The Giant Rat of Sumatra E-Book

Richard L. Boyer

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 372

Beschreibung

In deference to Sherlock Holmes' wishes, Dr. Watson kept the incredible tale of the Giant Rat a secret. However, before he died, he arranged that the story be held in the vaults of a London bank until all the protagonists were dead. Now, at last, it can be published. The reader is warned... "A story for which the world is not yet prepared..." Sherlock Holmes

Leseprobe

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES

THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

Daniel Stashower

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

Manley Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

David Stuart Davies

THE STALWART COMPANIONS

H. Paul Jeffers

THE VEILED DETECTIVE

David Stuart Davies

THE MAN FROM HELL

Barrie Roberts

SÉANCE FOR A VAMPIRE

Fred Saberhagen

THE SEVENTH BULLET

Daniel D. Victor

THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS

Edward B. Hanna

DR JEKYLL AND MR HOLMES

Loren D. Estleman

THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA

Sam Siciliano

COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS:

THE PEERLESS PEER

Philip José Farmer

THE STAR OF INDIA

Carole Buggé

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

RICHARD L. BOYER

TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

ISBN: 9780857685384

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First edition: March 2011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 1976, 2011 Richard L. Boyer

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Author’s Note

When your eyes pass over these words, dear reader, I shall be many years in my grave. For a multitude of considerations, some of which will become apparent in the pages that follow, it is necessary to withhold publication of this narrative until after the passing of the people named therein. Accordingly, this manuscript shall lie in the strongbox of Barclay’s Bank, Oxford Street Branch, London, until the year 1975, a round figure I choose arbitrarily with the assurance that, by then, the people who could be injured or offended by what follows shall have long since turned to dust. This I do ordain as a condition and procedure of my last will and testament, to be so carried out by its executor or his appointees.

John H. Watson, MD

London, 1912

Contents

Author’s Note

One: The Tattooed Sailor

Two: What Boatswain Sampson Had To Tell

Three: The Ship Of Death

Four: Red Scanlon At The Binnacle

Five: The Hunter Or The Hunted?

Six: Departure

Seven: Soundings

Eight: New Hope, And A Puzzle

Nine: Confluence

Ten: The Vortex

Eleven: The Beast In Henry’s Hollow

Twelve: Recovery

Thirteen: The Pool

Postscript

Notes

One

THE TATTOOED SAILOR

The summer of 1894 was hot and dry and without noteworthy cases or events, save for the mysterious disappearance of Miss Alice Allistair which threw the Kingdom into shock and sorrow. On a mid-summer holiday to India with her chaperone, she was abducted from a Bombay market without a trace.

Her father, Lord Allistair (whose name was, during the last half of the previous century, upon the tongue and in the mind of every British subject), secretly summoned Sherlock Holmes to his assistance. But weeks passed, and still no word arrived from the East as to the fate of his daughter. Early September found my companion restless, bored, and morose. A trip to Bombay, and a handsome fee paid by his Lordship were in the offing, but still Holmes paced and fretted, fretted and paced, and muttered interminably.

I must here inject the observation, based upon long experience, that for all the excitement of living with the world’s most renowned consulting detective, life with Sherlock Holmes had its drawbacks. He kept odd hours, was often moody and uncommunicative and was, in his personal habits, untidy to the point of slovenliness.

It was early evening of 15 September of the year mentioned when, glancing at Holmes sunk in thought on the divan, I could bear the silence and oppressiveness of our flat no longer. Our quarters reeked of stale smoke and chemical fumes, and Holmes’ insular behaviour and despondent attitude did nothing to relieve the situation. I rose and went over to the bow window, opened it, and allowed the balmy summer breeze to enter – dispelling the fumes and boosting my spirits.

‘Lovely evening, Holmes. Perhaps you would care to join me for a walk?’

‘I think not, Watson. I have enough to occupy myself for the present.’

‘The Bradley forgeries, or the Allistair case?’

‘Both. The first is unimportant, and easy: if the clerk has a limp, he’s guilty. I expect a solution at any moment. The other, more serious one I am powerless to attack without evidence.’

He gazed at the wall, and sank deeper into thought.

I returned to the window. The sky was the brilliant copper colour of the dying sun, fading to dark blue towards the horizon. The faint babble of pedestrians wafted upwards to my ears. Peering down, I could see the sheen of top hats and the lilt of parasols as the couples passed beneath. Their laughter enticed me. Where had they been? Where were they going? More directly: why were we imprisoned in our drab flat, away from it all?

‘I say, Holmes, just a short jaunt – enough to stretch the legs and mind, would be – hullo, what’s this?’

Holmes shot a glance towards the open window. ‘Well, Watson, what is it?’

