‘The mention of loggerheads reminds me—the other day, you asked him in our presence, “Shall I let the cat out of the bag?” It occurred to me then, that perhaps you knew about a skeleton in his closet.’
Now Nepalbabu’s expression underwent another change. He laughed amicably and exclaimed, ‘Skeleton! Oh, no, no, that is merely a figment of your imagination. In a moment of anger, I just blurted out whatever came to my head. It meant nothing, really. So, now that you’re here … I don’t think any arrangements have been made here today for meals. Nor are they likely to be. Mukul, my daughter, is unwell.’
‘That is only to be expected,’ Byomkesh replied. ‘She was the first to know. She must be in shock. Tell me something, Nepalbabu—that is, if you don’t mind my asking—between your daughter and Bijoybabu, was there any sort of …’
‘Any sort of what?’ Nepalbabu’s tone had turned harsh once more. ‘Any intimacy …?’
‘My daughter isn’t one to get intimate with anyone. But in the first few months after our arrival here, I had broached the subject of negotiations for Mukul’s marriage to Bijoy. At first, Bijoy was agreeable to the idea. Then everything changed.’ He was sullen for a while, then added, ‘That Bijoy is a real bounder.’
Diffidently, Byomkesh asked, ‘Does Bijoybabu have a questionable character?’
Nepalbabu said, ‘What else could it be? He’s inherently immoral. Would you call someone a man of sound character when he ignores respectable girls and runs after wanton hussies?’
Just as the enigma surrounding Bijoy and Mukul was about to clear up, we were interrupted. Bhujangadharbabu entered and asked, ‘How is Mukul doing now?’
Nepalbabu replied, ‘Just the same. She’s really taken it hard. Would you take a look at her?’
‘Come, let’s … Where is she?’
‘She’s lying down.’ Nepalbabu got up from the charpoy.
Byomkesh said, ‘Right, then, we’ll be on our way.’
Without a word, Nepalbabu went into the house, followed by Bhujangadharbabu.
The notebook lay on the charpoy. Byomkesh snatched it up and hastily turned the pages. Then he returned it to its place and said, ‘Come on.’
Once we were back on the road, I asked, ‘What did you see in the notebook?’
‘Nothing of consequence; a list of all the inmates on the farm. In it, crosses had been marked beside Panugopal and Bonolokhhi’s names.’
‘What could that mean?’
‘Perhaps, Nepalbabu has started dividing up the spoils already. He is convinced he will now occupy the empty throne. He is probably planning to eject Panugopal and Bonolokhhi from the farm; hence the crosses beside their names. But let’s drop the subject for the time being. Did you understand what he said about Mukul and Bijoy?’
‘Not very clearly. What was it all about?’
‘After Nepalbabu and his daughter came to the farm, Bijoy and Mukul were drawn to each other and there was talk of marriage. Then Bonolokhhi arrived. Bijoy was attracted to her and broke off the marriage negotiations with Mukul.’
‘Oh … that explains the reference to the wanton hussy. But Bijoy also knows about Bonolokhhi’s past. Even if they were in love, how could they ever marry?’
‘If Bijoy wants to marry her despite everything, who’s to stop him?’
‘I am sure Nishanathbabu had objected.’
‘It’s possible. He was fond of Bonolokhhi, but I don’t think he was prepared to accept her marriage to his nephew. Very complicated issues, Ajit. The more I delve into them, the more complex they become. Many people stand to gain from Nishanathbabu’s death.’
‘You are absolutely certain that Nishanathbabu’s death was not a natural one?’
‘Absolutely. His soaring blood pressure had brought him to the edge of the precipice and someone just gave him that final push.’
Once we had returned to Nishanathbabu’s house, Bijoy said, ‘Bhujangadharbabu has given Kakima a dose of morphia. She is sleeping.’
‘Good,’ Byomkesh said. ‘When she wakes up, she will be calmer. In the meantime, the body can be taken away.’
13
The police van arrived at eleven o’clock with a few constables and Pramod Barat, the inspector of the local police station.
