"Nevertheless, the rat is with us now," I said, "whatever its history. And it is not alone."

"You are right," said he quietly. He spoke no more, but rose up silently, and went to his tent.

I sat for a few moments longer at the fire.

It was cool now, and I watched the dying embers. What Van Ruisdael did not want to contemplate was the obvious: that nearby, perhaps, in some hidden place, the giant rat and the humans around it lived still, bound in some mysterious and as yet unknown relation.

Entering my tent, I lay down but could not sleep. I continued to be disturbed by the perplexities of the finds. Except for the usual jungle noises, it was quiet. It was only at about two in the morning that there was a complete silence except for the occasional rustle of the wind in the trees. Unable to fall asleep, I rose, thinking to read by my lantern for a while. But first, I thought, I must have a look round.

I could hear Van Ruisdael blissfully asleep. There were clouds and a few stars, and a moon covered with mist, but there was enough light to walk by. Our guides were sleeping softly and almost silently. The nearest path that I could see went up a hill in the direction opposite to the dig. It was a path that I had not taken so far and I decided to climb it.

It was only when I reached the top that I realised how close we were to the sea, perhaps less than half a mile. I found myself looking through a cleft in the mountains to a small cove over which the moon had spread its silver light. I could hear the faint sound of the moving sea as I stood watching.

It was then that I noticed a light blinking on sh.o.r.e. It flashed several times at regular intervals of a minute or two. Then I saw an answering signal, distant, on the ocean. I decided to go nearer.

As I approached the place of the first signal, the light at sea came closer, and I realised that a small boat had just landed. I head the splash as several people left the boat, and the low murmur of voices. Someone said in accented English, "Quiet, no lights now. Not until we reach the rocks. We are very close. Someone might hear."

The group moved close to me, to some rocks just to my left, where they lit a fire and talked. There were five men: four Europeans and one native. The native I recognised as Uru, our foreman. It was he who spoke first.

"Tomorrow night, no later. That is the time. There will be no moon. Come in the dark. Wait."

"Very well. How many will we be able to take?" said his interlocutor.

"Maybe two hundred, maybe more."

The light moved towards the European speaker, obviously the leader of the group, and I recognised to my amazement the Swedish captain of the Mathilde Briggs, the ship on which I had travelled to Batavia.

"Good. We shall be here then. We shall come in plenty of time. Do not fail us, Uru. You have done well in the past."

As he spoke, he handed Uru a bag of what appeared to be coins. Uru grabbed it greedily, and clutched it to his chest.

The captain and his men rose, went to their canoe, and began their return to their ship, now a dark shadow on the moonlit horizon. Uru slipped away into the night, and I made my way back to my tent.

In the early morning, the men were there, including Uru. They told us that they would work as usual that day, but only until four. When asked why, they answered that they had an important festival to attend that night. Van Ruisdael, disappointed at the delay, was forced to acquiesce.

"We shall spend the day speculating," he said in jest.

Uru too said that he was busy, and that he would not work that day or the next. He left, and I was happy to see him go.

I had said nothing to Van Ruisdael about the events of the night before, and I continued my silence, for I had not wished to disturb him or his work. He moved to his tent, with his notes, and I remained at the site with the four workmen.

I had not tried in any way before to communicate with them, except in matters pertaining to the excavation. One of them, a young man by the name of Bulang, spoke some English, though he never spoke it in front of Uru. I motioned to him, and asked that he accompany me for a moment. We walked away from the site and the others, and I tried to question him about the festival.

