The disappearance of the pen plunged the Bhattacharjee mansion into panic.
For several moments after the discovery, nobody moved. The storm clouds gathering outside cast a dull grey light through the stained-glass windows, making the enormous drawing room appear colder than before. The old pendulum clock near the staircase ticked loudly, each second deepening the unease spreading across the mansion.
Karn Bhattacharjee searched every room personally while Haripada locked the gates with trembling hands. Madhurima accused the servants one after another, demanding they empty their pockets and explain their movements. Even the younger servants, who had served the family for years, appeared frightened and insulted.
Anirban, however, remained unusually silent.
He stood near the fireplace with folded arms, avoiding everyone's eyes. Occasionally he glanced toward the study upstairs, where Professor Jones had chosen to remain alone.
Only Professor Jones appeared unconcerned.
He sat in the study examining the desk drawer with a magnifying glass, seemingly unaffected by the chaos spreading through the house. The dim yellow lamp beside him illuminated the sharp lines of his face while rain clouds darkened the evening outside.
Martin watched impatiently from beside the bookshelf.
"You do realize the killer pen is missing?"
Jones smiled faintly without looking up.
"My dear Martin, if someone steals an object after knowing its reputation, it means one of two things. Either they are extremely foolish… or they know the truth."
Martin frowned.
"And what truth would that be?"
Jones did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer to the antique desk and pointed toward several thin scratch marks near the edge of the drawer.
"These were not made recently."
Martin bent down.
"What are they?"
"Repeated attempts to force open a hidden compartment."
The Englishman tapped the desk lightly with his knuckles.
A hollow sound emerged from one side.
Martin's eyes widened instantly.
Jones pressed a concealed latch beneath the table.
With a soft mechanical click, a secret compartment slid open from inside the heavy wooden desk.
Karn, who had just entered the room, stared in astonishment.
"My grandfather never mentioned this."
Dust rose into the air as Jones carefully reached inside. Hidden within lay several old documents wrapped neatly in oilcloth, preserved from moisture and insects with remarkable care.
Martin stepped closer.
The papers were decades old.
Land deeds.
Personal letters.
Financial records.
And one British-era document stamped with an official seal.
Martin unfolded it carefully and read aloud.
"Transfer of treasury bonds…"
Jones nodded thoughtfully.
"Very valuable treasury bonds."
The atmosphere in the study changed immediately. Karn's face lost color while Martin exchanged a sharp glance with Jones.
Another envelope rested beneath the documents. Unlike the others, this one bore a handwritten signature across the front.
Rai Bahadur Hemendra Narayan Bhattacharjee.
The room fell silent.
Even the storm outside seemed distant for a moment.
Jones unfolded the brittle paper slowly and began reading aloud.
During the final years of British rule, Hemendra Narayan Bhattacharjee had secretly sheltered revolutionaries while publicly maintaining loyalty to the British administration. His social status and influence allowed him to move unnoticed between both worlds. To protect underground operations, he had hidden funds and treasury bonds inside coded locations connected to the family estate.
The confession described secret meetings in hidden chambers beneath the mansion, coded messages hidden inside books, and payments made under false names. Several revolutionaries had escaped arrest because of the Bhattacharjee patriarch's assistance.
But one sentence captured everyone's attention.
"The key to the code shall remain concealed within the fountain pen."
Martin looked up sharply.
"The pen contains something?"
Without speaking, Jones reached into his pocket and produced the fountain pen. During the confusion earlier, he had quietly recovered it from beneath a carpet in the hallway outside the study.
Karn stared at him in disbelief.
"You found it?"
Jones merely unscrewed the barrel carefully.
Inside was a tiny rolled strip of paper.
Coordinates.
And a sequence of numbers written in faded ink.
Karn whispered shakily, "My God…"
Martin leaned closer.
"Coordinates to what?"
Jones examined the strip under the lamp.
"Possibly the location of the hidden bonds. Or perhaps something even more valuable."
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"But the real question is this. Who already knew?"
Nobody answered.
At that exact moment, a scream echoed from downstairs.
The sound was so sudden and shrill that Martin nearly dropped the lantern.
They rushed toward the courtyard.
Servants had gathered near the staircase, terrified and shouting over one another. Rainwater blew through the open arches while thunder rolled above the mansion.
Haripada lay collapsed beside the staircase.
Dead.
His eyes bulged with terror.
His fingers were frozen in a claw-like position against the floor.
But there was no visible injury.
No blood.
No wound.
Martin stepped back uneasily.
"Again…"
Jones knelt beside the body silently. He checked the servant's pulse though he already knew the answer. Then he noticed something near Haripada's hand.
A faint smell.
Bitter almonds.
Jones's expression hardened immediately.
"Interesting."
Anirban appeared shaken.
"What does it mean?"
"It means," Jones replied quietly, "that your family ghost may have a scientific explanation after all."
The servants began whispering nervously among themselves. Some muttered prayers. One elderly maid covered her face with her sari and refused to look at the corpse.
Madhurima spoke in a trembling voice.
"You believe he was poisoned?"
"Possibly."
Jones examined Haripada's fingers carefully.
"No signs of struggle. Death appears rapid."
