‘Godwin . . .? Thomas Godwin?’ Six creases appeared on Uncle Sidhu’s forehead. I call Uncle Sidhu Mr Encyclopaedia. Feluda calls him Mr Photographic Memory. Both descriptions fit him very well. He does not forget anything that he reads, sees, or even hears—if he finds it sufficiently interesting. Feluda is obliged to consult him from time to time. That was what he was doing today. Every morning, at dawn, Uncle Sidhu goes to the Lake for a walk. He walks for a couple of miles, and then returns home by half past six. He never misses his walk, even on days when it rains. All he does is grab an umbrella as he steps out. On his return, he sits on his divan, and remains seated there all day. He leaves that spot only to have his bath and eat his meals. Then he’s back again. In front of him stands a desk, piled high with books, journals and newspapers. Uncle Sidhu never writes anything. Not letters, not his accounts, not even a list of his clothes when his dhobi takes them away to be washed. All he does is read. He doesn’t have a telephone. If he needs to contact us, he sends a message through his servant, Janardan. We get his message in ten minutes. Uncle Sidhu never married. Instead of a wife, he lives with his books. ‘My wife, my child, my mother, father, brother, sister, doctor, master . . . everything in life that you can think of is here, amongst my books. Books are my family, my friends!’ he claims. It is he who is partly responsible for Feluda’s interest in old Calcutta. But Uncle Sidhu knows the history of the entire world, not just this city. He sipped black tea and repeated the name ‘Godwin’ to himself. Then he said, ‘Any mention of that name is likely to remind one of Shelley’s father-in-law. But I can think of a Godwin who came to India. When did your Godwin die?’ ‘1858.’ ‘And when was he born?’ ‘1788.’ ‘Yes, it might well be the Godwin I’m thinking of. In 1858—or maybe it was 1859—an article appeared in the Calcutta Review. Thomas Godwin’s daughter wrote it. Her name was Shirley. No . . . no, it was Charlotte. Yes, that’s right. Charlotte Godwin. She’d written about her father. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now . . . my word, it’s an extraordinary story, my dear Felu! What Charlotte didn’t mention was what happened to him in his old age, so I know nothing about that. But what he did when he first arrived in India . . . it would sound like a novel. You’ve been to Lucknow, haven’t you?’ Feluda nodded. It was in Lucknow that he had solved the mystery of a stolen ring which had once belonged to Emperor Aurangzeb. That was the case that established him as a brilliant detective. ‘So you know about Sadat Ali?’ Uncle Sidhu went on.

‘Yes.’