He seemed concerned at first that I was merely trying to get him and the others to work on the festival day, for he repeated many times that it was a most important day for them. I rea.s.sured him, and told him that I was interested in his people and their history. That was all. He then began to talk, and though I understood only part of what he said, the main outline seemed clear: his tribe was a branch of the Batak of Sumatra, an ancient hill tribe that had tried to maintain its independence from the Dutch. They called themselves Norom-Batak, for they came from an area on Sumatra near Toba, called in their language Norom. His people were "sea gypsies," nomads who had had many homes and had lived in many places. This was one of the main domiciles. They had been here for many generations, and had learned how to live both in the sea and in the jungle. At first, their life here on land was hard, for the wild animals were ferocious, particularly the giant rat, which attacked them. But their G.o.d, Kallo, entered the rat and he became their friend. Kallo was worshipped then as the giant black rat, who protected them, and whom they protected. One day, Kallo left and spoke to them from the sky, saying that they must return to Norom. And so, as they had done so many times in the past, the entire tribe left and returned to their ancestral home in Sumatra. At first, their meeting with their kinsmen was peaceful. Kallo reappeared and they were happy. But soon there was fighting, for Maharjo Dhirjo, the king of the main Batak clan, did not like Kallo. Kallo brought a curse on Maharjo, and Marjan came, a white man. The white man was Kallo's friend, but Maharjo killed him in a dispute, and Kallo became angry. He said that they should take his two youngest children and return to Java. After Marjan's death, he told them that he would no longer be black but white. And so the tribe took to the sea, with the two children of Kallo, one female, one male, and came once again to this place. Here they raised Kallo's children, and succeeding generations. They worshipped Kallo daily, and tomorrow was the great festival for him.

I asked him where the festival was to take place. He pointed to a hill to the north. There, he said, was Kallo's great house and where they kept the descendants of Kallo's children. These were the last two, and they were old. Kallo had told them that there would be no more and that they would have to move again. So the tribe was a.s.sembling for the great festival, where Kallo would speak to them and tell them what they should do.

I then asked him whether I could visit Kallo's house. He said that he would show it to me, but that I must not tell anyone. I could also come to the festival, he said, as long as I was hidden from view. Kallo would not want me to come to harm.

I then sent word through one of the workmen to Van Ruisdael that I would be gone for a few hours. Absorbed in his cataloguing, he paid no attention, and in a few moments we were lost from sight, on the thick jungle trail up the slope of the northern mountain. Bulang moved quickly and silently and I followed as rapidly as I could. It would have been impossible to find the place without him, for at a certain point, the path diverged in several directions, and there was no way to know which one to take. Bulang took the one to the right and we began a steep climb for several hundred feet. Then suddenly above our heads there appeared the first step of an ancient stone stairway. Bulang jumped up to it and, pulling me up to it, we made our way up the stairs to a clearing at the top.

What I saw, Watson, at the top, thoroughly amazed me. This was an enormous stone temple complex, the likes of which had never been suspected in this part of the world. It was deserted at the moment that we entered. The main temple rose like some dark pyramid into the sky several hundred yards away. Directly in front of us were large sculptures of fantastic animals, large sea turtles, fish, and behind them jungle animals, elephants, tigers, snakes, and finally, at the foot of the temple, a column at the top of which stood a giant rat, its fangs bared, its claws ready to do battle. Its white color stood in bold contrast to the blackened stone of everything else. Bulang told me that this was Kallo.

Bulang motioned me past the column and I ascended the temple with him. The top was flat and contained nothing except what appeared to be an altar. He motioned to me to be silent and we descended to what appeared to be a jungle area behind the temple. Once in it, I realised that it was merely a narrow ring of foliage hiding what appeared to be an enormous stone amphitheatre. In the centre was a large pit some fifty feet deep. Upon looking down into it, I saw, Watson, what no one had ever seen before: a giant rat of Sumatra, alive but apparently moribund. It was attached by a heavy iron chain to the wall and appeared to be almost asleep. Bulang saw my look of horror, and said that there was nothing to fear. The animal appeared to be at least ten feet long, Watson, and while I realised there was no immediate danger, its size and look produced a feeling of revulsion that I have rarely felt in my life. A frisson pa.s.sed through my entire body.

Sensing something new, my presence perhaps, the rat began to move, and I saw that it moved very slowly. Its eyes were cloudy and dull, and it was exceedingly fat. It was old, not only in years but in its form, for what I saw in front of me was surely a relic of the evolutionary past, a path of ferocity that Nature in her mercy had all but abandoned and confined to a remote corner of the globe.