Martin looked disturbed.
"You think the pen is connected somehow?"
Jones rose slowly.
"Perhaps."
The storm intensified outside. Lightning illuminated the courtyard for a split second, throwing enormous shadows across the walls. In that flash of white light, the mansion looked less like a home and more like a prison holding secrets too dangerous to uncover.
Later that night, Jones and Martin sat inside their guest room reviewing the evidence.
Rain hammered continuously against the windows.
A single oil lamp burned on the table between them while the rest of the room remained in darkness.
Martin paced restlessly.
"Cyanide?"
Jones leaned back in his chair.
"The smell suggests it."
"But how? There were no marks on the body."
"Some poisons act rapidly through inhalation."
Martin suddenly stopped walking.
"The pen!"
Jones nodded slowly.
"A mechanism hidden within the barrel perhaps. Triggered when someone opens it incorrectly."
Martin shivered.
"So the pen really could kill."
"Not by magic," Jones replied calmly. "By engineering."
He unscrewed the pen again under the lamplight. This time Martin noticed something unusual inside the cap.
A tiny spring-loaded needle.
Almost invisible.
Jones pointed carefully.
"Remarkable craftsmanship. British intelligence officers occasionally used similar devices during the colonial period."
"You think Hemendra built this?"
"Perhaps not personally. But someone certainly modified it."
Martin sat heavily on the bed.
"So Haripada opened the pen?"
"Or attempted to."
Jones stared thoughtfully at the rain outside.
"But there is another possibility."
"What?"
"The murderer wishes us to believe the pen itself is responsible."
Martin frowned.
"You think someone poisoned Haripada separately?"
Jones did not answer immediately.
Instead, he examined the strip of coordinates again.
"These numbers matter more than the deaths," he murmured softly. "Which means whoever is behind this is searching for something hidden."
The next morning, Jones gathered everyone in the drawing room.
The atmosphere was tense and exhausted. Few people had slept through the night.
The storm had weakened, but the sky remained dark and heavy above the estate.
"I have an important question," Jones announced calmly.
"Who among you knew about the hidden compartment?"
Nobody answered.
Silence stretched across the room.
Then Rudra Babu spoke slowly from his armchair near the window.
"My father once mentioned that our family safeguarded something valuable. But he died before explaining further."
Jones nodded.
"And you?" he asked, turning toward Anirban.
The businessman hesitated briefly.
"I overheard Niladri speaking about hidden wealth. That's all."
Jones observed him carefully.
"You are in debt, Mr. Anirban."
The businessman stiffened immediately.
"How do you know that?"
"Because desperate men often search for old family secrets."
Madhurima looked sharply toward Anirban.
"You told us your business was stable."
"It is stable," Anirban snapped defensively.
Jones remained calm.
"Yet creditors have visited your Kolkata office repeatedly during the past month."
Anirban's expression darkened.
"You investigated me?"
"I investigate everyone."
The atmosphere became increasingly tense.
Karn stepped forward uneasily.
"Professor, are you accusing him?"
"I accuse nobody yet."
Before anyone could respond, a sudden thunderstorm darkened the sky once again.
Wind slammed violently against the shutters.
Then the electricity failed instantly.
The mansion plunged into darkness.
Several servants screamed.
Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed shut.
Martin grabbed the nearest lantern while Jones remained perfectly still, listening carefully.
Then came another sound.
A gunshot.
The noise echoed through the mansion like an explosion.
Chaos erupted immediately.
Madhurima cried out in fear while Karn shouted for everyone to remain calm. Servants ran in different directions carrying candles and lanterns.
Martin grabbed the lantern tightly and ran toward the study with Jones close behind.
The corridor upstairs smelled of rainwater and burnt gunpowder.
They found Anirban lying unconscious near the desk.
And beside him stood Rudra Babu.
Holding a revolver.
The old man's hands trembled violently.
"I saw someone in here," he whispered hoarsely. "A shadow near the window."
Jones took the revolver carefully.
"One shot fired," he observed quietly.
Martin knelt beside Anirban.
"He's alive. Just unconscious."
Rainwater blew through the open window, scattering papers across the room. Curtains whipped wildly in the wind while thunder rumbled overhead.
But what caught Jones's attention was something else entirely.
Fresh muddy footprints.
Clear and distinct upon the wooden floor.
Martin raised the lantern closer.
"They lead outside."
Jones shook his head slowly.
"No."
The footprints moved past the window.
Past the desk.
Toward the massive bookshelf against the far wall.
Jones examined the shelves carefully. Then he noticed slight scratches near the floor and faint moisture between two wooden panels.
Without warning, he pushed against the shelf.
With a deep grinding sound, the structure shifted sideways.
A hidden passage emerged behind it.
Cold air drifted outward from the darkness within.
Martin stared in disbelief.
"There's another room?"
"Not another room," Jones replied softly.
"A passage."
The narrow stone corridor disappeared into darkness beneath the mansion.
The muddy footprints continued downward.
Jones lifted the lantern slowly.
"There is another person inside this house."
And somewhere deep within the hidden passage, beyond the reach of the lantern's glow, came the faint sound of footsteps retreating into the darkness.