The Rose Behind the Verdict - The Red Warning - Part 5

 For a moment, no one crossed the threshold.

The crimson words upon the bridal bed glowed against the pale sheets like blood in lamplight:

HE RETURNS TONIGHT

Mira covered her mouth. Harish muttered a prayer. Niraj, though pale, leaned closer and whispered, “Please tell me that is vermilion.”

Arindam bent, touched the powder lightly, and smelled it.

“Not blood. Sindoor mixed with sandal paste.”

“Then someone wanted fear,” said Mira.

“No,” Arindam replied. “Someone wanted memory.”

He examined the room once more. The windows remained barred. The corridor outside had been crowded only seconds ago. No one could have entered unnoticed—unless they had already been inside.

He looked toward the hidden wardrobe compartment.

Empty.

Yet the candle stub inside was warm.

“Recently lit,” he said.

Harish’s grip tightened on his stick. “Enough of these tricks! This house is cursed since my brother died.”

Sarojini Devi, standing at the doorway in white silence, spoke softly.

“No, Harish. It was cursed long before.”

All eyes turned.

The widow stepped into the room for the first time. Her gaze settled on the words across the bed.

“He returns,” she repeated. “Interesting choice.”

“You know what it means?” asked Arindam.

“I know who used to say it.”

She pointed toward the corridor wall, where an old family portrait hung crooked.

“Raghav.”

Mira stiffened. “Father?”

Sarojini nodded. “Whenever he came home unexpectedly, servants were told in advance. They would whisper through the halls—He returns tonight. It meant accounts must be hidden, bruises concealed, tears dried.”

The room fell still.

Arindam watched faces instead of listening to words.

Mira looked shocked.

Harish looked angry.

The servant at the back looked terrified.

And one face was absent.

Dev.

“Your late brother inspired fear?” Arindam asked Harish.

“Raghav was disciplined.”

“Cruelty often prefers that word.”

Harish advanced a step. “Mind yourself.”

Arindam did not move.

“Where were you ten minutes ago, when these words appeared?”

“In the drawing room.”

“Who can confirm?”

No one answered quickly enough.

Niraj coughed.

“That silence,” he murmured, “is louder than thunder.”

A servant girl suddenly burst into tears.

“It was not ghost, sahib! I saw someone in the upstairs passage.”

“Who?” Arindam asked.

She trembled. “A man... wearing a blue scarf.”

Mira looked at him sharply.

The torn blue silk in Arindam’s pocket now seemed heavier than metal.

“Which way did he go?”

“To the rear staircase.”

Arindam turned instantly.

“Niraj, stay with the family. No one leaves this floor.”

“And if someone tries?”

“Use your intelligence.”

“That is a risky instruction.”

Arindam was already gone.

He moved through the narrow back corridor, down a servants’ staircase choked with dust, into the rear courtyard where rainwater dripped from broken gutters.

There, near the old well, he found footprints in wet earth.

Male.

Booted.

Fresh.

Beside them lay another clue:

A single rose.

Its stem snapped.

Its petals crushed beneath a heel.

And from the darkness beyond the courtyard wall came a familiar voice.

“Still collecting flowers, Arindam?”

He turned.

A man stepped into the lantern glow wearing half a smile and a blue scarf tied loosely at the throat.

Dev Bishan had returned.