The clatter of hooves and a pair of wildly veering carriage lamps had drawn my eye. In the fading light I could barely see the driver standing in his box and flailing at the horses with the utmost savagery.

‘It appears to be a drunken cabbie. Poor beasts.’

‘Hardly a drunken cabbie. I’ll wager it’s an ambulance.’

He rose from the divan and joined me at the window. To my utter amazement the vehicle, dashing past the street lamps below, showed itself indeed to be an ambulance; the markings on its side were unmistakable.

‘You astound me, Holmes! How could you tell it was an ambulance?’

‘One can observe with one’s ears as well as one’s eyes. The ambulance, for obvious reasons, has a longer chassis than the four-wheeler cab. A hospital carriage, bouncing over cobblestones, reveals itself by a curious deep rumbling in its timbers which the four-wheeler lacks. This particular sound is also emitted by lorries and dray carts, but given the hour and the vehicle’s speed, we are left with the ambulance.’

‘Bravo!’ I cried.

‘But only half the puzzle it seems,’ said Holmes, as he leaned further out of the window and swept his eyes anxiously over the horizon.

‘I have a strong suspicion that in addition to the misfortune in this neighbourhood, there is occurring at this very moment elsewhere in London a catastrophe of great magnitude, perhaps a large fire, that we shall no doubt read about in tomorrow’s newspapers.’

This stream of inferences so stunned me that I remained speechless. Holmes observed the puzzled expression on my face.

‘Come now, Watson, you’re a medical man and know ambulances: was there anything amiss?’

‘No,’ I replied after some thought, ‘except that some unfortunate –’

‘Tut, man! Not anything else?’

I shook my head.

‘Let me enquire then, how it happens that you were unable to determine the vehicle’s identity until you saw the markings on the door?’

Once again, as in so many instances during my long association with my friend, I felt embarrassment at having overlooked the obvious.

‘The bell. There was no bell!’

‘Precisely. The warning bell carried by our ambulances was not sounded. This explains both the erratic path of the carriage – attempts made by the driver to avoid running down pedestrians – and the rather frenzied behaviour of the driver himself, both interpreted by you as being brought about by an excess of drink.’

Holmes continued to scan the horizon and the streets below. He charged his pipe and, between staccato puffs of smoke, muttered to himself.

‘Of course there is always the question as to why the bell wasn’t sounded...’

‘A new driver...’

‘No. The man’s skill in handling the team and avoiding people shows that he is quite experienced. The walk that you mentioned earlier has suddenly taken on a new attraction. Let us be off.’

‘Of course it’s obvious,’ he remarked as we scurried down the staircase, ‘that the ambulance was bound from St Thomas’ Hospital.’

‘Hah! I’m afraid you’re wrong there, old fellow; you seem to slip a bit, Holmes, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ I said with some smugness. ‘Here I shall use your own methods against you. You seem to overlook Charing Cross which, although situated in the same general direction as St Thomas’, is considerably closer. Logic decrees therefore, that the wagon came from there, since all possible haste was necessary.’

‘Excellent, Watson! Really, you quite outdo yourself!’

I was deeply flattered, for Holmes was not a man to shower praise about willy-nilly.

‘It is a pity you are mistaken,’ he added.

‘What makes you so sure?’ I retorted, somewhat piqued.

‘Once again, you have failed to observe completely. Did you see how the driver plied his whip?’

‘He was quite zealous.’

‘So much so in fact that you cried “poor beasts”. Did you also observe the horses themselves as they passed beneath the street lamps? Their flanks were frothed with sweat. These two observations together force us to conclude that the horses had come from the direction of Charing Cross Hospital, yet a much greater distance. The point of departure was therefore St Thomas’.’

Once explained, the conclusion seemed simple.

‘But you have done well in using logic, Watson, because we see that the illogical has happened: instead of coming from the nearest hospital, the ambulance has come across town. That is interesting. Also the want of a bell arouses our curiosity. Perhaps we can fit these two pieces together. We know the driver did not neglect to ring the bell – he is too experienced for such an oversight. What does this leave us with?’

We were walking south down Baker Street towards Portman Square, but engrossed as I was in the puzzle the evening’s beauty escaped me. I plied my brain to the questions Holmes had raised.

‘The bell was then either broken or missing,’ I suggested.

‘Exactly! Which indicates that this particular ambulance, being ill-equipped, was not intended for use. It was, then, dragged out of the repair shop at a moment’s notice, and from the wrong hospital at that. Does this suggest anything to you?’

‘Of course – all of the regular carriages were engaged!’

