by Ted Riccardi
Then, she said, a few nights later, still unaware of their love, her husband Reginald informed her that he now had indisputable proof that he had found his long-lost brother: it was James Hamilton, the gentleman he said they had met at the Shawsons. Despite her dismay, she managed to ask her husband if he were certain. He replied that his father had given him certain clues and evidence which made it almost undeniable. It merely awaited some corroboratory sign from James, the nature of which he did not reveal to her.
“You may imagine my state of mind, Mr. Holmes, when I learned that the man with whom I was in love was the brother of the man to whom I was married. I have said nothing to James. I am more than ever determined to leave, for I cannot lead the duplicitous life of the last few months any longer, particularly under the latest revelations. In any case, Mr. Holmes, they will meet shortly, and I am afraid that James will not be able to contain himself and that the shock of hearing that he is Reginald’s brother will lead him to reveal his relationship with me.”
She was by now near the end of her story.
“Mr. Holmes,” she said, “I am leaving Calcutta not out of cowardice, but because my respect for the man I married and my love for James have compelled me to go. I fear their meeting and yet it is, I know, inevitable. I can only hope that your long friendship with my husband may be of some benefit to us all in this web of unsought relationships and that your wise counsel may be made available to all of us.”
She stood up as if to depart. Holmes told her that he saw the possible clash that might occur and that he would speak to Sir Reginald as soon as he would agree to see him. She bade him good-bye.
“I offered to see her to her residence, for by now it was quite late, but she declined, saying that she had learned to manage very well at night and that I should have no fear for her safety. I saw her to the door of the hotel. The staff was asleep on the floor and we quietly tiptoed between them. I slowly unbolted the door, she turned to me, bade me again good-bye, put down her veil, and instantly vanished into the dreadful night. As I peered after her, the night air chilled, Watson, and though I am not a fanciful person, it was as if a forewarning of the tragic events that were to follow.”
Holmes then returned to his room. He had of course not told Lady Maxwell the details of his meeting with her husband, that he appeared beneath the surface to be extremely agitated, and what Holmes’s worst fears now were: it was evident to him that Sir Reginald not only had learned that James Hamilton was his long-lost half-brother, but that he was also the lover of his most beloved wife. Only that could explain the look of despair that he had seen on his friend’s unhappy face.
I watched Holmes as he stood up, placing his now spent pipe in its holder, and walked over to the fireplace. He stood there gazing into the dying embers and said: “It was a night of restless dreams, Watson, in which my brain wrestled unconsciously with the possible consequences of what I had heard that evening.”
It was to be a short night for him, for he awoke at one point in a start, his heart pounding at the end of the latest in a series of nightmares. It was about four a.m. He could no longer sleep. He arose, washed, dressed and was about to go out to watch the dawn when there was a strong knock at the door. He opened it to find a British soldier standing there.
“Mr. Lloyd-Smith, Sergeant Laughton, sir,” he said. “The Viceroy has asked me to accompany you to his office at once.”
He handed Holmes a note. It read, with no salutation:
I request that you come immediately to me on a matter of the greatest concern.
Curzon
A cab was waiting and they went directly to the Viceroy’s private office. Holmes recognised where he was even in the morning darkness, for they were not far from where he had visited Sir Reginald. He was at once ushered into the Viceroy’s presence. He motioned all to leave as Holmes entered, and rising from his desk, he beckoned him sit down.
Sitting directly across from him, Lord Curzon began: “Mr. Holmes, a tragedy of monumental proportions has occurred during the night, and I only hope that Providence has brought you here back from the dead in order to help us avoid any further evil.”
“I am at your complete command, My Lord,” replied Holmes.
