It is with a heavy heart and a quill made hesitant by recollection that I, Dr. John H. Watson, commit to paper the details of one of the most singular adventures ever shared with my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Until now, I have refrained from publishing this case, for reasons that shall soon become apparent. It was an affair that not only carried us far from the familiar gloom of London to the sun-baked cities of colonial India, but one that tested the limits of Holmes's deductive genius and even, at times, his moral compass.
The story began on a fog-laden evening in late July of 18—, as Holmes and I sat in our quarters at 221B Baker Street. The lamplight was low and the atmosphere languid. Holmes lounged in his armchair, long limbs curled, idly plucking at his violin in a discordant pizzicato. I remember the rain tapping against the windowpane when Mrs. Hudson entered bearing a sealed telegram upon a tray. Holmes, whose gray eyes had been half-closed in contemplation, immediately snapped to attention. With a curious lift of his eyebrow, he reached for the envelope, the violin's bow now still in his other hand.
"From abroad, I gather," he murmured, noting the paper's unusual stamp and faint aroma of the sea. With a single deft motion he broke the seal. I watched as his gaze darted over the message. In the soft golden glow, I saw his expression sharpen—first with interest, then with what might have been apprehension.
"What is it, Holmes?" I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.
Instead of answering immediately, he passed me the telegram. The paper bore the mark of the Foreign Office. As my eyes raced over the lines, I realized why Holmes had reacted so. The message was from Mycroft Holmes, his elder brother – a man of singular intellect and indolent habits, who occasionally served as the British Government's unofficial sentinel. Mycroft's missive was uncharacteristically urgent:
Sherlock – Intelligence from India of utmost gravity. A series of perplexing murders and a vast conspiracy suspected. Your talents required. Matter involves high circles and great danger. Come with Watson to Diogenes Club post-haste.
No sooner had I finished reading than Holmes was on his feet. The lethargy of minutes before was utterly gone, replaced by an almost electric fervor. "Mycroft wastes no words, Watson," he said, his voice brisk as he shrugged on his dressing gown over his shirt and reached for his pipe. "If he says 'utmost gravity', we must assume the situation is extraordinary. We are to present ourselves at the Diogenes Club immediately."
Within the quarter hour, we found ourselves hailing a hansom cab through the misty lamplight of Baker Street. Holmes, lean and intense beside me, was silent save for the occasional terse instruction to the driver. I could tell that his mind was already whirring through possibilities. The very fact that Mycroft—usually loath to stir from his armchair at the Diogenes—had summoned us in person, and regarding a matter in far-off India, meant that something unprecedented was afoot.
We arrived at the austere edifice of the Diogenes Club, that most forbidding of gentlemen's clubs where silence reigned and even a cough was frowned upon. Mycroft awaited us in a private chamber, a massive figure wedged into an ample leather armchair. His eyes, so like Sherlock's in their keen grey hue, followed our entrance. He did not rise—Mycroft seldom exerted himself if it could be avoided—but he greeted us with a gravely inclined head.
"Sherlock, Watson," he began in a low baritone, "I am glad you came with such dispatch." He motioned us to sit. Holmes refused the offered seat with a restless wave of his hand. I remained standing as well, sensing the tension in the room.
Mycroft's fingers drummed on a dossier resting on a side table. "I shall proceed directly to the point, as time is of the essence. Over the past month, there have been three deaths in India—deaths which, under ordinary circumstances, might have appeared unrelated. However, our intelligence suggests otherwise. These were not random occurrences, and they bear the hallmarks of something deeply sinister."
Holmes's eyes flashed at the word "sinister," and he interjected quietly, "Murder?"
"Precisely," sighed Mycroft. "Three apparent murders, each in a different city. One in Bombay, one in Calcutta, and one in Delhi. The victims were Englishmen of position and integrity: a bank director, a judge, and a colonial officer—each involved in uncovering a trail of financial irregularities and legal anomalies that, at first glance, seemed isolated. However, threads have begun to emerge tying these events together, threads that form a web spanning the breadth of the Raj."
