Two days ago, the village had seemed a totally different place. Today, I felt strangely tense as we began walking away from the house. I simply could not stop thinking of the missing corpse. It could well be lying behind any of the bushes and shrubs we passed . . . no, no, I must not dwell on it, I told myself firmly. We found the bamboo grove and turned into it. It was appreciably darker here, and the creepy feeling I was trying to overcome grew stronger. But at this moment, I saw the mime artist, Benimadhav, walking towards us. The sight of a third person helped me pull myself together. ‘Hey, where are you off to?’ he asked genially. ‘I was going to your house. Didn’t I tell you I’d come and show you my acting on Friday?’ ‘I know,’ Lalmohan Babu replied, ‘but after what happened, none of us are in the mood to watch a performance. I mean, who knew such an awful thing was going to happen? We’re all worried and upset. You do understand, don’t you?’ ‘Of course, of course. You’re not going back to Calcutta immediately, are you?’ ‘No, we should be here for another three days.’ ‘Good. So where are you going now?’ ‘Nowhere in particular. Is there something we should see? You should be able to tell us!’ ‘Have you seen the Bat-kali temple? It was built in the seventeenth century. It’s full of bats, but the outside walls still have some carvings left. Come with me, I’ll show you.’ I did not tell him I had seen the temple this morning. At that moment, of course, I had not had the time to look at wall carvings. We reached it in three minutes. I began to get goose pimples again. It would have been far better to have come here during the day. There was a banyan tree next to the temple. Its roots had grasped the roof, making it crack and crumble. ‘This is where they used to have sacrifices, sir,’ Benimadhav said, pointing at a spot near the trunk of the banyan tree. ‘S-sacrifice?’ Lalmohan Babu asked, his voice hushed. ‘Yes, sir. Human sacrifices. Haven’t you heard of Nedo dakaat, the famous bandit of Gosaipur? He used to worship Kali and hold sacrifices here. Why, you could write a whole book on him! Would you like to go inside? Have you got a torch?’ ‘In-inside? No, I don’t think so. Didn’t you say it was full of bats? Besides, we didn’t bring a torch.’ ‘No, the bats will have gone out now, on their evening excursion . . . heh heh. If you wish to see them you’ll have to come back—’ ‘No! We have no wish to see them, thank you.’ ‘All right. Look, I’ve lit a match. May I smoke a beedi?’

‘Yes, certainly. Smoke as many as you like.’ Benimadhav lit his beedi, then held the match near the broken door. What I saw in its flickering light made my heart skip a beat. Lalmohan Babu had seen it, too. ‘J-j-jee-jee-jee—’ he stammered. It was Jeevanlal’s dead body. There could be no mistake. His blue shirt and white pyjamas were peeping out from behind a pillar inside the temple. I even caught a glimpse of his left arm. He had been wearing a watch this morning. Now the watch was gone. ‘Look, someone left their clothes here!’ exclaimed Benimadhav, and began to stride forward to retrieve the clothes, possibly with a view to returning them to their owner. ‘D-don’t!’ Lalmohan Babu pulled him back urgently. ‘Th-that’s a dead body. We sh-should tell the p-police!’ At these words, the mime artist turned totally mute. Then he showed us just how gifted he was. We saw, in a flash, the expression on his face change from amazement to horror, in one single step; then he turned around and legged it, in absolute silence. We, too, decided not to spend another moment there, and came back home immediately, walking as fast as we could. Feluda had already returned. He glanced at me briefly and said, ‘Why do you look so pale? Get ready quickly. We have to be back in Mr Bhattacharya’s house in fifteen minutes.’ Lalmohan Babu, I noticed, had regained his composure on seeing Feluda. ‘Felu Babu,’ he announced calmly, ‘we made an important discovery. Jeevanlal’s body is lying inside that old Kali temple. Are you going to tell the police, or will you let them go on looking for it?’ Lalmohan Babu had taken an instant dislike to the inspector. So he seemed all in favour of not doing anything to make it easier for him. ‘Did you actually go into the temple?’ Feluda asked. ‘No; nor did we touch the body. But there can be no doubt about what we saw.’ ‘OK. I met the inspector just now. He’ll probably be coming to Mr Bhattacharya’s house. We can tell him when we see him.’ We left in ten minutes. Tulsi Babu said he’d have to go and see Mr Chakladar, just to warn him that the function he was supposed to preside over the next day might well be cancelled. ‘You carry on, I’ll join you later,’ he said. On our way to Mr Bhattacharya’s house, Feluda told us how eager he had seemed to get in touch with Jeevanlal’s spirit. He had offered to do this first, even though it meant making three other clients wait outside. This evening, his room had a table instead of the divan. Five chairs had been arranged around it. On the table was an oil lamp. Mr Bhattacharya was sitting on one of the chairs. On his right was a writing pad and a pencil. Behind the table were two small stools and a bench. Nityanand was seated on the bench. We took three chairs. The fourth remained empty for Tulsi Babu. ‘Should we wait for Tulsicharan?’ Mr Bhattacharya asked. ‘Let’s give him five minutes,’ Feluda replied.