Mr Barat was still quite young. There was a kind of intensity to this dark-complexioned man who looked as tall as a sal tree. It seemed as if even the rigours of working in the police force hadn’t been able to harden him. His face still exuded a childlike innocence. He joined his palms together in greeting and asked with a reverential expression, ‘You are Byomkeshbabu?’
I realized that despite being in the force, he was a fan of Byomkesh’s. Smiling, Byomkesh took him aside and gave him an account of the suspicious circumstances surrounding Nishanathbabu’s death. Barat listened intently. Then Byomkesh led him to the room where the body lay. Bijoy and I followed them in.
Having entered the room, Barat stood at the door and began to look around him. He noticed a light ball of fluff rolling around on the floor and bent to pick it up. It consisted of sun-dried hay, withered blades of grass and hemp fibres. ‘What on earth is this and what’s it doing here?’ he inquired.
‘A sparrow’s nest,’ Byomkesh explained, pointing to the iron hook for the ceiling fan overhead. ‘See, it’s come off that.’ The sparrows themselves looked unperturbed and carried on building their nest as if nothing had happened.
Barat discarded the ball of fluff and approached the body. Removing the sheet, he began to examine it. Byomkesh asked, ‘Have you observed the socks on his feet? That, primarily, is what has aroused suspicion. I haven’t touched the body, since it wouldn’t have been right for me to do so before the police had examined it. But it’s important to verify whether there are any marks on the soles of the feet.’
‘That’s no problem; it can be done right away.’ Barat removed the socks from Nishanathbabu’s feet. Byomkesh bent down and scrutinized his calves. A cursory glance revealed little that was different, but a closer inspection showed up light indentations on the calves, the kind left by elastic garters worn over socks.
When he saw the marks, Byomkesh’s eyes sparked with interest. ‘Have you noticed this?’ he asked Barat.
‘I have,’ Barat replied. ‘It looks as though his legs were bound. But what does that indicate?’
Byomkesh replied, ‘At least this much, that before his death, Nishanathbabu didn’t put on the socks himself—someone else did it for him.’
‘But why?’ Barat asked. ‘What does it mean? Does it say anything to you?’
‘Perhaps it does. But it’s better to remain silent until the post-mortem is done. Have the body taken away. And ask the doctor to look out for hypodermic syringe marks somewhere on the body.’
‘Right.’
We returned to the drawing room. Barat called the constables and ordered them to remove the body to the van. All this while, Bijoy had been holding himself in check. Now, he lowered his face into his hands and began to weep.
Byomkesh said gently, ‘There’s no need for you to accompany us today. We’ll handle it. You can come tomorrow morning. What do you say, Inspector Barat?’
‘That would be best,’ Barat answered. ‘The report won’t be out before tomorrow morning. I shall pick up Bijoybabu from the farm and go over to your place in the morning.’
‘Fine. Come along, then. Will there be room in your van for us?’
‘Yes. Follow me.’
Byomkesh touched Bijoy’s shoulder and murmured a few words of commiseration. Then we prepared to leave. At this moment, Bonolokhhi came out and stood at the door leading into the house’s private quarters. Her face was pale and dirty. As our eyes met, she said, ‘Food is served. Won’t you have lunch?’
Byomkesh exclaimed, ‘Food! Who did the cooking?’
Bonolokhhi averted her eyes and replied diffidently, ‘I did.’
Her rumpled sari was smudged with charcoal marks and stained with turmeric—the tell-tale sign
s of an amateur in the kitchen. Thank God, at least one person in the farm had kept her wits about her; however traumatic the event might have been, she hadn’t lost sight of the fact that so many people would need to be fed. I noticed Bijoy gazing steadfastly at Bonolokhhi, as if seeing her in a new light.
‘We’re returning to the city now. So lunch is out, I’m afraid.
As it is, you have enough burdens to bear without our adding to them. It would be a great help, though, if you see to the others.’ He gestured towards Bijoy.
Bonolokhhi came over to stand by Bijoy. She said in a grave voice, ‘Come, have your bath. Then you can sit down for lunch.’
We left.
The police van headed for Calcutta, bearing one dead human being and a few living ones.
There wasn’t much conversation on the way. At one point, Byomkesh volunteered, ‘A man called Rashik De used to live on the farm. He’s been absconding since yesterday. Most probably, he has stolen some money from the shop. Try and locate him. Some of the fingers on his hands are missing—he shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.’
