Rain battered the mansion windows throughout the night.
The storm had settled over the estate like a living thing, clawing at the old walls with wind and water. Every corridor groaned beneath the pressure of the weather. Loose shutters rattled violently. Somewhere in the darkness above, an ancient beam creaked as though the house itself were exhausted by the secrets it had carried for generations.
Anirban was locked inside a storage room under Karn's watch until police could arrive from town.
The room lay at the far end of the servants' wing, narrow and damp, crowded with broken trunks, rusted lanterns, and furniture covered in dusty white sheets. Karn sat outside the heavy wooden door with a hurricane lamp beside him and an old revolver resting across his knees.
At intervals, thunder shook the mansion.
Inside the room, Anirban had spoken very little after his capture. At first he had demanded release. Then he had cursed Rudra Babu. Later, he fell silent altogether.
Only once did Karn hear movement.
A soft scraping sound near the window.
When Karn barked a warning, the noise stopped immediately.
Meanwhile, Professor Jones sat alone with Rudra Babu in the study.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco, old paper, and rain-damp wood. Shadows trembled along the walls from the low fire burning in the hearth. The portraits of long-dead ancestors stared down from the darkness with stern expressions that now seemed less noble than haunted.
The old man stared silently at the pen resting upon the desk.
"At last," he said softly, "the truth is exposed."
"Not entirely," Jones replied.
Rudra Babu looked at him carefully.
"You still have questions."
"Yes."
Jones leaned forward. The lamplight reflected sharply in his tired eyes.
"You knew the pen contained poison."
The old man closed his eyes.
"Yes."
Martin, standing nearby, looked shocked.
"You knew?"
Rudra Babu nodded slowly.
"My father told me before his death."
For several moments, nobody spoke. Rain hammered against the tall windows while the fire crackled softly in the silence.
"Then why keep it?" Martin asked.
"Because I was a coward."
The confession hung heavily in the room.
Rudra Babu continued.
"After Partition, we lost everything. Land. Influence. Identity. The pen became the last symbol of our past. I told myself I preserved it to honour the family. But perhaps… I simply feared becoming ordinary."
His voice carried neither pride nor self-pity now. Only exhaustion.
Jones listened quietly.
"When the first thief died," Rudra Babu continued, "I should have destroyed the pen immediately. Instead, I allowed the legend to grow."
Martin whispered, "You let people believe it was cursed."
"Yes."
His voice broke slightly.
"I thought fear would protect it. But fear only created more tragedy."
A gust of wind swept rain against the glass so violently that Martin flinched. The storm outside seemed to echo the turmoil inside the room.
Jones picked up the pen carefully.
Even now, the object possessed an unsettling elegance. Black lacquer gleamed beneath the lamplight. Gold detailing curled delicately along the barrel like vines. It looked too refined, too beautiful, to have carried death within it.
"The mechanism is old but sophisticated. British intelligence likely commissioned devices like this during the revolutionary period."
He unscrewed the barrel delicately.
Inside, hidden beneath the gold nib assembly, rested the shattered remains of a tiny chemical capsule.
Martin stared in fascination and horror.
"It's incredible," he murmured.
"Incredible and monstrous," Jones corrected quietly.
"The last active capsule was probably triggered during Niladri's death," Jones explained. "After that, Anirban merely used the legend to frighten everyone."
Martin frowned.
"But Haripada?"
"Simple cyanide powder," Jones replied. "Administered manually."
Rudra Babu stared bitterly at the pen.
"So many deaths over this insignificant thing."
Jones shook his head.
"It was never about the pen."
The old man looked up.
"It was about inheritance. Memory. Greed. Pride. Every generation carried a different burden attached to it."
The words settled deeply into the room.
Rudra Babu's gaze drifted toward the portraits lining the walls. Men in silk robes. Men in British suits. Men who had ruled villages, negotiated with colonial officers, and guarded their fading authority with desperate determination.
Outside, thunder rolled across the dark sky.
For the first time, Rudra Babu seemed truly old.
The dignity he had worn for years had finally cracked. Beneath it stood only a weary man carrying the weight of too many ghosts.
"What should I do with it now?" he asked.
Jones smiled faintly.
"That depends. Do you wish to preserve the past… or free yourself from it?"
The old man remained silent for a long time.
The fire burned lower.
Rainwater slid slowly down the windows like tears.
Finally, he stood slowly.
"Come with me."
Martin exchanged a glance with Jones before following.
Rudra Babu carried the pen carefully as he led them through the mansion corridors toward the rear courtyard. Their footsteps echoed softly across the marble floors. The house seemed strangely empty now that its mysteries had been exposed.