‘Ah! But engaged for what purpose? Obviously they have hurried to the scene of some terrible calamity. I’m quite certain it is a fire. Why a fire? Well, what else could it be? Flood? Certainly not; the river is normal and we’re in want of rain. Earthquake? Preposterous. Mass murder? In America perhaps, but never here. No, it is a fire that has occurred, and I –’

‘What is it?’

I observed on Holmes’ face the look of eagerness that told me of a new development at hand.

‘See that crowd there by the kerbside? There’s our ambulance too. I just saw Lestrade making his way into the centre of it, and I fear that this personal tragedy may have sinister overtones. Come on, hurry up! We want to arrive before the police make a total ruin of things.’

We fought our way through the knot of curious pedestrians. Arriving towards the middle of it, I could hear Lestrade’s gravelly voice barking orders to subordinates and onlookers alike. In the gaslight, that was partially blocked by the crowd, I could see a dark form sprawled in the gutter.

It was obvious that Lestrade viewed Holmes’ presence with a mixture of relief and annoyance.

‘It beats me, Mr Holmes,’ he remarked, ‘how you seem to materialize on the spot when there’s been murder done.’

‘Murder,’ said Holmes, visibly quickening. ‘Watson, our evening stroll grows more engrossing by the minute. With your permission, Lestrade, I should like to examine the corpse.’

When the crowd of onlookers was sufficiently dispersed, the three of us were at liberty to examine the body in detail. The victim was a middle-aged, powerfully-built man with thick, dark hair and beard and a swarthy complexion. The man appeared to be diving headlong into the street; his feet remained strewn on the kerb – his head and shoulders shoved forward into the paving stones. A pool of blood had collected on the pavement beneath the open waistcoat and blouse which Lestrade drew back. The cause of death was immediately apparent. A horrid gash, extending up the trunk from the waist to the left shoulder, and terminating in a series of smaller slashes, had brought a quick and brutal end to the victim. The wounds were so vast and grotesque that, despite my medical experience, I was shocked and repelled in the extreme.

‘Not a pretty sight, if I may say so,’ said Lestrade. ‘But then murder never is, no matter the method.’

‘From these tattoos on his arms and chest and from the look of his clothes, he appears to have been a seafaring man,’ observed Holmes. ‘Has the body been moved?’

‘Not to our knowledge,’ returned Lestrade. ‘The constable who discovered him is Roberts – a good man mind you – but for the life of him he’s unable to track down one witness to this affair. The crowd drew him to the discovery. But as to what occurred, we are unable to locate one shopkeeper, resident, or passer-by who can give us the slightest account.’

‘That is odd, considering it is a natural evening to be outdoors. There are many people on the streets tonight. Given the nature of the wounds and the physique of the deceased, one must assume there was a struggle, at least an outcry. It is very singular that the event failed to draw anyone’s attention.’

Here my companion paused and looked, not without remorse, at the body sprawled beneath him in the gutter.

‘Of course, since we have no living witnesses to aid us in our enquiry, then the dead man must tell the story.’

Holmes then proceeded to examine the body to the minutest detail. He skipped nothing, examining his clothing, particularly the shirtcuffs and pockets, the torn waistcoat and ripped shirt, the boots, the tattooed chest (butchered though it was), and concluded by thrusting his nose into the dead man’s whiskers and sniffing vigorously. The next instant he was gone, pacing up and down the street and puffing furiously at his pipe, glancing in all directions.

Having become accustomed to this sort of behaviour on the part of my companion, I fell into conversation with Lestrade, remarking how strange it was that no excitement had been aroused during the murder, and how odd it was that not a mark of identification, nor any personal possessions for that matter, was found on the body. The attendants having placed the body on a litter, I watched Lestrade conversing with several correspondents who had been waiting at the edge of the crowd. I was thus engaged when I heard Holmes calling to us.

‘Up here, Watson, Lestrade. Come up, this may interest you!’

Looking up past the glare of the street lamps, we caught sight of Holmes’ angular face peering from the rooftop directly above.

‘Take the second door there – the plain one, not the storekeeper’s.’

Leaving two constables to dispatch the ambulance, we clambered up the narrow and dingy staircase which led unobtrusively from the street. At the first landing we found Holmes waiting for us. He led us up another flight of stairs and then through a narrow door of crude wood.

‘This is the stairway that leads to the roof. Lestrade, if you’ve your dark lantern, now’s the time it would be helpful.’

We found ourselves on a flat rooftop with a facade about three feet high on the Baker Street side, in front. Holmes, having taken the lantern from Lestrade, walked to a corner of the roof and let the beam fall upon a crumpled handkerchief.

‘There’s a piece of evidence for you, Lestrade. Perhaps you can smell the chloroform from here.’

