Menagerie & other Byomkesh Bakshi Mysteries

by Saradindu Bandyopadhyaya

  Byomkesh looked up and replied, ‘If that is faking, there isn’t a better actor in Bengal.’

  ‘So he really has been hit hard by his uncle’s death. He seems to care a great deal about his aunt as well.’

  ‘Hmm. And that is why he is afraid.’

  A few minutes later, I asked again, ‘Tell me, is there any link between the delivery of motor parts and Nishanathbabu’s death?’

  ‘There might be one or there might not.’

  ‘But Lal Singh died two years ago. So who was sending the motor parts to Nishanathbabu?’

  ‘I don’t know. But do remember, there is no proof that those motor parts were intended for Nishanathbabu. He thought so himself, but it could well have been otherwise.’

  ‘Then whom were they meant for?’

  Byomkesh did not reply. I waited for a couple of minutes and when I realized he would not oblige me with an answer, I asked him a different question altogether: ‘Is there any connection between Sunayana’s story and Nishanathbabu’s death?’

  ‘Even if there happened to be one,’ Byomkesh admitted, ‘I cannot see it. Sunayana had killed Murari Dutta with nicotine poison. Nishanathbabu was murdered by a man.’

  ‘A man?’

  ‘Yes. Nishanathbabu was not a very big man, but still it wouldn’t have been possible for a woman to tie his legs and string him up from the ceiling.’

  ‘That’s true. But what could be the motive?’

  Byomkesh rose and stretched himself.

  ‘Perhaps the biggest motive was that Nishanathbabu had called on me!’ He lit a cigarette and headed for the shower.

  15

  When we arrived at the Mohanpur station that evening, a few hours of daylight still lingered from that long summer day. We emerged from the station and found the farm’s buggy waiting. Mushkil Mian was perched on the footrest, puffing at a beedi.

  We hadn’t seen Mushkil in the last few days. He seemed to have aged and looked a little more hunched than before. He saluted us and said, ‘Bijoybabu sent the van for you gentlemen.’

  Byomkesh asked, ‘Have they returned from the riverbank after performing the last rites?’

  ‘Yes, they have.’

  Byomkesh asked, ‘Has there been any new development?’

  Mushkil sighed and replied, ‘What more could there be, sir? Everything is over.’

  ‘That’s true. Come, let’s be off. But we have to stop by at the police station first.’

  ‘Come along, then. Is it true that a post-mortem was done on the master?’

  ‘Yes. How did you come to know of it?’

  ‘Oh, things come to my ears. What did the autopsy reveal—that it wasn’t a natural death?’

  Byomkesh avoided a direct answer and said, ‘The doctors know about that. Mushkil Mian, aren’t you always drowsy from opium? How then did you come to know so much?’

  A faint smile appeared at the corner of Mushkil’s mouth and he replied, ‘So what if I am drowsy, sir? My wife keeps her eyes peeled and her ears perked up. Nothing escapes her. I get all the news. I knew long ago that something was about to happen.’

  ‘And how did you know that?’

  Mushkil lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Then suddenly, waving his hands about in a gesture of regret, he remarked, ‘Fooling around with women … under cover of darkness, people slinking off to each other’s rooms … no good can come of such wanton behaviour. No, sir, it can’t.’

  Surprised, Byomkesh asked, ‘Who goes to whose room?’

  Having allowed the words to escape his lips, Mushkil seemed a little embarrassed. ‘Whom can I leave out, sir?’ he went on. ‘It’s the women who are evil, sir—they were created by Khuda to bring about man’s downfall.’

  ‘So … you mean to say that at night the women on the farm secretly join the men in their rooms? Can you tell me who goes to whose room?’

  ‘How can I tell, sir? In the dark, can you make out anyone’s features? Depravity had been breeding at the core. Now that the master is no more, and the mistress is a simple, straightforward person, there will be bedlam.’

  ‘Okay,’ Byomkesh tried again, ‘so you cannot tell who the women are; but, surely, you can say whose rooms they go to.’

  A trifle impatiently, Mushkil replied, ‘Oh really, can’t you draw your own conclusions about that? It’s obvious that women will enter the rooms of young men and not of old fogeys.’

