Holmes and I parted ways outside the bank, each venturing into Bombay's teeming lanes on our respective errands. The plan was to regroup at our lodging by evening and compare notes. Despite the midday sun that now beat down mercilessly, I felt a chill of foreboding as we went our separate paths.
I hailed a horse-drawn tonga and directed the driver toward the neighborhood of Byculla, where Lestrade had informed me the family of young Darius resided. The journey took me eastward, away from the colonial grandeur and into narrower streets where Anglo-Indian cottages mingled with ornate Persian merchant houses. Children splashed by a public fountain, and the scent of frying sweetmeats mingled incongruously with that of refuse baking in the heat. Through it all, I could not shake the feeling of being watched.
At length, we arrived at a modest, well-kept bungalow behind a small gated courtyard. A woman in a black shawl—Darius's mother, as it turned out—greeted me with wary eyes. She had perhaps heard that a "sahib" was coming to ask about her son. In halting English, she invited me into a sitting room where a portrait of Darius—a slim young man with bright, earnest eyes—hung draped in a garland of wilting marigolds.
I offered my condolences for her loss, which she accepted with a stoic nod. When I gently inquired whether Darius had left any papers or effects behind, she hesitated. Reaching into the folds of her shawl, she produced a small diary, bound in cheap leather, and held it out. "Police say nothing, do nothing," she whispered. "My Darius wrote things. You find who hurt him, please."
I promised to do my utmost. The diary was water-damaged around the edges from its time in the harbor, but most pages were intact, filled with tidy shorthand and cryptic numbers. Slipping it safely into my coat pocket, I thanked the grieving mother and departed quietly.
As I stepped back onto the street, the hairs on my neck prickled. I had the sense of a figure loitering near the gate that melted away as I glanced over. I set off on foot rather than hiring a carriage immediately, hoping to draw out any pursuer. The street was relatively quiet, only a milk vendor's cart creaking along and a pair of goats munching on discarded banana leaves. Yet, I felt it again—that silent shadow trailing me.
I rounded a corner into an alley of shuttered warehouses, each step echoing off high brick walls. Then came the scrape of a footstep not my own. I turned sharply and found myself face to face with a swarthy man in a dockworker's rough tunic, his eyes hard and a curved knife glinting in his hand.
"Give it," he hissed in accented English, gesturing with the blade toward my pocket. His free hand twitched nervously, revealing grime beneath the nails and a crude tattoo on the wrist—some kind of tiger's head.
I did not need Holmes's acumen to surmise he meant Darius's diary. "Who sent you?" I demanded, trying to stall as I slowly backed against the wall, my cane raised defensively.
The ruffian lunged without answering. A former army doctor I might be, but I am not unacquainted with close-quarters scrapes. I managed to parry the first slash with my sturdy Malacca cane, the blow reverberating up my arm. We scuffled in that narrow space, him a foot shorter than I but sinewy and quick. He struck again, and I caught his wrist this time, struggling against his surprising strength. He snarled and drove me back, the knife blade coming within inches of my throat. Desperate, I swung my cane at his knee. There was a crack and a howl of pain as the man staggered.
Before I could press the advantage, he recovered with feral speed. Realizing perhaps that I was not the easy prey he expected, he chose flight over fight. With a limping gait, he bolted past me back toward the street. I gave chase as best I could, but by the time I emerged from the alley, the man had vanished into the tangled crowd of a bazaar beyond.
Breathing hard and with a few new bruises for my trouble, I nonetheless clutched my pocket to ensure the diary was still there. It was. The leather cover bore a fresh cut from the skirmish, but it had protected the precious pages within. Heart pounding, I quickly made for a main road and found a driver to take me back to the Fort district. It was clear that Varnama's agents were indeed watching, and they had scant hesitation to use violence.
Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes had taken a carriage northwards to the industrial quarter of Tardeo where Jal Dastoor's cotton mills were located. Later, he would recount to me the events of that afternoon in his own terse way, but I shall do my best to render them in detail.
Holmes arrived at the Dastoor Mill—a low, sprawling complex of red-brick warehouses and clacking looms—to find it abuzz with workers finishing their midday meal under the awnings. He inquired for Mr. Dastoor and was directed to a small bungalow adjoining the factory, shaded by a banyan tree.
