Calcutta greeted us with the clamor and intensity of a metropolis at the heart of an empire. Stepping off the train onto the Howrah station platform, we were immediately engulfed by crowds: coolies balancing trunks on turbaned heads, British soldiers corralling their families, and Bengali babu clerks in crisp white dhotis rushing to offices. Across the Hooghly River, the grand dome of the General Post Office and the spire of St. Paul's Cathedral marked the skyline, while the broad Maidan – a vast green expanse – stretched out like an oasis in the urban cacophony.
Mr. Devendra Anand, the barrister Mycroft had mentioned, met us discreetly at the station's exit. A slight, bespectacled Indian gentleman in Western suit and tie, he recognized us at once (Holmes's distinctive profile was hard to miss, even under the brim of a tropical hat). "Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he greeted in a low tone, inclining his head. "Welcome to Calcutta. Mycroft's cable described you perfectly. Come, I have a carriage waiting. We shouldn't linger here."
Soon we were rattling through the streets in a hired Victoria carriage. Anand kept the blinds half-drawn. "One can't be too cautious," he explained. "The judge's death and other events have everyone nervous. I have taken rooms for you at a quiet hotel in Chowringhee, overlooking the Maidan. It will be safer than my own house, which is watched."
"Watched by whom?" I asked.
"By those who prefer Judge Lawson's inquiries remain buried," he replied. "I myself have been questioned and subtly threatened after I tried to pursue his unfinished cases. As an Indian barrister taking interest in colonial legal matters, I already attract attention. One wrong move and they could ruin my career or worse. But I am willing to help as I can; I revered Lawson – he was a fair man in an unfair system."
Holmes nodded appreciatively. "We understand the risks you're taking, Mr. Anand. Know that we too are being hunted by this adversary. Forewarned is forearmed. Tell us what you know of Judge Lawson's work before his death."
Anand leaned forward, speaking quietly over the clatter of hooves. "Judge Howard Lawson had been reviewing an appeal case concerning land acquisition in Bengal. A number of small landholders contested the takeover of their ancestral lands by a company that claimed rights under a new law. Lawson found the law odd – it was a recent amendment to the Land Acquisition Act, passed quietly and with little debate. It expanded the government's power to appropriate land for 'commercial development' and allowed third-party companies to be intermediaries in the transactions. This was unprecedented. Lawson smelled corruption and delayed his judgment, digging deeper. That was when he confided in me, as a legal colleague, that he suspected high-level collusion. He even hinted that someone had deliberately drafted the amendment to benefit a private syndicate. He mentioned, by codename, 'the Peacock.' I thought he meant it figuratively at the time – perhaps a flamboyant person behind it all – but now…" He glanced at Holmes meaningfully, and Holmes's face tightened.
"Peacock's eye," Holmes muttered, recalling Dastoor's dying words. "The symbol or codename appears again."
"Yes," Anand continued. "Lawson had gathered evidence that this syndicate – whatever it was – had used the amended law to grab valuable tea plantation land in Assam and a coal mine in Bengal, paying pittance compensation. The owners who protested legally found the new Act was against them. Lawson intended to expose this in his ruling. But before he could, he was found dead."
"And those case files?" I asked.
"Sealed," said Anand bitterly. "The appeal was hastily decided by another judge, who ruled in favor of the company without comment. I suspect that judge was leaned on, or perhaps complicit. The evidentiary papers Lawson collected vanished from the record. I have tried to trace the companies involved; one is called 'Eastern Syndicate Ltd.', but it's a shell managed by a law firm with ties to Madras. Another lead points to a financial house here with connections to Bombay."
Holmes and I exchanged glances—this echoed O'Neil's findings of money flows and Armitage's of smuggling. "All threads converge," Holmes mused. "A financial house, legal firm in Madras, land grabs in Bengal, smuggling in the north—all orchestrated by an invisible web. Did Lawson leave any personal notes or diaries that escaped official notice?"
Anand allowed himself a small smile. "Foreseeing trouble, Judge Lawson sent a packet of private notes to my care, under the pretext of legal peer review, two days before his death. I still have them hidden. I was going to turn them over to the Lieutenant Governor if I found concrete proof, but perhaps you and Mr. Holmes are the proper recipients."
"Most certainly. They may hold the key," Holmes replied eagerly.
