Jones finally identified the poison.
It came from a rare plant extract.
Its effects could mimic a sudden heart attack.
Only someone with specialized knowledge could prepare it.
The breakthrough came nearly a week after Vikram Bose had been admitted to the hospital.
The investigation had reached an uncomfortable standstill.
Every new clue seemed to create two more questions. The hidden chamber beneath the library had revealed the existence of a secret workspace. The invisible message had hinted that The Master was still among the living. Vikram's whispered confession had shattered their assumption that The Master was a single individual.
Meanwhile, Riya Mukherjee remained under constant police surveillance.
Although Jones was convinced someone was trying to frame her, Inspector Roy could not simply ignore the growing body of evidence that appeared to point in her direction.
The atmosphere inside the National Library had changed completely.
Researchers spoke in hushed voices.
Entire wings remained closed to the public.
Police officers patrolled corridors that had once been silent sanctuaries for scholars.
Every employee felt watched.
Every visitor became a potential suspect.
And somewhere within the ancient building, Jones believed the true architect of the conspiracy was still moving unnoticed.
The chemistry laboratory at the university had become Jones's second home.
Glass vials, chromatography reports, and chemical spectra covered every available surface.
Martin entered carrying another stack of forensic documents.
"You've been here all night."
Jones did not look up.
"I know."
"Have you found anything?"
Instead of answering, Jones handed him a microscope slide.
Martin examined it.
"I don't understand."
"Look carefully."
The sample contained tiny crystalline residues unlike anything Martin had seen before.
Jones adjusted the microscope.
"Those crystals are not naturally stable."
Martin looked again.
"They've been purified."
"Exactly."
Jones stood.
"The poison wasn't collected directly from a plant."
"It was refined."
Martin frowned.
"So whoever made it knew chemistry."
"Far more than basic chemistry."
Jones spread several laboratory reports across the bench.
"I've compared the residue from Dr. Sen."
He pointed to another report.
"And the residue from Vikram Bose."
The chemical signatures were nearly identical.
Martin traced the diagrams with his finger.
"The same compound."
Jones nodded.
"Prepared in the same way."
"So the same person."
"Or the same laboratory."
Martin looked thoughtful.
"What exactly is it?"
Jones removed a botanical reference book from his shelf.
He opened it to a detailed illustration of a flowering mountain plant.
"This."
Martin read the caption.
"It doesn't grow around Calcutta."
"No."
Jones closed the book gently.
"It grows only in a few high-altitude regions."
Martin looked surprised.
"Then how did someone obtain it?"
"They imported it."
"Legally?"
Jones smiled faintly.
"That remains to be seen."
He picked up another document.
"The active alkaloid is exceptionally dangerous."
Martin listened carefully.
"In carefully measured quantities..."
Jones continued,
"...its effects closely resemble sudden cardiac failure."
Martin's expression changed.
"So Dr. Sen's death could have been mistaken for a heart attack."
"Precisely."
"And Vikram?"
"The dosage was lower."
Martin folded his arms.
"So the murderer understood exactly how much to administer."
Jones nodded.
"Down to the milligram."
Silence settled over the laboratory.
Martin finally spoke.
"That isn't something an ordinary person could do."
"No."
Jones removed his glasses.
"Only someone with specialized knowledge could prepare it."
The realization narrowed the investigation considerably.
Until now, almost anyone connected to the library could have been considered capable of carrying out the murders.
Now the suspect needed something far more specific.
Scientific training.
Knowledge of toxic compounds.
Experience handling precise chemical preparations.
The circle had become much smaller.
That afternoon Martin sat in the temporary police office reviewing personnel records.
Boxes of employment files surrounded him.
Every librarian.
Every archivist.
Every conservator.
Every maintenance employee.
Anything remotely connected with the National Library over the past twenty years.
Jones entered quietly.
"Any progress?"
Martin rubbed tired eyes.
"Mostly dead ends."