Jal Dastoor proved to be a clean-shaven Parsee gentleman of middle years, clad in a neat white cotton suit despite the heat. His round glasses and ink-stained fingers gave him a scholarly air at odds with the din of industry behind him. He welcomed Holmes into a cluttered study, its walls lined with account books and a modest collection of English and Gujarati literature. Holmes introduced himself under the guise of an interested friend of the late Mr. O'Neil, come to settle some affairs—a plausible story that Dastoor did not question, likely thanks to the letter of introduction Lestrade had quietly sent ahead.
Over a cup of spiced tea, Holmes guided the conversation to the night of O'Neil's death. Dastoor's genial face clouded with sorrow. "Albert O'Neil was not just a business associate, Mr. Holmes, he was a dear friend. The night before… before it happened, he came to dine here. I remember he was unusually agitated. He kept looking over his shoulder, as if expecting some dreadful apparition. Only when I pressed him did he confide a little of what troubled him."
"Please, any detail could help us understand this tragedy," Holmes urged.
Dastoor dabbed his brow with a handkerchief. "He told me he had stumbled upon a swindle of enormous proportions. Funds from investors were being siphoned off—laundered through shell companies that ostensibly financed development projects. But the projects were phantom things; the money ultimately pooled into the hands of a single entity. Albert suspected a far-reaching criminal enterprise that extended into multiple cities. He said every time he got close, 'the ground shifted beneath his feet'—I confess I did not fully grasp his meaning then. He mentioned someone… a name I'd never heard: Varnama. And he said, 'Even the law is turned against us, Jal. They changed an Act last month quietly, so now what was illegal yesterday is legal today. It's as if my enemy can rewrite the law at will.'"
Holmes leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Did he give any specifics? Which Act, or what exactly had been changed?"
"Not by name. He was being cautious, and there were others in earshot. He only said, 'If something happens to me, the answers lie in the Acts… look to the Acts… and to Madras.' I was perplexed—Madras is another presidency far from his usual dealings. Perhaps he had uncovered something leading there. He departed in haste after dinner, leaving me worried for his state of mind. The next morning, I learned of his murder."
Holmes's mind raced at those words. Look to the Acts… and to Madras. Another thread pointing to that southern city, even as our next immediate step was Calcutta. "Mr. Dastoor, did O'Neil leave anything with you? Papers, perhaps, or a message to be delivered if ill befell him?"
Dastoor's eyes widened slightly. "Actually, yes. How did you know? On his way out, he pressed an envelope into my hand. He said, 'Jal, send this to Colonel Armitage in Delhi if you hear I am dead. It's in code, but he will understand.' Tragically, by the time news reached me, I read that Colonel Armitage too was found dead. I've been at a loss what to do with the envelope since—its contents mean nothing to me. I hesitate to hand it to the authorities given the… irregularities." He unlocked a desk drawer and produced a sealed envelope, thick with enclosed pages.
Holmes took it with measured reverence, as though handling an explosive charge. "Your instinct is correct. May I see it? I have some experience with ciphers and it may be crucial to preventing further bloodshed."
"As you wish. I only pray it helps." Dastoor passed him the envelope. Holmes carefully broke the seal and slid out several sheets filled with tightly written script. At a glance, it was indeed a cipher: lines of seemingly random letters and numbers interspersed. Holmes recognized some patterns—a simple substitution or perhaps a Vigenère cipher at play, but he would need time to decipher it.
Just then, a sharp crack split the warm afternoon air. Dastoor jerked as if struck by an invisible hand, the teacup shattering on the floor. A crimson stain spread rapidly across his chest. The report of a rifle came an instant later to my friend's ears.
Holmes reacted instantly, dropping flat to the ground as another bullet whizzed through the open window, splintering a bookshelf. "Sniper!" he hissed. Crawling to Dastoor's side, he saw blood foaming at the man's lips. The mill owner had collapsed, gasping, his white suit flowering red. Holmes tore off his own cravat and pressed it to the wound, but he knew the shot was likely fatal—it had struck near the heart.
Dastoor clutched at Holmes's arm with trembling fingers, struggling to speak. Holmes leaned close to catch the dying words. "Pea… Peacock," Dastoor wheezed, each syllable a labor. "Peacock's… eye… Adithya… Var…nama…" The rest faded in a gurgle as his eyes fixed sightlessly upward.