We spent the rest of the ride in silence, each deep in thought. The carriage deposited us at a genteel but unremarkable hotel on Chowringhee Road, facing the Maidan's greenery and the distant Victoria Memorial's gleaming construction scaffolds (it was still being built at the time). The place was quiet, with only a few Anglo-Indian clerks taking tiffin on the veranda. Anand had booked adjoining rooms for us under aliases and promised to return after dusk with Lawson's papers, when prying eyes were fewer.
Holmes and I took the afternoon to rest and plan. From our window we watched the rains sweep in veils across the Maidan, bending the palm trees. Holmes remained pensive. "Watson, the legal angle appears crucial. Whoever drafted these amendments – the one O'Neil noted about companies, the one Lawson saw for land – is likely either Varnama himself or a close accomplice. If we find who wrote those laws, we find a face behind the mask."
"How does one draft a law in colonial India?" I wondered aloud. My knowledge of governance was limited.
Holmes replied, "Typically, legislative bills are proposed by members of the Imperial Legislative Council or local councils of each Presidency like Bombay, Madras, Bengal. They may be advised by civil servants or legal experts. If Varnama has a hand, he could be a legal advisor or even one of the few native council members. Mycroft's hint about parliamentary influence suggests he might even manipulate people back in London to rubber-stamp changes. But given the speed and secrecy, I suspect a more local mechanism."
"Perhaps a legislative member here in Calcutta or in Madras was bribed or blackmailed to introduce the amendment," I suggested.
"Just so. And possibly that member had a ghostwriter for the legal text—someone with the skill to pen precise clauses that achieve Varnama's ends. An Indian legal scholar, perhaps educated in Britain, someone fluent in the law's minutiae… that could well describe Varnama or an associate. If we obtain the draft of that Act amendment, we might see a signature or identifying mark."
By early nightfall, Devendra Anand returned as promised, carrying a slim folio which he carefully handed to Holmes once safely inside our room with curtains drawn. By lamp-light, we examined Judge Lawson's salvaged notes. They were written in a tidy hand, with references to case files (now missing) and personal observations. One page stood out—it detailed Lawson's suspicion that the Land Act amendment's language was intentionally broad to allow almost any land seizure to be justified as "in the public interest" when actually benefiting private entities. The judge had scribbled, "Who drafted clause 7b? Find origin – not from usual Leg. Council drafters. Private member's bill pushed through quietly."
Another page listed names of companies and transactions:
Eastern Syndicate Ltd. – Assam tea estates acquisition, Jan 18—.Carnatic Trust of Madras – Large influx of capital after sale of coastal land in Orissa, Feb 18—.Peacock Trading Co. – question mark next to this; noted as receiving funds from Eastern Syndicate.
"Peacock again," I murmured. "A trading company by that name receiving the spoils, perhaps? And Carnatic Trust – Carnatic is a region near Madras, is it not?"
"Yes," Anand confirmed. "The Carnatic Trust might be a bank or holding entity in Madras. Lawson circled it because suddenly funds from these questionable acquisitions ended up there."
Holmes tapped the page. "This aligns with O'Neil's discovery – the final repository of laundered money was likely this Peacock Trading or through Carnatic Trust, both likely under Varnama's control. And 'Ashwamedha' from O'Neil's cipher might be the code name for the climax of these acquisitions – maybe a massive purchase or payoff to consolidate power."
Holmes looked at Anand. "We need two things: the text of that amendment and to identify who proposed it. Also, to trace the Carnatic Trust in Madras. Can you get access to the Legislative Council library or archives?"
Anand hesitated. "Officially, no – not without raising suspicion. But unofficially… I have friends among the clerks. Perhaps if you and Dr. Watson create a distraction or act as visiting officials yourselves… Actually, wait. It might be simpler. The Gazette of India would have published new acts. We could check the public record at the Imperial Library."
Holmes shook his head. "The public gazette might omit sensitive details like who exactly drafted it. And time is short. We can't afford delays going through proper channels. We must be willing to trespass a little. Watson," he said turning to me with a wry smile, "how do you fancy an after-hours visit to the Legislative Council offices?"
I managed to suppress a groan. "If we must, we must. But I hope you have a plan beyond my brawling with more knife-wielding toughs."
Holmes grinned briefly at that. "Anand, can you draw us a rough layout of Government House and identify where legislative documents are kept?"
Our barrister friend nodded and on a scrap sketched the grand Government House—the Governor-General's palace which also housed council chambers and offices. He marked a wing where clerks' offices and archives likely held recent bills and acts. Security would include sentries at the main gates and perhaps patrols, but internal offices might not be heavily guarded at night.
