The Complete Adventures of Feluda: Volume II (78 page)

‘D
O the words “Mama-Bhagney” mean anything to you?’ Feluda asked Jatayu.

I knew what he meant, hut looked curiously at Lalmohan Babu to hear his reply.

‘Uncle and nephew?’ he asked.

‘No, a mere translation of the words won’t do. We all know “mama” means uncle and “bhagney” is nephew. What do the words remind you of?’

‘To be honest, Felu Babu I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Your questions always startle me. You tell me what you mean.’

‘Have you seen the film
Abhijaan
?
’

‘Yes, but that was years ago. Why does that—oh, yes, yes!’ Jatayu’s eyes lit up. ‘Now I do remember. Rocks, aren’t they? There is a small, flat rock balanced on top of a bigger rock. It seems as though one little push would make the smaller one jiggle and dance. It’s Uncle giving his nephew a piggy-back, isn’t it?’

‘Right. That’s what the locals say. But can you remember which district it’s in?’

‘No.’

‘It’s in Birbhum. I have never been there. Have you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Shameful, isn’t it? You are a writer, Lalmohan Babu. Never mind what you write, or who reads your books. You ought to have visited the area in which Tagore spent so many years of his life.’

‘The thing is, you see, I have often wanted to go there, but somehow couldn’t manage it. Besides, how can Tagore possibly provide any inspiration to someone who writes stuff like
The Sahara Shivers
?
’

‘Yes, but Birbhum isn’t famous only because of Santiniketan. There are the hot springs of Bakreshwar, there’s Kenduli where the poet Jaydev was born, there’s Tarapeeth where the famous tantrik Bama Khepa used to live, there’s Dubrajpur which has those funny rocks we were just talking about, apart from endless temples made of terracotta.’

‘Terracotta? What’s that?’

Feluda frowned. Lalmohan Babu’s ignorance often turned Feluda into a schoolteacher. ‘It’s a mixture of Latin and Italian,’ he said.
‘Terra is a word meaning soil, and cotta is burnt. It refers to statues and figures made with clay and sand, and baked in fire, like bricks. There are many temples in Bengal that have work done in terracotta, but the best and the most beautiful are in Birbhum. If you didn’t know about these, Lalmohan Babu, I’m afraid there’s very little that you’ve learnt about your own state.’

‘Yes, I see that now. Forgive me, Felu Babu. Kindly excuse my ignorance.’

‘And yet, a European professor has done such a lot of research in this subject. It’s really most impressive. I assume you don’t read anything but the headlines in newspapers, so obviously you’ve missed the article published in today’s
Statesman.
The name of this professor has been mentioned in this article. He was called David McCutcheon.’

‘Which article do you mean?’

‘“Robertson’s Ruby”.’

‘Right, right! I did see it, and the colour photograph of the ruby, too. But just as I had begun to read it, you see, my dhobi turned up, and then I forgot all about it.’

‘The writer of that article, Peter Robertson, is visiting India at present. He appears to be very interested in India and Indians. McCutcheon’s work and what he wrote about the temples of Birbhum made Robertson want to see them. He wants to go to Santiniketan, too.’

‘I see. But what’s this about a ruby?’

‘There’s a story behind it An ancestor of Peter Robertson called Patrick had fought in the mutiny against the sepoys. Although he was in the Bengal regiment, he happened to be in Lucknow when the mutiny ended and the British won. He was only twenty-six at the time. He joined some of the other British officers who barged into the palace of a nawab and looted whatever they could lay their hands on. Robertson found a huge ruby which he brought back to England with him. In time, it became a family heirloom for the Robertsons, and people began to refer to it as “Robertson’s Ruby”. Only recently, someone found a diary Patrick Robertson had kept in his old age. No one had been aware of its existence so far. In it, he apparently expressed deep regret at what he had done as a young man, and said that his soul would find ultimate peace only if someone from his family went back to India and returned the ruby to where it had come from. Peter Robertson has brought it with him.
He’ll give it to an Indian museum before he returns to England.’

