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 and took care of him as best she could. He had gambled everything away. Charlotte earned a little money by sewing for the

local English ladies, and making carpets. Godwin had sold most of the expensive gifts he had received from the Nawab. All he had left were three items—that casket, the snuff box which he had allowed Charlotte to have, and the third was the first gift Sadat Ali had given him.’ ‘Did he give that to Charlotte?’ ‘No, he gave it to no one. He told his daughter before he died that it should be buried together with his body. Charlotte fulfilled his last wish, and found much comfort from that.’ ‘What was that object?’ ‘Charlotte calls it “Father’s precious Perigal repeater”.’ ‘Eh? What on earth is that?’ ‘That,’ said Feluda, ‘is where even your Feluda has drawn a blank. According to my dictionary, a repeater can be a gun—like a pistol— or a watch. Perigal might be the name of the manufacturer. Even Uncle Sidhu isn’t sure. I went to his house early this morning, before you got up. Now I must speak to Vikas Chakravarty and see if he can throw some light on this matter.’ Vikas Chakravarty worked in Park Auction House in Park Street. Feluda knew him well. They had got to know each other when Feluda’s investigations had taken him to the auction house, in connection with a case. He had had to pay more than one visit. ‘I passed that shop only the other day. There were a lot of old clocks and watches displayed in the window. I have a strong feeling Godwin’s repeater was a clock, not a gun.’ Feluda then proceeded to tell me more about what he had read in Charlotte Godwin’s diary. Apparently, Charlotte had mentioned a niece. She had referred to her as ‘my dear clever niece’. This niece had done something to offend her grandfather, Thomas. But Thomas forgave her before he died, and gave her his blessings. Charlotte had also talked about her brothers, David and John. We had seen David’s grave in the cemetery in Lower Circular Road, John had returned to England and killed himself there. Charlotte did not know why. Lalmohan Babu turned up a little later. ‘Until yesterday,’ he told us, ‘I was in a dilemma. Pulak had told me to write a new story for his next film—one with a devotional theme. So I couldn’t decide whether to stay at home and start writing, or stick with you and see how this case develops. After what happened yesterday, I have no doubt left. Thrill is better than religion. By the way, did you find anything in that casket?’ ‘Yes. I found diaries nearly one hundred and twenty-five years old. They told me that, if Thomas Godwin’s grave was dug up, one might find a Perigal repeater.’ ‘Peter? What Peter?’ ‘Let’s go out. How much petrol have you got?’ ‘Ten litres. Filled my car only this morning.’ ‘Good. We have