“In brief, then,” he began, “Sir Reginald Maxwell, your friend and my trusted assistant, together with an English merchant, Mr. James Hamilton, were found dead this morning in Maxwell’s private office. I have just come from the scene and, though I have seen my share of gore on the battlefield, Mr. Holmes, I have never seen anything quite like this. Both of them were shot and then beheaded. There are signs of a great struggle, for everything is in disarray. It appears to have been some kind of cult murder, possibly a case of thugee. There are imprecations on the wall in a local tongue, possibly Sanscrit—no one can tell me definitely—that appear to indicate that the murders are also a direct attack on our rule. Some kind of obscene goddess holding a head in each of her hands is drawn in blood on the back wall behind Reginald’s desk, with the words “Kali” and “rashtra” written in the native script. Kali is the goddess of the criminal thugs, Mr. Holmes, and “rashtra” the word for nation, or so I am told. We have no way of knowing at this point who perpetrated this dastardly act, but if it proves to be an act of terror by some of India’s misguided political leaders rather than the wanton act of some insane intruders, the consequences for the relationship between us and the Indian people are grave. Whatever it is, I regard this as the most evil attack upon us since the Cawnpore massacre.”
The Viceroy paused for a brief moment and then said, “I can only hope too that this was not meant as an act of welcome, so to speak, for His Highness Edward, the King-Emperor, who is scheduled to set foot on Indian soil in three days.”
Rising to his feet, he continued: “Mr. Holmes, it may also be that Reginald Maxwell and James Hamilton were killed by mistake, that I was the intended victim, and that it was the purest accident and the confusion of the mad beasts who entered the compound in the dark that led to their slaying. If this is correct, then I must act swiftly and ruthlessly in order to ensure that the perpetrators of this crime are brought to justice, that the King-Emperor is secure at all times during his sojourn in the Subcontinent, and that by extension British rule in India cannot be and is not questioned.”
He was pacing now, like an angry lion, said Holmes. He stopped, sat opposite him once again, and staring into him, said: There are, however, certain aspects of this crime that have made me hesitate before I act. One is that I am aware that Maxwell had recently discovered that Hamilton was his own brother or half brother. He at first seemed happy at learning this fact, but for the last few days, judging from his depressed mien, he seemed tormented, as if he had learned some awful secret as well. I do not know if the death of these men has anything to do with their relationship, and I ask you if you know anything that might shed light on the matter.”
Holmes replied that he was aware of various possible relationships, but that he was not at liberty to divulge them at present, though he would, if he thought they had a meaningful bearing on the case and such information would avoid further bloodshed. The Viceroy replied that he appreciated his discretion and said: “There is from my point of view, Mr. Holmes, a very grave aspect to this case that far outweighs any personal grief or loss that we may have to bear, for it involves a serious matter of state. One of the most secret files, containing animadversions pertaining to the most serious matters of state now before His Majesty’s Government, has disappeared. It is written almost entirely in my own hand. It was known only to Maxwell and to me. I gave it to him to return to its proper place yesterday afternoon. It is not there and, as far as could be determined, is not in his office.”
“My Lord,” said Holmes, “you must tell me something of its contents, otherwise my investigation may be hampered.”
The Viceroy looked at Holmes sternly, as if he had almost committed an impertinence, but then said quietly: “Mr. Holmes, I am bound by sacred oath to the King
-Emperor not to reveal to anyone save my personal assistant the contents of such files. You should respect my desire to keep that oath. However, should you find during your investigation that you must know the contents for the larger good of the Empire, then I shall break my oath and divulge the contents, but only to you. Let it suffice for now to say that the documents concern the outbreak of war in Eurasia in the next few years, a war which would have in my view the most tragic consequences for all mankind.”
“What you have just told me may suffice, My Lord. I think I should now have a look of the scene of the crime.”
“There is one other bizarre aspect, Mr. Holmes,” said the Viceroy, “that you ought to be aware of before you enter Maxwell’s office. It may be an accident, but evidently the perpetrators of the crime confused the two men in the dark, placing Hamilton’s head on Maxwell’s body and Maxwell’s on Hamilton’s.
This latest revelation sent a shiver of revulsion up Holmes’s spine, for he did not believe that this was an accident.
