by Satyajit Ray
‘Topshe, help me remove these leaves and smaller branches. Be careful!’ said Feluda.
We cleared the area, taking great care to avoid the gaping hole in the ground. It became clear at once that, by the side of the grave, there was a ditch about two feet deep. Feluda might have guessed the truth, but I certainly could not figure out whether the ditch had always been there, or whether someone had dug it recently.
Feluda now turned his attention to the marble pieces lying on the ground. We collected twelve pieces and put them together, exactly as if we were assembling a jigsaw puzzle on the grass. The final picture looked like this:
Sacred to the memory of
THOMAS—WIN
Obt. 24th April—8, AET. 70—
‘Godwin!’ cried Feluda. ‘The man was called Godwin. “Obt” is “obitus”, meaning death. “AET” is “aetatis”, meaning age. Now, the question is . . .’
‘I say!’
A sudden shout from Lalmohan Babu startled me. As we turned towards him, he held up a dark, flat and square object. ‘Do you think thirty-seven rupees will pay for dinner for three at the Blue Fox?’
‘What have you found?’
Feluda and I went forward to join him, feeling intrigued.
In his left hand, Lalmohan Babu was clutching a black wallet. In his right hand were three ten, one five and a two-rupee note. The wallet and the money were both sodden. Lalmohan Babu had overcome his fear and now appeared quite cheerful. He knew he had found an important clue for Feluda.
Feluda took the wallet from him and took out everything from its various compartments. Four different things emerged:
(1) a bunch of visiting cards. The name ‘N.M. Biswas’ was printed on each, but there was no address or telephone number. ‘That press report got it wrong. It showed his name as Narendra Nath! But it must be Narendra Mohan,’ Feluda remarked.
(2) Two cuttings from old newspapers. The first mentioned that a cemetery had been built in Park Street; and the other reported the construction of the Ochterlony Monument—which was now called Shaheed Minar.
That meant that both cuttings were one hundred and fifty, or two hundred years old. ‘How did Mr Biswas acquire such ancient reports? I am deeply curious,’ Feluda observed.
(3) A cash-memo from the Oxford Book Company in Park Street, showing a transaction for Rs 12.50.
(4) A piece of plain white paper. Someone had scribbled a few lines on it with a ball-point pen. The words made no sense to me. The only thing I recognized was the name Victoria.
‘I read an article on the Monument only the other day!’ Lalmohan Babu exclaimed. ‘As far as I can recall, the writer was called Biswas. Yes, that’s right. Biswas!’
‘Where did you find the article?’
‘In a journal, either Lekhani or Vichitrapatra. I’ll check when I get home.’
Lalmohan Babu’s memory was not very reliable, so Feluda did not pursue the matter. He copied the words down in his own notebook, replaced the piece of paper in the wallet together with everything else, and put it in his pocket. He then spent five minutes searching the ground thoroughly around the damaged tomb. Two things that he found were also transferred to his pocket. One of them was a brown jacket button, and the other was a damp form-book, usually seen in the hands of people who go to horse races.
‘Let’s speak to the chowkidar, and then we must go home. It’s getting cloudy again,’ Feluda said.
‘Will you return the wallet?’ Lalmohan Babu asked.
‘Of course. I must find out which hospital he was taken to. Then I’ll visit him, possibly tomorrow.’
‘And suppose the fellow is dead?’
‘We can hardly make that assumption and grab his property. That would be unethical. Besides, all you can hope to buy in the Blue Fox with thirty-seven rupees is tea and sandwiches. So stop dreaming about dinner.’
We made an about turn and began walking back to the entrance, through rows of tombs. Feluda was quiet. He had lit a Charminar. Although he had cut down on smoking of late, if he smelt a mystery anywhere, almost unconsciously, he put a cigarette in his mouth.
We were halfway down the path, when Feluda stopped suddenly. I could not immediately see why. So I followed his gaze, and saw something that almost made me miss a heartbeat. I, too, stopped in my tracks.