The rat began to gnaw mindlessly on a large pile of vegetables and fruit left for it. This was, said Bulang, Kallo's last offspring. There would be no more issue, and he would be killed at the festival. When he died, his flesh would be shared, and the bones placed in the sacred bone place. Without him, the tribe could no longer remain, and they would have to journey again, perhaps back to Sumatra, to find the new children of Kallo. He picked a flower from a nearby tree. This is maja, he said. All of them would eat these flowers after the sacrifice, and they would walk to the sea, where they would sleep. In their dreams, Kallo would come and tell them what to do, and when they awoke they would follow his instructions.

It was almost dark when I returned to our camp. Bulang had accompanied me. As soon as we approached, I realised that something was very wrong. The camp had been virtually destroyed. Our two guides were lying dead near the cooking fire, both stabbed to death. Everything had been taken, including the specimens, and Van Ruisdael himself was nowhere to be found. The marauders had disappeared, leaving no trace. I, the lone survivor of our party, had no choice but to take refuge with Bulang, who bade me follow him.

We retraced our steps back to the temple. Bulang took me to a dark wooded place above the amphitheatre, where he said I would be safe. After dark, he said, no one of the tribe was allowed to travel above the highest part of the amphitheatre. Kallo did not like his people coming near his home-the sky-at night. But Kallo would allow me to stay as a guest, he said. He then disappeared into the night. I never saw him again.

The G.o.d Kallo's permission was small consolation for the situation I found myself in, Watson, for I was unarmed, and therefore helpless should I be found out. But there I was, alone, and I could only watch and hope that what transpired would procede without incident, and that I could try in the morning to find out what had happened to Van Ruisdael and who the villains were who had sacked our camp. I could only hope that Van Ruisdael had escaped, or if he had been taken captive was still alive somewhere.

From where I was I looked down on the entire amphitheatre, which was dark, empty, and silent except for the occasional movements of the great rat that lay at the bottom of its pit. There was no movement for several hours. Then, as if by signal, the amphitheatre began to fill with members of the Norom. They came in single file; pa.s.sing first the column of Kallo, then climbing the great temple, they descended towards the great theatre. They did not speak as they entered. A single light near the center was the only illumination. By it I could watch them entering, men, women, and children, all in a silent stream. They stood in place until a priest entered, followed by a group of priests who carried the statue of the great white rat. They placed it in front of the first priest, who began a slow tap of his hands. Then his feet began to move rapidly in place in a furious dance. The crowd followed him in his movements.

Suddenly, two of the priests produced long wooden spears and, jumping into the pit, rapidly despatched the great inert rat. What followed, Watson, was a rapid dismemberment of the great beast and the quick sharing of much of the flesh with the congregation. There was then the rapid sharing of the maja flowers, and the people began to leave as they came, in single file, led by the priests, who carried the rat at the head of the procession.

When the ceremony was complete, the great temple and its amphitheatre were deserted. I waited until the crowd had gone sufficiently far for me to follow unnoticed. I watched the procession by its own dim torchlight as it wound its way, first to the sacred bone place near our camp. Here the bones of the last rat of Sumatra were cast in the dark, and the crowd proceeded silently to the nearby cove.

I followed silently, and watched as they reached the beach. Each one kneeled silently, and then lay down, as if in a deep sleep. The priests placed the statue of the rat in the shallow water, where it faced out to sea, awaiting Kallo's instructions. Then they too lay down and waited, in their dreams, for his word.

It was only then that I realised the terrible fate of the Norom, for whatever Kallo told them in their sleep, other forces were at work that would change their history forever. After the last of them had fallen into a deep sleep, shadows appeared out of the dark. I saw Uru, and the great bulk of the Swedish captain of the Mathilde Briggs, and many others that I had not seen before, perhaps its entire crew. They threw nets over the sleeping Norom and tied the hands of each of them. I realised only then to my horror that the ship in which I had travelled now would carry the most unholy of cargos, for two hundred human beings, asleep in the opiate of their belief, would awaken soon to find that their G.o.d had abandoned them.