  There wasn’t the slightest room for doubt in Mushkil Mian’s philosophy of life. I made a mental calculation and came up with a list of young men: Bijoy, Rashik and Panugopal. Dr Bhujangadhar could also be included in that list.

  Byomkesh asked no more questions. He boarded the buggy and urged, ‘Come, we should be on our way. How far is the police station?’

  ‘Quite close; it’s on the way.’ Mushkil took the driver’s seat and set off.

  When we arrived at the police station, Pramod Barat welcomed us. He ushered us into his own cabin and offered us his cigarette case. Byomkesh helped himself to a cigarette and asked with a smile, ‘Are you convinced now that Nishanathbabu was murdered?’

  ‘I am convinced, but my superiors are still undecided. They contend that since the autopsy report came out clean, why stir up a hornet’s nest! But I’m not letting it go so easily. Do you suspect anyone in particular?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Byomkesh replied. ‘But this incident has a background which you need to know about. Let me fill you in on the details.’ Byomkesh narrated the Sunayana story as well as the episode involving the broken motor parts.

  Barat became highly excited and exclaimed, ‘This appears to be a complex case indeed! Do suggest how I should go about my investigation.’

  ‘Right now, two things need to be done. First, you should collect the thumb impressions of all the people on the farm …’

  ‘Of what use would that be?’

  ‘It might be useful to have them handy. One never knows what might come up.’

  Barat hesitated a little and declared, ‘I can’t say I agree about this being a step in the right direction, but I’ll go ahead with it nonetheless. What is the second thing you mentioned?’

  ‘The second thing is that we’re on our way to the farm right now and you should accompany us. I shall question each and every person on the farm in your presence; I’d like you to witness the interrogation and take notes, if necessary.’

  ‘What kind of interrogation is it going to be?’

  ‘The primary objective of my interrogation will be to ascertain the whereabouts of all the people on the farm between ten o’clock and eleven on the night of the murder. I would also like to establish the identities of those who had an alibi and those who didn’t.’

  ‘Fine. Let’s get started then.’

  A head constable accompanied us, carrying the equipment required for taking thumb impressions.

  We arrived at the farm just as the sun was on its way down. The previous night’s downpour had made the soil here soggy as well. Bhujangadharbabu stood talking to Bijoy in front of the deceased’s house. A funereal despondency still lingered on Bijoy’s face. But Bhujangadharbabu was quite cheerful and his sardonic, lopsided smile was back.

  Bijoy’s eyes held a suggestion of curiosity when he noticed Barat and the constable with us. Bhujangadharbabu said, ‘Oh, welcome back. I was reciting Mohamudgar—the famous poem by Adi Shankaracharya—to Bijoybabu: “Who is your wife and who are your progeny … in this world, everything is as transient as droplets on the lotus leaf”.’

  His levity was unseemly; it appeared as though he were going to extremes to cheer up Bijoy.

  Barat assumed an official air of severity before announcing, ‘I will require the thumb impressions of everyone here.’

  The look of inquiry in Bijoy’s eyes became patently less ambiguous, while Bhujangadharbabu too, looked askance at Barat. Byomkesh explained, ‘The rate at which people are disappearing from the farm, there’s no telling who will last till the end. Hence the precaution.’


  Having grasped the import of Byomkesh’s words, Bijoy said, ‘Well, that’s fine. Go ahead.’ But his eyes were eloquent with silent queries. ‘What is the need?’ they seemed to ask. ‘Has there been some new development?’

  ‘I hope no one will raise objections to it,’ Byomkesh said. ‘Naturally, if anyone chose to do so, all suspicion would immediately fall on that person. Bhujangadharbabu, I trust you have no objections?’

  ‘Not the least. Here you are …’ He stretched out his thumb.

  Barat gestured to the constable who set about taking the former doctor’s thumb impressions. Bhujangadharbabu observed with a caustic smile, ‘I see that I was mistaken. Since thumbprints are being collected, the autopsy must have revealed something of consequence.’

  Nobody replied to this query disguised as a comment. Once Bijoy’s thumbprints and his own had been recorded and their names put down beside them, Bhujangadharbabu said, ‘So, tell me, who else needs to give their thumbprints? I shall escort the constable to each one of them.’