"We'll need a way in," Holmes mused. "Perhaps posing as servants or using a side service entrance. If we time it during the sentries' rounds…"
That night the rains ceased, leaving behind drifting clouds and a swollen moon. Holmes donned one of his many disguises—a common Anglo-Indian soldier's uniform he had acquired from who knows where, complete with a sepoy's turban low over his brow. I wore plain dark clothes and carried a valise to appear like a clerk or assistant. Anand had provided a forged note on council letterhead to wave if we were accosted, claiming we were on urgent Viceroy's business retrieving a document.
Nearing Government House, we kept to the shadows of the leafy promenade. A constable strolled near the front gates, but we circled to a side service door used by cleaning staff. Fortune smiled: it was unlatched, likely left so by a cleaner who had stepped out. Inside, dim gaslights lit a corridor lined with portraits of past Governors-General. We moved quietly, Holmes consulting the mental map Anand's sketch had given us.
A few turns brought us to the clerk's archives: a room with tall wooden cabinets and a long central table strewn with papers. The door was locked, but Holmes produced his wire pick tools – within seconds the latch yielded with a soft click.
We slipped in and softly shut the door. I kept watch by the transom window as Holmes's lantern played over labels on pigeonholes and shelves. "Acts… acts… here: Acts of 18—, mid-year," he whispered. He plucked out a bound ledger. Flipping through, he found the amendment in question.
I held the light as Holmes read the legal prose. "Amendment to the Land Acquisition Act, Clause 7b… Proposed by Council Member Sir Bartholomew Ulbrick, passed on March 3, 18—." Holmes's finger traced the line. "Ulbrick – an Englishman, unlikely our mastermind. He must be a pawn. Let's see… 'Drafted with assistance of Special Counsel A. V. Rao, Esq.' Aha!"
"A. V. Rao," I repeated. "Those initials…"
"Adithya Varnama Rao, perhaps?" Holmes breathed. "It could be him – or someone with those initials at least. Not many native counsels with A. V. initials. And Rao is a common honorific surname, but given the context…" His excitement was palpable.
Holmes tore out the page and folded it into his pocket (a brazen theft, but we had no time for niceties). "This is proof that an A.V. drafted the corrupt clause. Now, Carnatic Trust…" He rifled through other documents. We found a file on registered financial institutions; Carnatic Trust was listed with an address in Madras and a note "chartered 18— under revised Companies Act".
Holmes smirked, "And I suspect that revised Companies Act was also courtesy of our friend A.V. Let's grab that too, if possible."
We quickly located the Companies Act revision. Sure enough, it credited "Draft by A. V. R. Esq." – likely the same Rao. We now had a name, if not fully spelled: A. V. Rao, presumably Adithya Varnama Rao, operating as a legal counsel in Madras.
Our triumph was short-lived. As we turned to leave, footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond. By the heaviness, likely a British guard making rounds, perhaps alerted by our light. Holmes killed the lantern. In the dark, we edged to the door. A lance of light from a bull's-eye lantern outside scanned under the door crack.
"Halt! Who's in there?" came a gruff shout. The handle rattled; finding it unlocked, the guard began to push the door. Holmes pressed his back against it, buying a precious second. He whispered urgently, "We have no choice but to run. This way."
Holmes flung open a side casement window that gave onto the verandah. We clambered out just as the guard managed to shove into the room. "Hey, stop!" he bellowed, seeing our forms slip out. A whistle shrilled.
We dropped into a hedgerow off the verandah and sprinted across the lawn. Another sentry up ahead emerged, rifle in hand, but he seemed confused in the dark. We skirted a fountain and made for the outer park where a wicket gate opened to the street. Boots thundered behind us.
Watson is no long-distance runner, and at my age I stumbled over a root. Holmes caught my arm, practically dragging me through the gate as a gunshot cracked the night. A slug thudded into the gatepost inches away.
But then we were out onto a public street where a carriage was passing. The alarm at Government House hadn't fully propagated, and in the relative bustle beyond, we melded into the shadows, quickly shedding the conspicuous turban and military coat behind a bush. We walked briskly, hearts pounding, until we were several blocks away and quite sure we were not being pursued. Only then did we catch our breath beneath a banyan tree.
"That was a close shave," I panted.
Holmes was grinning, adrenaline alight in his eyes. "Invigorating, what? We have the fox's name now, Watson. 'A. V. Rao'— it would surprise me greatly if that were anyone other than Adithya Varnama himself using a slightly formal moniker. Likely he operates under that identity in legal circles."