He lifted another folder.
"History degrees."
Another.
"Literature."
Another.
"Library science."
He sighed.
"Nothing useful."
Jones nodded.
"Keep looking."
Several more minutes passed.
Then Martin suddenly stopped turning pages.
His expression changed.
"Professor."
Jones looked up.
"What is it?"
Martin held up a personnel file.
"You should see this."
Jones walked over.
The file belonged to Meera Dutta.
Chief Librarian.
Employment record exemplary.
Academic qualifications...
Jones paused.
Bachelor's degree in Chemistry.
Master's degree in Information Science.
Martin looked at him.
"She studied chemistry."
Jones continued reading.
"For three years."
"Then changed careers."
Martin leaned back.
"So she has the knowledge."
"Potentially."
Roy entered just in time to hear the last sentence.
"The knowledge for what?"
Jones handed him the file.
Roy scanned it quickly.
"The poison."
Martin nodded.
"Only someone with specialized knowledge could prepare it."
Roy looked thoughtful.
"And our librarian happens to be trained in chemistry."
The coincidence was difficult to ignore.
Meera Dutta agreed to another interview without protest.
She appeared calm, though visibly exhausted.
Jones began gently.
"You studied chemistry."
"Yes."
"Why leave the field?"
She smiled sadly.
"I preferred preserving books to working in laboratories."
Martin noticed she answered without hesitation.
Roy leaned forward.
"Do you still maintain your scientific knowledge?"
"Some of it."
"Enough to prepare toxic compounds?"
Her expression hardened.
"I hope you're not suggesting that."
"We're asking."
"I haven't worked in chemistry for nearly twenty years."
Jones quietly observed every movement.
Every pause.
Every glance.
Nothing suggested panic.
Nothing suggested deception.
Only fatigue.
He changed the subject.
"Did Dr. Sen ever discuss the Order of Ashvattha with you?"
The answer came after a brief silence.
"Occasionally."
"What did he tell you?"
"That he believed history had overlooked something important."
"And you?"
"I thought he was becoming obsessed."
Martin noticed something unusual.
She used the past tense with visible regret.
Not irritation.
Not contempt.
Regret.
The interview ended without any significant breakthrough.
As Meera left the room, Roy turned immediately toward Jones.
"What do you think?"
Jones remained quiet.
"I don't know."
"You suspect her."
"I acknowledge the possibility."
Martin frowned.
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
Jones looked toward the closed door.
"It isn't."
The following morning brought another surprise.
One of Roy's officers had been searching through university archives for historical references connected to the Order.
He arrived carrying an old leather-bound register.
"We found something."
Jones accepted it.
The register listed members of an academic society that had existed decades earlier.
Most names meant nothing.
Then one caught his attention.
Professor Aniruddha Dutta.
Martin looked up.
"Dutta?"
Roy leaned closer.
"Related?"
The officer nodded.
"He was Meera Dutta's grandfather."
Jones continued reading.
Professor Dutta had been a respected linguist and historian specializing in forgotten philosophical traditions.
One handwritten annotation appeared beside his name.
Associated with Ashvattha Research Circle.
Martin frowned.
"Research Circle?"
Jones read further.
Several archived letters referred to meetings concerning manuscripts connected to the Order.
Nothing proved membership.
Nothing proved involvement.
But the connection existed.
Roy looked serious.
"So her grandfather had links to the Order."
"It appears so."
Martin slowly considered the implications.
"That means Meera could have inherited more than family records."
Jones nodded thoughtfully.
"Perhaps."
They visited Meera again that evening.
This time Jones carried a copy of the archived register.
She recognized the name immediately.
"My grandfather."
"You knew about his research?"
"A little."
She looked down at the page.
"He rarely spoke about it."
Jones watched carefully.
"Did he ever mention the Order of Ashvattha?"
A long silence followed.
Finally—
"Once."
"What did he say?"
"He told me some knowledge survives because people protect it."
