan Babu and said, ‘Well? Who’re you? Mitter?’ ‘No, no. He is,’ Lalmohan Babu pointed quickly at Feluda. ‘I am Cripps,’ our visitor scowled. ‘What do you want to know about Dexter?’ ‘To start with, where is he now?’ ‘He is in heaven.’ ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. When did he die?’ ‘Many years ago, when he was in Cambridge.’ ‘Was he a student there?’ ‘Yeah. Like an idiot, he tried to row on the river Cam.’ ‘Why should that make him an idiot?’ ‘Because he couldn’t swim, that’s why. The boat capsized. He drowned.’ ‘He had many siblings, didn’t he?’ ‘Yeah. Five brothers and two sisters. I only know what happened to two of them—George, who was the eldest and Reginald, the youngest. George was in the Indian Army. He came back after your independence. He used to say only the Sikhs and Gurkhas were any good in India. The rest were either crooks or just bloody idle. None of the Dexters liked Indian niggers.’ ‘Niggers? There are no niggers in India, Mr Cripps. In fact, even in America, blacks are no longer called niggers.’ Feluda’s face was set. ‘You appear to be in agreement with the Dexters, Mr Cripps,’ he added. ‘You bet I am! They were right, absolutely right.’ ‘In that case, I don’t want this conversation to go any further. Thank you for your time.’ The coldness in Feluda’s voice seemed to soften Mr Cripps. ‘Look here,’ he said a shade more politely. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ ‘No?’ ‘No. I said all that because Reginald’s name came up. He was the youngest of the lot. He’s still in India, in a tea estate. But he won’t be there for long.’

There was a pause. Feluda simply stared at Mr Cripps, saying nothing. ‘—Because he has cancer,’ Cripps went on. ‘He went to India just to make money. He has no affection for the country.’ Feluda stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Cripps. I don’t need to learn anything more.’ Cripps got to his feet, looking rather uncertain. Then he said, ‘Good day!’ and strode out of the room. ‘What an awful man! But you set him straight, Felu Babu. I am very glad about that. I mean, putting an Englishman in his place here in London is no joke, is it?’ ‘Never mind, he’s gone now. At least we learnt something useful. Peter Dexter was in Cambridge and died in a boating accident.’ ‘So what do we do now?’ ‘We haven’t much time. Don’t forget we must return the day after tomorrow. Let’s go to Cambridge today, straight after lunch.’ We left at one-thirty, catching a train from Liverpool Street station. It took us an hour to reach Cambridge. The trains in Britain ran faster and, like the buses, were clean and well maintained. Cambridge was a beautiful place. The university, with all its ancient glory, stood in its centre. There were several colleges, but Dr Sen had told us Ranjan Majumdar had gone to Trinity. So we made our way there. We were directed to a Mr Tailor, who had access to old records. ‘Yes,’ he said, checking through some papers. ‘In 1951 a boy called Ranjan Majumdar was admitted to this college, and there was a Peter Dexter in his class.’ ‘I believe Dexter drowned in the river. Is that right?’ ‘Sorry, I am afraid I wouldn’t know. I’ve been working here only for the last seven years. What you can do is speak to old Hookins. He’s our gardener, been working here for forty years. You’ll probably find him in the garden.’ ‘Thank you.’ We had to ask a couple of people before Hookins was pointed out to us. He didn’t look very old, though all his hair had turned white. We found him trimming a hedge. ‘You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?’ Feluda began. ‘Yes,’ Hookins replied, ‘but I’m soon going to retire. I am sixty-three, you know, although I can work as hard as any other man. My house in Chatworth Street is two miles from here. I come walking every day.’ ‘How do you get on with the students? Do you come across many of them?’ ‘Oh, all the time. They love me. Many of them stop by for a chat, some even offer me a smoke, or a beer. I get on very well with them.’ ‘Can you remember things that happened in the past? How good is your memory?’ ‘Pretty good, though sometimes I forget things that happened recently. Why do you ask?’ ‘Can you cast your mind back forty years ago?’ ‘What for?’ ‘Boys here take boats out on the river, don’t they?’ ‘So do girls.’ ‘Yes, but can you remember an instance where a boat capsized and a boy died?’

Hookins was silent for a few moments. He had stopped smiling. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I remember. It was very sad. An English boy—can’t remember his name. He couldn’t swim, so he drowned.’ ‘Didn’t he have an Indian friend?’ ‘Yes, I think he did.’ ‘Was this Indian boy in the boat with him?’ ‘Maybe he was . . . maybe . . .’ ‘Where were you when it happened?’ ‘I wasn’t far, just sitting behind a bush, taking a break. I