Arthur Lionheart's dry, almost playful greeting on the docks of Calcutta dissolved the Company's carefully arranged welcome with surgical efficiency.
Governor-General Lord Auckland's practiced smile stiffened.
The directors behind him lowered their heads as if awaiting a sentence, not a guest.
Arthur needed no titles to project his station. The way the colonial authorities shrank in his shadow said enough.
"A taxing voyage, I'm sure," Auckland ventured, forcing amiability.
"A dinner awaits you at Government House—Persian wine, lamb curry, the finest dancers in Bengal. A proper welcome to India."
Arthur tipped his head politely.
"I am… intrigued to witness this courteous banquet of yours."
The tone turned the phrase into something else entirely.
Auckland understood. The trap was his, perhaps—but the hunter was standing in front of him.
Government House — That Evening
Extravagance was the first language spoken in the palace. Gold leaf, imported marble, Bengal tiger pelts arranged like rugs—each a reminder of how absolute the Company believed its dominion to be.
Candles bathed the hall in a warm glow. Music trickled from a trio of local musicians. Dancers swayed. Incense thickened the air.
Arthur Lionheart sat at the head of the table not as a man to be entertained, but as one against whom no deception could stand.
He touched little food, accepted little wine, and answered compliments with courteous indifference.
His silence pulled the room tighter and tighter.
The directors' laughter grew forced, their flattery brittle.
It was like performing a pantomime before a judge.
When the tension became unbearable, Auckland finally stood. He lifted a glass as if saluting a sovereign.
"To demonstrate the flourishing prosperity India enjoys under the Company's stewardship, I present this year's financial accounts."
A beautiful ledger—too decorative to be honest—was brought forth.
"Eighty million pounds in profit," Auckland proclaimed.
"A triumph for the Empire."
Arthur gazed at the ledger and smiled.
It was a gentle smile.
Dangerously gentle.
"A fine piece of craftsmanship," he said softly.
"One might almost forget what it conceals."
He lifted his eyes—calm, piercing, inescapable.
"It contains scarcely a true figure."
Gasps shivered through the room.
Arthur signaled with two fingers.
Mr. Hansen stepped forward—a lean man with the stern expression of an Oxford scholar and the precision of a machine. He set a plain, worn notebook before the Governor.
"Our review of customs reports, port manifests, tax ledgers, and internal Company documents from Bombay, Calcutta, Canton, and London reveals a rather different financial reality."
His tone was neutral, dissecting.
"The Company has not earned eighty million pounds."
Auckland's hand twitched.
"It has lost more than three million."
Whispers, stifled curses, terror.
"And," Hansen continued, turning another page, "over one hundred thousand pounds were extracted and funneled into private accounts belonging to you, my lord, and several directors present."
The hall froze.
Auckland lurched upright, face purple with outrage.
"Outrageous! You dare accuse—"
Arthur rose as well.
The room fell into a reverent hush without anyone naming the reason.
He required no title to command absolute obedience; the uniform, the authority, the confidence in his posture said enough.
" Lord," Arthur said quietly, "your private arrangement with Shah Shuja is in my possession. As are the receipts for inflated grain purchases routed through your nephew. And the transfer receipts for the diamond necklace sent to London."
Auckland sagged.
The dancers stopped.
Even the candles seemed to flicker lower.
A thunderous crash cut the silence.
The doors exploded inward.
Royal Marines marched in—disciplined, precise, rifles leveled.
The Company's illusion collapsed.
Arthur regarded Auckland with a distant, almost reflective expression.
He turned to the hall, voice steady and unchallengeable.
"By authority vested in me at the discretion of the Crown, I hereby establish a Special Commission for the Investigation of Indian Affairs."
A tremor moved through the gathering.
"Effective immediately, all commercial, administrative, and military operations of the East India Company in India fall under direct Crown oversight."
He let the words settle.
"Those implicated are relieved of duty pending inquiry."
His gaze hardened.
"And any obstruction of this investigation…"
"…shall be met as an act against the Crown itself."
Silence gripped the banquet hall—fear, awe, and the shock of an era ending.
Arthur Lionheart turned away, unhurried, as if dismantling an empire were merely another item on his evening schedule.