  ‘Everyone will have to give to his or her thumb impressions,’ Barat told him. ‘No man or woman here is exempt.’

  ‘Not even Mrs Sen?’

  ‘Not even she.’

  ‘Fine. Follow me, Constable.’

  Byomkesh said, ‘Just one more thing: When you’re having their thumbprints taken, tell everyone to assemble at the house in half an hour. I have some questions for them.’

  Bhujangadharbabu led the way with the constable following. We entered the drawing room. Bijoy switched on the lights. Byomkesh suggested, ‘Let this room serve as the waiting room. Those who come in to give their statements can wait here. And we will sit in the next room where each person will be summoned individually for interrogation. Does that suit you, Inspector Barat?’

  ‘That’ll be just fine.’

  ‘So, Bijoybabu,’ said Byomkesh, addressing the young man, ‘have a table and some chairs set up in the next room. Nothing else will be necessary.’

  Bijoy left the room to make the arrangements. Fifteen minutes later, Bhujangadharbabu returned with the constable and announced, ‘Here, all the thumbprints have been recorded. Old Nepalbabu had half a mind to resist, but at the last minute, he got scared. I have asked everyone to come here in half an hour. I’ll just go and freshen up and be right back.’

  16

  The table and chairs were set up in Nishanathbabu’s bedroom. Byomkesh and Barat seated themselves at either end of the table, leaving a vacant chair in between. I sat on a stool by the door, so that I could look into both rooms at the same time. A bright fluorescent light burned overhead.

  The first one to be called in was Damayanti Devi. Bijoy led her in by the hand from the private quarters of the house and she took the vacant chair. Being in mourning, she wore no jewellery and the parting in her hair was bare of every trace of sindoor—the traditional symbol of marriage for Hindu women. Her face had a waxen pallor. She remained motionless, her eyes downcast.

  Bijoy positioned himself behind her chair, placed his hands protectively on her shoulders and asked, ‘Would you have any objections to my remaining here with her?’

  A little reluctantly, Byomkesh replied, ‘As you wish.’ Then he gently conveyed his condolences to Damayanti Devi before reassuring her, ‘We shall try and ensure that we bother you as little as possible; I’d just like to ask you a few questions to which you alone have the answers. Now, when did you and Nishanathbabu get married?’

  Damayanti Devi’s downcast gaze travelled up to Byomkesh’s face before being lowered again. It was a poignant look, full of entreaty; yet it revealed a hint of steel. Very softly, she answered, ‘Ten years ago.’

  The interrogation took its course thereafter. All through, Damayanti Devi never raised her eyes again and gave all her answers in an undertone.

  ‘When you got married, was Nishanathbabu still in service?’ Byomkesh asked her.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘we were married after he had resigned from his post.’

  ‘But this was before he started the farm? Right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So, at the time of your marriage, Nishanathbabu would have been forty-seven years old?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please forgive my asking this question,’ Byomkesh continued, ‘but how old would you be now?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘Since when has Bijoybabu been living in your home?’

  Bijoy answered the question. ‘My parents died when I was ten years old. I have been living with Kaka ever since.’

  ‘How old are you now?’ Byomkesh asked him.

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  I noticed that Bijoy’s jaws were clenched. His hands clumsily gripped Damayanti Devi’s shoulders. It seemed as if he were in great inner turmoil and was trying his best to conceal it. I was sure Byomkesh had noticed it too, but he continued his questioning in a nonchalant manner.

  ‘A couple of years ago, you had obtained admission in a girls’ school,’ Byomkesh went on, addressing Damayanti Devi. ‘Which one was it?

  ‘St Martha’s Girls’ School.’

  ‘What was the reason for this sudden interest on your part?’

  ‘I wanted to learn English.’

  ‘You studied there for about eight months before giving it up, right?’

  ‘Yes. I lost interest.’

  All the while, Barat was making notes from the exchanges. Byomkesh began again. ‘The night before last, when did you come in from the kitchen after finishing dinner?’

  ‘It was almost ten o’clock,’ Damayanti Devi replied.

