The voyage to India was both uneventful and curiously illuminating. Aboard the steamship Britannia, Holmes maintained a low profile under the alias "Mr. Sigerson" – a name he had used in past wanderings – while I was simply Dr. Scott, a medical man traveling for scholarly interest. Our fellow passengers ranged from seasoned colonial officers returning from leave to wide-eyed young clerks and missionaries embarking on their first journey to the Subcontinent. Holmes spent much of the long weeks at sea in studious silence, nose buried in treatises on Indian law or else pacing the deck at odd hours, lost in thought.
One balmy evening in the Arabian Sea, however, he gave me and a small coterie of passengers a demonstration of his deductive gifts that left them astounded. A colonel had mislaid his antique pocket watch – a family heirloom – and despairingly asked if anyone had seen it. Holmes, roused from reverie by the commotion, coolly appraised the anxious colonel and the few loiterers on deck. Within moments, he pointed out a nervous young man, correctly identifying him as the thief by a telltale bulge in his coat pocket and a smear of metal polish on his cuff. The watch was produced and returned amid gasps of admiration. Holmes waved off the ensuing praise, but I noticed the incident did wonders for his spirits. The hunt, however trifling, invigorated him.
At last, after two weeks, the Britannia docked at the Apollo Bunder quay in Bombay. The year was 18—, and I recall it was early August when we first set foot on Indian soil. The monsoon rains had abated that morning, leaving the city's streets damp and the air thick with humidity and the fragrances of wet earth and spices. As we descended the gangplank, I marveled at the vibrant scene: dockworkers in turbans unloading crates of British goods, slender brown-sailed fishing boats bobbing alongside grand steamers, and the grand facade of the city shimmering beyond—an incongruous blend of European Gothic architecture and oriental bustle.
Holmes, however, wasted no time on wide-eyed tourism. With our meager luggage secured, we took a carriage to the Fort district, where colonial government buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with mercantile offices. It was in this district, Mycroft had indicated, that we would find Inspector Lestrade of the Bombay police (christened Terrence Lestrade—a coincidence of name that amused Holmes when he first read it).
As our carriage rattled through the broad avenues—past the white domes of the General Post Office and the busy vendors around Elphinstone Circle—I took note of Holmes's demeanor. His gaze flickered at every unfamiliar sight, yet he betrayed no surprise or confusion. If anything, he assimilated each detail—the sari-clad women carrying baskets of mangoes, the Parsi gentleman in a top hat beside a holy cow that had wandered into the road, the mixture of tongues in the air (Marathi, Gujarati, English)—all with the detached absorption of a scientist. To Holmes, I suspected, Bombay was a grand new specimen for study, its every aspect a potential clue to understanding the environment of our adversary.
We arrived at a grand colonial structure, the Police Commissioner's office, to find Inspector Terrence Lestrade awaiting us in a side chamber, as arranged via Mycroft's introduction. He was a wiry, red-haired man with a sunburnt complexion, dressed in a linen suit already wrinkled by the morning heat. Despite his youth—he could not have been much above thirty—there was a cautious sagacity in his green eyes.
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he greeted us in a hushed tone, extending a hand. "Welcome to Bombay. Mycroft's message said to expect you."
Holmes shook the inspector's hand firmly. "We are grateful for your assistance. I understand you have information regarding the matter we discussed?"
Lestrade nodded, gesturing for us to sit. The office's high ceilings and spinning fans did little to relieve the swelter; I mopped my brow as we settled into cane chairs. Lestrade produced a folder from a locked desk drawer. "I have compiled what I could. Officially, I'm not even assigned to these cases—each was handled separately by local units. But I've seen enough to suspect a connection, and Mycroft's inquiry from London confirmed my suspicions were not solitary."
He spread out before us several sepia-toned photographs and reports. "The first death: Albert O'Neil, director of the Imperial Bank of Bombay. Found late at night in his office two weeks ago. Initially thought to be a robbery gone wrong—his safe was open and some valuables missing—but there were oddities. O'Neil's body showed signs of a struggle not consistent with a simple burglary. He had a deep wound on the back of the head, as if struck by a heavy instrument. Yet nothing heavy or blood-stained was found at the scene save a cast-iron paperweight, which curiously had been wiped clean. The burglar theory fell apart when it was noted that although some cash was taken, documents were scattered as if rifled through. Which bandit prioritizes papers over gold?"
Holmes picked up a photograph of the late Mr. O'Neil – a stout, middle-aged man with muttonchops – and another photo depicting a dimly lit office with an open safe and strewn papers. "Was anything significant missing from his documents, to your knowledge?"
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "His clerk reported that certain ledgers and a private diary were unaccounted for. The clerk catalogued them for the police, but by the time I saw the evidence room, those items had vanished. Misplaced, they claimed, but I suspect removed on someone's orders."
Holmes's face grew taut. "Removed to conceal evidence, no doubt. What of the other case you mentioned, the Calcutta one?"