"And Sir Ulbrick, the council member who moved the bill—do we confront him?" I asked.
Holmes frowned. "We must be careful. Ulbrick could simply deny wrongdoing and have us arrested for tonight's escapade. Perhaps a subtler approach. But time is pressing. Varnama's grand scheme is nearing its endgame in Madras by all indications. Ulbrick's role is done; to chase him might alert others. We should focus on Madras and our known contacts there, like Major Allardyce, to intercept this 'Project Ashwamedha.'"
We slipped back into the hotel to find Anand anxiously waiting. He sighed in relief at our safe return, though he was aghast when we revealed the page we had torn out. "If caught, you'd be in a Calcutta jail or worse," he scolded softly.
"Better a ripped page than a lost life," Holmes said unapologetically. "This was a war for information. And we have gleaned vital data." He briefed Anand on A.V. Rao and the Madras connection.
Anand's eyes widened. "Adithya V. Rao… I have heard that name in passing. A brilliant lawyer from Madras, educated at Cambridge, I believe. He wrote some treatises on legal reform. If it's him—" he shook his head in wonder. "He is highly respected in Anglo-Indian society, a darling of progressive circles as a native who excelled in the English legal system. No one would suspect… But it fits too well."
"Yes," Holmes said grimly, "the perfect cover—a loyal, Anglophile jurist by day, mastermind of a vast criminal enterprise by night. Moriarty had his professorship; Varnama has his barrister's gown."
Before dawn, we arranged our departure for Madras. Holmes sent a coded telegram to Major Allardyce: "Arriving Madras with Watson. Critical intel on Ashwamedha. Request discreet meeting on arrival – urgent. – Sigerson". The alias and phrasing were agreed upon with Mycroft to signal our bona fides.
We parted ways with Devendra Anand with warm gratitude. "Take care," he urged us. "I will try to do my part here: I'll discreetly disseminate what evidence we found to those I trust. Perhaps we can at least undo the evil laws. But catching Varnama himself… that task rests with you now, I fear."
Holmes clasped Anand's hand. "We shall do all we can. If we fail… at least ensure this conspiracy's fruits are spoiled. The law he twisted must be set right again." Anand promised and wished us Godspeed.
By midday, we boarded a coastal steamer that would carry us down the Bay of Bengal to Madras, a voyage of a couple of days. As the great paddle wheels churned, leaving Calcutta's docks behind, Holmes and I reviewed our position. We now knew far more: the villain's likely name and occupation, the scope of his scheme—money-laundering, land theft, opium smuggling, all culminating in something code-named Ashwamedha in Madras. We surmised it might involve a final acquisition or transfer of power, timed perhaps with a legal change or a political event.
Holmes speculated, "Madras has a Governor's Council meeting this week, according to newspapers. Perhaps a final piece of legislation is to be passed, or a transaction ratified. If we can interrupt that, we may thwart him. But to what end? Varnama may simply slip away if thwarted, unless we get direct evidence of his crimes or identity."
"Do you think we should attempt to expose him publicly?" I asked. "Perhaps confronting him in the council itself with evidence?"
Holmes drummed his fingers on the ship's rail, gazing at the foamy wake. "Public exposure would be ideal but we have fragments of evidence at best, much obtained illicitly. Also, he's foreseen much; he may have contingency plans. More likely, we must catch him in the act or obtain a confession or document that undeniably incriminates him. A letter bearing his seal, a ledger linking him to Peacock Trading and Carnatic Trust perhaps. Major Allardyce might help raid the right place if we can identify it."
He exhaled and looked at me with a softer expression. "I confess, Watson, I am deeply concerned. This man has beaten us to the punch at nearly every turn. We have been reactive, always one step behind his deadly schedule. In Madras, for once, we must seize the initiative. I will do whatever it takes."
I put a hand on his shoulder. "We shall, Holmes. We've come this far together. He's flesh and blood despite his shadows; he can be outwitted."
Holmes nodded, offering a determined half-smile. But I caught a glint in his eye I'd seldom seen—a hint of desperation behind the resolve. The burden of failure weighed on him, the ghosts of the slain pressing at his conscience. This was no longer mere intellectual sport; it was a vendetta against a moral inversion that outraged Holmes's very soul: a criminal using the law itself as weapon.
As the steamer plowed on and monsoon gales whipped up spray over the deck, I felt that we were racing not just against an adversary's machinations but against Holmes's own inner turmoil. The dark tide of that psychological maelstrom would either break upon victory in Madras – or drown my friend's spirit if we failed.