‘Yes, so it is...’ mused the detective, somewhat chagrined at Holmes’ astuteness. ‘But how the devil did you seize on this place?’

‘Logic, my friend. Consider this: a large, muscular man in the prime of life has been brutally murdered with a dagger. The body is discovered on a busy London thoroughfare. Yet, in spite of these two things, no one seems to have witnessed the deed. To explain this, we must either assume that our citizens are deaf, dumb, and blind, or we must seek a more rational explanation: that the man was murdered elsewhere and his remains deposited on the kerbside. But how deposited? A passing carriage would be a means, but it would be noisy and conspicuous. The absence of alternative explanations has led us to this rooftop where, as you can see, the evidence suggests the murder was committed.’

To make his point, Holmes pointed to the facade top overlooking the street. It was splashed profusely with blood.

‘But why the chloroform,’ I asked, ‘if the deed were done with a dagger?’

‘The man was drugged into unconsciousness beforehand – hence the silence of the deed. The murderers, and I believe there were more than one, then waited from this vantage point until the street below was temporarily vacant, whereupon they hurled the body down into the street, then fled down the ladder which overhangs the rear of the building.

‘It’s my guess, Lestrade, that your men will find several broken ribs on the corpse to substantiate my theory.’

‘Well, Holmes,’ said I, as we descended the stairway, ‘things seem a bit clearer now, don’t they?’

‘On the contrary, Watson. What was cloudy at the outset is now murky. What before was merely unexplainable now becomes incoherent: mad. This latest discovery only lifts the curtain on what promises to be the most intricate and diabolical case we’ve handled in some time.

‘Let me ask you, my dear fellow,’ he continued, ‘hasn’t this rooftop killing raised some questions in your mind? Remember that just as the physician seeks the extraordinary, the unique, in making his diagnosis – so does the detective seek the illogical, the grotesque in guiding himself to the source of the crime. What irrationality have we indirectly witnessed?’

‘That the man needn’t have been stabbed – the chloroform or the fall would surely have killed him.’

‘Yes, there’s that. But hasn’t it occurred to either of you that the criminals, once having committed the crime, were placing themselves in jeopardy by throwing the corpse down into the street for public display?’

‘Your point is well-taken,’ admitted Lestrade. ‘In fact, the oddity has just occurred to me. The usual preoccupation of the murderer is concealing the body.’

‘But these killers have deliberately set the law after themselves and made their escape perilous by “giving up” the body rather than disposing of it.’

‘Perhaps they wish the killing publicized to serve as a warning.’

‘I agree, at least for the present.’

Lestrade and I followed him to the rear of the building, where Holmes examined the wrought-iron fire ladder and the pavement under it. The examination yielded nothing except a shred of dark blue wool which Holmes plucked from a projecting ladder bolt.

‘Here’s a piece of good fortune,’ he said turning it round in his fingers under the lantern beam. ‘At first guess I’d say it was from a Norwich mill, but closer examination is necessary to make certain.’

Holmes was interrupted from his reveries by a great commotion in the street. The sound of police whistles and tramping boots brought us to the front of the building on the run. There we spied several constables waving their arms.

‘Are they still on the roof?’ cried one. ‘Fetch a calling trumpet, will you? I – no there he is! Inspector Lestrade! We’re wanted on the docks quick as a wink if you please, sir!’

‘The fire is a large one then?’ asked my companion.

‘Frightful! And spreading fast. I –’ Lestrade stopped in mid-sentence.

‘But how came you to hear of it? I myself was just notified by police wire. I heard no one mention it.’

‘Do you mind if we tag along?’ asked Holmes, avoiding the detective’s question.

‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. I say, Mulvaney, is there room in that wagon? Very well, can you handle three more? That’s a good fellow. Come on then, but mind, stay out of the way...’

We swung aboard and settled ourselves on the benches of the open wagon amidst a dozen bobbies, who could talk of nothing except the great fire on the docks. I assumed they were exaggerating the calamity. But thirty minutes later, when I saw the eastern sky aglow and the Thames a ribbon of gold, I knew it was worse than any of us had feared.

The first indication of the fire’s size was the traffic. Roads were clogged to overflowing; children ran shouting in all directions; barking dogs scurried in front of carriages and between flying hooves. Horses reared and cried. A steady stream of the curious flowed towards the waterfront – only to be met by terrified residents fleeing the area. And the glow in the sky grew larger, brighter, with each passing minute.

‘The weather we’ve had hasn’t helped, you may be sure,’ said Holmes out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes glued to the sky.

Countless times we were mired in a sea of people and vehicles. But fortunately, the bell on our police wagon was in working order, and it sang out mightily until my ears throbbed and ached.