Lestrade referred to his notes. "Judge Howard Lawson, Calcutta High Court. Drowned in the ornamental fountain of his own bungalow garden, of all things, roughly ten days ago. The local authorities called it a heart attack leading to accidental drowning—Lawson was in his 60s—but colleagues whispered that he'd received death threats shortly before. Lawson had been reviewing a sensitive case involving illegal land grants that pointed toward high-ranking officials. The last person to see him alive reported that the judge had said, cryptically, 'They've changed the law under my very nose—tell Sherlock Holmes…' but the message was never finished. That witness, a servant, was discredited as a drunkard and is now nowhere to be found. Mycroft's network only got wind of it after the fact."
Holmes exchanged a quick glance with me at the direct mention of his name. "It appears my reputation precedes me even to the subcontinent," he murmured. "Or rather, Varnama's network anticipated my involvement. To know to warn a victim about me suggests someone expected I might be brought in. Interesting."
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Indeed. Now, the third: Colonel Jerome Armitage in Delhi, the one Mycroft mentioned to you. He was with Army intelligence, and it seems he was investigating opium revenue discrepancies – secret shipments through the Northwest Frontier. He telegraphed a colleague that he had discovered a crucial lead in Bombay which connected to Calcutta. But before he could elaborate, he was found hanged in his quarters at the cantonment. It was staged to appear a suicide, as the Colonel had been under some scrutiny for heavy gambling debts. Conveniently sullying his name was enough to close the case for the Delhi brass. I gather your brother had a man in Delhi looking deeper, but I've heard nothing further."
Holmes took a moment to digest these accounts. Three men, three cities, each touching a piece of a puzzle: banking irregularities in Bombay, legal subterfuge in Calcutta, and revenue smuggling in the north. At the center, perhaps this spectre called Varnama, orchestrating the entire design.
"And here in Bombay, Inspector," I asked, "aside from Mr. O'Neil's murder, have there been other peculiar incidents or clues? We should start where we stand."
Lestrade frowned thoughtfully and lowered his voice. "There is one more thing, though I hesitate to draw conclusions from it. Three nights ago, one of O'Neil's former clerks – a young Parsi man named Darius – was found dead in the harbour. They pulled him from the water at dawn. It looked like he had been struck on the head, similar blow to O'Neil's, before going into the water. The death was written off as a dockside mugging. But I'm not so sure. Darius had confided to a friend that on the day O'Neil died, he had helped the director compile some confidential files to be sent to Delhi by courier. Darius hinted he knew something was amiss. Foolishly, he may have tried to blackmail whoever was involved, or perhaps he was simply silenced preemptively."
"A fourth death, then," Holmes said grimly. "A lesser figure, easily overlooked but connected. This grows darker with each revelation." He stood abruptly. "We must examine O'Neil's office ourselves, and any remaining effects he or this clerk left behind."
Lestrade grabbed his hat. "I anticipated as much. The office has been locked since the official inquiry wrapped up, but I have a key. We must be discreet, however; as I've hinted, not all in the force can be trusted. There are eyes everywhere. Perhaps an 'audit' by an anonymous inspector from London could be arranged."
Holmes allowed himself a thin smile. "Lead the way, Inspector. Anonymity suits us fine."
We left the Commissioner's building by a side exit and made our way on foot through the midday glare. The city was alive with the sounds of hawkers and the clatter of horse carriages. Presently, we reached the imposing edifice of the Imperial Bank of Bombay. Its carved stone frontage and grand columns exuded the solidity and confidence of the Empire's financial power. A lone uniformed guard dozed by the main door, too accustomed to European faces to question our entry as Lestrade flashed a badge.
Inside, the bank's corridors were dim and cool. We navigated past silent counting rooms to a staircase that led to the late director's office. Lestrade unlocked the heavy teak door. The room smelled slightly musty from disuse, but the trappings of O'Neil's status remained: a mahogany desk, leather-bound ledgers on shelves, a large globe in one corner, and a portrait of the Queen hanging above a marble fireplace.
Holmes paused just inside the doorway, eyes closed, as if to attune himself to the scene. I watched as he then began to drift lightly about the room, magnifying lens in hand, touching nothing yet observing everything. Lestrade and I held back, not wishing to disturb his process.
He examined the carpet, where a dark stain marred the floral pattern. "Blood, no doubt where O'Neil fell," he murmured. His gaze traced the probable trajectory from the desk. "Surprise blow from behind as he examined his safe, I'd wager. The killer came upon him while he was retrieving some papers."
Holmes's eyes narrowed at the desk itself. The top was clear except for an inkstand and a heavy iron paperweight shaped like a lion. Holmes inspected the lion closely. "No visible blood, but note, Watson, a few strands of hair caught in the casting's seam. Ginger-grey hair—O'Neil's shade, if his photograph is an indication. Lestrade, you mentioned it had been wiped clean; evidently not well enough. This indeed may be the murder weapon."
He next drifted to the fireplace. The grate was clean of ash, likely since the weather was warm, but Holmes crouched and picked at something in the crevices of the hearthstones. He produced a small fragment of paper, charred on one end. I fetched my pocket handkerchief and he carefully laid the fragment on it for examination. Upon it were a few printed words: "Company Act…Revision… 18—". The rest was burnt away.
