by David Marcum
The words of the missionary hymn I had sung as a schoolboy in chapel came to my mind as I stood on the deck of a Royal Navy sloop, anchored just off the Port of Colombo. They were to prove singularly prescient.
Under more usual circumstances, the experience of feeling the warm, moist tropical breezes caress one’s face is a sensuous joy. Yet on that night, more than twenty years ago now, I had a profound sense of foreboding.
“Are those the lights of Colombo Port?” I said to my friend, Sherlock Holmes, as he stood beside me.
“Yes,” he replied, “the tugs will pull us into the wharf at first light. We will meet with the governor and the inspector-general of police tomorrow afternoon.”
Here I must digress for a moment. In one of my first stories of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, “A Scandal in Bohemia”, I deliberately allowed my readers to conclude that I had not been present alongside Sherlock Holmes when he cleared up the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee. In truth, I did accompany him on that adventure but refrained from having an account of it published.
Our world today is different from that of 1887. With the passing of our beloved Queen, we have also witnessed the fading of a world in which civility and gentility reigned supreme. So, with some regrets, I have accepted that the unseemly subject matter of the account you are about to read has become commonplace. Those of you who have so faithfully followed the exploits of Sherlock Holmes are entitled to know the previously undisclosed events that took place in the fall of 1887 in the far-off colony of Ceylon.
Sherlock Holmes had been sent to Ceylon by the Foreign Office and directed to investigate the tragic death of a Mr. George Atkinson at the hands of barbaric local thieves - or so it was reported.
There was some urgency to the assignment. We were immediately dispatched on the Condor Class Sloop, Mutine. It was a gleaming new ship-of-the-line that had been assigned to the China station and would drop us off in Ceylon on its maiden voyage. We had made our way around Gibraltar, past Port Said, through the Canal, and on across the Arabian Sea in remarkable time. Now, we were about to enter the capital of Ceylon, the gracious city of Colombo.
The following morning, we descended to the quay and were ushered immediately to a carriage that bore the crest of the Galle Face Hotel. We enjoyed our short ride through the Fort district and down along the Galle Road, with the wide vista of the Indian Ocean on our right. The hotel, a magnificent whitewashed colonial edifice, sprawled for nearly a block along the seaside. No sooner had we arrived but three fine-looking native men, all wearing uniforms fit for a maharajah, appeared to assist with our baggage. They all graciously placed their hands together under their chins, bowed, and gave us the traditional greeting of Ayubowan.
Once inside the majestic lobby, we were welcomed by an exotically beautiful young woman bearing a silver tray on which were small rolled towels. Whilst still proffering the tray, she also bowed and said, “Ayubowan.” I took a towel and was surprised to find that it was damp, chilled, and scented with cloves. The feeling of it as I wiped my face, hands, and neck was beyond refreshing.
The setting, as Holmes and I relaxed in the shaded chairs on the hotel terrace, was as idyllic as I could imagine.
“I must say, Holmes. A man could become accustomed to a life in the tropics. An hour or two working in the colonial office in the morning, and the remainder of the day for taking the waters, playing cricket, and our every whim indulged by the natives. What do you say to that, my dear chap?”
“I would say,” he replied, “that it is not without cause that wisdom tells us the devil finds work for idle hands.”
“Good heavens, must you always be so cynical?”
I was having altogether too fine a morning to argue with him. My only other time in this part of the Empire had been miserable, and the contrast between my morning on the Galle Face and my time in Afghanistan could not have been greater. Therefore, I merely changed the subject.
“Very well, Holmes. Have you had any more insight about the George Atkinson chap?”
“Very little, except that the event must have been more significant than it first appeared. Otherwise, we would not be here. However, I am certain that soon we shall know more. We meet with the governor in two hours.”
Having rested and been refreshed, we departed the hotel for the Queen’s House. The gates and portico of the colonial mansion were guarded by a phalanx of soldiers in the dress uniforms of the Raj, and an impressive young fellow in a scarlet frock coat, complete with epaulets, braid, and turban, opened our door and escorted us inside. Holmes and I followed him up the wide marble staircase to a small terrace.
Seated at a table were two men of a certain age. Both were elegantly dressed, with one in a fine linen suit and the other in the buttons and braid of the highest-ranking officer of the colonial police force.
“Your Excellency,” said the attendant, “allow me to present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. Watson.”
The chap in the white suit, Mr. Arthur Hamilton-Gordon, the Governor of Ceylon, gestured toward the empty chairs opposite him.
“Sit down, gentlemen. This,” he said, pointing to the uniformed man beside him, “is George Campbell, our Inspector-General of Police in Ceylon.”
“An honor to meet both of you,” said Holmes, smiling graciously.
“Very well, then,” said the governor. “Let us not waste any time with needless chit-chat. Inspector, would you kindly furnish Mr. Holmes with the facts pertinent to the tragic passing of Mr. George Atkinson?”