‘Stand to there! Give way for the police! You! Mind your reins I say!’ shouted the driver, a burly fellow, obviously an expert. He handled the four sets of reins, and the eager animals they led to, with admirable skill. We dashed around corners at dizzying speeds. We clattered through alleyways. We flew along the streets. Above the pounding of the hooves and thunder of the wheels, I could hear the furious panting of our horses – a sound like a thousand giant bellows.

Presently I saw a ball of fire loom up behind a building, and knew we were nearing the scene. At the same instant, there shot forth from a side street a fire engine, trailing plumes of oily smoke and drawn by six magnificent horses in glistening livery. We fell in behind, and the two vehicles raised a terrific din!

Onwards we flew, the crowds parted, and cheered us as we passed. At Preston Road we turned south, and continued until we were well within the Isle of Dogs. Here were the great wharves and quays: the maw that fed the Empire. Here too lived the working folk who took their livelihood from the maritime industries: sailors, pilots, stevedores, shipwrights, riggers... and, of course, tavern-keepers.

We sped out from between two huge warehouses, and a great and terrible panorama met my eyes.

To call it a fire would be an injustice. A slice of Hell, fetched up and planted on the river bank, would be a better description. The awesome power, the horror of it! Great fireballs leapt into the sky. Horrendous showers of sparks and glowing debris spewed upwards and drifted down to start new fires.

Three buildings were ablaze, and several more would shortly follow. They were huge. One giant in the centre seemed to be the source of the inferno. Even as I watched, a hole broke through in the roof and a pillar of flame, perhaps two hundred feet tall, erupted from the structure like a slender, malignant toadstool – its rounded head bursting outwards in a giant red ball. The flames lighted the ground for hundreds of yards around. A sea of faces, eyes upturned, surrounded us. Children in their innocence raced to and fro, shouting in the din. To them, it was merely an event to break the summer’s tedium – they were blissfully unaware of the destruction being wrought.

Our van pulled up close to the blazing buildings. I jumped down, my face stinging from the heat. I could scarcely breathe. All around me firemen scurried and shouted. Three immense engines stood in a line, working furiously. The teams, despite their training, reared and pranced in the firelight, sending huge, grotesque shadows dancing over the pavement. The scene repeated itself endlessly into the distance: fire engines pumping and belching smoke, frantic teams being led away and tethered, men pushing hose carts, carrying ladders while their officers shouted orders through trumpets. Above it all rose the tremendous roaring, crashing din.

The one factor in the firemen’s favour was the nearness of the Thames: drafting hoses were lowered over the quays into the limitless supply of river water. An enormous steam-driven ‘fire-float’ was brought up alongside the docks and from its squat, barge-shaped hull spouted a stream so powerful that it shattered the wooden walls of the buildings to reach the flames within. Nearby, knots of men struggled as close as they dared and raised their hoses – but they were as pathetic as mice attacking a lion, and the streams of water entering the windows had little, if any effect. Hearing a commotion behind me, I was surprised to see a coal wagon approaching. I watched the curious irony of the firefighters feeding the flames at the base of the engines.

Police formed a cordon to hold back the crowd, and I saw Lestrade barking orders. Seeing him thus engaged prodded me into a painful realization. Cursing myself for idleness, I dashed from Holmes’ side and sped to the nearest constable.

‘I’m a physician – where are the injured?’ I cried and, having received his directions, fought my way to the rear of a brick building where, sheltered from the heat and din, a crude nursing station had been set up. At once I grew optimistic: there were very few casualties. Most of the people were suffering only from minor burns. Looking past them, I could see the reason for our ‘ill-equipped’ ambulance of an hour earlier. Long lines of the carriages stood nearby in readiness, the horses stamping their feet with impatience. To my amazement, they weren’t needed. The severely injured had already been taken away, and I busied myself with cleaning and bandaging the ‘walking wounded’. Thank God, I thought to myself, that the buildings are mostly warehouses, which accounts for the few casualties. I was distracted though, by a sight and sound I shall never forget – and all my relief and optimism vanished in an instant.

There came to my ears a wailing sound, and I rose in search of it. In a dark corner alcove of the old building, huddled in a worn shawl, was a woman who clasped to her breast a tiny bundle. She looked up at me with a face that was not a face, and shrieked in a voice that was not a voice. She tore at herself in the agony of her grief – her face a shambles of torn skin and tears.

‘Abbie! My Abbie!’ she screamed, and fought off those who tried to calm her. Finally the attendants succeeded in placing the blanket-wrapped bundle in a carriage. The crazed mother clambered after, and amidst the dreadful sound of grief the sad procession departed.

It was some time before I could bring myself to return to my work. Seeing death almost daily, a physician becomes inured to most of it. The passing of an old man or hopelessly sick woman, these are part of the doctor’s work and world. He recognizes them as natural.

