Within minutes, Arindam, Niraj, Dev, and two servants crossed the rain-soaked grounds toward the old family chapel at the edge of the estate.
It stood beyond neglected gardens and banyan roots, a small stone structure older than Bishan House itself. Moss covered the walls. One stained-glass panel had long since cracked, leaving the interior open to wind and weather.
“Charming place for confessions,” Niraj muttered.
Inside, the chapel smelled of damp wood and candle wax.
A modest altar stood at the front, draped in faded cloth.
Leela had spoken clearly.
Arindam removed the cloth, then examined the base. A loose stone slab lay beneath.
He pried it open.
Inside rested a metal cash box.
Locked.
Dev produced a pocketknife.
“Useful man,” said Niraj.
“Underappreciated one,” Dev replied.
The box opened with effort.
Within were bundles of receipts, old letters, and a black leather ledger wrapped in oilcloth.
Arindam opened the ledger.
Columns of dates and payments filled the pages—household bribes, hidden debts, transfers disguised as repairs.
Then one entry, dated two years earlier:
To G. for medicine in milk — paid by H.B.
Niraj exhaled slowly.
“Medicine,” he said. “Poison’s respectable cousin.”
Dev clenched his fists.
“H.B.”
“Likely Harish Bishan,” said Arindam.
Another page held a second entry weeks later:
To S.D. for silence — monthly thereafter.
Dev looked sharply at him.
“S.D... Sarojini Devi?”
Arindam did not answer yet.
He continued turning pages.
A folded letter slipped free.
Addressed to Mira.
Unsent.
He opened it.
The handwriting was unmistakably Raghav’s.
Mira, if anything happens to me, trust neither my brother nor my widow.
The estate belongs to you and Leela equally.
I have made enemies inside my own walls.
The room fell silent except for rain on stone.
Niraj whispered, “He knew.”
Dev stared at the line again.
“Neither my brother nor my widow.”
So suspicion split in two.
Arindam folded the letter carefully.
“Harish may have ordered poison,” he said. “But why pay Sarojini for silence?”
A voice answered from the doorway.
“Because silence is expensive.”
They turned.
Sarojini Devi stood there in white, holding a lantern.
Rain glimmered behind her like falling glass.
“You followed us,” said Dev.
“No,” she replied. “I came first.”
Arindam’s eyes narrowed.
“Then perhaps you also hid this ledger.”
“I preserved it.”
“Why not reveal it sooner?”
“Because truth without timing becomes waste.”
Niraj sighed. “Everyone in this family speaks like locked furniture.”
Sarojini stepped forward.
“I did not poison Raghav,” she said. “But I watched him die.”
Dev recoiled.
“You watched?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her calm face cracked for the first time.
“Because for twenty years, he made this house a prison.”
Lightning flashed across the chapel.
Then from outside came the sound of galloping wheels.
A carriage stopping hard in the mud.
And a servant shouting through the storm:
“Come quickly! Harish Babu is dead!”