We returned to London. Much to our surprise, another Indian rang Feluda the next morning. It was a South Indian gentleman called Satyanathan. ‘I saw your ad in the Times, Mr Mitter,’ he said on the phone, ‘but I couldn’t ring you earlier as I was a little busy. I could tell you a few things about Peter Dexter. Would it be all right if I came to your hotel at eleven?’ ‘Sure.’ Mr Satyanathan arrived on time. He was quite dark, but his hair was totally white. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you before,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘Do you live in London?’ ‘Yes, in north London—in Kilburn. I teach in a school. Peter Dexter and I went to college together.’ ‘Really? Do you remember a Ranjan Majumdar?’ ‘Oh yes. He and Peter were friends, though they fought a lot.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It was chiefly because of Peter’s attitude towards Indians. He hated them. The only reason why he treated Ranjan differently was the colour of Ranjan’s skin. He was fair enough to pass off as a European. Peter used to say to him: you are half English, I think, you cannot be a genuine Indian.’ ‘How did Peter treat you?’ ‘Need I spell it out? You can see for yourself how dark I am. He used to call me a dirty nigger. I didn’t have the courage to protest.’ ‘Do you remember Peter’s death?’ ‘Of course. I even remember the day. It was the day before Whit Sunday. Peter should never have got into a boat when he couldn’t swim.’ ‘Who else was with him?’ ‘Ranjan.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Absolutely. The sight of Ranjan standing with his clothes dripping wet still keeps coming back to me. I was in my room when it happened. I rushed out only when I heard our gardener Hookins shouting outside. Ranjan had jumped into the river to save his friend, but it was too late. Reginald went in next, but even he couldn’t save his brother.’ ‘Reginald was Peter’s younger brother, wasn’t he?’ ‘Yes, younger by only a year. He was exactly the same. He used to get into trouble frequently with Indian boys, saying nasty, provoking things. The authorities had given him several warnings, to no avail. It was Reginald’s belief that Ranjan could easily have saved Peter, but didn’t. That’s what he went around telling everyone: he deliberately let him drown.’ ‘Ranjan Majumdar did not spend more than a year in Cambridge, did he?’

‘No. He, too, had a serious accident. His family took him back to India after that.’ Mr Satyanathan had no further information to give. He rose, said goodbye and left. When Feluda came back to the room after seeing him off, he was frowning. Later, over lunch, Lalmohan Babu commented, ‘Why, Felu Babu, you seem dissatisfied. What might be the reason?’ ‘I feel doubtful about something.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Well, I can’t help feeling Hookins did not tell us all he knew. For some reason, he kept certain facts to himself.’ ‘What are you going to do about it?’ ‘There’s only one thing we can do. Let’s go back to Cambridge and find his house. He told us the name of his street. Do you remember what it was, Topshe?’ ‘Chatworth Street.’ ‘Good. I think all we need to do is ask the police in Cambridge. They’ll tell us how to find it. I’ believe the English police are most helpful.’ After lunch, Feluda said he had to go out briefly for some work. We’d go to Cambridge when he got back. There were frequent trains to Cambridge, so getting there would not be a problem. We finally left at half past four. It was dark by the time we reached Cambridge. The streetlights had been switched on. We came out of the station and began walking down the main road. Feluda spotted a constable in a few moments. ‘We’re looking for Chatworth Street,’ he said to him. ‘Could you please point us in the right direction?’ The man gave us such excellent directions that we had no difficulty in finding it. It took us about half an hour to get there. Chatworth Street was a narrow lane, very obviously not a posh area. There was no one about, except a man who came out of his house to pick up a fat cat sleeping near his gate. Feluda hastened his speed to speak to him before he disappeared. ‘Excuse me, do you happen to know where Mr Hookins lives?’ ‘Fred Hookins? Number sixteen.’ We thanked the man, and found the house easily enough. Each house had its number clearly written. When we knocked on the front door of number sixteen, Hookins himself opened it. ‘You! What are you doing here?’ ‘May we come in,’ please?’ ‘Yes, certainly.’ Hookins moved aside to let us go through. We stepped into a small lounge. A settee and a chair seemed to fill the whole room. We sat down. ‘Well?’ Hookins looked enquiringly at Feluda. ‘I’d like to ask you a few more questions.’ ‘About the drowning?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’ve already told you all I know.’ ‘I’d like to ask some different questions, if I may.’ ‘All right.’

‘Mr Hookins, do you seriously believe that someone sitting in a boat that’s only cruising along a river very slowly can fall into the water and drown?’ ‘Any boat can capsize in a storm. There was a high wind that day.’ ‘I went to a library today and found the report published the day after the accident. It mentions Peter Dexter’s death, but there’s no mention of a storm. I looked at the weather report for that day. The wind speed had been 20-25 mph. Would you call that a very high wind?’ Hookins did not reply. In the silence that followed, all I could hear was a table clock ticking away. ‘You are hiding something, Mr Hookins. What is it?’ ‘It happened so long ago . . .’ ‘Yes, but it’s