  ‘Where was Nishanathbabu at the time?’

  There was a slight pause before Damayanti Devi answered, ‘He had gone to bed.’

  ‘Was the room in darkness?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Was the window open?’

  ‘It may have been … I didn’t notice.’

  ‘The front door must have been bolted already?’

  ‘Yes,’ Damayanti Devi replied after a pause.

  ‘Which way did you enter the house?’

  ‘By the back door.’

  ‘That night … having come back in after dinner, what did you do?’

  ‘I went to bed.’

  ‘Was Nishanathbabu asleep at the time?’ Byomkesh persisted. ‘I mean, was he still alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Damayanti Devi replied after a paused.

  ‘How could you tell? Did you touch him?’

  ‘He was breathing.’

  Byomkesh was silent for a moment or two. Then suddenly he asked, ‘Do you know of a woman called Sunayana?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘For a while now, someone had been sending broken motor parts to your farm. Do you know anything about the matter?’

  ‘No more than anyone else.’

  ‘Do you have any skeletons in your cupboard?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know if I did.’

  Byomkesh gave a short laugh and declared, ‘I have no further questions for the time being. Bijoybabu, you may lead the lady out.’

  Bijoy heaved an audible sigh of relief, took Damayanti Devi by the hand and drew her to her feet before leading her away into the next room. I noticed that her legs were trembling. Perhaps, in her present frame of mind, she should have been spared the torment of a searching interrogation.

  In the meantime, I could see the drawing room filling up from my vantage point near the door.

  The first person to enter was Panugopal. He made his way to a corner of the room as inconspicuously as possible and took a seat. He was followed by Nepalbabu and his daughter. They took seats towards the front of the room. The scorched side of Nepalbabu’s face was turned towards me, so I couldn’t decipher his expression, but Mukul had nervousness written all over hers. She looked around a little, then muttered something under her breath to her father.

  The last one to enter was Bonolokhhi. Her face looked crushed by fatigue, drained of all vitality. She was probably handling t
he kitchen chores all by herself. When her eyes fell on Bonolokhhi, Mukul frowned with deep distaste and looked away. Bonolokhhi faltered a little. Then slowly, she moved to the open window and stood before it, clutching the bars and staring out into the darkness.

  Meanwhile, Bijoy had returned. He sank into the chair vacated by Damayanti Devi. Wiping the sweat off his brow with the edge of his shawl, he said, ‘You may as well get my statement over with too.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ Byomkesh replied, ‘I have very little to ask you.’

  I noticed that Bijoy had recovered somewhat from his earlier discomfiture during Damayanti Devi’s interrogation. But the very first question Byomkesh directed at him caught him unawares.

  ‘Some time ago, there was talk of marriage between you and Nepalbabu’s daughter Mukul,’ Byomkesh stated. ‘You were open to the idea at first, but then you changed your mind. Why was that?’

  ‘I … my … that is my own affair,’ Bijoy stammered. ‘It has nothing to do with Kaka’s death.’

  Byomkesh fixed him with a brief stare before posing a different question. ‘After returning from the city the evening before last, why did you make a second trip to Calcutta right away?’ he inquired.

  ‘I had some work to do,’ Bijoy replied.

  ‘You don’t wish to disclose what it was?’

  ‘That too is my own business.’

  ‘Bijoybabu, I have no interest in matters pertaining to your private life. You have brought us here to inquire into your uncle’s death. Now if you of all people start keeping secrets from us, what’s the point of an investigation?’

  ‘But I’m telling you it has nothing to do with Kaka’s death!’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ Byomkesh countered, ‘if we were allowed to be the judge of that?’

  I could see a conflict raging in Bijoy’s mind. Finally, he conceded defeat. He said, rather unhappily, ‘Fine, then hear me out. The evening before last, I returned from Calcutta to find a letter addressed to me—an anonymous letter. It said, “You are in deep trouble. If you don’t want to come to a sorry end, wait at the tea shop in Hogg Sahib’s market tonight at ten o’clock. You will come to know much about a certain person.” This was the note that drove me there. But the writer of the note didn’t come. I waited until eleven o’clock and came back.’