The fair at Kenduli was being held at a temple built two hundred and fifty years ago, by the Maharani of Burdwan. We had arrived together in Lalmohan Babu’s car. His driver was given the day off. Feluda drove. Lalmohan Babu and I sat next to him. Peter, Tom and Jagannath Chatterjee sat at the back. A large group of hauls had gathered under a huge banyan tree. One of them was playing his ektara and singing. Mr Chatterjee began explaining the history of the place and the details of the carvings. I noticed, to my surprise, that many of the figures carved on the walls and pillars of the temple were figures from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. Peter was listening to Mr Chatterjee with rapt attention. Tom had disappeared. Mr Chatterjee stopped after a while and ambled off in a different direction. Feluda seized this opportunity to ask Peter the question that had been bothering me since yesterday. ‘Is everything all right between Tom and you? He’s been behaving rather oddly, hasn’t he? I don’t like it, Peter. Can you really trust him?’ ‘Yes, I think so. I’ve known him for twenty-two years. We went to the same school and college. He was fine back home but I’ve noticed a few changes in him since our arrival in India. Sometimes he behaves as though the British are still the rulers here. Besides, back in England he didn’t seem interested in selling the ruby at all. Now, he’s not averse to the idea of filling his pockets.’ ‘Is he in need of money?’ ‘In a way, yes. You see, he wants to travel all over the world, taking photos everywhere, particularly where he can see stark poverty. At this moment, neither of us has the kind of money we’d need to travel so widely. But if we sold that ruby, then there would be no problem.’ ‘What if he sold it without telling you?’ ‘No, I’m sure he would not betray my trust completely. I’ve been speaking to him sternly and seriously since yesterday, trying to make him see reason. I think he’ll come round before long.’ Feluda looked around for Tom. But still there was no sign of him. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ ‘No, I’m afraid not. He didn’t tell me.’ ‘I am beginning to get a nasty suspicion.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Look over there. Can you see smoke rising from the riverside? That means there’s a cremation ground. Could he have gone there to take photos? We ought to go and find out.’ We left at once, making our way through groups of bauls. The river bank lay just beyond, sloping gradually to lead to the water. Here was the cremation ground. A corpse lay on a burning pyre. ‘Look, there’s Tom!’ cried Peter.

Tom was standing a few yards away from the pyre, getting his camera and various lenses out of his bag. ‘He is doing something utterly foolish,’ Feluda said. Almost instantly, his words were proved right. Four young men were sitting near the pyre. One of them saw what Tom was about to do. He ran forward, snatched the camera from Tom’s hands and threw it on the sand. And Tom? Tom took a step forward, curling his right hand into a fist. It landed on the young man’s nose a second later. He fell on the ground, clutching his nose. When he removed his hand, we could all see it was smeared with blood. Feluda did not waste another moment. Before either the first young man or his friends could move, he strode across and placed himself between Tom and the others. ‘Please,’ he said, raising his hands placatingly, ‘please forgive my friend. He is new to our country, and he hasn’t yet learnt what he should or shouldn’t do. It was very wrong of him to have tried to take a photo of a pyre. I’ll explain everything to him, and he won’t repeat this mistake, I promise you. But please let him go now.’ To my surprise, one of the young men came forward and quickly touched Feluda’s feet. ‘What . . . what are you doing?’ ‘You are Felu Mitter, aren’t you? The Pradosh Mitter? The famous—?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Feluda said hurriedly. ‘I am Felu Mitter, I am an investigator and this gentleman here is my friend. Please will you forgive him and let him go?’ ‘All right, sir, never mind. No problem,’ said the three men, staring at Feluda with a mixture of awe and admiration. Getting recognized, I thought, was no bad thing, after all. But the injured man, who had by now risen to his feet, was not so easily impressed. ‘I shall pay you back, sahib,’ he spoke clearly. ‘I’ll settle scores with you before you go back. Just remember that. No one lays a hand on Chandu Mallik and gets away with it!’ None of us said anything to him. We turned around to go back. Tom’s camera appeared undamaged. But he himself seemed totally taken aback by this sudden development. Perhaps this would teach him to be more careful, I told myself. We had lunch back in the tourist lodge, and were sitting in the lounge when Inspector Chaubey turned up. ‘I came to find out how you were doing,’ he said, ‘and I can tell there’s something wrong.’ ‘You’re quite right, Inspector,’ Feluda replied, and briefly explained what had happened. ‘Does the name Chandu Mallik mean anything to you?’ he asked. ‘Oh yes. He’s a notorious goonda. He’s been to prison at least three times. If he has threatened to settle scores, we cannot just laugh it off.’ Tom had gone back to his room. Peter was sitting with us. ‘Mr Robertson,’ the inspector said, ‘only you can do something to help.’ ‘How?’ ‘Talk to your friend. Tell him he must learn to control his temper. India became independent forty- five years ago. No Indian today would accept from a Britisher