The next morning, we went for a long walk and explored the whole village. The local club, Jagarani, was rehearsing for a play. We were invited to watch the rehearsal. A lot of people were curious about life in Canada, so Feluda ended up giving a short lecture on the subject. Then we met the only mime artist of Gosaipur, called Benimadhav. He offered to visit us on Friday and show us what he could do. ‘I can climb stairs without any props . . . I can show you what happens to a man caught in a storm . . . change the expression on my face— through six different steps—from sad to happy!’ In the evening, Tulsi Babu took us to a fair in the next village. By the time we returned, having enjoyed ourselves hugely, it was nearly six o’clock. The sun had set, but it wasn’t dark yet. Feluda said he’d like to visit Jeevanlal Mallik. Tulsi Babu went home to wait for us. Jeevanlal came out of his house even before we could reach the front door. ‘I saw you coming from my bedroom window,’ he explained. ‘Has there been any new development?’ Feluda asked. ‘No.’ ‘May I look at your garden?’ ‘Of course.’ The ‘garden’ was not really a garden: that is to say, there were no flower beds or a lawn. It was simply a large, open area in which stood a number of tall trees. Feluda began inspecting it carefully. I had no idea what he was looking for. I saw him stop at one point and stare at the ground for a few minutes. After a while, a voice cried out from a balcony on the first floor: ‘Who’s there? What are you doing among the trees?’ It was Jeevanlal’s grandmother. ‘It’s all right, Grandma!’ he shouted back. ‘It’s only me, and my friends.’ ‘Oh. I keep seeing people roaming about in the garden. God knows what they do.’ ‘Can she see well?’ Feluda asked. ‘No, not very well; nor can she hear unless one shouts.’ ‘I don’t suppose anyone looks after the garden?’ ‘No, not really. Bholanath Babu does what he can, but obviously that’s not enough.’ ‘Do the guards keep an eye on it at night?’ ‘At night? You’ve got to be joking. No guard here would dream of staying awake to do their duty.’ ‘The front door is locked, surely?’ ‘Oh yes. That’s Bholanath Babu’s job. But when I am here, I lock the front door and keep the key with me.’ ‘I haven’t yet met Bholanath Babu. Could you call him, please?’ Jeevanlal asked one of his bearers to call Bholanath Babu, and bring us some lemonade. We were sitting outside by the pond. The recent

monsoon rains had filled it to its brim. It was now covered with shaluk flowers. Bholanath Babu arrived in a couple of minutes. He was wearing a dhoti and a shirt, but his appearance was really no different from an ordinary farmer. I could easily picture him working in a field, tilling the land. Feluda began talking with him. There was no noise anywhere except the faint strains of music from a distant transistor. Had that not been there, it would have been quite easy to pretend we had travelled back in time by more than a hundred years. ‘Has Mriganka Bhattacharya visited this house just once?’ Feluda asked. ‘Recently, yes. Just once.’ ‘You mean he has visited Mr Mallik before?’ ‘Yes, a few times. I think the master had asked him to draw up his horoscope.’ ‘And did he?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘What made him pay a visit recently? Who asked him to come?’ ‘The master did. Er . . . the doctor and I had both told him it might help.’ ‘You visit Mr Bhattacharya regularly, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Do you believe in his powers?’ Bholanath Babu bent his head. ‘What can I say, sir? I had a daughter—Lakshmi, she was called. Beautiful like the goddess, and she had manners to match. But. . . when she was only eleven, she got cholera and . . . she died. I was devastated. Then Mr Bhattacharya came to me and said, “Do you want to hear from her how she is?”’ Bholanath Babu stopped, and wiped his eyes with one corner of his dhoti. Then, with an effort, he pulled himself together and went on, ‘He then spoke to her. She came and she said she had found peace and was very happy where she was, so I must stop feeling sad. I mean, she didn’t actually say all this, but the words were written on paper. I . . . from that day . . . I . . .’ He choked again. Feluda did not press him any more. ‘Were you present when Mr Bhattacharya contacted the dead Durlabh Singh?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Yes, but I was not in the room. The master did not want his mother to find out, so he told me to stand at the door and watch out for her. In the room were Mr Bhattacharya, his nephew Nityanand and the master.’ ‘Did you hear anything at all?’ ‘I heard very little, sir, They were totally silent for the first ten minutes. Then, a jackal called in the distance, and I remember hearing the master’s voice the same instant. He said, “Are you there? Has anyone come?” But I heard nothing else after that. When it was over, I took Mr Bhattacharya home.’ Feluda finished his lemonade and lit a Charminar. ‘Durlabh Singh Mallik’s men had set fire to your house. Do you remember that?’ After a brief pause, Bholanath Babu uttered two words: ‘I do.’ ‘Don’t you wish to take revenge? Have you never thought of settling old scores?’ I had heard Feluda ask such hard-hitting questions before. A lot depended, he had told me once, on how a person reacted to such questions.

Bholanath Babu shook his head