The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (37 page)

Holmes still knew very little, only that the red clay might have come from the shoes of the murderer. He left immediately for police headquarters and spoke to Inspector Shamsher once again. Holmes told him that he wished to examine the body of the victim, his clothes, and whatever else there was. Since he had already helped the police in another case, the inspector had no objections. He himself had made his decision about the crime and had no interest in trying to find the evidence of Lachman’s innocence.

Holmes examined first the body of the soldier. He was in luck, for in a few hours he was to be taken to the cremation ground where he and a number of other unknown Bombay dead were to be burned in a mass fire. He examined first the wound and determined that a long, sharp knife had been used with force to cut the main arteries in the neck. The soldier was still fully clothed except for his feet, which showed no sign of the clay. His shoes had been removed, and Holmes was informed by the guard that they had been stolen. He found no other wounds. Underneath the clothes, however, was a well-muscled, powerful body. There were scars everywhere, indicating much hand-to-hand combat. Large scars on his shoulders and abdomen indicated more serious wounds which must have kept him idle during long periods of convalescence. His features were not pleasant ones, and there was a hardness in the expression on his face that attested to a violent death that followed on a life of violence. His hair was a steely grey, and there was a series of small scars on his left cheek. Even in death, a cruelty played about the lips. He was neither Gurkha nor Sikh, but most probably a Mahratta, one of the most militant of Indian tribes.

Holmes then searched his pockets and found two articles of interest. The first was part of a steamship ticket. The ticket noted his name, one Vikram Singh, and the port of embarkation: Aden. Evidently the soldier had been in the Levant and had recently come to Bombay by sea. The other was a document, partly in French and partly in Arabic. Badly bloodstained, it appeared to be a contract with an unknown employer in the Near East for military services. Our soldier appeared to have ended his career as no more than a mercenary.

“I was about to depart when I noticed that something had fallen from the soldier’s jacket, and this, Watson, was a bit of real luck: it was a small piece of what appeared to be a broken silver earring, rather distinctive in appearance, for it had been set with a small piece of lapis lazuli. It appeared to me not to be of Indian origin.”

Holmes then asked to see the cash box, a wooden box that contained a large number of Indian rupees. There was no clue here beyond the box and the notes themselves. What was of immediate interest was that the notes were well worn, not the new notes that a person recently arrived would receive from a bank or exchange. Some of the money was bloodstained. Holmes laboriously counted it. There were a few large notes, but much of it was in small notes. There was a total of almost 10,000 rupees, a princely sum for a soldier, far greater than any salary he could have saved. His curiosity grew. How had the soldier been paid for his duties? In what currency? Hardly in Indian currency. No, this cash box represented something other than the soldier’s wages, a different source of income. But what? Had he himself stolen it? And, if so, from whom?

“I examined the box closely, looking for clues. It was of a common Bombay type, and had a variety of uses. One often sees them in small shops placed next to where merchants sit. This one had a small lock, but the key was gone.

“There it was, Watson. I had no more. A bit of clay, a broken earring, a wooden box of Rs. 10,000, a steam ship ticket that indicated that the soldier had come from Aden, and a small piece of paper written in French and Arabic that I could not decipher because of the blood stains. I should say to you now, in hindsight, that I had enough to solve the crime right then, or, less sanguinely, I had enough to find the path to the criminal. And here, may I emphasise, the next step in all solutions: one must begin to weave a thread, something that connects, through the brain, the various pieces of the puzzle. For what one must create must resemble a picture, or series of pictures, of what had happened. One must become, Watson, an interpreter of events, and re-live what happened in the past, very much as a historian must who wishes to solve the riddles of the past.”

Holmes decided then to put the case out of his conscious mind for a time, and went to the Gymkhana, where he put himself through a rigorous round of calisthenics, after which he received an Indian massage by one of the master masseurs of Bombay. He then dressed and sat on the veranda, sipping a strong cup of Indian chai, rich with sugar, spices, and heavy buffalo milk.

