The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume I (76 page)

‘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.

‘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 when 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 the 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!’

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?’

Feluda had made some enquiries and learned that Mr Biswas had been admitted to Park Hospital. He had decided to go there in the evening and return Mr Biswas’s belongings to him.

My question made Feluda open his own notebook and offer it to me. ‘If you can make any sense of this, you’re bound to win the Nobel Prize!’

I found the following words written on the ruled page of his
notebook:

B/S 141 SNB for WG Victoria & P.C. (44?)

Re Victoria’s letters try MN, OU, GAA, SJ, WN

To myself, I said silently, ‘I’ve just missed the Nobel Prize!’ Aloud, I said, ‘It seems the man is interested in Queen Victoria, but I can’t figure out what “Victoria & P.C.” might mean.’

‘P.C. might stand for Prince Consort. That would be Prince Albert.’

‘Oh. But I can’t understand anything else.’

‘No? Surely you know the meaning of the words “for” and “try”?’

It was obvious from Feluda’s mood that he hadn’t had much luck with the words, either. To be honest, what Uncle Sidhu had said made sense. Perhaps Feluda was trying to find a mystery when there wasn’t one. But, as soon as I thought that, I remembered the half-finished cigarette, and suddenly there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Who had run away from the graveyard on seeing us? What was he doing there, anyway, on a wet and windy evening?

It had been agreed that Lalmohan Babu would collect us and take us to Park Hospital at four o’clock. He turned up on time, clutching a magazine. ‘What did I tell you, sir? Look, here’s a copy of Vichitrapatra, and here’s that article by Naren Biswas. There’s a picture of the Monument, but it’s printed rather badly.’

‘But . . . look, the writer is called Narendra Nath Biswas, not Narendra Mohan. Is it a different man?’

‘No,’ said Feluda, ‘I think the problem is with those visiting cards. Maybe he had them printed at some small, inefficient press that printed “N.M. Biswas” instead of “N.N”. I bet he didn’t check the proof. We found those cuttings in his wallet, and now there’s an article by Naren Biswas . . . surely it can’t be dismissed as a coincidence?’

Feluda skimmed the article quickly, then dropped the magazine on a side table. ‘His language isn’t bad, but what he’s said is nothing new. What we must find out is whether the writer is the same Naren Biswas as the one who was injured by that tree.’

Baba happened to know one of the doctors—Dr Shikdar—at Park Hospital. He had visited our house a couple of times, so he knew Feluda. Only five minutes after Feluda sent his card in, we were summoned into Dr Shikdar’s office.

‘What brings you here? A new case?’

People who know Feluda always ask him that question if he turns up anywhere unexpectedly, even if the reason for his visit has nothing to do with a case.

Feluda smiled. ‘I’m here to return something to one of your patients.’

‘Who?’

‘Mr Biswas. Naren Biswas. The day before yesterday . . .’

‘But he’s left. Only a couple of hours ago. His brother came in his car to collect him. They’ve gone.’

‘Really? But the papers said . . .’

‘What did they say? That he was seriously wounded? Press reporters often exaggerate. If a whole tree fell on someone, naturally he wouldn’t survive. What hit Mr Biswas was a relatively small branch. He needed treatment more for shock than actual physical injury. His right wrist was injured, and he needed a few stitches in his head, that’s all.’

‘Could you tell me something? Was it the same Naren Biswas who writes on old Calcutta?’

‘Yes, the very same. Obviously, I was curious to know why he was in the cemetery, in the first place. So he said he was doing some research on old Calcutta. I told him he had found a good subject. The more one stays away from today’s Calcutta, the better.’

‘Did his injuries seem normal to you?’

‘Ah. Now you’re talking! That was a question worthy of a detective.’

Feluda failed to hide his embarrassment. ‘No, I mean . . . did he say himself that a tree fell and . . .?’

‘Look, a large part of a tree did come crashing down, didn’t it? Surely there’s no doubt about that? And the fellow was in the vicinity. Is there any reason to question that?’

‘Did he think there was anything suspicious?’

‘No, of course not. He said he actually saw and heard the tree cracking and coming down . . . naturally, it was not possible to guess exactly how far its branches were spread. But . . . yes, when he regained consciousness, he uttered the word “will” two or three times. I don’t know if there’s anything mysterious in that. I wouldn’t have thought so, as that was the only time he mentioned a will. He said nothing about it afterwards.’

‘Do you happen to know his full name?’

‘Didn’t that newspaper report mention it? Narendra Nath Biswas.’

‘I have another question—please forgive me, I am taking up a lot of your time—do you remember what clothes he was wearing?’

‘Certainly. A shirt and trousers. I even remember what colour they were—the shirt was white and the trousers were biscuit coloured.
Not Glaxo biscuits, mind you, but cream crackers . . . ha ha ha!’

After that, Feluda took Mr Biswas’s address from Dr Shikdar and we left the hospital. Mr Biswas lived in New Alipore. We went there straightaway. Usually, it is not easy to find a house in New Alipore unless one knows its exact location, but it turned out that Lalmohan Babu’s driver knew the streets of Calcutta very well. We did not have to spend more than three minutes looking for Mr Biswas’s house.

