When we returned home, I waited patiently until the afternoon; after that, my patience ran out and I couldn’t help asking Feluda, ‘There was a piece of paper in Naren Biswas’s wallet. What was written on it?’ Feluda had made some enquiries and learned that Mr Biswas had been admitted to Park Hospital. He had decided to go there in the evening and return Mr Biswas’s belongings to him. My question made Feluda open his own notebook and offer it to me. ‘If you can make any sense of this, you’re bound to win the Nobel Prize!’ I found the following words written on the ruled page of his notebook: B/S 141 SNB for WG Victoria & P.C. (44?) Re Victoria’s letters try MN, OU, GAA, SJ, WN To myself, I said silently, ‘I’ve just missed the Nobel Prize!’ Aloud, I said, ‘It seems the man is interested in Queen Victoria, but I can’t figure out what “Victoria & P.C.” might mean.’ ‘P.C. might stand for Prince Consort. That would be Prince Albert.’ ‘Oh. But I can’t understand anything else.’ ‘No? Surely you know the meaning of the words “for” and “try”?’ It was obvious from Feluda’s mood that he hadn’t had much luck with the words, either. To be honest, what Uncle Sidhu had said made sense. Perhaps Feluda was trying to find a mystery when there wasn’t one. But, as soon as I thought that, I remembered the half-finished cigarette, and suddenly there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Who had run away from the graveyard on seeing us? What was he doing there, anyway, on a wet and windy evening? It had been agreed that Lalmohan Babu would collect us and take us to Park Hospital at four o’clock. He turned up on time, clutching a magazine. ‘What did I tell you, sir? Look, here’s a copy of Vichitrapatra, and here’s that article by Naren Biswas. There’s a picture of the Monument, but it’s printed rather badly.’ ‘But . . . look, the writer is called Narendra Nath Biswas, not Narendra Mohan. Is it a different man?’ ‘No,’ said Feluda, ‘I think the problem is with those visiting cards. Maybe he had them printed at some small, inefficient press that printed “N.M. Biswas” instead of “N.N”. I bet he didn’t check the proof. We found those cuttings in his wallet, and now there’s an article by Naren Biswas . . . surely it can’t be dismissed as a coincidence?’ Feluda skimmed the article quickly, then dropped the magazine on a side table. ‘His language isn’t bad, but what he’s said is nothing new. What we must find out is whether the writer is the same Naren Biswas as the one who was injured by that tree.’

Baba happened to know one of the doctors—Dr Shikdar—at Park Hospital. He had visited our house a couple of times, so he knew Feluda. Only five minutes after Feluda sent his card in, we were summoned into Dr Shikdar’s office. ‘What brings you here? A new case?’ People who know Feluda always ask him that question if he turns up anywhere unexpectedly, even if the reason for his visit has nothing to do with a case. Feluda smiled. ‘I’m here to return something to one of your patients.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Mr Biswas. Naren Biswas. The day before yesterday . . .’ ‘But he’s left. Only a couple of hours ago. His brother came in his car to collect him. They’ve gone.’ ‘Really? But the papers said . . .’ ‘What did they say? That he was seriously wounded? Press reporters often exaggerate. If a whole tree fell on someone, naturally he wouldn’t survive. What hit Mr Biswas was a relatively small branch. He needed treatment more for shock than actual physical injury. His right wrist was injured, and he needed a few stitches in his head, that’s all.’ ‘Could you tell me something? Was it the same Naren Biswas who writes on old Calcutta?’ ‘Yes, the very same. Obviously, I was curious to know why he was in the cemetery, in the first place. So he said he was doing some research on old Calcutta. I told him he had found a good subject. The more one stays away from today’s Calcutta, the better.’ ‘Did his injuries seem normal to you?’ ‘Ah. Now you’re talking! That was a question worthy of a detective.’ Feluda failed to hide his embarrassment. ‘No, I mean . . . did he say himself that a tree fell and . . .?’ ‘Look, a large part of a tree did come crashing down, didn’t it? Surely there’s no doubt about that? And the fellow was in the vicinity. Is there any reason to question that?’ ‘Did he think there was anything suspicious?’ ‘No, of course not. He said he actually saw and heard the tree cracking and coming down . . . naturally, it was not possible to guess exactly how far its branches were spread. But . . . yes, when he regained consciousness, he uttered the word “will” two or three times. I don’t know if there’s anything mysterious in that. I wouldn’t have thought so, as that was the only time he mentioned a will. He said nothing about it afterwards.’ ‘Do you happen to know his full name?’ ‘Didn’t that newspaper report mention it? Narendra Nath Biswas.’ ‘I have another question—please forgive me, I am taking up a lot of your time—do you remember what clothes he was wearing?’ ‘Certainly. A shirt and trousers. I even remember what colour they were—the shirt was white and the trousers were biscuit coloured. Not Glaxo biscuits, mind you, but cream crackers . . . ha ha ha!’ After that, Feluda took Mr Biswas’s address from Dr Shikdar and we left the hospital. Mr Biswas lived in New Alipore. We went there straightaway. Usually, it is not easy to find a house in New Alipore unless one knows its exact location, but it turned out that