Martin wrote the sentence down.
"Anything else?"
"He warned me never to confuse curiosity with wisdom."
Roy frowned.
"That's rather mysterious."
Meera smiled faintly.
"He enjoyed speaking that way."
Jones studied her face.
No obvious deception.
Only genuine recollection.
"Did he leave you any journals?"
"A few."
"Have you read them?"
"Most."
"Anything about the hidden chamber?"
Her eyes widened slightly.
"The what?"
Jones noticed the reaction immediately.
It appeared authentic.
If she was pretending, she was exceptionally skilled.
"We recently discovered a concealed room beneath the library."
Meera looked genuinely astonished.
"There are hidden rooms?"
Martin exchanged a glance with Jones.
Neither spoke.
Late that night Jones sat alone reviewing every piece of evidence accumulated since the investigation had begun.
He arranged photographs across the desk.
Dr. Sen.
Riya.
Vikram.
Meera.
Neel Banerjee.
The hidden chamber.
The manuscript.
The poisoned victims.
The invisible messages.
The torn photograph.
The coded journals.
One by one he connected them with notes and observations.
Certain patterns emerged.
Others disappeared.
Finally he leaned back.
Martin entered quietly.
"You haven't slept."
Jones smiled faintly.
"Not yet."
Martin looked at the evidence board.
"It points toward Meera."
"It appears to."
"You don't believe it."
Jones remained silent.
After a moment he spoke.
"Tell me something, Martin."
"Yes?"
"If you wished to frame someone..."
Martin thought.
"I'd plant evidence."
"What kind?"
"The kind investigators expect to find."
Jones nodded.
"Exactly."
Martin looked again at the board.
"The chemistry degree."
"The grandfather."
"The access to the library."
"The opportunity."
He stopped speaking.
Understanding slowly appeared on his face.
"It's too perfect."
Jones smiled.
"Yes."
"The evidence fits almost effortlessly."
"And real investigations rarely work that way."
Martin frowned.
"So someone wants us to suspect Meera."
"Just as someone wanted us to suspect Riya."
Jones stood and walked toward the window.
Rain drifted softly across the library gardens below.
"The conspiracy keeps presenting us with convenient suspects."
Martin nodded slowly.
"First Riya."
"Now Meera."
Jones folded his hands behind his back.
"The real question is why."
The answer almost arrived that same night.
An officer hurried into the office carrying another evidence envelope.
"Professor!"
Jones turned.
"What happened?"
"We searched Professor Neel Banerjee's office."
"And?"
The officer placed the envelope on the table.
Inside was a torn page.
Old.
Yellowed.
Its edges matched the missing section from the Ashvattha manuscript.
Martin stared.
"The last page."
Perhaps.
Or perhaps another carefully planted clue.
Jones looked at the page but did not touch it.
Instead, he asked a single question.
"Who found it?"
The officer answered.
"A routine search team."
Jones slowly nodded.
Then he looked toward Martin.
"Do you see?"
Martin frowned.
"What?"
Jones's voice remained calm.
"Every time we begin questioning one suspect..."
He gestured toward the evidence bag.
"...new evidence suddenly appears against someone else."
The room became silent.
Martin looked from the torn page to the evidence board.
Then back to Jones.
Someone was not merely committing murder.
Someone was directing the investigation.
Like a chess player sacrificing pieces one after another.
Always keeping the detectives occupied.
Always ensuring they chased the wrong person.
Jones turned out the light above the evidence board.
The photographs disappeared into shadow.
"The pieces are beginning to fit," he said quietly.
Martin nodded.
"But something still feels wrong."
Jones looked once more at the darkened board.
"Yes."
His voice was almost a whisper.
"Far too obvious."
And somewhere in the silent corridors of the National Library, hidden behind shelves of forgotten knowledge, someone smiled.
The investigators were following the clues exactly as intended.
At least... that was what the unseen mastermind believed.