But the snatching of a young life – the taking of a child who was perhaps two hours earlier laughing, sitting on her mother’s knee with her evening sweet – the transformation of this creature into a tiny mute bundle... this kind of death smites us with full force if even for the hundredth, the thousandth time. Pray God the day shall never come when I can accept it.

After several hours of tending minor wounds, I made my way, exhausted, back to Holmes and Lestrade. Although the fire had spread considerably, the huge plumes of flame had vanished. Instead there was a great glowing at ground level and the heat issuing forth had become yet more intense. The firemen had wisely given up on the big buildings and concentrated their efforts on saving neighbouring ones. The fire was now contained, and the din and excitement were abating, save for occasional tremendous crashes as walls and roofs collapsed. But still the great engines worked, and still the bands of men sallied back and forth, often carrying a fallen comrade. Wearied and depressed, Holmes and I arrived at Baker Street shortly before midnight. The roar of the fire, clatter of engines, and the horrific grieving of the mother still rang in my ears.

We sat for some time in silence. In a voice made dull by sadness, I related to him the incident of the dead child. He was deeply touched, and let out a slow sigh.

‘There is so much suffering in the world, Watson, and it is no accident, I can assure you, that most of it falls upon the poor.’

‘Certainly this is an evening we won’t soon forget,’ said I. ‘I am exhausted, and yet I’m certain I cannot sleep.’

‘I confess I feel the same tension. Let us have some whisky then, and we’ll talk about the earlier occurrence.’

So saying, he poured two glasses, reclined on the divan with his pipe, and assumed a far-away expression.

‘It seems safe to conclude,’ he said at last, ‘that the man was a sailor...’

‘I’d certainly say so, from his clothes and appearance –’

‘... recently arrived in London from Borneo or thereabouts... and was, at the time of his murder, coming to see me.’

‘What!’

‘I must say his death touches me more now, knowing he was seeking my assistance...’

‘How are you sure of this?’ I asked.

‘At this stage it’s pure conjecture, but let us reconstruct the chain of events. As I have stated, the man was in or near Borneo not longer than six or eight weeks ago. This is revealed simply and unequivocally by a recent tattoo on his right wrist. It is Malayan in origin, and appears to be about two months old. Figuring on a sea voyage of about the same length of time, we know he had not been long in London. Fetch The Times. Let us see if by chance there has been an arrival from that corner of the globe recently.’

Whilst I rummaged for the paper, Holmes curled up on the divan, drawing on his pipe.

‘There are three within the last fortnight. The Yarmouth Castle arrived on Tuesday last from Foocnow...’

Holmes shook his head with impatience.

‘The barque Rangoon put in the day before last, bound from Hong Kong...’

‘And the last?’ he queried.

‘The packet-trader Matilda Briggs – by Jove! – put in this afternoon, from Batavia!’

‘That’s our sailor’s vessel! I see by scanning these back issues that there’s been no other ship from there in two weeks. Our dead friend arrived this afternoon then. He must have had something of the utmost urgency to tell me. It is a pity that his lips are sealed for ever.’

‘How do you know he was bound here?’

‘Picture this in your mind, Watson: a sailor arrives in port after a sea voyage of many weeks. What is the natural thing for him to do?’

‘Go on a fling, I should imagine.’

‘It would seem so. But this fellow is a queer bird. He is not grogging down in Limehouse – no, he’s up in the West End, in Baker street. Why? I don’t wish to appear vain, my friend, but you know as well as I that I enjoy a considerable reputation in this city, and not only in the more proper circles.’

‘That is certainly true.’

‘It is entirely possible that one of my shadier acquaintances down on the docks referred the man to me. Also, I have what I think may be evidence to support this.’

Holmes took pen and paper and drew the following marks:

‘Do these marks suggest anything to you?’ he enquired.

‘Absolutely not – mere hen scratchings.’

‘The police think so too, no doubt. I found them on the man’s right shirtcuff, evidence, by the bye, that he was left-handed. He’d drawn them on with rough crayon of the type oftentimes carried by seamen. Like most sailors, he was accustomed to representing numbers with vertical strokes. Hence, we derive the numbers 2–2–1, or, if you please, 221B Baker Street.’

‘Extraordinary!’ I exclaimed.

‘Not really. The man obviously didn’t bother to write down the name of the street: he could remember that easily enough. But he wanted to be sure of our number.’

‘Poor chap.’

‘He was dogged and ambushed one street away from his destination, which suggests that those who murdered him know of me. Otherwise why would they murder him here and not down by the docks?’

‘They feared he would reveal his secret to you, and therefore did away with him.’

