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 a
t 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 extr
eme.’
‘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:
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 2