Lalmohan Babu remained silent for a few minutes when Feluda finished his story. Then he said, ‘Kenduli has a big mela every winter, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes. A large number of hauls come to it.’

‘When does it start?’

‘As a matter of fact, it has started already this year.’

‘I see. Which is the best way to go?’

‘Do you really want to go to Birbhum?

‘Very much so.’

‘Well, then, I suggest you ask your driver to take your car straight to Bolpur. We’ll go the same day by the Santiniketan Express. We should reach Bolpur in less than three hours. This train stops only at Burdwan. We need to book rooms for ourselves at the tourist lodge.’

‘Why should we go by train?’

‘Because this train is different from all the others. It has a first class compartment called the Lounge Car. It’s huge, like the ones they had years and years ago, furnished with settees, tables and chairs. Travelling in it will be an experience none of us should miss.’

‘Oh, I quite agree. Perhaps I ought to inform Shatadal.’

‘Who is Shatadal?’

‘Shatadal Sen. We were together in school. Now he lives in Santiniketan, a professor of history in Vishwa Bharati. He was a brilliant student. I could never beat him.’

‘You mean you were a brilliant student yourself?’

‘Why, is that so difficult to believe about a man who is the most popular writer of thrillers in Bengal?’

‘Well, your present IQ—’ Feluda broke off, adding, ‘Yes, by all means inform your friend.’

It took us a few days to make all the arrangements. A double and a single room were booked in the Bolpur Tourist Lodge. We packed our woollens carefully, since we knew Santiniketan would be a lot cooler than Calcutta. I found the book by David McCutcheon and quickly leafed through it before we left. It was amazing how a foreigner had collected such detailed information about something my own country possessed, but of which I knew virtually nothing.

The following Saturday, Lalmohan Babu’s driver left early with his green Ambassador. We reached Howrah at 9.30 a.m.

‘My right eye has been twitching for the last two days. Is that a good sign?’ asked Lalmohan Babu.

‘I wouldn’t know. You know very well I don’t believe in such superstitions,’ Feluda retorted.

‘I had begun to think this might be an indication that we’re heading for another mystery, another case,’ Lalmohan Babu confided, ‘but then I thought Tagore couldn’t possibly have any connection with crime, could he? You’re right, Felu Babu. If we’re going to visit Bolpur, there’s no chance of getting mixed up in funny business.’

Lalmohan Babu claimed afterwards that what happened later was related directly to his twitching eye. ‘A coincidence, Lalmohan Babu, that’s all it was,’ Feluda told him firmly.

The Lounge Car of the Santiniketan Express was large enough to hold twenty-five people. But when we boarded the train, we discovered there were only seven others including two foreigners. Both were white. One was clean shaven with blond hair; the other had a thick beard. Long, dark hair rippled down to his shoulders. Something told me one of them was Peter Robertson. Ten minutes after the train started, I found that I was right.

The three of us were sitting together on a sofa. I had never travelled in such a comfortable carriage. Feluda leant back and lit a Charminar. At this moment, the man with the blond hair, who happened to be sitting close by, stretched out a hand and said, ‘May I—?’

Feluda passed him his lighter and said, ‘Are you going to Bolpur?’ The man lit his own cigarette and returned the lighter to Feluda. Then he said, smiling and proffering his hand, ‘Yes. My name is Peter Robertson and this is my friend, Tom Maxwell.’

Feluda shook his hand, and then introduced us. ‘Was it your article that I read the other day?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Did you like it?’

‘Oh yes. It was a very interesting article. Have you already handed that ruby to a museum?’

‘No, it’s still with us. But we’ve spoken to the curator of the Calcutta Museum. He said he’d be very pleased to accept it if he gets
the go-ahead from Delhi. Once that is confirmed, we’ll hand it over to him officially.’

‘You have an Indian connection, I know. Does your friend?’

