I had to shake Lalmohan Babu at least ten times before he opened his eyes. Had he not come round, I would have really been in trouble since I’d never found myself in a similar situation before. Finally Lalmohan Babu picked himself up, dusted himself down, and announced that, when frightened, writers had a tendency to faint more easily than others, as their imagination was more powerful than other people’s. ‘What your cousin said about superstition is complete nonsense. I have no such . . . er . . . problem!’ he told me. We did not waste another second, and left the cemetery at once to collect Feluda. He had finished his work in the reading room. Even if he hadn’t, I knew that after hearing our story, he would drop everything and go back to the cemetery with us. He saw how the grave had been dug up, thereby exposing the skull. Then he searched the area around the tomb most thoroughly—but found nothing except a spade. It was lying only ten feet from the grave. This time, we met Baramdeo. He said he had gone to pass on some urgent message to his nephew in his paan shop, just round the corner on Lower Circular Road. He knew nothing about the grave being dug up. It was his belief that whoever was responsible had entered the cemetery the previous night by climbing over the wall. Feluda then asked him to lend a hand, and refilled the yawning hole with earth and fallen leaves. Before we left, Feluda told Baramdeo not to mention the matter to anyone else. From Park Street, we went straight to Ripon Lane. There was a slight delay as we got to 14/1 and were about to go up the stairs. A young man was climbing down, a long leather case in his hand—a guitar case. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and looked very much like other young men who are seen around Park Street, particularly in the evenings. There is therefore no need for further description. This man had to be Chris Godwin. He would not return to Ripon Lane until late at night, after he finished playing at the Blue Fox. When he had gone, we made our way upstairs. The first floor was not as silent as it had been before. Raised voices reached our ears from Mr Godwin’s living room. We recognized one of them. The other was probably Mr Arakis’s. The first voice was scolding and threatening. The second was whining and denying all allegations. Both were frequently using the word ‘casket’. Feluda walked down the passage, and knocked on the door At once, three words shot out like bullet’s: ‘Who is it?’ We stepped into the room. The second gentleman’s skin was pale, with a yellowish tinge to it, and covered with freckles. His head was bald and he had two gold teeth. He was perhaps in his mid-sixties. Feluda went straight to Mr Godwin and unwrapped the parcel in his hands. ‘I just could not resist taking it away yesterday. It will help me a lot in my research,’ he said.

Mr Godwin simply stared for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. ‘So you fooled them, you fooled them! Those morons! Cheats, frauds, swindlers!’ Then he looked at the other man and continued, biting sarcasm in his voice, ‘Tom Godwin’s spirit walked off with that casket, did it? Is he Tom Godwin’s spirit? This gentleman? What do you think? Look, this is Mr Arakis, my neighbour from upstairs. The same man whose table prances around every Thursday, and ruins the entire evening for me.’ Mr Arakis was gaping stupidly at the casket. Then he glanced at Feluda in silence, and shifted the same foolish gaze to the door. He began moving towards it, but had to stop. Feluda had called out his name. ‘Mr Arakis!’ The man looked at Feluda. ‘I think one of the items in that casket is still with you,’ Feluda said calmly. ‘Certainly not!’ Arakis thundered. ‘Besides, how would you know anything about it? Marcus, open that box and see if anything is missing.’ So Mr Godwin’s first name was Marcus. That explained the mystery of Arkis-Markis. Marcus Godwin opened the casket and went through its contents. Then he said, with a somewhat embarrassed air, ‘Why, Mr Mitter, everything appears quite intact!’ ‘Could you please take out that snuff box? Charlotte Godwin described it in her diary, and said it was studded with emeralds, rubies and sapphires.’ Mr Godwin took out the box and peered at it. ‘Can you see now that it’s a cheap, new snuff box, simply painted black? Mr Arakis tried to make it look like an antique!’ Within five minutes, Mr Arakis fetched the real thing from his flat upstairs. ‘I swear upon God,’ said Mr Godwin, ‘if I hear your table making any noise next Thursday, I will inform the police!’ Mr Arakis slunk out of the room like a thief, his face dark with embarrassment. ‘Thank you, Mr Mitter,’ said Mr Godwin, sighing with relief. ‘Have you any idea how valuable Charlotte Godwin’s diaries are?’ ‘No. I didn’t even know that the casket contained such diaries. To tell you the truth, Mr Mitter, I am not even remotely curious about my forefathers. In fact, I am no longer curious about anything. I am simply waiting for death. The only thing I can call my own is that cat. In the past I used to visit a friend to play poker. Now, thanks to my gout, even that has come to an end.’ ‘In that case, perhaps there’s no point in asking you a few questions.’ ‘What questions?’ ‘Your great-grandfather was called David, wasn’t he, and he was buried in the cemetery on Lower Circular Road?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did David have a brother or sister?’ ‘Don’t know. One of my ancestors killed himself. I can’t remember if he was David’s brother.’ ‘Was David’s son—your grandfather, that