Barat jotted that down in his notebook.
About an hour later, the police van stopped in front of our home to let us get off before driving way. My mind remained distraught the entire day. Nishanathbabu’s spirit continued to haunt my thoughts.
At around three in the afternoon, I observed Byomkesh going out, carrying an umbrella for protection against the sun. I asked, ‘Where to?’
He replied, ‘Just to gather some information.’
‘About whom?’
‘No one in particular. Whatever information comes to me about any of the farm inmates, I shall collect indiscriminately. For the moment, I am trying to trace some facts about Dr Bhujangadhar and Lal Singh.’
‘So you haven’t forgotten Lal Singh?’
‘I haven’t forgotten anyone.’ Byomkesh went off.
Half an hour after he had left, there was a phone call. It was Bijoy calling from the farm. Everything was fine there. Damayanti Devi was still asleep. A piece of news: Brojodas was absconding—he had disappeared before lunch.
An intriguing bit of news. First, Rashik De, then the pious Vaishnav! Had he also made off with the farm’s funds?
I promised Bijoy that I would convey the news to Byomkesh when he returned, and hung up.
Late in the evening, a storm brought a series of showers in its wake. It was as though a fever had broken after a prolonged bout and perspiration was coursing over the body. Byomkesh had taken the umbrella to ward off the sun; it would come in handy against the rain as well.
Byomkesh returned at eight-thirty in the evening. His clothes were soaked through and the umbrella looked like a drenched crow. Plonking himself down on a chair in that state, he gave a blissful sigh of relief. Then he raised his voice and called out, ‘Putiram! Tea, please.’
I conveyed Bijoy’s message to him. He remained lost in thought for a while, then observed, ‘One by one, the lights are being extinguished. If it continues at this rate, only Mushkil Mian will be left at the end. But why did Guruji take so long to make good his escape? Did the thought of the post-mortem chase him away?’
I asked, ‘What about your day? Did you manage to get anything on Bhujangadharbabu?’
‘Nothing new. Whatever he has told us is true. He used to have a dispensary and a nursing home in China town. He was minting money, when his greed got the better of him and led him to slip up.’
‘And Lal Singh?’
Byomkesh took off his wet shirt and tossed it down on the floor. ‘Lal Singh died in prison nearly two years ago. His wife was informed about his demise, but the letter was returned. No one knows where his wife is.’
The rain outside was relentless; the temperature had dropped. Putiram brought in the tea. Byomkesh took a tiny sip from his cup and said, ‘If this rain had come last night, Nishanathbabu’s wearing socks would have made some sense; it would have seemed as if he had put them on himself. At least, the possibility couldn’t have been ruled out. Thank God it didn’t rain last night!’
14
The following morning, Barat and Bijoy arrived. Bijoy was barefoot and his clothes and appearance bore the ritual signs of mourning. Wearily, he sank into a chair.
Byomkesh held his hand out to Barat and asked, ‘May I have a look at the post-mortem report?’
Unbuttoning his pocket, Barat replied, ‘It’s a clean report; nothing suspicious. There was no trace of poison or even medication in the blood. He died of a cerebral haemorrhage.’
‘No marks of a hypodermic syringe?’
‘There were some marks above the elbows, on the veins, but they were between two and three months old.’
‘And the marks on the calves?’
‘The doctor said there was no connection between those marks and death.’
Barat took the report out and handed it over. Byomkesh studied it carefully. He heaved a sigh and handed the report back to Barat. ‘I should have realized that nothing would show up in the examination,’ he remarked.
‘So we have to conclude, do we, that it was a straightforward case of escalating blood pressure culminating in death?’ Barat asked.
‘Not at all. The killer has taken advantage of the deceased’s high blood pressure. Hence the absence of external marks on the body.’
‘But I cannot figure out how he has taken advantage of it. If I have to continue investigation, I need something tangible to go by. Yesterday you had claimed to know the reason for the deceased being made to wear socks. Please do tell me what it is.’
