The three of us stepped in. It was a medium-sized living room. Opposite the door was an old sofa, torn in three places, its coir stuffing exposed through the gaps. A table with a marble top was placed in front of the sofa. At least, once upon a time it must have looked like marble. To our left was an ancient book case, which contained about fifteen ancient books. On top of this case sat a brass vase with a bunch of dusty plastic flowers in it. It was impossible to guess their colours. A framed picture hung on the wall, but the glass had such a thick layer of dust on it that the picture had become quite indistinct. It might have been the picture of a horse, or it might have been a train. A Philips radio—possibly older than Feluda—stood on another table next to the sofa. Strangely enough, it still worked, for that faint music was coming from it. Now, a thin, pale hand, with rather prominent veins, reached out and turned a knob to switch it off. The owner of that hand was seated on the sofa, gazing steadily at us. On his lap was a cushion. His left leg was resting on a stool. It was evident from the colour of his skin that one of his ancestors must have been British. The few strands of his hair that had not yet turned grey were blond. It was difficult to see the colour of his eyes, as the bulb that hung from the ceiling was probably no more than twenty-five watts. ‘I suffer from gout, so I can’t move,’ explained the man. ‘I have to take the help of my servant, and that idiot slips away whenever he can.’ Feluda introduced us, and got straight down to business. If the other man was annoyed by our sudden arrival, he did not show it. ‘We have come only for some information. Are you a descendant of Thomas Godwin, who came to India in the early nineteenth century?’ The man raised his eyes and looked directly at Feluda. Now I could see that his eyes were faded blue. He stared hard for a few seconds, then he said, ‘Now, how the hell do you know about my great- great-grandfather?’ ‘So my assumption is correct?’ ‘Yes, but there’s more. In fact, I have got something that once belonged to Thomas Godwin. At least, that’s what my grandmother told me. One hundred and fifty years . . . oh hell!’ ‘Why, what’s wrong?’ ‘That scoundrel, Arakis—cheat, bloody fraud! He took it from me only last night. Said he’d return it today. They’re going to have their meeting this evening. It’s Thursday, isn’t it? Right. You’ll hear all kinds of strange noises from upstairs. Give it a few more minutes, then it’ll start.’ The room seemed darker than before. Was it because I was feeling quite confused? Or because night had fallen? No, there was a rumble of thunder. The sky had become overcast. No wonder the room had grown darker.

Feluda was seated in an armless chair, facing Mr Godwin. Lalmohan Babu had taken an easy chair by his side, but did not appear to be at his ease. He was restless and kept shifting in his chair, which probably meant that it was infested by bugs. Feluda was staring straight at Mr Godwin. Even without uttering a word, he seemed to be saying, ‘You can tell me whatever you want. I am here to listen.’ ‘It’s an ivory casket,’ said Mr Godwin, ‘and there are a few things in it. Two old pipes, a silver snuff box, a pair of spectacles, and a parcel wrapped with silk. Perhaps it contains a book—I have never bothered to look. We had plenty of other antiques. My son—that vagabond—has sold everything. He dropped out of college, began smoking ganja, and then started removing various things from this house. I don’t know why he didn’t take the casket. Perhaps he would have, but his luck changed, so he didn’t really have to. He’s formed a music group. We live on what he earns, if you can call this living. But who am I to talk, or blame my son? Much of it was my own fault. I have heard that Thomas Godwin lost his possessions in gambling. I had the same problem.’ Mr Godwin stopped. He was breathing hard, possibly because he had talked at such length. Then he winced. His gout was clearly bothering him. But he resumed talking: ‘When I was a young man, once I went to England. My uncle was a cashier with the Midland Bank in London. Three months—that’s all I could take. I couldn’t bear the cold. I couldn’t stand the food. I was used only to Indian food. So I returned to Calcutta. Then I got married. My wife died ten years ago. Now I only have Christopher. I see him—maybe just once every day. Sometimes not even that. He stays in his room when he’s at home, and strums his guitar. Yes, he plays well.’ A peculiar noise had started above our heads. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. It would stop from time to time, then start again. The shadows began moving, because with the noise, the light hanging from the ceiling had started to sway. Now I was feeling as frightened as Lalmohan Babu. I had never been to such a house, or seen such a room; nor had I heard such tales from anyone. What on earth was going on upstairs? Mr Godwin did not bother to look up. ‘It’s that table,’ he told us simply, ‘it’s jumping. Four frauds are sitting around it. They claim it’s been possessed by the soul of some dead person, that’s why it’s jumping.’ ‘Who are they?’ ‘Cronies of Arakis. Society for Spook Studies. Two Jews, one Parsee, and Arakis. They tried to rope me in, but I refused. One day, in front of Arakis,