‘Namaskar,’ Feluda replied, returning his greeting. ‘Yesterday, we met briefly at Keventer’s, if you remember.’ ‘Yes, of course. You are Harinarayan Mukherjee, aren’t you?’ ‘That’s right. I must say you have a sharp memory. May I sit here with you for a few minutes?’ ‘Certainly.’ Feluda moved aside to make room for him on the bench. He sat down between Feluda and Lalmohan Babu. ‘You live near Nayanpur Villa, don’t you?’ ‘Yes. I’ve lived here for eleven years.’ ‘I see. You must have heard of the tragedy, so close to your house.’ ‘I have indeed. It’s all very sad, but not totally unexpected, is it?’ ‘Is that what you think?’ ‘I say this because I had known Birupaksha Majumdar a long time. I cannot say we were intimate friends, for he was somewhat reserved by nature; but I had heard a lot about him.’ ‘How?’ ‘I spent nearly ten years in a place called Neelkanthapur in Madhya Pradesh. I was a geologist, working on the local rocks. Mr Majumdar once came to Neelkanthapur, at the invitation of Raja Prithvi Singh, to go tiger hunting on his estate. They had known each other for some time. Mr Majumdar was then in his mid-thirties, I think. Both men had one thing in common. Neither liked to shoot from a high machaan, or even from an elephant. They wanted to go on foot, without taking the help of beaters, and shoot a tiger at close range from the ground. That’s what led to that terrible accident.’ ‘Why, what happened?’ ‘Mr Majumdar hit a man instead of a tiger.’ ‘What!’ ‘Yes. It’s the truth.’ ‘You mean a local villager, or someone like that?’ ‘No. That might have made matters simpler. The man who died was a professor of history in a college, and a Bengali. He was called Sudheer Brahma. Although he taught history, his main interest in life was ayurveda. While the Raja and Mr Majumdar were looking for a tiger, he was roaming around in the forest looking for herbs. Unfortunately, he was draped in a yellow wrapper. Mr Majumdar saw a flash of yellow through some thick foliage, and mistaking it for a tiger, fired a shot. The bullet went straight into Brahma’s stomach. He died instantly.

‘Prithvi Singh had to spend a lot of money and pull a lot of strings to keep this quiet. I should know, for I was a friend of Sudheer Brahma. Mr Majumdar got away with it that time, but in his heart he obviously knew he was a criminal. He had killed a man, never mind if it was only by mistake. He hadn’t paid for it, had he? So how long do you suppose he could go on living, weighed down by this awful load of guilt?’ ‘Do you happen to think there is a link between the present tragedy and what happened so many years ago?’ ‘You are a detective, Mr Mitter, you know about murder and motives. Perhaps I ought to tell you something. Sudheer Brahma had a son called Ramesh. He was sixteen when his father died. Naturally, he hated the idea of the whole thing being hushed up and the killer of his father going scot free. He told me he’d somehow settle scores with the killer when he grew up. He ought to be thirty-eight now.’ ‘Have you been in touch with him all these years?’ ‘No. I left Neelkanthapur twenty years ago. Then I spent a few years in Chhota Nagpur. Finally, I retired and came to Darjeeling. I don’t know if you’ve seen my house. It’s only a small cottage. I live there with my wife. My son works in Calcutta, and my daughter’s married.’ ‘I see. Do you have reason to believe Ramesh Brahma is in Darjeeling at this moment?’ ‘No. But to be honest, if he came and stood before me today, I doubt that I could recognize him after twenty-two years. All I can tell you is that he had seemed absolutely determined to avenge his father’s death.’ Mr Mukherjee finished his tale. It was undoubtedly a strange tale, and one that I knew would give Feluda fresh food for thought. ‘Thank you very much indeed, for telling us all this,’ he said to Mr Mukherjee. ‘Even if Sudheer Brahma’s son isn’t here, the very fact that such an event had occurred in Mr Majumdar’s life is surprising. Mind you, he had hinted that there was something in his life he couldn’t talk about, and you yourself had vaguely mentioned something similar, but I could never have imagined it to be this! If you say you were actually present in Neelkanthapur when it happened, I see no reason to doubt your word.’ There seemed no point in continuing to sit in one place. All of us rose to our feet, and Mr Mukherjee said goodbye. We began walking towards Observatory Hill. The familiar frown was back on Feluda’s face. He had clearly decided it was no longer an easy and simple case. ‘God knows if Mr Mukherjee’s story is going to help or hinder my thinking,’ he remarked, walking through the mist. ‘My thoughts, at this moment, are a bit like this place—covered by a haze, muddled and unclear. If only I could see a ray of sunshine!’ A Nepali with a horse emerged from the mist. ‘Would you like a horse, babu?’ he asked. But we ignored him and walked on. The road curved to the left; on the right was a gorge. We turned left, trying to steer clear of the edge on our right. The railing by the side of the road was practically invisible. On a clear day, it was so easy to see Kanchenjunga from here, but today it seemed as though we were surrounded by an impenetrable white wall. Soon, the railing ended. We had to be doubly careful now, for if we went just a little too close to the edge on our right, there was