The Rose Behind the Verdict - The Portrait That Fell - Part 4

 The drawing room of Bishan House was a chamber built for pride and now occupied by tension.

Tall shelves lined one wall. Heavy velvet curtains shut out the fading evening. A chandelier, dim with age, trembled slightly from the force of the shouting that had just ended.

On the carpet lay shattered glass.

Above it, an empty hook.

A portrait had fallen.

An elderly man stood near the fireplace, gripping a walking stick as if it were both weapon and authority. His beard was trimmed sharply, his eyes sharper still.

“My name,” he declared before anyone asked, “is Harish Bishan. Elder brother of the late Raghav. And I will not have strangers roaming this house.”

Arindam glanced at the broken frame.

“Then perhaps your house should stop inviting mysteries.”

Niraj hid a smile.

Mira spoke quietly. “Uncle, I requested his help.”

“You requested disgrace,” snapped Harish. “Leela has fled with some scoundrel, and now gossip will feast on us.”

“Did you see her leave?” Arindam asked.

“No.”

“Did anyone?”

Silence answered.

Arindam knelt by the broken portrait. The painting itself had torn across the face.

It depicted Raghav Bishan, former master of the house.

Someone had sliced the canvas before it fell.

Not age.

Not accident.

Intent.

“Who last touched this portrait?” Arindam asked.

A younger woman seated by the window lifted her eyes. She wore widow’s white, elegant despite simplicity.

“I dusted it this morning,” she said.

“This is my aunt, Sarojini Devi,” Mira said. “She was singing earlier.”

So the silent woman had a voice after all.

Sarojini’s gaze rested on Arindam with unreadable calm.

“I sing when storms approach,” she said.

“Do storms obey schedule here?” he asked.

“Only sins do.”

Harish struck his stick against the floor.

“Enough riddles.”

Arindam ignored him.

“Where is Dev Bishan?”

No one replied.

At last a servant near the door muttered, “Sahib went out by the rear courtyard after lunch.”

“Alone?”

“I could not see.”

Arindam moved to the torn canvas and lifted a small object caught in the splintered frame.

A cufflink.

Silver.

Engraved with the letter D.

Mira inhaled sharply. “That belongs to Dev.”

“Or someone wishing us to think so,” said Arindam.

He turned the cufflink over.

The hinge was broken recently.

Fresh metal gleamed.

Niraj whispered, “So Dev fought here?”

“Perhaps,” Arindam said. “Or perhaps he dressed a lie carefully.”

Thunder rolled again.

Then from somewhere upstairs came a woman’s scream.

Mira ran first.

The others followed.

When they reached Leela’s vanished room, they found the door wide open.

Across the bridal bed, written in red powder, were the words:

HE RETURNS TONIGHT