“Who discovered the crime?” he asked.
“Lady Maxwell,” replied the Viceroy. “Poor woman. She apparently awoke in the middle of the night and finding Maxwell not at home, rushed to the office, thereby walking into the scene of horror that I have described to you. She raced out and collapsed into the arms of a guard who immediately investigated and notified me. No one else has been in there except Laughton, my personal guard, the aide who brought you here. He has studied the local languages to some extent and was able to make a preliminary decipherment of the writing on the wall.”
“Where is Lady Maxwell now?”
“At home under sedation and intense care. The doctors fear for her life and sanity.”
Holmes’s thought went to the moment a few hours before when Lady Maxwell had disappeared into that evil night. Little did they know that the events that were transpiring as they talked would go far beyond a horror imaginable to anyone.
The Viceroy remained in his office, and Sergeant Laughton accompanied Holmes to Maxwell’s private office, the same one he had visited only two days before. It was indeed a scene of horror. Blood was everywhere. The two dead men were lying on their backs, head to head. Their heads had indeed been transposed. Holmes could only think of Lady Maxwell at this moment and hoped that somehow her agony might some day come to a peaceful end.
“I shall not go over my investigation in detail, Watson. With my usual methods, I examined everything in the greatest detail, taking copious notes on the positions of everything in the room. I paid the closest attention to the writing on the wall. It read. . . . which, as Lord Curzon had indicated, spelled Kali, the word for the bloodthirsty goddess of the Bengalese, and rastra, the Indian word for ‘nation,’ a reference presumably to the growing feeling for an independent nation run by Indians alone. There were a few details that intrigued me, however. Each syllable of the word Kali had a dot like mark after it, something unknown in the Indian scripts, and the word rastra was followed by a small dash-like sign, as if the word were incomplete. Perhaps the message would have been longer had the murderers not been interrupted during the writing. But as with the dots, unless I was mistaken, the dash did not appear to be part of another letter, nor was it part of the known conventions of the scripts with which I was familiar. The goddess drawing itself was an obscene stick figure, herself headless, blood surging up and out her gorge. In each hand she held a head. Crude figures, headless with blood surging forth from their necks, knelt in homage on either side of her. Another figure, apparently female from its dress, also knelt in worship to her. The hideousness of it all made me yearn for the crimes of London, which appeared staid by comparison.”
Holmes left the scene and walked out on the veranda to ponder the evidence that he had assembled. There was already enough, he believed, for him to find the solution, if only he could piece it all together. Was it, as the Viceroy suspected, a political act of terror, perpetrated by a vile cult of murderers hired by some misguided politicians desirous of frightening us out of India? Or was it something else? Suddenly, as if his mind had anticipated it through the restless dreams of the night before, some of it began to fall into place. He went quickly to the Viceroy’s office. He was with a secretary, but he sent him out as soon as Holmes appeared.
“I believe, Your Lordship,” said Holmes, “that I understand much of what happened last night. I do not believe that it was an act of terror perpetrated by thugs or by thugs in the pay of politicians.”
“Then what is it?”
“I shall be able to tell you all shortly. In the meantime, I want you to act as if this is an act of terror, or a suspected one, and allow your investigation to proceed along those lines. Do as you would ordinarily under such circumstances: put troops on the alert, round up suspects, but on no account allow anyone to come to harm, for no one you will arrest will have had anything to do with the crime. Your men must be instructed to be firm but, particularly in cases of opposition and protest, extremely gentle. I ask you to do this so that the real culprit is put off and does not escape before we have a chance to catch him in his lair.”
“How do you know he is not gone already?”
“He may indeed have already escaped and be beyond our reach. I have little doubt, however, that he has the secret file and probably knows of the presence of Sherlock Holmes in Calcutta. If I am correct he is waiting for me to bargain for the return of the secret documents. He may want a large sum for their return.”