The building had two storeys. It must have been built about twenty years ago. Outside the front gate, a black Ambassador was parked. The nameplate bore two names: N. Biswas and G. Biswas. We rang the bell. A servant opened the door.

‘Is Naren Biswas at home?’

‘He is unwell.’

‘Isn’t he up to receiving visitors at all? I need to see him. There’s a little

‘Who are you looking for?’

Someone standing behind the servant had asked the question. A man in his mid-forties stepped forward. He was clean shaven, his eyes were hazel. He was wearing a bush shirt over pyjamas, and a cotton shawl was wrapped around his shoulders.

‘I’d like to return something that belongs to Mr Naren Biswas. It’s his wallet. He dropped it in the Park Street cemetery.’

‘Oh, I see. I am his brother. Please come in. Dada is in bed. He’s still covered in bandages. He can talk, but an accident like that . . . I mean, it’s a big shock, after all. . .!’

There was a bedroom behind the staircase going up to the first floor. Mr Biswas was in that room, lying in his bed. He appeared darker than his brother and sported a thick moustache. His head was covered by a bandage, but one didn’t have to be told that, underneath the bandage, his head was quite bald.

He lowered the newspaper he was holding in his left hand, and bowed his head in greeting. A bandage was wrapped around his right wrist, so perhaps it was difficult for him to raise both hands in a proper namaskar. His brother left the room. I heard him call out to the servant and ask him to bring two more chairs. Naren Biswas’s room had only one chair, placed in front of a desk, not far from the bed.

Feluda took out Mr Biswas’s wallet and handed it to him.

‘Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much. You went to so much trouble . . .!’ he said.

‘No, it was no trouble, I assure you,’ Feluda said most politely. ‘We just happened to be there, and this friend of mine found it, so . . .’

Mr Biswas opened the wallet with his left hand and briefly glanced into its compartments. Then he looked enquiringly at Feluda. ‘Happened to be . . . in the cemetery?’

Feluda laughed. ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. You are doing some work on Calcutta’s history, aren’t you?’

Mr Biswas sighed. ‘Yes, so I was. But I’ve been adequately punished. I don’t think the wind-god wants me to continue.’

‘The article in Vichitrapatra . . .?’

‘Yes, I wrote it. On the Monument? Yes, it’s one of mine. I’ve written elsewhere as well. I had a job until last year. Now I’m retired. I have to keep myself occupied, don’t I? I was once a student of history, you see. I’ve always been interested in that subject. When I was in college, one day I walked all the way from Bag Bazar to Dum Dum to look at Clive’s house. Have you ever seen it? It was there until recently—a house built like a bungalow. Its front wall bore the East India Company’s coat-of-arms.’

‘Did you go to Presidency College?’

On the wall, above the desk, was a group photo. ‘Presidency College, Alumni Association, 1953,’ it said.

‘It wasn’t just I,’ Mr Biswas informed us, ‘my son, my brother, father, even grandfather went to Presidency. It’s a family tradition. Now I am ashamed to admit that we won gold medals, both Girin and I.’

‘Ashamed? Why should you be ashamed?’

‘Well, that didn’t get us anywhere, did it? What did we achieve in life? I held down a job, and Girin ran a business. That’s all. No one knows us, our names mean nothing to people.’

Feluda had stepped closer to the photo to take a good look. Now his eyes travelled to the desk. A blue notebook was lying open. Only about ten lines had been written on the page, no more.

‘Is your name Narendra Nath, or Narendra Mohan?’ Feluda asked. ‘. . . sorry?’

Perhaps Mr Biswas had become a little preoccupied. Feluda had to repeat his question. That made Mr Biswas smile and look faintly surprised. ‘As far as I know, it’s Narendra Nath. Why, do you have reason to believe that’s not my name?’

‘Your visiting card says N. M. Biswas.’

‘Oh, that? That’s a printer’s error. When I give one of those cards
to anyone, I always change the “M” to “N”. I could have got some new cards printed, but never got round to it. To tell you the truth, I don’t really need a card. I put a few in my wallet only because, of late, I’ve been visiting museums, and sometimes I have to meet some of their officials. By the way, are you going to write about that old cemetery? I hope not! I could never compete with a young rival like you.’

‘No, I don’t write,’ Feluda said as he rose to take his leave, ‘I’m happy simply to learn. Incidentally, I have a request. While you’re doing your research, if you come across any mention of a family called Godwin, could you please let me know? It would really help me.’

‘Godwin?’

‘Yes. Thomas Godwin was buried in the Park Street cemetery. In fact, the same tree that injured you also damaged Godwin’s tomb.’

‘Really?’

‘Five more Godwins were buried in the other cemetery in Lower Circular Road.’

‘Very well, if I find anything, I’ll certainly let you know. But I need your address to do that.’

Feluda handed him one of his cards.

‘Private investigator?’ Mr Biswas sounded considerably taken aback. ‘Is that what you do for a living?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. I’d heard that there were private detectives in Calcutta. This is the first time I’ve actually met one!’