In front of a tomb with a dome—the dead person’s name on the plaque read ‘Miss Margaret Templeton’—lying on the grass, on top of an old brick, was a cigarette, still burning. Only a quarter of it had been smoked. A thin ribbon of smoke was rising from it. There was no breeze—possibly because rain was imminent. That was why the smoke was visible.
Feluda picked up the cigarette and said, ‘Gold Flake.’ Lalmohan Babu said, ‘Let’s go home.’ I said, ‘Should I go and see if the fellow’s still here?’
‘If the fellow had any intention of remaining here, he would have waited with the cigarette in his hand; or he would have dropped it on the grass and stubbed it out with his foot. He would not have left it like this. No, he has clearly run away, and he was in a hurry to remove himself.’
We then proceeded on our way and found the chowkidar’s room. But it was empty. A few minutes later, he emerged from behind a bush, walked slowly back to his room, and said, ‘I’ve just got rid of a rat!’
So he had gone behind the bush to arrange a rat’s funeral! Feluda went straight to business.
‘Who was the first to find the injured man? I mean the one who was hit by that tree?’ he asked.
The chowkidar admitted to being the first to find the man. He was not actually in the cemetery when the tree crashed. He had gone to Park Street to rescue one of his own shirts which had been blown away in that direction. He had found the injured man on his return. He knew the man by sight, as he had visited the cemetery a few times in the recent past.
‘Did anyone else come here yesterday?’
‘I don’t know, Babu. When I went running to get my shirt, there was no one here.’
‘But it’s possible to hide behind these tombs, isn’t it?’
The chowkidar acknowledged the possibility. I, too, was thinking what a wonderful place it would be to play hide-and-seek. Perhaps the best possible place in the entire city!
When he found Naren Biswas, the chowkidar had gone out into the street and spoken to a passing ‘sahib’. From his description, it sounded as if he had found a priest from St Xavier’s. It was this sahib who had called a taxi and arranged to send Mr Biswas to the hospital.
‘Did you see anyone come in today? A little while ago?’
‘A little while ago?’
‘Yes.’
No, he had seen no one, for he was nowhere near the gate. He was behind that bush, performing the last rites for the dead rat. When the rat was disposed of, even then he could not return to his room immediately for he had to deal with a call of nature.
‘Are you here at night?’
‘Yes, Babu. But there is no need to guard this place at night because people are too scared to come here. At one time, the wall near Lower Circular Road was broken; but now, no, no one dares to come into the cemetery at night.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Baramdeo.’
‘I see. Here you are!’
‘Salaam, Babu!’
Feluda had thrust a two-rupee note into the chowkidar’s hand. This simple act was to bear fruit in the course of time.
Three
‘Godwin . . .? Thomas Godwin?’
Six creases appeared on Uncle Sidhu’s forehead.
I call Uncle Sidhu Mr Encyclopaedia. Feluda calls him Mr Photographic Memory. Both descriptions fit him very well. He does not forget anything that he reads, sees, or even hears—if he finds it sufficiently interesting. Feluda is obliged to consult him from time to time. That was what he was doing today.
Every morning, at dawn, Uncle Sidhu goes to the Lake for a walk. He walks for a couple of miles, and then returns home by half past six. He never misses his walk, even on days whe
n it rains. All he does is grab an umbrella as he steps out. On his return, he sits on his divan, and remains seated there all day. He leaves that spot only to have his bath and eat his meals. Then he’s back again. In front of him stands a desk, piled high with books, journals and newspapers. Uncle Sidhu never writes anything. Not letters, not his accounts, not even a list of his clothes when his dhobi takes them away to be washed. All he does is read. He doesn’t have a telephone. If he needs to contact us, he sends a message through his servant, Janardan. We get his message in ten minutes.
Uncle Sidhu never married. Instead of a wife, he lives with his books. ‘My wife, my child, my mother, father, brother, sister, doctor, master . . . everything in life that you can think of is here, amongst my books. Books are my family, my friends!’ he claims. It is he who is partly responsible for Feluda’s interest in old Calcutta. But Uncle Sidhu knows the history of the entire world, not just this city.
