Five minutes passed, but there was no sign of Tulsi Babu. Mr Bhattacharya decided to get to work. ‘Please place your hands—palm downward—on the table. Your little fingers should touch those of your neighbour’s.’ We placed our hands as instructed. A tapping noise started at once, caused by Lalmohan Babu’s trembling fingers. He might have been playing a tabla. I saw him grit his teeth to steady his hands. Mr Bhattacharya’s eyes were closed, but his lips moved. He was reciting a Sanskrit shloka. A minute later, he stopped. There was a deathly silence in the room. The lamp flickered. Around its flame three insects hovered. Our shadows, large and trembling, fell on the walls, nearly touching the ceiling. I gave Feluda a sidelong glance. His jaw was set, and he was staring steadily at Mr Bhattacharya with a totally expressionless face. Mr Bhattacharya himself was sitting still as a statue. He had picked up the pencil, which was now poised over the blank sheet of paper. Then his lips started to tremble. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Lalmohan Babu began playing the tabla again, perfectly involuntarily. I could see why. The atmosphere in the room was decidedly eerie. My heart beat as fast as Lalmohan Babu’s fingers shook. ‘Jeevanlal . . . Jeevanlal . . . Jeevanlal!’ Mr Bhattacharya called softly. His lips barely moved. ‘Are you there? Have you come?’ This time, to our amazement, the questions were spoken by a voice behind us. It was Nityanand. Now I realized what his role was. He spoke on behalf of his uncle. Perhaps Mr Bhattacharya found it impossible to speak at a time like this. ‘Yes,’ said Feluda. The word had been scribbled on the pad by Mr Bhattacharya. His eyes were still closed. I watched his hands carefully. ‘Where are you?’ asked Nityanand. ‘Here, very close,’ wrote Mr Bhattacharya. Feluda read the words out. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can you answer them?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Who stole the money from your father’s chest?’ ‘I did.’ ‘Did you see your murderer?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you recognize him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Who was it?’ ‘My father.’

But we didn’t get to hear when the murder was committed, for Feluda stood up abruptly and said, ‘That’ll do.’ Then he turned to me and said, ‘Topshe, go and get that lantern from the passage outside. I can hardly see anything.’ Considerably startled, I got up and fetched the lantern. Feluda picked up the piece of paper Mr Bhattacharya had scribbled on, ran his eyes over the few words written and said, ‘Mr Bhattacharya, your spirit may have left the earth, but it hasn’t yet learnt the truth. There are discrepancies in his answers.’ Mr Bhattacharya glared at Feluda, looking as if he wanted to reduce him to a handful of dust, but Feluda remained quite unmoved. ‘For instance,’ he continued, ‘he is being asked who opened the chest and took the money. He says, “I did”, meaning Jeevanlal. But that