A surge of fury and frustration swept through Sherlock Holmes. He had come so close to protecting this one source, only for the enemy to strike literally under his nose. Risking a glance, Holmes peered over the window sill. Across the compound, atop a distant warehouse roof, he glimpsed a figure in black lowering a rifle and then disappearing behind a parapet. The assassin was too far to pursue on foot, and within moments the clamor of panicked mill workers filled the yard, obscuring all trace.
Holmes pocketed O'Neil's cipher letter and slid out the door amid the confusion, face set in a grim mask. He melted into the milling crowd before authorities could arrive, his thoughts a tempest. Jal Dastoor's murder in broad daylight was a stark warning. Varnama's reach was long and his vigilance constant. No one who helped us would be safe.
By dusk, Holmes and I reconvened at a quiet room Lestrade had secured for us above a Parsi tavern not far from the train station. Our meeting was a somber one. I nursed a bruised rib from the alley scuffle, and Holmes's normally composed features were marred by barely restrained anger. He recounted Dastoor's last moments in clipped, terse sentences.
"That makes two more lives lost," I said, thinking of Dastoor and nearly myself, as I poured us both a measure of brandy from a flask. "They are watching our every move."
"Indeed," Holmes muttered, his eyes downcast. "The enemy must have trailed O'Neil's friend, perhaps anticipating he might reveal something to any inquisitors. As soon as I took possession of this" – he tapped the cipher letter in his hand – "they struck him down. Had they means to, they would have taken me out as well. It was a near thing."
I shuddered. The thought of Holmes felled by an assassin's bullet was too awful to contemplate, yet it had been a hair's breadth away. "What did he manage to tell you, before…?"
Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, recalling precisely. "He gasped 'Peacock's eye' and then tried to say our adversary's name. Peacock's eye… does that signify anything to you, Watson?"
I thought, but nothing obvious came. "Perhaps a code word, or a literal object? There's the Peacock Throne of the old Mughal emperors, but that's a relic long taken to London, I believe. A peacock's eye could be metaphorical… maybe something like 'the eye of the peacock sees all'? I'm afraid it doesn't strike a clear note."
Holmes sighed, frustration evident. "It may tie into the cipher. O'Neil perhaps used a keyword for his encryption. Peacock, maybe, or some variant. He also said to Dastoor 'look to the Acts and to Madras.' Combined with what we already have—Judge Lawson's words about laws changed, the burnt snippet about an Act revision, and the clue of Alipore in Calcutta—our course is set. We must depart for Calcutta on the first available train. There we will pursue the legal angle and this mention of Alipore. Simultaneously, I'll work to decode O'Neil's letter, which likely contains the specifics of what he uncovered."
Lestrade joined us quietly at this juncture, having made arrangements for our departure. He looked grave at our report of the day's events. "I fear I can do little more here without attracting suspicion," he said. "Dastoor's murder will be written off as a mill disturbance or a robbery; mark my words, someone will produce a scapegoat unrelated to the true cause. I'll keep discreet inquiries alive about that rooftop shooter, but you two should press on to Calcutta. Perhaps there the pattern will become clearer, and I pray you meet allies as fortunate as you had here."
Holmes stood and shook Lestrade's hand firmly. "You have been invaluable, Inspector. This case, if ever it is resolved, will owe much to your courage. But guard yourself—by aiding us you may have drawn Varnama's gaze."
Lestrade managed a thin smile. "I'll keep my head down. I've friends in the force I trust who can cover for me. And I doubt Varnama expends too much effort on a minor colonial officer if bigger game awaits. Take care, both of you. The railway platform will be watched, so I've arranged a ruse: a luggage porter I trust will escort you to a freight yard where you can board the express quietly as it slows leaving the city. Unorthodox, but it's safer than the crowded station."
That night, under cover of darkness and a lashing monsoon rain, Holmes and I followed Lestrade's man to the railway yards. We clambered into a slowing first-class carriage of the Calcutta Mail as it chugged past, unseen by any who might have laid in wait at Victoria Terminus. Soon, Bombay's lights receded, and we were hurtling eastward into the vast Indian night.
In the relative privacy of our compartment, with the incessant clack of rails beneath our feet, Holmes finally allowed himself a moment to uncoil. He lit his pipe and unfurled the cipher letter on the fold-out table, while I gingerly inspected my rib by lamplight.
"Watson," he said after a time, "let us examine what we have." He laid out Darius's diary as well, which I had handed him, next to the cipher. Page after page of the diary contained dates and sums, likely records of transactions O'Neil had Darius track, interspersed with shorthand notations that Holmes surmised were names or accounts. But a few pages near the end broke the pattern: they contained strings of numbers grouped in twos and threes, almost like coordinates or a numerical cipher.