“It was then that the story of the dead soldier and its end began to present itself in a new way. So quickly did it all appear to me that it was as if the solution came at once out of the meagre evidence itself without any deliberation on my part. In relating it to you now, I shall retell it as if I became aware of the steps individually. First was our dead soldier himself. Here was a man of military skill and experience who, I guessed, had started out some twenty years before as a recruit in the British army. After duty abroad, he either left or was dismissed from Her Majesty’s service. He then entered the world of the mercenary, fighting for the French, I imagined, in a variety of North African campaigns. His body now filled with the wounds sustained in years of combat, he decided to return home to retirement and engage in some more peaceful employment. Two days before, he had arrived in Bombay aboard some transport ship, the identity of which I could easily ascertain by a quick trip to the docks. Landing on Indian soil, he decided to seek lodging close by. A few inquiries led him by chance to the house of our Lachman. Lachman’s wife rented him the room, and our soldier proceeded to make advances towards her, just as Lachman returned home. Hearing his wife’s shouts, a loud quarrel then ensued. Lachman threatened to kill the soldier, but a crowd gathered and separated the two before they came to blows. The soldier insisted that he would stay for the night since he had already paid, and would leave in the morning. Lachman reluctantly agreed, and the soldier, leaving his belongings in the room, left and did not return until dark, just before Lachman and his wife returned from visiting the home of some close relatives.

“It was clear to me at that point that the soldier, during that afternoon, had gone somewhere and had most probably met his murderer. The question was where? And here, Watson, one does not have to meditate on the problem very long. Here is a tough, mercenary soldier, arrived in Bombay after a long series of campaigns and a sea journey of several weeks. Where would he go at the first opportunity?”

It does not take a strong imagination to suggest, as an answer to Holmes’s question, that the soldier’s first destination would be the nearest brothel or opium den, where he could find solace in the pleasures with which a city like Bombay is perhaps endowed like no other. He enters, begins with a round of intoxicants, and then retires with one of the women who ply their wares in such establishments. He has no cash on him, but presents her with a set of cheap earrings from abroad. No client has ever done anything like this. Touched by his kindness, she tells him of her desire to leave her trade, and pursue a normal life. She has saved some money, she says. He suggests that they leave together. She leaves to pack her meagre belongings, and he departs before she returns, stealing her money box. She is able to follow him to Lachman’s house, where she murders him in his sleep. In his final agony, he pulls one of the earrings from her ear. It disappears into a crease in his uniform. The cash box falls to the floor. Lachman and his wife, awakened by the noise, rush to the room. She barely has time to escape, and must leave the box behind. The rest presents no difficulty.

“I must admit, Watson, that in retrospect this story had its difficulties. And yet, I had nothing else but to follow the rather bizarre tale that I had invented. I left the comfort of the Gymkhana and proceeded to the brothel district of the city. I began in the section that was not far from Lachman’s house. I started with the main street. I stopped in several establishments and asked whether someone fitting Vikram Singh’s description had been there. My questions were greeted with laughter. Everyone looked like that, was the reply. No one recognised him from my words.”

It was only when he reached the smaller gullies that Holmes saw what was to bring him to the solution of the crime: in front of one of the brothels were two men digging, for what purpose he did not know. As he approached, he realised that they had produced a large pile of red clay, undoubtedly the same as those small pieces that he had found in the soldier’s room. He perhaps had found the establishment that he was looking for. He ascended the narrow staircase and came into a room of garish velvet. A woman sat at a small desk. He told her that he wanted to see her women. She obliged him by parading before him several of the poor inmates of her establishment. Dressed in flamboyant saris, the women cavorted in front of him, laughing, teasing, their faces the colour of flour paste, their eyes filled with pain and resentment. Holmes looked at each closely, hoping to see a wounded ear, but he saw nothing. He waved them all away.

“What is wrong? You have refused my best,” said the woman at the desk.

To Holmes she was quite a horror in her own right, a fat, rather loathsome creature with orange hair, skin powdered to a thick whiteness, dressed in a red velvet gown, a large necklace of fake Bombay pearls around her neck.

“‘I want the one with the wounded ear,” he said in answer to her query.

She frowned, hesitating for a moment. “She is not here today. It is her day of rest.”

“I will pay well,” he said.