They passed shuttered bedrooms, faded carpets, cracked mirrors, and locked doors that had not been opened in years.
At the end of the corridor, Rudra Babu paused briefly before an old family portrait.
A younger version of himself stood beside his father beneath the sprawling banyan tree that once marked the estate entrance. Both men looked stern and proud.
For a moment, the old man's fingers tightened around the pen.
Then he continued walking.
The rear door groaned open against the storm wind.
Cold rain-scented air rushed toward them.
Beyond the courtyard stretched an overgrown garden where weeds swallowed broken statues and moss-covered pathways. Once, the grounds must have been magnificent. Now nature had begun reclaiming everything.
An ancient pond lay beyond the overgrown garden.
Its dark surface rippled beneath the rain. Tall reeds swayed along the edges like whispering shadows.
Moonlight shimmered faintly upon the water whenever the clouds briefly shifted.
Rudra Babu stepped carefully toward the pond.
Martin noticed how unsteady he seemed now. The old man leaned slightly forward as he walked, as though the burden of memory itself weighed upon his shoulders.
At the water's edge, he stopped.
The storm softened briefly. Only distant thunder remained.
Rudra Babu held the pen in his trembling hand.
"My grandfather used this to sign land agreements," he said softly. "My father hid secrets inside it. Men died trying to possess it."
His voice grew quieter.
"And I spent my entire life protecting it."
Jones said nothing.
The old man looked toward the black water.
"But perhaps some histories deserve an ending."
For several seconds he simply stood there, staring at the pen.
Martin wondered what memories passed through his mind in that moment. Childhood lessons. Family pride. Fear of decline. The humiliation of losing status after Partition. Years spent preserving a relic because it was easier than accepting change.
The storm wind stirred again.
Then, with one final motion, Rudra Babu threw the pen into the pond.
The object vanished into darkness almost immediately.
The sound was almost insignificant.
A tiny splash.
Then silence.
Ripples spread slowly across the black water before fading into stillness.
Martin exhaled slowly.
"It's over."
Jones gazed at the rippling water.
"Yes," he replied. "Now it truly is."
None of them moved for several moments.
The pond looked unchanged, indifferent to the history buried beneath it.
At last, Rudra Babu turned away.
For the first time since Jones had arrived at the mansion, the old man's expression seemed lighter. Not happy. Never that. But relieved.
As though some invisible chain had finally broken.
Behind them, the storm gradually drifted eastward into the night.
But the story of the killer pen was not yet completely finished.
Because early the next morning, police officers arrived with unexpected news.
The rain had stopped by dawn. Mist drifted across the estate grounds while servants moved nervously through the corridors whispering among themselves.
A police jeep rolled through the front gate shortly after sunrise.
Inspector Chatterjee entered the mansion still brushing mud from his boots when Karn hurried toward him with a pale face.
"What happened?" the inspector demanded immediately.
Karn swallowed hard.
"He's gone."
The inspector frowned.
"Gone?"
"The prisoner."
Within minutes, the entire household gathered outside the storage room.
The heavy wooden door remained locked from the outside exactly as Karn had left it. The padlock showed no sign of tampering.
Yet when the door was opened, the room stood empty.
Only cold morning air drifted through the narrow barred window.
Martin stared in disbelief.
"That's impossible."
Karn looked devastated.
"I never left my post," he insisted. "Not even for a minute."
Jones entered the room slowly.
Dust covered the floor except for a trail of disturbed footprints leading toward the window.
One of the iron bars had been loosened carefully from the wall.
Not broken.
Removed.
Jones crouched beside it thoughtfully.
"He planned this long before last night," he said quietly.
Inspector Chatterjee cursed under his breath.
"But how did he remove the bar without noise?"
Jones examined the rusted metal.
"It was already weakened. Probably over several days."
The inspector turned sharply toward Karn.
"And you noticed nothing?"
Karn lowered his head in shame.
"No, sir."
Martin moved toward the window. Beyond it lay thick vegetation descending toward the outer boundary wall.
"He couldn't have gone far," Martin said.
But Jones did not answer.
Something else had caught his attention.
Near the window, words had been written across the dusty floor with a single finger.
Uneven.
Hurried.
Yet unmistakably deliberate.
Inspector Chatterjee read the sentence aloud slowly.
"He should never have thrown it away."
Silence spread through the room.
Martin felt a chill despite the morning heat beginning to rise outside.
Rudra Babu stood motionless near the doorway.
His face had gone pale.
Jones rose slowly to his feet and looked toward the distant pond beyond the garden.
For the first time since the mystery had ended, uncertainty returned to his expression.
Outside, somewhere beyond the mansion walls, a crow cried sharply across the silent morning air.