Holmes compared these with the letter. "It appears O'Neil entrusted two halves of his discovery to two different confidants," he mused. "Dastoor got the narrative in a coded letter, and Darius had raw data—figures, account numbers, perhaps a code key. Yes… see here, some numbers in the diary repeat in the letter." He pointed out identical sequences. "This cannot be coincidence. If I can deduce the method, we might crack it."
The lamplight cast Holmes's hawk-like profile in flickering shadow as he bent over the puzzle. Outside, the downpour hammered the roof of the carriage, but inside we pored over symbols and markings until my eyes grew heavy. At one point, Holmes muttered, "Peacock… could it be the keyword for a Vigenère cipher? The word has seven letters…" He scribbled attempts on a scrap but then scratched them out in frustration. "No, perhaps a book cipher? If only I knew which book… Wait, what of the Acts he mentioned? Could it be referencing the Indian Companies Act or some law book?"
We had with us a slim Indian Penal Code book (Holmes had packed it) and some recent gazettes. Holmes cross-referenced phrases. Slowly, piece by piece, he teased out fragments of meaning. By the time my weariness overcame me in the small hours, Holmes had translated enough to grasp a portion of O'Neil's message.
The next morning, as the train sped through green paddy fields under a pale dawn, I awoke to find Holmes still at work, eyes bloodshot but triumphant. "It's incomplete," he said hoarsely, "but I have a fair idea now. O'Neil's letter confirms that large sums of money were being funneled into an entity named 'Peacock Trading Company' – likely a front. It also references an 'Project Ashwamedha', which I recall is a term from ancient Sanskrit – a kind of ritual of dominance, a horse sacrifice by kings to prove sovereignty. An odd codename, but evocative. The letter suggests this 'Project' is to culminate soon, with something taking place in Madras, and that legal changes were orchestrated to clear its path. He implores the reader to look into recent legislative council acts in Madras and mentions contacting a confidant there—likely Major Allardyce, Mycroft's contact."
"Madras again," I murmured. "So that will be the endgame, I wager. But we still must decipher what exactly this Project Ashwamedha entails."
Holmes tapped a page. "Here it says: 'Lawson had half the riddle—land titles; Armitage had the other half—smuggling channels. Joined, they reveal the shape of Ashwamedha.' Unfortunately, it doesn't outright state what the scheme is. Probably as a precaution if the cipher was broken. But it's clear Judge Lawson and Colonel Armitage's investigations fit together."
I nodded, piecing it myself. "One uncovered legal changes in land ownership or trusts, the other uncovered how illicit goods or funds moved. Combined, perhaps it's about seizing assets or laundering enormous sums to fund something. Could it be political? A private army? Or buying influence?"
"All plausible. And the name Ashwamedha implies a grand assertion of power, perhaps a bid for control—maybe an attempt by Varnama to amass enough wealth and leverage to control a region or a trade entirely." Holmes's voice was edged with concern. "Whatever it is, it's big, Watson. No petty criminal enterprise, this. It could alter the balance of power out here in ways Mycroft only hinted at."
We fell silent, contemplating the magnitude of what we faced. The train whistle screamed as we crossed the great Godavari River. Each turn of the wheel brought us closer to Calcutta, and closer, we hoped, to answers. But with each revelation, the spectre of Adithya Varnama loomed larger, like a hydra's head rising from the depths.
Holmes closed his eyes briefly and steepled his fingers, as I had seen him do countless times in Baker Street when wrestling with a problem. "We have but one advantage in this deadly game, Watson," he finally said softly. "They may know our moves, but we now know theirs—or at least, where their final move will be played. Calcutta will give us the pieces, and Madras the board. We must be exceedingly careful. Our adversary has proven he will stop at nothing. To catch a man who changes the law, perhaps we too must be willing to bend it. No more scruples, if it comes to that."
I looked at my friend in the gray morning light. There was a resolve in him, cold and hard as steel. The easy laughter and bohemian charm he often wore were stripped away, leaving only the relentless detective who would sacrifice anything—including his own innocence, I feared—to stop this scourge.
As the Bengal plains unfurled outside, neither of us could foresee just how much darker the path would yet become, nor how the limits of Holmes's principles would be tested in the sprawling capital of the Raj that awaited us at the line's end.