He sipped black tea and repeated the name ‘Godwin’ to himself. Then he said, ‘Any mention of that name is likely to remind one of Shelley’s father-in-law. But I can think of a Godwin who came to India. When did your Godwin die?’
‘1858.’
‘And when was he born?’
‘1788.’
‘Yes, it might well be the Godwin I’m thinking of. In 1858—or maybe it was 1859—an article appeared in the Calcutta Review. Thomas Godwin’s daughter wrote it. Her name was Shirley. No . . . no, it was Charlotte. Yes, that’s right. Charlotte Godwin. She’d written about her father. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now . . . my word, it’s an extraordinary story, my dear Felu! What Charlotte didn’t mention was what happened to him in his old age, so I know nothing about that. But what he did when he first arrived in India . . . it would sound like a novel. You’ve been to Lucknow, haven’t you?’
Feluda nodded. It was in Lucknow that he had solved the mystery of a stolen ring which had once belonged to Emperor Aurangzeb. That was the case that established him as a brilliant detective.
‘So you know about Sadat Ali?’ Uncle Sidhu went on.
‘Yes.’
‘At the time, Sadat Ali was the Nawab of Lucknow. The Sultanate in Delhi was all but over. It was Lucknow that could offer the glamour of courtly life. Sadat had been in Calcutta in his youth. He had known some Englishmen, learned something of their language, and adopted their ways in full measure. When Asaf-ud-Daula died, Wazir Ali became the Nawab of Lucknow. Sadat was then in Benaras, feeling morose. He had hoped to get the throne in Lucknow after Asaf. Wazir Ali, as it happened, was perfectly useless. The British couldn’t stand him. In just four months, they put an end to his rule. Don’t forget that at that time, the East India Company had a lot of influence in Lucknow. Every Nawab had to kowtow to them. So when they got rid of Wazir, they brought Sadat in and made him the new Nawab. Sadat was so pleased with the British that he gave them half of Awadh.
‘The lanes of Lucknow crawled with British and other European men. The Nawab had English and Dutch officers in his army. Then there were European merchants, European doctors, painters, barbers, even schoolteachers. But there were some who had not come to do a specific job. Their only aim was to make money. They tried to impress the Nawab, and fleece him anyhow. In that category of men fell Thomas Godwin. He was a young man from England—his home was in Sussex, or Suffolk . . . or was it Surrey? I can’t remember. Anyway, he heard about the Nawab’s wealth and arrived in Lucknow. He was good-looking and well spoken. It did not take him long to please the British Resident, Mr Cherry. Cherry gave him a letter of introduction, and Godwin turned up in Sadat Ali’s court. Sadat asked him what his speciality was. Thomas had heard that the Nawab was fond of European food, and Thomas was a good cook. So he said he was a master chef, he’d like to prepare a meal for the Nawab. ‘Go ahead!’ said Sadat. Thomas produced such an excellent meal that Sadat Ali immediately appointed him as a cook in the royal kitchen. Everywhere that the Nawab went, his entourage included a Muslim cook and Thomas Godwin.
‘When the Governor-General came to Lucknow, Sadat would invite him to breakfast, knowing that he would benefit if the Governor-General was pleased with him. The only person he could depend on was Godwin. And if Thomas could please the Nawab with a new dish, he would be duly rewarded. Not just a couple of mohurs, mind you, we are talking here of a Nawab of Lucknow. His generosity matched his status. So you can imagine the kind of money Thomas Godwin made. If the money wasn’t good, he would not have worked in a kitchen. He simply wasn’t that kind of a man.
‘Eventually, he left Lucknow and stepped out of the Nawab’s domain. He came to Calcutta, and married a woman called Jane Maddock. She was the daughter of an army captain. Within three months, Godwin started his own restaurant—in the heart of Chowringhee, no less. He was still doing very well. But then the inevitable followed. After all, good times don’t last for ever, do they?
‘Godwin had developed a passion for gambling. When he was in Lucknow, he often put his money on cockfights, or even fights between partridges. He made a lot of money—but he lost as much. Now, in Calcutta, the same passion returned . . . His daughter did not say much more in her article. As far as I can remember, it was published only a few months after he died. So, obviously, Charlotte Godwin could not write at length about her own father’s weaknesses, particularly at that age and time. Anyway, if you want to read that article, you will find it in the Asiatic Society. It will naturally give you many more details.’