If I have been frustrated in my work before, Watson, I can a.s.sure you that you have not seen me as close to the total despair that I felt at that moment. I could do nothing. Indeed, if I interfered I could conceivably cause the death of many of those who, now bound, could not escape. I decided to leave, to return as fast as I could to Jogyakarta, and at least report the capture to Maupertuis.

I turned, and in the dark made my way back to our campsite, then started out along the dark trail up the side of the mountain. An hour into the march I decided to wait until dawn, for I could no longer see at all, and at the slightest wrong step I would have plummeted to the depths. I sat on the trail, made totally awake from the horror that I had seen, until dawn, when the light sufficed for me to walk again. It was raining now, and the trail had turned to mud. I continued, however, until I reached the ridge, from where I could see the village of Bulayo. From there, my return to Jogyakarta was uneventful.

There is no reason to bore you with the rest, Watson. As soon as I related the events, Maupertuis, quite sceptical of some of my statements, sent a search party to look for Van Ruisdael. But he was never found, and his fate remains unknown.

As to the fate of the Mathilde Briggs, I can only tell you that shortly before its arrival in Pelambang off the western coast of Sumatra, the ship was found drifting aimlessly near sh.o.r.e. A rebellion had occurred in which the crew and the captain were killed, the only survivor being a fat Javanese who died of his wounds shortly after he described the rebellion to the authorities.

So much, then, my dear doctor, for the incidents through which I have just lived. I write to record and to inform only you, for they form a tale that still is to unfold, and for which I believe the world is not yet prepared.

Your sincere and devoted friend, Sherlock Holmes (Written at Singapore, 10 July 1893)

MURDER IN THE THIEVES' BAZAAR.

SHERLOCK HOLMES'S EXPERIENCE OF A WIDE a.s.sORTMENT of crime, often in some of the most remote corners of the globe, had led him to speculate from time to time on the relation between the native world and the world of the criminal. Like all true scientists, he believed firmly that the laws governing the science of detection-primarily those of observation and deduction-pertained universally-and equally, therefore-in the winding alleys of the Hindoo and Mahometan worlds and the broad avenues of Paris and London. What differences there might appear to be lay at the surface and could be ascribed to accidental differences in local circ.u.mstance.

"Take, as an example," he said one evening at dinner, "a murder in Delhi. There are red stains everywhere, what appears to be blood. The stains continue several yards from the scene of the crime. In London, one can be almost completely sure that they are blood and blood alone. In Delhi, or elsewhere in India, however, they may be blood and betel, a leaf commonly filled with spices and the like and chewed in India, the juice of which when expectorated often resembles the splotches of blood that one a.s.sociates with a bleeding animal, human or otherwise. Here we have a simple case of the necessity to understand the place in which one finds oneself."

I could not help but agree in this instance. "But what of the criminal himself, my dear Holmes? Surely the Indian or the Chinese criminal must perforce be different from our English criminal. Could one not talk of criminal types?"

"I do not believe so, Watson. Cruelty and the commission of serious transgressions may be innate in many human beings, but I do not believe myself that criminals can be described in such ways. There are no criminal types, nor are there tribes that are criminal. Gunthorpe's work on the criminal castes and tribes of India, for instance, is utter nonsense."

I was surprised to hear him speak in such fashion, for I thought that the work of Gunthorpe and Sleeman had greatly aided in the apprehension of criminals and criminal groups throughout the Subcontinent.

"Then what about the work of Lombroso," I retorted. "Surely his reasoning that physical type and crime are intimately connected hardly needs justification. His theories have already established him as the leading criminologist of Europe."

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lombroso is a miserable bungler. His works on delinquent males and females have made me positively ill. He reasons from the poor specimens who inhabit the jails of Italy, innocent devils, fathers many of them, who have committed no crime except the theft of a loaf of bread to feed a starving child, and mothers, forced to sell their bodies and their souls for the same purpose. No, Watson, were I to follow Lombroso's techniques I surely would pursue the innocent, and perhaps the innocent alone."

I was annoyed at Holmes's cavalier dismissal of writers whom I judged to have a high place in the forensic world, but I knew that mine was no match for his intimate knowledge of the criminological literature. Still, I decided to continue the debate and perhaps to provoke him into another tale.