As Mycroft spoke, he opened the dossier and handed Holmes a series of telegram transcripts and letters. Holmes skimmed them rapidly, occasionally pausing to share a brief excerpt aloud for my benefit. One letter, water-stained and smudged as if carried in haste through the monsoon rains, read:
"…evidence of funds misappropriated via legal trusts… attempts to trace lead to shadowy figure… whispers of 'Varnama' behind scenes… fear I may be targeted next… will send dispatch if safe…"
The letter ended abruptly. Holmes set it aside and moved to another document, a telegram sent from an official in Delhi:
"Judge L. found dead under peculiar circumstances. Prior night claimed breakthroughs in Bombay bank case. Last words heard: 'law… changed… impossible…' Inquiry suppressed from above. Suspect powerful interference."
I shuddered as Holmes read that line. Three victims, all seemingly on the verge of exposing a grand swindle. And that name—"Varnama"—vaguely noted as a whisper behind the scenes—who or what could it be? The name held an exotic cadence, unfamiliar to me.
Holmes seemed to read my thoughts and clarified, "Adithya Varnama. Mycroft, is that a person's name?"
Mycroft nodded gravely. "A name that appears only in hushed conversations among certain circles. We know almost nothing of him officially—no photograph, no verified first-hand account. Some in the intelligence community doubt he exists at all as an individual, suspecting it a code name for a group or network. But recent hints suggest otherwise. Varnama is believed to be a single man—a native of India—of extraordinary intellect and education, likely Western-trained. He has the ear of influential men in the colonial administration and perhaps even in Parliament back in London. Some say he was once an academic or a barrister of note. What is certain is that he is cunning beyond measure. In whispers, he's spoken of as an unseen Moriarty of the East."
Holmes's face hardened at the mention of Moriarty. The air in the room felt suddenly charged. Professor James Moriarty—Holmes's most formidable foe, the "Napoleon of Crime" as Holmes once described him—had fallen to his death at the Reichenbach Falls years ago, but the spectre of his genius still haunted us on occasion. To hear of another criminal mind spoken of in the same breath was chilling.
"You believe this Varnama is behind the murders and the conspiracy those men were uncovering?" I asked Mycroft.
"That is the working hypothesis," Mycroft replied. "Our agents in India were tracking an intricate money trail—funds from opium trade and illegal monopolies being funneled through respectable banks, laundered via charitable trusts, and then disappearing into what appears to be a private war chest. Simultaneously, peculiar legal maneuvers were observed: colonial regulations, even minor laws, being amended or enacted in such ways as to provide loopholes or cover for these operations. Each of the murdered men stumbled, in one way or another, upon a facet of this scheme. Before they could send full reports through official channels, they were silenced."
Holmes nodded curtly. "And the local authorities?"
Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line. "In disarray or worse. In Bombay, the police chalked the banker's death up to a native bandit raid, which was clearly a clumsy fabrication. In Calcutta, the judge's demise was ruled a tragic accident—he was found drowned in his garden fountain, of all things, and they dared call it an accident. And in Delhi, the officer—one Colonel Armitage—was declared a suicide by his superiors within an hour of his body being found hanging in his bungalow, despite evidence that cries were heard and his hands bore defensive wounds."
"What of our man in Delhi who sent that telegram—he hinted the inquiry was suppressed?" Holmes asked.
Mycroft's eyes dimmed. "That was an agent of ours working incognito. Two days after sending that message, he vanished. He is presumed dead or in hiding. You see, Sherlock, we are blinded. Officialdom in India cannot be trusted on this matter; it may be compromised at the highest levels. That is why I prevailed upon the Foreign Office to bring you in unofficially. You have a free hand and no ties to the bureaucracy there. I need hardly warn you that you will receive only covert support. Formally, you will be private citizens on a voyage. Unofficially, certain allies will assist you—but even they may be at grave risk. Trust no one wholeheartedly, save for those I personally vouch for in my brief."
He tapped the dossier meaningfully. "Inside you'll find names of a few contacts: an Inspector Lestrade—no relation to our friend G. Lestrade, but a capable man in Bombay; a Mr. Anand in Calcutta, a barrister who has offered quiet aid; and a Major Allardyce in Madras, who suspects intrigues in his jurisdiction. Use them as needed. But beware: communication lines may be under watch. The enemy always seems forewarned."