‘But not before removing all of his identification. Yet the throwing down of the body seems to have been done to serve as a warning to other confederates who would hear of this man’s death. I fear it is a dark and vile conspiracy we are confronting, Watson: a band that will stop at nothing to protect its secrets. As tangled as the problem appears however, there is a thread that runs through it. We know that the problem is international; it is not confined to London but has roots either on board the Matilda Briggs or even in the Orient. Bearing in mind the man’s tattoo, and the Briggs’ port of departure, we see that Malaya keeps reappearing. Did you observe closely the wounds on the victim’s body?’

‘They were severe in the extreme.’

‘Was there nothing unusual about them?’

‘They were different from ordinary knife wounds, but I am at a loss as to exactly how they were different. I vaguely remember having seen similar wounds before...’

‘In Afghanistan, perhaps?’

I jumped clear of my chair in amazement.

‘Holmes!’

‘Don’t be alarmed, I made a hazard and it proved correct. Afghanistan would have been the most likely place for you to have seen such wounds but not as likely as the Malayan archipelago. The instrument used on our sailor, if I’m not mistaken, is of Malayan origin. The kris dagger, as it is most often referred to, is a double-edged combat weapon with a serpentine blade, which is, as you have seen, capable of inflicting the most ferocious of wounds.’

There was a pause as I collected my thoughts.

‘You think then that he was killed by a Malay?’ I asked finally.

‘That is uncertain. I believe that the crew of the Matilda Briggs may be of some help to us in this matter. I’m afraid you will breakfast alone tomorrow, Watson; I shall be down at the riverside at an early hour. Who knows? Perhaps in some dingy lane or noisy grog-shop I’ll find a piece of this puzzle. Did you notice the moon on our return? There’s a halo around it; there’ll be rain before dawn, which will aid the firemen. Get to sleep, you’re pale as a ghost. Goodnight, Watson.’

I bade my companion likewise and, as I prepared to enter my bedchamber, could not help but wonder at the way in which a lovely autumn evening had been so suddenly transformed into a night of destruction, mystery, and havoc.

Two

WHAT BOATSWAIN SAMPSON HAD TO TELL

I was awakened next morning by a blast of thunder and rain lashing at the window panes. Upon dressing and entering the parlour I saw the remnants of Holmes’ hasty breakfast. I rang for my own and, while waiting, chanced to see the Morning Post strewn in front of the fireplace. My eyes fell immediately on the following story:

WAREHOUSE FIRE CLAIMS 7 LIVES

Preston Rd, 15 Sept.: A fire of horrendous proportions last evening claimed the lives of seven citizens. The conflagration, which purportedly began in the maritime shipping warehouse of G. A. McNulty & Sons in Preston Road at approximately 6:00 P.M., raged until 3:30 A.M. this morning when it was finally extinguished by the 2nd and 4th fire brigades. A list of the dead follows in the next column.

The cause of the fire has not been established. Police have not ruled out the possibility of arson, and have requested the assistance of Scotland Yard.

All the victims were trapped in adjacent buildings. The total number of buildings destroyed is eight: five residential buildings and three commercial properties, including the previously mentioned one belonging to Mr McNulty.

The article continued in greater detail, but it made me so heavy-hearted that I deferred and went on to the next page. Relief was not in sight, however, for no sooner had I turned the page than my eyes fell upon the following piece:

BAKER STREET MURDER

London, 15 Sept.: The mutilated body of Raymond Jenard, Able Seaman of the cargo vessel Matilda Briggs, was discovered on the kerbside opposite Curray’s, the clothier, of 157 Baker Street. The cause of death was a series of stab wounds.

Inspector Lestrade, of the Paddington District Station, has informed the Post that the deed appears to have been a street murder with robbery as the motive, since no valuables, nor identification of any sort, was found on the body.

Identification was made possible only by the assistance of Mr John Sampson, boatswain of the Matilda Briggs and a friend of the deceased.

Mr Jenard, who left no family, resided at 22 Preston Road, and was considered an honest and kind fellow by the shipmates who knew him well.

I was in the midst of my breakfast, which Mrs Hudson had brought up, when I heard a tread upon the stair. A moment later the door opened, and there stood before me a wizened old sailor, his hoary beard partially obscuring a wrinkled, ruddy face. The eyes however, shone with a merry twinkle, as if the old man were delighted at my surprise.

‘I beg your pardon –’ I said abruptly as I put down my cup.

‘Mr ’olmes in, mate?’ he rasped.

‘No he isn’t,’ I replied with some indignation, ‘and I’ll thank you to knock when you come to a stranger’s doorway, sir. Furthermore, you’re ruining Mr Holmes’ carpet.’

