Mr Mallik’s house was clearly quite old, but had been well maintained. It was large enough to be called a mansion, if not a palace. As we passed through the front gate, I saw a pond to our right. A number of trees behind the house suggested a garden. Only the compound wall did not appear to have been repaired for some time. It was broken in many places, showing gaps. Seedlings had grown through large cracks in it. A guard stood at the gate, clutching a shield and a spear, looking as if he was dressed for a part in a historical play. A bearer, wearing an old-fashioned uniform and looking just as peculiar, gave us a smart salute at the front door. It was all done seriously, and certainly the atmosphere inside the house was far from lighthearted, but both men looked so comical that I almost burst out laughing. We were taken into the living room. It had no furniture. A mattress, covered with a spotless sheet, was spread on the floor. We went and sat on it. There were a few pictures on the wall, of Hindu gods and goddesses and scenes from the Ramayana. There were bookshelves on the wall, but apart from half-a-dozen books in Bengali, they were empty. ‘Would you like the fan? If so, I can ask Dashu to pull it for you,’ Jeevanlal said. I had not noticed it at first, but now I glanced up and saw the fan—two mats edged with large frills —hanging from an iron rod. The rod hung from two hooks fixed to the ceiling. A rope tied to the rod went outside to the veranda, through the wall over the door to our left. I had only read about such fans. The servant called Dashu presumably sat on the veranda and pulled the rope, so that the fan swung from side to side, creating a breeze. But it was an October evening. None of us needed a fan. ‘Let me show you something. Can you tell me what this is?’ said Jeevanlal, opening a cupboard and taking out a square piece of cloth. What made it special was that one corner was knotted around a small stone. Feluda frowned, then swung the cloth a few times in the air. ‘Topshe, stand up for a minute.’ I rose. Feluda stood a few feet away from me swinging the cloth once more. Then he threw it at me as though it was a fishing net. The end that was knotted around the stone wound itself round my neck instantly. ‘Thugee!’ I cried. Feluda had told me about thugees. They were bandits who used to attack travellers in this fashion and then loot their possessions. One swift pull was usually enough to tighten the noose and kill their innocent victims. Feluda nodded, took the cloth away and asked, ‘Where did you get something like this?’ ‘Someone threw it into my father’s room through an open window, in the middle of the night.’ ‘When?’ ‘A few days before I got here.’

‘What were the guards doing?’ ‘Guards?’ Jeevanlal laughed. ‘They like dressing up to please their master, but that’s as far as it goes. They are bone idle, each one of them. Besides, they know their master has become quite senile, and there’s really no one to control them.’ ‘Who else lives here?’ ‘My grandmother. She is perfectly happy with these old-fashioned arrangements. Then there’s Bholanath Babu. He is a sort of manager—in fact, he takes care of everything from shopping to running errands for my father, fetching the doctor if need be, going to the next town to get things we can’t get in the village . . . everything. There is no one else except a cook, two guards and a bearer. They live here. The four bearers for the palanquin and the punkha-puller come from the village.’ ‘Where did Bholanath Babu originally come from?’ ‘He is from this village. His family were our tenants. His forefathers were farmers. But he went to school, and I believe was quite bright as a student. Now he’s nearly sixty.’ ‘Is that your grandfather?’ Feluda asked, pointing at a painting on the wall. It was the portrait of a man with an impressive moustache. I had not noticed it so far. He was sitting on a chair, holding a walking stick with a silver handle in one hand, the other resting on a marble table. The look in his eyes was cold and hard. ‘Yes, that is Durlabh Singh Mallik.’ ‘The zamindar everyone was terrified of?’ ‘Yes, I am afraid so. He was devoid of compassion or mercy.’ A bearer brought two glasses and a cup on a saucer on a tray and placed the tray before us. Feluda glanced at the hot drink they contained and said, ‘Does this mean your father still drinks tea?’ ‘No, no. That’s coffee, and it’s mine. I always bring a cup and a tin of Nescafé. He couldn’t find other cups and saucers, so you’ve been given glasses. I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘No, of course not. I have drunk coffee out of bronze glasses in south India.’ A loud tapping noise coming from upstairs made Feluda glance up. ‘Does your father wear clogs?’ ‘Oh yes. Isn’t that far more natural than wearing shoes?’ ‘Yes, I suppose so. Tell me, was it just this piece of cloth that made you think someone was planning to kill your father, or was there something else?’ In reply, Jeevanlal simply took out a piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to Feluda. Written on it in pencil with large, distinct letters, were the following words: You have been given a death sentence to atone for your ancestor’s sins. Be prepared to die. ‘This came on 5 October, the day before I got here. It had been posted in Katwa, which doesn’t really tell us anything, for anyone from Gosaipur could have gone there and