‘Yes. Tom’s great-great-grandfather was the owner of an indigo factory in Birbhum. The British stopped growing indigo in India when the Germans found a way of producing it artificially and began selling it cheap. That was when Tom’s ancestor, Reginald Maxwell, returned to Britain. Tom and I were both bitten by the travel bug. We’ve travelled together quite often. He’s a professional photographer. I teach in a school.’

Tom was sitting with a leather bag resting at his feet. That must contain his camera and other equipment, I thought.

‘How long will you be in Birbhum?’

‘About a week. Our main work is in Calcutta, but we’d like to see as many temples as we can in Birbhum.’

‘There are many other things in Birbhum besides temples that are worth seeing. Maybe we could see them together? Anyway, going back to your article, hasn’t there been any feedback from your readers?’

‘Oh my God, yes! The
Statesman
began receiving dozens of letters within a couple of days. Some of them were from old maharajas, some from wealthy businessmen, or collectors of rare jewels. But I had made it quite plain in my article that I wasn’t prepared to sell it. You know, I had it valued in England before I came here. I could have sold it there, had I so wished. I was offered up to twenty thousand pounds.’

‘You have the stone with you right here?’

‘Tom’s got it. He’s a lot more careful than I am. Besides, he’s got a revolver that he can use, if need be.’

‘May we see the ruby, please?’

‘Of course.’

Peter looked at Tom. Tom picked up his leather bag and took out a small blue velvet box from it. He passed it to Feluda. Feluda opened it slowly, and all three of us gave an involuntary gasp. Not only was the stone large and beautifully cut, but its colour was such a deep red that it was really remarkable. Feluda held the ruby in his hand for a few seconds, turning it around and looking at it closely. Then he returned it to Tom, saying, ‘It’s amazing! But there’s something else I’d like to see, if I may. Will you show me your revolver, please? You see, I know something about firearms.’ He
handed one of his visiting cards to Peter.

‘Good heavens!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘You’re a private investigator, are you? I’m glad we’ve met. If we have problems we might have to seek your help.’

‘I hope it won’t come to that, but a lot depends on you, Mr Maxwell, for the ruby is with you for safe-keeping.’

Tom Maxwell said nothing in reply. He just took out his revolver and showed it to Feluda. It was not a Colt like Feluda’s.

‘Webley Scott,’ Feluda said, looking at it. Then he added, ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Of course,’ said Tom, speaking for the first time.

‘Why do you need to keep a revolver with you?’

‘My work takes me to all kinds of places, some of which are remote and dangerous. I’ve taken photographs of tribal people in jungles. Not all tribes are friendly, I can tell you. Having a revolver makes my job a lot easier. I once killed a black Mamba snake in Africa with this very revolver.’

‘Have you been to India before?’

‘No, this is my first visit.’

‘Have you started taking photos?’

‘Yes, I’ve taken some of a poor and congested area of Calcutta.’

‘You mean a slum?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I like taking pictures of people and places that are totally different from anything I’ve known or anything I’m familiar with. The stranger or more alien the subject, the better I find it to photograph. Poverty is, for instance, I think, far more photogenic than prosperity.’

‘Photo—what?’ Lalmohan Babu whispered.

‘Photogenic. Something which looks good when photographed,’ Feluda explained.

Lalmohan Babu gave me a sidelong glance and muttered softly, ‘Does he mean to say that a hungry, starving man is more photogenic than a well-fed one?’

Tom didn’t hear him. ‘I will take photographs here in India with the same idea in my mind,’ he added. I found his words and his attitude rather peculiar. Peter was undoubtedly a lover of India, but his friend’s views appeared to be devoid of any feelings or sympathy. How long would they remain friends, I wondered.

The train stopped at Burdwan. We called a chaiwalla to have tea from small earthen pots. Tom Maxwell took photos of the
chaiwalla.

Soon, the train pulled in to Bolpur station. The sight of dozens of rickshaws outside the main gate made Tom want to stop for photos again, but this time Peter was firm and said they mustn’t waste time.

We had to hire four rickshaws for ourselves and our luggage. Peter and Tom were also booked at the tourist lodge. By the time we reached it, it was ten minutes past one.