The Secret of the Cemetery by Satyajit Ray

Author:Satyajit Ray [Ray, Satyajit]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789351187646
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2014-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

I had to shake Lalmohan Babu at least ten times before he opened his eyes. Had he not come round, I would have really been in trouble since I’d never found myself in a similar situation before. Finally Lalmohan Babu picked himself up, dusted himself down, and announced that, when frightened, writers had a tendency to faint more easily than others, as their imagination was more powerful than other people’s.

‘What your cousin said about superstition is complete nonsense. I have no such ... er ... problem!’ he told me.

We did not waste another second, and left the cemetery at once to collect Feluda. He had finished his work in the reading room. Even if he hadn’t, I knew that after hearing our story, he would drop everything and go back to the cemetery with us. He saw how the grave had been dug up, thereby exposing the skull. Then he searched the area around the tomb most thoroughly—but found nothing except a spade. It was lying only ten feet from the grave.

This time, we met Baramdeo. He said he had gone to pass on some urgent message to his nephew in his paan shop, just round the corner on Lower Circular Road. He knew nothing about the grave being dug up. It was his belief that whoever was responsible had entered the cemetery the previous night by climbing over the wall. Feluda then asked him to lend a hand, and refilled the yawning hole with earth and fallen leaves. Before we left, Feluda told Baramdeo not to mention the matter to anyone else.

From Park Street, we went straight to Ripon Lane.

There was a slight delay as we got to 14/1 and were about to go up the stairs. A young man was climbing down, a long leather case in his hand—a guitar case. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and looked very much like other young men who are seen around Park Street, particularly in the evenings. There is therefore no need for further description. This man had to be Chris Godwin. He would not return to Ripon Lane until late at night, after he finished playing at the Blue Fox.

When he had gone, we made our way upstairs. The first floor was not as silent as it had been before. Raised voices reached our ears from Mr Godwin’s living room. We recognized one of them. The other was probably Mr Arakis’s. The first voice was scolding and threatening. The second was whining and denying all allegations. Both were frequently using the word ‘casket’.

Feluda walked down the passage, and knocked on the door. At once, three words shot out like bullets: ‘Who is it?’

We stepped into the room. The second gentleman’s skin was pale, with a yellowish tinge to it, and covered with freckles. His head was bald and he had two gold teeth. He was perhaps in his mid-sixties. Feluda went straight to Mr Godwin and unwrapped the parcel in his hands. ‘I just could not resist taking it away yesterday.

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