“Very well. I will fetch her. Wait here.”

Holmes waited for several minutes. The room was suffocatingly hot, and the smell of incense and cheap perfume made him want to retch. The madam returned, accompanied by a youngish woman, who was not dressed in her professional attire but in a simple sari. She wore no powder on her face. Her right ear bore a bandage, however, and the other a silver earring like the fragment he had found. Luck had brought him to the end of his search very quickly.

Holmes extended his hand and gave her the fragment of the earring that he had found. She looked at it with great surprise and then fear. She motioned for him to follow, and they went to her room. The madam chuckled as Holmes passed her.

“Let me speak frankly to you, my dear woman,” Holmes said in Hindustanee. “I have reason to believe that you murdered one Vikram Singh in cold blood last night. Why you committed such a deed is not of any consequence to me at this moment, for a young friend of mine has been unjustly accused of what you have done. I must clear his name. And so I must ask you to accompany me to police headquarters.”

She stood there, silent, motionless, for what seemed to him to be an eternity. Then she spoke softly: “You are right. I did kill Vikram Singh. But why I did it is important for you to know, and for the police to know. Before I go with you then, I wish you to listen.”

Holmes sat on a chair in the corner of the room. She turned and said: “I have lived and worked in this room for eleven years. I was brought here when I was thirteen.”

As she spoke, Holmes soon realised that the story he had imagined was hardly the truth, even though it had led him to the murderer.

“I was born in a village to the south of here,” she said. “We were a poor family of farmers, and much of the time there was nothing to eat. My mother had five children and died after I was born. My father raised us as well as he could. One day he said that I was to become a
devadasi
, a temple dancer, and that this was to be a great honour. I was to become a wife of our god, Shiva. I was very proud, for I had no idea what the word
devadasi
meant, but marriage to the god was to me the greatest happiness. In a few days, I was dressed in fine clothes and taken to the temple, where the priests uttered prayers in Sanscrit and anointed me into the temple. I remained there for several days. Then my father fetched me and told me that I would go to the city. My uncle, his cousin-brother, would take me there. I would do the work of a
devadasi
. I would have much to eat, and I would earn much money. My life would be good.

“My father’s cousin-brother came one day and took me with him. I cried as we left, but my father did not hear me. Nor my brothers. They all turned away. My uncle and I travelled to Bombay by rail. As soon as we arrived he brought me here and sold me to the woman you met below. I soon was taught my present trade and became a woman of the night. I have been here ever since. This is how I learned what it means to be a
devadasi
.

“During all of this time, I have never seen my family. My father came several times, but only to collect the larger part of my earnings. My uncle was a soldier and he left for battle—never, I thought, to return.

“Two days ago, a man came. I did not know him, but he asked for me. There are so many who have come and know me that I did not think it strange that he asked for me by name. He was drunk and wanted opium. At first he was kind: he gave me a pair of earrings, which I put on. He told me how beautiful I was. He caressed my face tenderly. Suddenly his mood changed, and he grabbed me and forced me into his embrace. I submitted and when he had finished he threw some money in my face. He laughed. Then he told me: he was my father’s cousin-brother, the very uncle who had brought me here. He had come for my wages. In disbelief, I told him that I had nothing. But he searched the room and found the money that I had hidden over the years, the money that was to make me free. He took it and left. I followed him but when we reached his room, he threatened me with death and pushed me away. I returned here in despair, determined to obtain vengeance. As soon as night fell, I returned to his lodging. He had left the window open and I could see that he was fast asleep. The liquor and opium had put him in a stupor. I climbed into the room. He must have heard something for he mumbled in his sleep. Frightened that he would awaken, I rushed at him and slit his throat with all my strength. He awakened long enough to see my face before he died. Blood shot from his neck onto the bed. He tried to grab me, and I pushed him back. But his hand had reached my ear and pulled the earring from it. I almost cried out in pain. I tried to grab my money box, but it fell to the floor. I heard people coming and I ran to the window without it. Once outside, I no longer cared about the money. The death of this man brought me the greatest happiness I had known since I had been forced to leave my village. Now that you know my story, I have no fear in going with you.”