"But surely the jails in our Empire are not filled with the innocent. My own experience in Afghanistan led me to the conclusion that were we to win control of those areas we would be faced with an enormous civilising mission, considering the moral turpitude of most of the local population. Even educated Hindoos have remarked on the enormous number of social pests found among the lower castes who, in a variety of disguises, commit the overwhelming majority of crimes."

Holmes laughed warmly. "Brilliant, Watson," he exclaimed, "not even Gunthorpe himself could have put it any better. But I know you well enough to know that you do not believe such twaddle. If you want me to relate another tale, you should say so straightforwardly."

I smiled broadly at his remark. "I should have known better than to try to provoke you. But perhaps you could give me a longer example of the universality of your science and the nature of the special circ.u.mstances to which you have just alluded."

"If you mean by circ.u.mstances what is usually referred to as circ.u.mstantial evidence, Watson, then we have much to talk about. A crime in England, one in Italy, one in Turkey, one in j.a.pan, will all differ in local circ.u.mstances and the way they happen. What makes them similar is the view that the detective takes of the circ.u.mstances. Universality lies in the eye of the observer. You no doubt remember the case to which you gave the name of the Bos...o...b.. Valley mystery."

"I remember, indeed. Surely no one ever appeared to be as guilty of murder as young McCarthy. Were it not for your intervention, Lestrade would have had him led to the gallows without the slightest qualm."

"Precisely. In many serious crimes-murder, in particular,-there are often no witnesses, nor other direct evidence of any kind. Hence it is the reading of the indirect evidence that leads to a conclusion. Shift one's viewpoint just ever so much and starkly differing conclusions may be reached. The guilty become innocent and the innocent guilty."

Holmes stopped for a moment. "There is, Watson," he said with a sudden look of recall on his face, "a case that speaks to our discussion, one with which you are not familiar since it is occurred during my time in the Orient. Perhaps you would like to hear it?"

We moved from the table to our favourite chairs, and he related the following tale of murder in the thieves' bazaar of Bombay.

"You will remember, Watson, that in one of my recent relations to you I described the awful events of Trincomalee."

"Yes, indeed, I do."

"It was shortly thereafter that I left Ceylon and began the long trip to Bombay, where I fully intended to begin my journey back to England. I decided to travel up the west coast of India this time, and so my first stop was the pleasant Indian city of Trivandrum. Here I met a most interesting individual, an Italian n.o.bleman by the name of Lorenzo Spinelli. We found each other compatible, and Spinelli suggested that we travel together since we had similar destinations. Spinelli, I learned quickly, had a profound knowledge of Indian philosophy and, even though I did not share his pa.s.sion, I found our conversation to be a most welcome distraction, particularly on the rather desolate portions of our trip that often held nothing of interest. He had no travelling companions except for three servants: Lachman, a young man who served as cook and chief guide, and two porters, who were obliged to carry Spinelli's large collection of books and papers.

"The tale that follows, Watson, concerns Lachman, who was, I could see from the first, devoted to the Italian. When Spinelli finally left, he was quite distraught. In age only about twenty, he had become totally dependent on his master. The boy was of a very low caste, Jogee by name, and had born in a small village in the poorest part of central India, in the area known as Bustar, a place considered by some to be among the most backward of the Subcontinent. The boy had run from the village and made his way to Nagpur. Spinelli found him wandering the streets, starving, and took him on as his personal servant. To Spinelli's great fortune, the boy turned out to be honest, intelligent, and diligent in his duties. I found him of great help in our travels myself."

Holmes continued by telling me that Spinelli tried to find his servant Lachman further employment with the Italian legation in Bombay, but to no avail. He therefore gave him a sum of cash that he estimated would last until the boy found further work. Lachman used the money to send for his wife and to construct a small house on the edge of what is called the Chor Bazaar, the great flea market of Bombay. He had no other income and Spinelli, still concerned about his survival, left more money-this time the princely sum of about five hundred Indian rupees-with Holmes, who promised Spinelli that before his final departure from Bombay he would visit Lachman and deliver the gift.

