The following morning was wet. It stopped raining only in the middle of the afternoon. Feluda had managed to get hold of an old map of Calcutta and Howrah, going back to 1932. After a meal of khichuri and omelettes, he stuffed a paan into his mouth, lit a Charminar, and unfolded the map. In order to look at it properly in our living room. we had to push all the furniture out of the way, and create enough space on the floor to fit the map. It measured 6’x6’. Lalmohan Babu turned up as we were crawling all over it, inspecting old roads and streets, and Feluda was saying, ‘Don’t try looking for Rajani Sen Road. This whole area was a veritable jungle in those days!’ I noticed that Lalmohan Babu was smartly dressed in dark blue trousers and a yellow bush shirt. ‘Seventy-six trees came down yesterday during the storm,’ he announced. ‘And I’ve done what you told me to do. My car has a new horn which will not remind you of Hindi films, I assure you.’ We were not in a hurry to go out, so we waited until we’d had some tea. Then we set off in Lalmohan Babu’s car and I could see for myself the devastation caused by the storm. I had seen the press report that mentioned the number of uprooted trees, but had been unable to believe it. Now I counted nineteen trees—in some places, a number of branches—lying on the ground by the time we reached Park Street. Three of them were in Southern Avenue alone. It was staggering, although many of the fallen branches had been cleared away. As we reached the entrance to the Park Street cemetery (Feluda told us where we were going only when we reached Camac Street), I happened to glance at Lalmohan Babu. He appeared a bit subdued. Feluda looked enquiringly at him. ‘In 1941,’ Lalmohan Babu explained, ‘I was in Ranchi. There I saw an Englishman being buried. When the coffin was lowered into the grave, and they threw clods of earth . . . ugh, the sound they made was terrible!’ ‘You won’t have to hear that sound here,’ Feluda assured him. ‘There is no chance. In the last one hundred and twenty-five years, no one has been buried in this cemetery.’ The chowkidar’s room was to the right of the entrance. Anyone was free to enter the cemetery during the day, so presumably the chowkidar had little to do. ‘The only thing he must ensure,’ Feluda said, ‘is that no one makes off with a marble plaque. Genuine Italian marble would fetch a good price. Chowkidar!’ The man came out of his room. His appearance told us instantly that he hailed from Bihar. He was chewing tobacco; perhaps he had just put it in his mouth. ‘Was a Bengali Babu injured here yesterday? Hit by a falling tree?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Can we see that spot?’

‘Go down that path . .