His oilskin, glistening with rain, was dripping on the rug that was given to my colleague by the Shah of Persia for recovering the famous Delak Tiara. I knew Holmes wouldn’t be pleased. The strange, bent old man stood wheezing before me, swaying slightly as if on a ship’s deck at sea.

‘Kindly state your business, sir,’ I said in a clipped tone, ‘and be off if you please; I am very busy this morning.’

This was not true, of course, but I wanted to be rid of him. Something in his stark manner unsettled me.

‘’ey mate – got a dram o’ rum for a cold old man?’

‘Certainly not! Now if you’ll not state your business –’

‘It’s the murder. I’ve come,’ and, saying this, he shuffled over until he stood directly over me, ‘... to tell about the murder, don’t you see...’

I stared up at him with incredulity. He then bent his face down to mine and said, in a low coarse whisper: ‘You see, mate... I’m the one what done it!’

I sprang from my chair and, in a flash, had flung open the drawer to Holmes’ side table. I had clasped the revolver handle when the cry of a familiar voice stopped me.

‘Whoa, Watson! I fancy a joke can go too far!’

Turning round, I observed the old salt transformed as Holmes removed the false whiskers and putty.

‘This is indeed one of my better efforts,’ he said chuckling to himself. ‘If my closest friend cannot recognize me so close, I am assured that the denizens of the East End were deceived as well. Ah Watson, a touch of brandy doesn’t seem so outrageous after all, for I am chilled to the marrow.’

‘Really, Holmes! It’s a bit early in the day for pranks of this nature. I seem to have quite lost my appetite.’ Indeed, I was still reeling slightly from the encounter.

‘Then in all sincerity, I must apologize. I did not intend to make you the object of ridicule, nor to give you a fright.’

His apologetic tone had a remarkable effect upon my recovery, and I managed to finish my somewhat chilled breakfast while Holmes removed the remnants of his masquerade, lighted his pipe, and settled himself before the crackling fireplace. Outside, the storm raged on; the rain fell in great sheets, and thunder burst incessantly above us.

‘Well, Watson, I see you’ve had a glance at the Post. Was there anything about the two news items, the fire and the murder, that caught your attention?’

I replied in the negative.

‘Isn’t it curious,’ he pursued, ‘that our sailor Jenard resided in one of the buildings that was destroyed by the fire?’

‘I seem to have missed that,’ said I, examining the paper again, ‘but it’s a coincidence certainly.’

‘I fear not. I think rather that the two tragedies of last night are in some way bound together. You realize, of course, that the Post is in error.’

‘You mean as to the motive for the murder?’

‘Obviously on that count. But I am referring to the fire. The article states that it began in McNulty’s warehouse. By reading the article carefully, one sees that this could not have been so. The article is a self-contradiction of sorts.’

I joined Holmes before the fireplace and, paper in hand, applied myself to discovering the discrepancy that he had found so obvious. Before long, however, my train of thought was broken by the appearance of Mrs Hudson.

‘Mr Holmes, sir,’ she said, ‘there’s a gentleman downstairs to see you.’

‘Did he give you his card?’ asked my companion.

‘No, sir. But he did mention his name.’

‘Yes?’

‘Mr John Sampson.’

‘Show him up immediately,’ said he, his face full of eagerness. ‘Quick, Watson, stir up the fire while I pour a glass for our visitor. This is an extremely fortunate turn of events, for, if I’m not mistaken, here is a man who can shed much light on these calamities.’

I busied myself with the tongs and bellows, and lighted a cigarette in anticipation of the arrival of Boatswain Sampson. His tread on the stair was slow and heavy.

Although John Sampson undoubtedly possessed the build and carriage of a boatswain, it was indeed a pale, harrowed man who appeared in our doorway. He was large, no older than thirty, with blue eyes and great curls of blond hair. Were it not for his temporary condition, I would suppose him to be a man of great strength and vitality. His countenance had a frank and honest look; he appeared a fellow who would grant favours and make friends. On the other hand, I fancied it would be imprudent to make an enemy of him.

For the present, however, he was visibly shaken, and seemed to weave before us in a fit of anxiety.

Holmes diagnosed the man’s state as quickly as I did, and led him to a chair.

‘Pray sit down before the fire, Mr Sampson, and warm yourself. This is my fellow boarder and friend Doctor John Watson. You may tell him anything you wish to tell me.’

The boatswain gave me a firm handshake and settled himself before the fire. Before long, the fire’s warmth and the brandy worked their magic, and a touch of healthy colour sprang upon his cheeks.

‘Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson,’ he began in a shaken voice, ‘as you may have read in today’s papers, I am the bos’n on the merchant vessel Matilda Briggs.