It was more than three weeks after Spinelli's departure, however, before Holmes found a moment to begin the search for Lachman. He had been called in to a minor affair that had baffled the Bombay police, and it was only after it had been resolved that he began to look for the boy. Spinelli had drawn him a small map and with it Holmes found his way to the Chor Bazaar, or Thieves' Bazaar, and therein Lachman's modest abode.

When he arrived, he found only Lachman's wife, whom he had met only once previously. As soon as she saw him, however, she burst into tears and began to tell in her broken Hindustanee what had happened to poor Lachman.

On the previous evening, she said, she and Lachman had gone to visit some close friends. Their friends had entertained them well, so that when they returned they sat in their small garden, pa.s.sing the time until bedtime. Lachman had been out of sorts because of a quarrel that afternoon, and she tried to change his mood by idle chatter, but without success. She pointed to a spider climbing up the leg of a nearby chair.

"What do you call these little beasties in your village?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. Angrily picking up a nearby shoe, he aimed it at the insect.

"Don't kill him, don't!" she shouted. But Lachman did not hear her entreaty and despatched the helpless spider.

"May he rest in peace," he said mockingly.

Furious with her husband, she was about to go inside when they thought they heard a noise.

"Shhh, listen," said Lachman. "There is someone in there with him." Lachman became even angrier, but she calmed him and they retired for the night.

Because they were again short of money, the couple had rented out one of their rooms to a guest, a retired soldier returning from abroad, and it was he that they had just heard talking in a low voice to someone unknown. And it was with this soldier that Lachman had had a near violent altercation on the street, for the soldier had made unwanted advances towards his wife. There had been many witnesses to the argument. So heated had their quarrel become that Lachman had threatened to kill the soldier and had to be restrained by his neighbours.

It was later during the night, after they had retired, that they were awakened by a loud thud coming from the soldier's room. Lachman put on his shirt and, lighting a candle, he and his wife went into the corridor. They heard strange gasping from the soldier's room. Frightened, they opened the door to find the soldier lying in a pool of blood, his neck badly cut by a sharp knife. A cash box, filled with rupees, lay open on the floor. It was the box hitting the floor that had awakened them. Interrupted by the noise, the murderer had fled quickly. The open window attested to his escape. Lachman tried to help the dying man by holding his head up and offering him water, but to no avail. He expired almost immediately.

Lachman told his wife to inform the police, and that he would notify the head man of their block. His wife did as he requested, and Lachman, now bloodstained, stared at his dead enemy for a moment and then began walking towards the head man's house.

It was a dark night, and he walked slowly at first, thinking over the events of the day. This scoundrel, who had tried to touch his wife, was now dead, and Lachman could not help but feel a certain satisfaction. But the sight of the dying man had changed much of his anger to pity, and, as he walked in the night, he lost all bitterness towards him. Suddenly, Lachman's mind seized on a thought, and he was thrown into a panic: what if he were to be accused of the murder? Had he not threatened to kill the man in front of a large crowd of witnesses? He began to run towards the head man's house, but when he reached there, instead of entering, he kept on going. In a fit of fear, he ran into the night, forgetting everything, his wife, his very life.

Lachman's wife said that the police found him not far away, cowering and shivering at the home of a friend who had convinced him to give himself up. His attempt to escape had convinced the police that he had indeed committed the murder. His wife's words were discounted, for it was believed that she would do anything to protect him. And so he was arrested, charged with the crime of murder. He now sat somewhere in a Bombay cell, awaiting the next step of Indian criminal justice.

Lachman's wife was sobbing by the end of her story, and Holmes could get nothing more from her. He went at once to the local police station to find Lachman. There the chief inspector, a most intelligent man by the name of Pushkar Shamsher, made it clear that he regarded the whole affair as unfortunate but as an open-and-shut case. The circ.u.mstantial evidence was conclusive. There was, he said, an unimpeachable witness who, as he pa.s.sed their house that night, heard Lachman's wife cry "Don't kill him!" and an angry "May he rest in peace" from Lachman's mouth. He had bloodstains on his shirt, his knife was not in its case, and, above all, he had a motive: Lachman had publicly threatened to kill his boarder that very day. The soldier's cash box had not been taken. Robbery was therefore not the motive. No, said the inspector, let us not waste our time. Lachman is guilty.

