‘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.’ ‘At the time, Sadat Ali was the Nawab of Lucknow. The Sultanate in Delhi was all but over. It was Lucknow that could offer the glamour of courtly life. Sadat had been in Calcutta in his youth. He had known some Englishmen, learned something of their language, and adopted their ways in full measure. When Asaf-ud-Daula died, Wazir Ali became the Nawab of Lucknow. Sadat was then in Benaras, feeling morose. He had hoped to get the throne in Lucknow after Asaf. Wazir Ali, as it happened, was perfectly useless. The British couldn’t stand him. In just four months, they put an end to his rule. Don’t forget that at that time, the East India Company had a lot of influence in Lucknow. Every Nawab had to kowtow to them. So when they got rid of Wazir, they brought Sadat in and made him the new Nawab. Sadat was so pleased with the British that he gave them half of Awadh. ‘The lanes of Lucknow crawled with British and other European men. The Nawab had English and Dutch officers in his army. Then there were European merchants, European doctors, painters, barbers, even schoolteachers. But there were some who had not come to do a specific job. Their only aim was to make money. They tried to impress the Nawab, and fleece him anyhow. In that category of men fell Thomas Godwin. He was a young man from England—his home was in Sussex, or Suffolk . . . or was it Surrey? I can’t remember. Anyway, he heard about the Nawab’s wealth and arrived in Lucknow. He was good-looking and well spoken. It did not take him long to please the British Resident, Mr Cherry. Cherry gave him a letter of introduction, and Godwin turned up in Sadat Ali’s court. Sadat asked him what his speciality was. Thomas had heard that the Nawab was fond of European food, and Thomas was a good cook. So he said he was a master chef, he’d like to prepare a meal for the Nawab. ‘Go ahead!’ said Sadat. Thomas produced such an excellent meal that Sadat Ali immediately appointed him as a cook in the royal kitchen. Everywhere that the Nawab went, his entourage included a Muslim cook and Thomas Godwin. ‘When the Governor-General came to Lucknow, Sadat would invite him to breakfast, knowing that he would benefit if the Governor-General was pleased with him. The only person he could depend on was Godwin. And if Thomas could please the Nawab with a new dish, he would be duly rewarded. Not just a couple of mohurs, mind you, we are talking here of a Nawab of Lucknow. His generosity matched his status. So you can imagine the kind of money Thomas Godwin made. If the money wasn’t good, he would not have worked in a kitchen. He simply wasn’t that kind of a man. ‘Eventually, he left Lucknow and stepped out of the Nawab’s domain. He came to Calcutta, and married a woman called