All this while, Bijoy had been sitting there listlessly, pressing his fingers against his temple. Now he looked up at Byomkesh. Byomkesh too looked at him, and hesitated a little. Then he said, ‘All the evidence is right there before you. Can’t you draw any inferences from it?’
‘I’m afraid not. Do please tell us,’ Barat urged him.
‘The sparrow’s nest was lying on the floor. Can’t you figure something out from that?’
‘No.’
Byomkesh faltered again. ‘A horrible death,’ he said, casting another uncertain look at Bijoy.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bijoy said quietly, ‘tell me.’
Slowly, Byomkesh began, ‘I am divulging this for your sake, but please ensure that it remains confidential. Nishanathbabu’s feet were tied together and he was hung upside down from the hooks on the ceiling. He already suffered from high blood pressure, as you know. By hanging him up in that manner, the killer ensured that the blood in his body would flow downwards and end up exerting tremendous pressure on the brain. As a result, a cerebral vein ruptured and, within minutes, he was dead. Then the killer took him down and laid him on the bed again. Fortunately for us, he forgot to take the socks off Nishanathbabu’s feet. Even the canniest of criminals makes a mistake; otherwise, it would have been well-nigh impossible for anyone to catch such people.’
We sat there, speechless with shock. A hoarse sound emerged from Bijoy’s throat. His face was ashen.
Barat was the first to speak. ‘It must have been horrible!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now I begin to understand—the socks were slipped over his feet to prevent the ropes from marking the soles. While looping the rope through the metal clamps, the sparrow’s nest had been knocked to the floor. There was a stool in the room. So tying the rope to the hooks would have posed no problem at all. But Byomkeshbabu, I have one question: How is it that through the entire proceedings Nishanathbabu didn’t wake up?’
‘Nishanathbabu was probably awake. Death had occurred between ten and eleven in the night. Yesterday, Dr Pal had established that as the time of death and the post-mortem report seems to confirm it.’
‘Then?’
‘It is quite obvious that the culprit is a person with whom the deceased was familiar. I had surmised that the killer had first put him to sleep by giving him an injection and then strung him up. Nowadays, there are many drugs available by which a patient can be made to go under within minutes w
ithout leaving a trace in the blood—sodium pentathol, for example. But when no syringe marks were found on the body, it became clear that the oldest of methods had been resorted to.’
‘In other words …?’
‘In other words, a sandbag. A blow to the back of the neck would do the needful without leaving any marks on the body.’
For a while, all of us were silent. Then Bijoy looked up with a haggard expression and asked, ‘But who …? Why …?’
Byomkesh understood the import of his question and shook his head. ‘That is something I don’t know yet. Something else has been puzzling me. Mrs Sen must have been in the next room between ten and eleven that night—didn’t she hear a thing?’
Almost unconsciously, Bijoy got to his feet and said brokenly, ‘Kakima! No, oh no, she doesn’t know anything! She must have been asleep …’
He realized suddenly that we were staring at him in surprise and sat down again.
Byomkesh said, ‘Anyway, let’s drop the subject for the time being. In due course, all our questions will be answered. Right now, do tell me one thing—who is the beneficiary in Nishanathbabu’s will?’
Bijoy replied in a harried tone, ‘Kakima and I—equal shares.’
Byomkesh and Barat exchanged glances, and Barat stood up to leave. ‘Let’s be off today,’ he suggested. ‘Bijoybabu still has a busy day ahead; the last rites …’
We rose to our feet. ‘We’ll come over to the farm later in the day,’ Byomkesh announced. ‘By the way, any news of Rashik De?’
‘I have put my men on to it,’ Barat replied. ‘No news so far.’
‘Brojodas Guruji hasn’t come back, has he?’ Byomkesh asked Bijoy.
The latter shook his head.
Byomkesh said, ‘Inspector Barat, you need to add one more customer to your list now. Please look out for Brojodas as well.’
Barat made a note of it and asked, ‘When you’re coming that way, would you drop in at the police station once?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
After they had left, Byomkesh sat in his chair for nearly half an hour, lost to the world. I finished smoking two cigarettes, one after the other. Then, unable to bear the torture of prolonged silence, I asked, ‘What did you think of Bijoy? Is he faking his emotions?’
Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries Page 8