“If we cannot apprehend him, we will pay, provided the contents have not been divulged. But where is he? Who is he? Or is there more than one of them?”
“There is at least one, the most important one. He may or may not have accomplices, but they are not important, Your Lordship. I wish now to ask you to supply to me the best guide books to the holy places of Calcutta and the very best maps of the city and nearby areas. I shall need absolute quiet as I work.”
“You shall have it.”
“While I am at work, I shall need two other requests to be met. I would like an immediate investigation of Maxwell’s staff to see if all are accounted for, including peons, sweepers, and other menial help. I am especially interested in knowing the whereabouts and identity of the peon who ushered me into Sir Reginald’s office two days ago. This information may be brought to me while I am at work.”
“What else?”
“I shall want three of your most trusted Gurkhas to accompany me to my destination, to my meeting with the culprit. They are to be dressed as peaceful pilgrims and to carry no weapons save their knives. I wish at all costs to apprehend this criminal alive. You can see from the deed that he is no ordinary criminal, but one of great cruelty and intelligence, with whom, if I am correct, I have grappled before. He is capable of the greatest violence, and there is no question in my mind that he would like to put an end to me.”
“Holmes, simply give me the word and I can supply you with an entire regiment of Gurkhas.”
“Your Excellency, I believe that three of your best men will be ample, even in these circumstances.”
Holmes left the Viceroy and sat with books and maps, gazetteers, and guides, until he found what he needed. It was as he had suspected. He believed that the criminal awaited him at a temple to Kali, a temple to a particular form of this divinity, the goddess of the severed head. This was the message he had read in the drawings on the wall. The temples to this special form of Kali for which he was searching were very rare. Indeed, to this goddess, or Chinnamastika as she is known to the Hindoos, there was only one possibility, an old medieval temple just on the northern outskirts of the city, isolated enough to provide safe refuge for the man he wanted. As he studied the maps of the area and the approaches to the temple, he received the information that one of Maxwell’s peons, Karim, a man described as a recently arrived Kashmiri emigrant, had disappeared. It was he who had ushered Holmes into Maxwell’s office. That was all he needed. He now knew how the culprit had entered Maxwell’s office and stolen the
file. He had been hired because he came with excellent recommendations “and seemed to be of above-average intelligence.” Above-average indeed, he thought.
It was about six in the evening when he had finished. He went directly to Curzon’s office. Three Gurkhas, now in the peaceful dress of Nepalese pilgrims, were sitting, awaiting his arrival. They rose as he entered. Curzon had personally supervised their choice.
“They are the bravest and the most skilled that I can give you, Holmes. They are a match for at least fifteen to twenty ordinary men, and I pity those who come in conflict with them.”
Holmes looked at the men carefully. Curzon had indeed chosen well. They were not only strong but appeared calm. Holmes told them that we would be going to a temple, that they were to worship in the ordinary way, that he was trying to apprehend a dangerous murderer, that he wanted him taken alive if possible, and that they should be ready to come to his aid when he gave the signal: the lifting of his left hand to his ear. They appeared to understand. He described to them the man that he wanted. He was short, thin, fair-skinned, and would be dressed as a yogi or fakir. He gave them minute directions to the temple, telling them that they would arrive separately, and that he would arrive shortly after them dressed as he then was. On no account were they to acknowledge his existence, but they were to keep their eyes on him at all times. At the signal, they were to seize the man to whom he was talking, if possible without injury to him.
“I took my leave of the Viceroy and, walking a safe distance from the palace, I took a rickshaw to the temple of the goddess of the severed head. It was a long ride, some five or six miles. I remember going through a Muslim quarter, with the attendant abattoir, filled with hundreds of vultures gorging on the remains of the day’s kill. By the time I reached the temple precinct, it was dusk. Along the way, I had mentally reviewed the plans of the temple. It was a small shrine located in the middle of a rectangular courtyard. At one end was an ashram that housed the chief priest and some Hindoo mendicants. I was sure that my quarry was living there in disguise.”