“Right. George Atkinson and his brother Geoffrey came from Westmorland. They both served a stint in the navy, and by chance were stationed in Trincomalee. They must have found Ceylon appealing, for upon their discharge they returned to Trinco and established a business of import and export and have done rather well. They gave their time and talents to the local boys’ school and helped manage the cricket and football teams. However, one night just four weeks ago, George Atkinson was returning to his home in a rickshaw from one of the local establishments when he was robbed and shot. That is the case, Mr. Holmes. What else do you wish to know?”
“Thank you, Inspector. Would you mind telling me a little more about the nature of their business? What was it they imported and exported?”
“Right. At first, it was anything they could acquire the rights to. Spices, lumber, tea, and so forth were sent out, and woolens, suitings, foodstuffs, and the like brought back in. Lately, however, they became quite active in bringing in workers from Tamil-Nadu in India. The trade in indentured labor has grown and has been quite lucrative.”
“Yes, so I understand,” said Holmes. “I also understand that the influx of these workers has led to some unrest in the Eastern Province. Is that correct?”
“Bloody right, it has. The city and the districts around it are a witches’ brew of various groups of men, any one of whom would cut the throat of a chap from a competing group. There is a large contingent of Singhalese Buddhists. Next are the national Tamils who have been there forever. Most of them are Hindus, but many are Mohammedans, and there are some Christians. There is a handful if Burghers, mostly working for the Colonial Office, and a few Jews. It is quite possible that George Atkinson’s murder was connected to his arranging of imported labor, but we have no way of knowing that. Anything else, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes. You said that George and Geoffrey were brothers. Is it true that they were twin brothers?”
“Aye. They were alike as Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Identical in every way. Same speech, same mannerisms, same hairstyle, same way of dressing. I was told by my men up there that no one, not even their fiancées, could tell them apart.”
“Their fiancées?”
“Aye, there are two lassies from Glasgow who came here not long ago as missionaries and are teaching in the Methodist Girls’ College. Eligible ba
chelors and attractive British girls are both scare commodities out here, so, as you might expect, the two brothers began courting the two teachers. Within days, I was told, one of the girls was engaged to George and the other to Geoffrey. Which was to whom, I cannot recall, but within a month, one of the brothers was dead. You can ask for the report at the station in Trinco when you get there. Now, Mr. Holmes, is that all? I have a job to do here and prefer not to waste any more of my time.”
Without waiting for an answer, he stood and bade goodbye to the governor and to us. I began to stand to leave, but the governor raised his hand.
“A few minutes more of your time, gentlemen. There are some other matters to impart before you go. Please, another cup of tea?
“I have,” he continued, “a reliable source of data in Trinco. Major Robert Garton has retired early from the army and teaches in one of the schools there. Quite the excellent fellow. He will be available to you whilst you are doing your work. Ah, but you were asking, Mr. Holmes, about the fiancées.”
“I was.”
“Lovely young ladies, both of them. Their names are Morag Douglass and Elspeth Linton. Morag was engaged to George and Elspeth remains engaged to Geoffrey. I am sure you can appreciate that both of the ladies and the brother, Geoffrey, are devastated by what has taken place.”
“Entirely understandable,” I answered.
“You should be aware that Miss Elspeth’s family name is not actually Linton. Her true name is Lipton. Are you familiar with that name, gentlemen?”
“The grocery man?” I blurted.
“The same. One of the wealthiest men in Britain.”
“But he is not married,” I said. “The press keeps calling him the Empire’s most eligible bachelor. How can she be his child?”
Holmes gave me a sideward look and the governor a condescending smirk.
“Dr. Watson,” said the governor, “we have an entire segment of our population here in Ceylon, the Burghers, who trace their European ancestry through several hundred years of Portuguese, Dutch, and British bachelors. Need I say more?”
“No,” I said, blushing somewhat. “Then she must be an exceptionally wealthy young woman.”
“Not yet, but upon her marriage, she will be. She has, however, kept her true identity concealed from the public, although it may be known to her small circle of intimate friends.”
“That data,” said Holmes, “does tend to thicken the plot somewhat.”
“I am sure it does,” said the governor. “Add to that the news that Thomas Lipton expects to visit Ceylon soon and has plans to invest up to one-million pounds in tea gardens. It will result in an enormous growth in our tea business - a splendid boost to the economy of the colony.”
“And,” added Holmes, “opportunities for fortunes to be made.”
“Quite so. Now to make matters worse, I have received a constant stream of reports not only of dangerous events - two young students were recently murdered - but also endless rumors of nefarious activities. The entire area is not merely a morass of crime and political intrigue - It is also a cesspool of appalling, immoral activity. Now, gentlemen, I trust you can see why we are not treating this case as a run-of-the-mill robbery and murder. Your transport has been arranged to Trincomalee. You depart on the mail train tomorrow afternoon. Good day, gentlemen.”
He did not bother to stand but merely nodded to the man-servant, who quickly came over and gestured to us to make our egress.
The following morning, Holmes met me for an early breakfast on the hotel terrace. After a delectable serving of coffee, fresh scones, and tropical fruits, I asked concerning his intentions for the morning.
“I will go to the offices of The Times of Ceylon and read the reports of the murders in Trincomalee. I should also send off some telegrams to Whitehall, but I will be back in time to get to the train.”