Feluda and I both remained silent for a few moments after hearing such a fascinating story. It was Uncle Sidhu who broke the silence.
‘But why this sudden interest in Thomas Godwin?’ he asked.
‘I shall soon explain,’ Feluda replied. ‘Before that, I need to know something else. Have you heard of a Narendra Biswas, who writes on old Calcutta?’
‘Where does he write?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If he writes for some little known magazine, I don’t think I’ll have seen his articles. I’ve virtually stopped reading magazines—I mean, other than all my usual stuff. But why do you ask?’
Feluda quickly described the previous day’s events. ‘What I want to know,’ he said, ‘is why a man’s wallet should be found at least twenty feet away, if that man is hit by a falling tree which makes him drop to the ground.’
‘Hmm.’
Uncle Sidhu remained thoughtful for a few seconds. Then he said, ‘Yesterday, the wind speed was ninety miles per hour. If that wallet was in the breast pocket of his shirt, it could well have dropped out of it when the man began running. The wind may have carried it further. That tree may have fallen on him even as he was running. Where’s the mystery in that?’
‘The man fell right next to Godwin’s grave.’
‘So what?’
‘There was a hole near the grave, as if someone had started digging the ground.’
This time, Uncle Sidhu’s eyes grew round. ‘What! Grave-digging? That’s grave news indeed. In fact, it’s incredible. I’ve heard of new corpses being dug up and sold to medical colleges. That may bring in a certain amount of money. But what would anyone do with a two-hundred-year-old corpse? They’d only find a few bones. It would have neither archaeological significance nor any resale value! Are you sure this place had been recently dug up?’
‘No, not entirely sure. The rain had wiped out any marks a spade would have left, but even so . . .’
Uncle Sidhu fell silent again. However, in the end, he shook his head and said, ‘No, Felu, my boy. I think you’re off on a wild goose chase. Haven’t you got a real case to work on at the moment? Is that why you’re trying to make one up, eh?’
Feluda gave his famous lopsided smile, but said nothing. Uncle Sidhu went on, ‘If there was someone left here from the Godwin family, they might have been able to shed some light. But I don’t suppose you’ll find anyone. After all, not all English families were like the Barwells or the Tytlers, whose descendants remained in India until quite recently—right from th
e time of Clive!’
It was at this point that Feluda played his trump card.
‘Thomas Godwin’s family remained here for three generations after his death. I know that for a fact.’
‘Really?’ Uncle Sidhu sounded amazed. The truth was that, before going to Uncle Sidhu’s house, we had spent an hour and a half that morning in another cemetery in Lower Circular Road. It had been built later than the one in Park Street, and was still in use.
‘We saw Charlotte Godwin’s grave,’ Feluda said. ‘She died in 1886, at the age of sixty-seven.’
‘Was her surname shown as Godwin? That means she remained unmarried. Ah, she was a good writer!’
‘Next to Charlotte was her brother, David’s tomb. He died in 1874.’ Feluda took out his notebook and began rattling out a list, ‘He was the head assistant in Kidd & Co. in Kidderpore. Next to him lies his son, Lt. Col. Andrew Godwin, together with his wife, Emma. Andrew died in 1882. Their son, Charles, is buried beside them. He was a doctor, and he died in 1920.’
‘Well done! Full marks for your meticulous research and perseverance.’ Uncle Sidhu sounded really pleased. ‘Now you must find out if anyone from their family is alive and living in Calcutta. Did you find the name Godwin in the telephone directory?’
‘Just one. I rang the number. That Godwin has nothing to do with Thomas.’
‘You might need to look a bit further. Who knows, there might be a link? Mind you, I have no idea how you’d ever be able to find it. But if you do, we might learn something more about this colourful character called Thomas Godwin. All this talk of grave-digging trikes me as pure nonsense. Anyway, good luck!’
Four
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?’