The following morning, Feluda himself summoned me to his room. After Lalmohan Babu had dropped us the previous night, Feluda had had a shower and finished his dinner within half an hour. Then he had gone straight to his room and shut the door. I had not been able to sleep very well. It was clear that we had got embroiled in a bizarre mystery. It was like being lost in a maze . . . something perhaps even more complex than the Bhoolbhulaia in Lucknow. I had no idea where to turn; my only hope was Feluda. But did Feluda know the way out of the maze? I found him seated on his bed. In front of him was Thomas Godwin’s casket. Its contents were strewn over the bed. There were two white pipes that could be filled with tobacco—but they looked different from any pipe I had seen before; a snuff box; a pair of spectacles set in a gold frame; and four red leather-bound notebooks. Each had the word ‘diary’ inscribed on the cover in gold letters. The piece of silk in which they had been wrapped was lying on one side, together with the blue ribbon with which the parcel had been tied. Feluda offered me one of the notebooks, saying, ‘Turn the first page— be careful!’ ‘Why, this is Charlotte Godwin’s diary!’ ‘Yes. These are all her diaries, from 1858 to 1862. Her writing is as clear and lucid as her language. It took me all night to read the whole thing. Imagine, this priceless object was lying in a dark corner in Ripon Lane! Incredible.’ I stared at the first page, not daring to turn it, for I could see that each page was fragile and brittle. ‘Arakis opened that diary,’ said Feluda. ‘How do you know?’ ‘If you turn a page quickly and carelessly, the top right-hand corner tends to break. Look!’ Feluda gave a quick demonstration. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘here, look at this ribbon. It is quite worn in some places, as it had remained tied and knotted for more than a hundred years. But look, apart from those worn bits, the ribbon is crushed and twisted in places. That’s because a new knot had been tied. Whoever untied it did not bother to knot it in exactly the same place. If he had, it would have been more difficult to be sure.’ ‘Why do you have a black stain on your finger?’ I asked. I had noticed it as soon as I entered Feluda’s room. ‘This is another clue, but I’ll explain it later. It came from that snuff box.’ ‘What did the diaries tell you?’ I asked breathlessly. ‘They speak of the last few years of Thomas Godwin’s life. He was penniless by that time, and cantankerous. One of his sons was dead, and he neither loved nor trusted his other son, David. In fact, he trusted no one, not even Charlotte. Yet Charlotte loved him, prayed for him