At three o’clock, I took a cab to the Colombo Fort railway station and, as expected, found Holmes waiting for me on the platform of the overnight train to Trinco. The accommodations in the first-class section were comfortable, and the food in the dining car passably palatable as long as one was fond of curry.
A knock on the door of my sleeping cabin at six o’clock the following morning could not be ignored, and we arrived at the Trincomalee station a half-hour later. The small building was a far cry from the bustling one in the center of Colombo and, being the end of the line, the remaining passengers who disembarked with us were few.
“Namaste, gentlemen. I trust your travel was not overly difficult.”
We were welcomed at the platform by a man who was dressed in the white buttoned uniform and helmet of the colonial police force.
“I am Captain Rajanathan Devasenapathy. It is my honor to welcome you to the Eastern Province, where you will find Ceylon’s finest beaches and loveliest palm trees. Come, come. Your breakfast awaits you by the ocean. The fishermen have just brought in their catch, and you shall enjoy them along with the prawns, potato curry, dahl, and coconut water.”
We climbed into the waiting, howbeit modest, police carriage and trotted a few blocks until we stopped at the edge of a long narrow stretch of gleaming white sand. Dotting the beach was a line of small, brightly painted fishing skiffs and beyond them stretched the vast horizon of the Indian Ocean. The hotel was also modest, and its restaurant was no more than a thatched hut with an open stove and a few rugged benches and tables. We enjoyed a traditional Ceylonese breakfast and several cups of the finest tea I had even been served. I would have been more than happy to while away a full hour chatting amiably with the captain, but Holmes was anxious to redeem the time and get to work. He put down his cup and stood up.
“There is work to be done,” he said. “Forgive my impatience, but I suggest that we proceed to the police station. May I assume, Captain, that your office is our next destination?”
Reluctantly, I took one last swallow and trotted along after them. Once inside the small station, Holmes turned to the Captain.
“May I see your report on the incident?”
“Of course, sir. It is here on my desk, sir. I had taken it from our files in expectation of your visit.”
“Wonderful,” said Holmes. “Might you, by chance, also have files on the recent deaths of the two students from St. Joseph’s College?”
At first, the policeman’s face took on a look of questioning surprise, and then he slowly began to smile.
“I will be happy to provide those as well, Mr. Holmes. I was not aware that you would be making inquiries concerning that terrible event. We are at a loss to know what might possibly have brought about their killings. They were fine young lads, sir. Very good boys and promising young cricket players, sir. Their families have been in deep mourning, as has been the entire town. If there is any light you can share on what took place, we would be most grateful, Mr. Holmes, sir.”
Holmes smiled again. “Captain, I notice that you have a set of stairs outside the building leading to a godown. Is it possible that you have a police morgue under your station?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, we do. And now you are about to ask me if we still have the body of Mr. George Atkinson there, and the answer to that question is yes, we do. And you will want to know how we have managed to preserve it now for four weeks. The answer to that is that I obtained an ice-making machine from one of the merchant ships in the harbor when I received a telegram from London telling me to keep the body preserved if possible. So please sir, come with me.”
“You are most kind, Captain,” said Holmes.
We descended a long staircase into a dark, chilly basement.
“Our morgue, gentleman,” said the police officer, “is no more than the corner of this room. If we bring all of the lamps together, you should have sufficient light by which to see.”
On a set of racks in the corner was a stack of long gr
ey metal cases that seemed like those I remembered as issued by the military for transporting artillery. The captain requested our help, and we lifted one of them over to a table in the center of the room. Holmes and I stood back while he opened it and swept off a layer of ice. Inside was the reasonably well-preserved corpse of a young man. His appearance and dress said that he was English, and his frame that he had been an active athlete. There were no visible marks of violence anywhere to be seen.
“He was shot in the back of the head,” said the police officer. “If you will help me, gentlemen, we can lift the body onto the table, and the doctor may look at him.”
I knew full well what Holmes was interested in. As a doctor on the battlefield, I had removed countless bullets from all parts of the body, and my purpose now was to extract the one that had killed Mr. George Atkinson. I did so and handed the bullet to Holmes, who immediately extracted his glass and examined it.
“Did you observe any evidence of gunpowder on the hair surrounding the wound,” he asked me.
“None,” I replied.
“How interesting. Very well, Captain, you have been exceptionally helpful. We must now move on to interview those who were close to the victim.”
“Of course, sir. Before you go, would you also be interested in examining the body of young Mr. Selvarasa Pathmanathan? He was one of the lads from the senior cricket team who was also murdered several weeks ago.”
“Have you not,” asked Holmes, “delivered his body to his family for burial?”
“No, and they are very very angry with me for not doing so. It is a terrible violation of their faith that they should not be able to lay him to rest. However, he was the second boy from the team to be killed, and I knew that there was something dreadful and evil in our midst.”
We replaced the one corpse in its case and opened a second one. The body was of a man in his late teens. He had the same dark skin tone as the other men of this region and even at this many days after his death it was obvious that he had been a handsome young man prior to his demise. As requested by Holmes, I removed the bullet from his brain and handed it over to him. Without his asking me, I also confirmed that there was no evidence of gunpowder on this hair or clothing close to the wound.