Holmes paced the room, energy coiled in each stride. "Three murders across three cities, an invisible foe pulling strings in shadow, both in crime and in law... Fascinating. This Adithya Varnama shows a hand of remarkable subtlety. To coordinate such far-flung events and to harness legal mechanisms for criminal ends—it has a certain diabolical genius to it, Watson."
He turned to Mycroft. "Brother mine, consider us engaged on this mission. When do we depart?"
"A steamer, the SS Britannia, departs from Southampton for Bombay via Suez Canal in two days' time," replied Mycroft. "I have taken the liberty of securing passage for you both under assumed identities to avoid drawing attention." He allowed himself a slight, rueful smile. "I trust you'll play the part of enthusiastic tourists well enough. Once in Bombay, contact Lestrade—under the guise of a social call. He will guide you from there. Funds and necessary documents are arranged."
Holmes inclined his head. "Efficient as ever, Mycroft." There was a flicker of warmth between the brothers in that exchange, quickly subsumed under Holmes's steely resolve.
Not long afterwards, we left Mycroft to the silence of his club and stepped back into the clammy London night. The gaslights did little to pierce the gloom, and in their flicker I could see Holmes's face set in a rare expression of exhilaration. The prospect of a worthy adversary—perhaps the equal of Moriarty—had ignited a spark in him. Yet I sensed also a grim undertone; Moriarty's memory was a wound beneath the bandage of Holmes's cool composure, and any confrontation that resurrected that spectre would test my friend mightily.
As we rode back to Baker Street, Holmes spoke in low, measured tones, half to me and half to himself. "This Varnama," he mused, "to wield influence over the law itself… that is a challenge beyond the ken of ordinary criminals. Changing laws, suppressing inquiries—such feats require powerful allies or the subtlest of manipulations. How does a man achieve that, unseen? Either by puppet strings on the powerful, or by himself being one of them."
"You think he might hold office?" I asked.
"Possibly. Or he could be an eminence grise—an advisor, a power behind thrones. Mycroft's information suggests someone of intellect and legal acumen. A professor of law turned puppet-master? The notion isn't far-fetched—Moriarty was a mathematical prodigy turned consulting criminal. Why not a jurist turned conspirator?"
I could think of no answer, and we lapsed into thoughtful silence. My mind reeled at the journey ahead and the dangers we were courting. Yet an undeniable excitement stirred in my breast as well. Not since our confrontation with Moriarty had I seen Holmes so alive with purpose.
At Baker Street, we spent the rest of that night and the next day in a flurry of preparations. Holmes dispatched telegraphs under coded phrases to a few trusted contacts, and spent hours poring over maps of the Indian subcontinent and timetables for railways threading through the vast land. I arranged our personal affairs and ensured my medical kit was in order. By the evening before our departure, I found Holmes at our sitting room table amidst a clutter of notes and books—some on Indian penal codes, others on Hindu philosophy and languages.
He looked up at me, the trace of a rare smile on his lips. "It never hurts to know one's opponent's culture, Watson. If this man is indeed Indian and as brilliant as we are led to believe, understanding his background could prove vital." He tapped a book on Indian jurisprudence. "Besides, any code or cipher he devises might draw on things unfamiliar to Western eyes. A Sanskrit verse or an allusion to the Ramayana, for instance, could sail over the head of a conventional detective."
I was once more struck by Holmes's thoroughness. As I turned in late that night, I caught a glimpse of him silhouetted against the lamplight, studying a list of names—likely the contacts Mycroft had provided—and committing details to his formidable memory. The violin lay idle; this was not a time for idle reverie. A storm was gathering, one that would sweep us to the far side of the world.
Little did I know how dark that storm would become, or that it would mark one of the few occasions where Holmes's great mind would be stretched to its very breaking point. Had I known, perhaps I would have felt more dread than excitement as we boarded the Southampton train the next morning and watched the soot-stained cobbles of London give way to the open countryside, bound for an uncertain destiny in the East.