"There is nothing to be done, my friend," said Inspector Shamsher. "A most tragic case of anger leading to murder."

"Perhaps," said Holmes, "But I know the boy well, having travelled with him from Trivandrum. I am not convinced."

Holmes asked that he be allowed to visit Lachman, and his request was immediately granted. Because of the grim nature of his crime, Lachman was alone in a small, vile cell deep inside Bombay's main prison. The poor boy was overjoyed when he saw Holmes, for his first thought was that he had obtained his release. Holmes had to tell him at once that he would try to help in his case, but that he did not know if he would be successful.

"How is my case, Sahib? I did not kill that man. Believe me. And believe my wife. Someone else came into the house. Through the window."

"Then why did you run?" asked Holmes "'I suddenly became frightened, Sahib. I could not think. I ran and ran. Then I realised I had no where to go. So I went to my friend's house and he called the police. That is all.'"

Holmes then asked Lachman to recount everything he remembered, from the time he met the soldier until he ran from the scene of his murder. Detailed as it was, he was unable to add anything to the story that his wife had not already related. Holmes asked him to try and remember the voice that he thought he heard coming from the soldier's room, but he could not. And the soldier died before he could say anything.

Holmes had seen enough of Lachman on his journey to believe in his innocence. He now had to find a way of proving that he had not committed the murder. This would not be easy. The circ.u.mstantial evidence was very strong. How to tear this web of circ.u.mstance and arrive at the truth?

He comforted Lachman, telling him that he would do his best to clear his name. He returned directly to Lachman's house to examine the scene of the crime. He had of course by this time no chance of examining the murdered man where he had been killed, and the room had been ransacked by the police. Still, he went about his business, carefully looking through the dust, examining the meagre furniture, the string bed, and the various other articles in the room. The window was still open and someone could have left by it in a hurry. The murderer, hearing the approaching Lachman and his wife, could have rushed through it into the night. What looked like smudged hand and foot prints were visible on the frame and the sill. But how again to prove that they were those of someone other than Lachman?

It soon became apparent to Holmes that his methods of observation and deduction depended very heavily on another set of a.s.sumptions, a.s.sumptions that involved not only criminals and the police, but the society at large.

"What one observes and deduces in London," he said, "is based on what Londoners ordinarily do and think. And my experience in the Orient had been so far almost exclusively with the crime of Europeans, among whom the same set of a.s.sumptions held. Here in Bombay, particularly among the lower cla.s.ses, I had suddenly to think in different ways. My questions were of the same kind. Who was this soldier who was killed? From where had he come? Who killed him and for what motive? But I must say that as I gazed around the dusty room, I was totally without answers. If the questions I asked were the same as those that I might ask at home, could the answers be so different?"

Holmes rose and began to pace about the room. "I realised at once that this was a case in which the most minute examination of detail, the sifting of every word of Lachman's and his wife's testimonies, the scrutiny of every piece of evidence, would eventually produce another hypothesis, an explanation of the evidence that told another story. I renewed my efforts at the scene of the crime. If I looked carefully enough and went over the room skillfully enough, something would be found of value. Again I scoured the room. Finally, under the bed, I saw two small pieces of reddish clay, fairly fresh. My hopes were increased when I noticed that the same clay was stuck to the end of the bed, where someone's feet may have deposited them, either those of the murdered man or the person who had killed him. I re-examined the window sill and noticed to my great elation small traces of the same clay. Hoping that they did not come from this part of the city, I placed them carefully in a small envelope. I examined the rest of the house and all the shoes that were there. There was no red clay anywhere, none on any of the shoes. I also found one other clue, significant for Lachman's wife's version of the story, but in itself not enough to change anything: in one corner of the room was a single chupple on the sole of which the body of a dead spider lay crushed."

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 ma.s.s 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 doc.u.ment, 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."