‘Yes. These are all her diaries, from 1858 to 1862. Her writing is as clear and lucid as her language. It took me all night to read the whole thing. Imagine, this priceless object was lying in a dark corner in Ripon Lane! Incredible.’

I stared at the first page, not daring to turn it, for I could see that each page was fragile and brittle.

‘Arakis opened that diary,’ said Feluda.

‘How do you know?’

‘If you turn a page quickly and carelessly, the top right-hand corner tends to break. Look!’ Feluda gave a quick demonstration. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘here, look at this ribbon. It is quite worn in some places, as it had remained tied and knotted for more than a hundred years. But look, apart from those worn bits, the ribbon is crushed and twisted in places. That’s because a new knot had been tied. Whoever untied it did not bother to knot it in exactly the same place. If he had, it would have been more difficult to be sure.’

‘Why do you have a black stain on your finger?’ I asked. I had noticed it as soon as I entered Feluda’s room.

‘This is another clue, but I’ll explain it later. It came from that snuff box.’

‘What did the diaries tell you?’ I asked breathlessly.

‘They speak of the last few years of Thomas Godwin’s life. He was penniless by that time, and cantankerous. One of his sons was dead, and he neither loved nor trusted his other son, David. In fact, he trusted no one, not even Charlotte. Yet Charlotte loved him, prayed for him and took care of him as best she could. He had gambled everything away. Charlotte earned a little money by sewing for the local English ladies, and making carpets. Godwin had sold most of the expensive gifts he had received from the Nawab. All he had left were three items—that casket, the snuff box which he had allowed Charlotte to have, and the third was the first gift Sadat Ali had given him.’

‘Did he give that to Charlotte?’

‘No, he gave it to no one. He told his daughter before he died that it should be buried together with his body. Charlotte fulfilled his last wish, and found much comfort from that.’

‘What was that object?’

‘Charlotte calls it “Father’s precious Perigal repeater”.’

‘Eh? What on earth is that?’

‘That,’ said Feluda, ‘is where even your Feluda has drawn a blank. According to my dictionary, a repeater can be a gun—like a pistol—or a watch. Perigal might be the name of the manufacturer. Even Uncle Sidhu isn’t sure. I went to his house early this morning, before you got up. Now I must speak to Vikas Chakravarty and see if he can throw some light on this matter.’