"Interesting. A fragment of a document, partially burned. It references something about an act—possibly a legal act revision." He looked to Lestrade. "Was anything reported about burnt papers?"
Lestrade shook his head. "No, the official case file makes no mention of burned papers. If the murderer tried to destroy something here, he was in a hurry or assumed the fire would consume it fully."
Holmes carefully stowed the fragment in his pocketbook. "This could be a vital clue. Perhaps O'Neil had discovered something about a revised law. If we had the full text, it might illuminate what specifically he uncovered."
We continued our search. In a wastebin by the desk, Holmes discovered a crumpled telegram form. Smoothing it out, he read aloud the faint indents left by a pen (for no ink remained): "Funds transfer confirmed... Alipore... instructions..."
"Alipore?" I asked. The name was unfamiliar.
"Alipore is a district in Calcutta," Lestrade supplied at once. "Home to many administrative offices and wealthy natives. If a funds transfer was confirmed there, perhaps O'Neil was moving money through Calcutta?"
Holmes tapped the paper. "Or tracing it. He might have sent an inquiry or received notice of suspect transactions in Alipore. This aligns with what Colonel Armitage hinted – a connection between Bombay and Calcutta's irregularities."
I could see the outline of a grand tapestry beginning to form in Holmes's mind. He appeared momentarily lost in that thought before snapping back to the present.
Lastly, Holmes turned his attention to the safe. It stood open, as it had in the photograph, yawning and empty. He ran his fingers along the interior and around the combination lock. Suddenly he paused, producing his magnifier again. "Watson, the lamp, if you please." I brought the desk lamp closer. There on the inside of the metal door, near the hinge, Holmes had spotted something: a tiny smudge of a dark, tarry substance.
Holmes scraped a bit onto his finger and sniffed it. "Oil, mixed with coal dust," he declared. "Curious, to find coal dust inside an office safe. It suggests the hand of someone who had been in a coal cellar or working around machinery. Not a bank clerk, certainly. Perhaps a sailor or a dockworker? Someone who came straight from the harbour to do this deed."
Lestrade pursed his lips. "A hired killer, then, possibly from the docks. Many rough elements around Bombay port could be bought for a few rupees, but few would have the audacity or connections to pull off a targeted murder inside a bank director's office at night."
Holmes agreed. "Such a man would need not only coin but also a plan. He might be given insider help—like access to the building—or be a trusted person allowed in at late hours. Alternatively, he forced entry, but there were no signs of a break-in, correct?"
"None," confirmed Lestrade. "No locks broken. It was assumed O'Neil let his killer in, likely someone he knew, or they simply walked in during working hours and hid until the staff left."
Holmes's survey of the room complete, he turned to us, eyes alight with the threads of deduction. "So, let us sum up what we have gleaned: O'Neil uncovered some financial scheme likely tied to legal changes, which spanned to Calcutta (Alipore). He was killed for it. His clerk Darius, privy to some degree of knowledge, was also eliminated, probably by the same network. Meanwhile, Judge Lawson in Calcutta was investigating legal aspects – perhaps something with Company Acts, given this fragment. He was drowned suspiciously after hinting at laws being changed under his nose. Colonel Armitage found a piece of this puzzle in Delhi, possibly linking opium funds to this money laundering, and he too was killed after telegraphing his find. The pattern is a triad of finance, law, and enforcement – each pillar undermined. At the center is someone coordinating all, likely Varnama. And here we stand on one edge of the web."
As Holmes spoke, I realized the cryptic pattern binding the murders: each victim represented a facet of uncovering an enormous conspiracy—financial corruption, legal manipulation, and enforcement corruption. Each was struck down just as they connected their piece to the others. The full picture remained just beyond reach, but its outlines were growing clearer and far larger than I'd imagined.
Lestrade nodded solemnly. "What will be your next step? I can provide some cover here, but as I said, one must tread carefully. Already a few of my colleagues are asking why I show interest in closed cases."
Holmes considered. "We must move swiftly. I intend to travel to Calcutta as soon as possible to follow the lead of Alipore and Judge Lawson's inquiry. But before that, I should like to speak with anyone in Bombay who might know of this name, Varnama, or who might have been in O'Neil's confidence."
Lestrade thought for a moment. "O'Neil's widow is in Poona for the summer, but I doubt she knows much of his work. There was a close friend, a Parsee mill owner, by the name of Jal Dastoor, whom O'Neil reportedly met the night before his death. Possibly O'Neil confided in him."
"Excellent," said Holmes. "Also, perhaps a discreet word with Darius's family or friends could yield something—though likely he said little of consequence if he valued his life. Still, we may attempt it. Watson, I propose you handle speaking to the clerk's family while I call on Mr. Dastoor. We shall cover more ground that way and reconvene."
I agreed, though privately I was wary—splitting up in an unknown city with danger closing in felt unsettling. But Holmes was right about alacrity.
Thus it was settled. Lestrade would quietly arrange us tickets on the next train east to Calcutta, and in the meantime assist our separate inquiries in Bombay. Unbeknownst to us, the shadows of Varnama's network were already lengthening around us in that sweltering, sunlit city. The game had well and truly begun.