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. It was I who identified the body of my unlucky shipmate Raymond Jenard late last night –’
‘Indeed, we’ve been reading about it.’
‘I had intended to go to the police today, but early this morning I was knocked up by a Mr Josiah Griggs, who strongly recommended I pay you a visit, Mr Holmes.’
‘This man is a friend?’ I asked.
&nb
sp; ‘No, sir. In fact, I’d never laid eyes on him. He just stands there at my doorway, dripping wet, and says, “Mr Sampson, if it’s advice and help you’ll need, and you don’t wish all of London to know about it, Sherlock Holmes is the man for you.” He seemed a trusty fellow, and one who’d bumped around the world a bit, if you know what I mean. So I took his advice, and here I am.’
‘Good. Now let us hear your story,’ said Holmes.
‘First of all, you may wonder how I came to be at the city morgue last night at so late an hour. As you might guess, I was one of the many spectators at the dock fire last evening, for I live nearby, as most men of my calling do. While watching the flames, I suppose it must have been after two in the morning, I overheard several constables discussing a mysterious murder that had taken place earlier. When I heard them describe the victim, my suspicions became aroused, for reasons which will soon become clear to you. I asked the constables if the man were tattooed, and when they answered yes, I rushed over immediately in a cab. Sad to say, my suspicions were right.
‘What first set me thinking was the fact that Jenard’s own dwellings were ablaze – but he was not in the ring of onlookers, though I searched for him. But there is something else, something deep and terrible I fear, that had made me uneasy about Jenard’s safety for some time...’
At this point Sampson paused, as if he were too embarrassed to continue. Holmes said nothing, but remained settled in his chair, eyelids halfway closed in scrutiny, his fingertips pressed lightly together.
‘Now, Mr Holmes, I know you may think it strange that I suspected foul play from the beginning –’
Holmes nodded slightly.
‘Were not the tale so strange, the circumstances so mystifying, I would tell you all without the slightest hesitation...’
‘Then do so,’ urged my companion. ‘I have found over the years that the only way to arrive at a solution to any problem is for my client to tell all, having complete trust in me and my colleague. You appear a bit shaken, but otherwise in sound health. I shan’t think you daft if you relate to me the entire history of the past few months, omitting nothing.’
Heartened by these words, Sampson leaned forward and began his tale:
‘I have been aboard the Matilda Briggs four years. I signed on directly out of the mercantile service. This is my first position, and I’ve been happy with it up until the past few weeks. Naturally, I don’t want to give notice, but recent events may force me to.
‘The Matilda Briggs makes a fairly regular run between London and Batavia. We haul freight and, now and then, passengers as well. There has never been a mishap aboard her, and nothing amiss until this last voyage. We’d loaded up in Batavia in the middle of July and were set to put out. We were delayed, however, by the arrival of Mr Ripley, a missionary from the interior, who sought passage to London. This is often the way with cargo vessels, since any loss in time is offset by passage fees. Mr Ripley seemed pleasant enough, and no doubt paid Captain McGuinness handsomely for passage for the three of them –’
‘Three of them?’
‘Yes, sir, he arrived with two companions. His friend Mr Jones, who apparently had been a sailor, and his man Wangi, a horrible wretch he brought with him from the interior. An ugly, heathen devil with a hump on his back...
‘Well, shortly after they came aboard, the three of them: Reverend Ripley, his friend Jones, and our Captain McGuinness had a long gam in the cabin. Afterwards, the first of the queer things occurs: the Captain calls us aft and announces that, as of that time forward, Mr Jones is First Mate, replacing Armstrong. We were dumbstruck by this, since Armstrong’s the finest mate in the packet trade. But the Captain’s word is law, as you gentlemen may know. So there we were, stuck with the situation, you might say.
‘But we got off all right, sailing with the tide that evening. There was a fresh wind up, and we fairly boomed along. It was mighty pleasant, except that Captain McGuinness seemed out of sorts, as if some strong spell were upon him. This was most unusual for him, such a pleasant man as he is.
‘We soon entered the Straits of Sunda, and it was here that the second strange episode took place. Directly we left the straits behind us, Captain McGuinness gives the order to change course. Instead of proceeding along the usual route, which would take the Briggs just under the tip of India and Ceylon, he took the ship northwards. We were then running along the coast of Sumatra. When I enquired as to the reason for this change in plans, the Captain brushed me off. “Oh, Johnny,” says he, “the Reverend Ripley has a final bit of business to transact before we make for England. He must make a quick stopover on the coast to visit his mission.” Informed it would only take a day or so, and realizing it was for the good of the church, we obeyed willingly enough – though some of the crew were mad as hornets about it, they being in a rush to get home...’
The boatswain paused to sip his brandy and light the cigarette I’d offered him, then continued.
‘A day and a half later, the Briggs eased into a deep inlet halfway up the Sumatran coast. We dropped anchor in the sheltered lagoon. It was lovely enough: the inlet was fringed with palm trees and wide beaches, and the water was so blue and clear it hurt your eyes to look at it. We all stayed aboard whilst Ripley and Jones went ashore in the jolly boat. We frittered away the time on deck till they returned, which was at sunset. But rather than hoist anchor and be on our way, the Captain, with the passengers on each side of him, calls his petty officers aft.
‘“See here, men,” he says, “our good passenger, Reverend Ripley, thanks you for your kind patience. We will sail with the tide tomorrow morning and resume our usual course. In the meantime, Mr Ripley has been kind enough to provide you and the crew with a treat.” So saying, the three of them hoisted a keg from the after hold. “Roll it forward, men,” shouts Mr Ripley, “and let each have his full share!”
‘Well, we all thought it was bully, and raised a cheer for Mr Ripley and the Captain. I was whooping as loud as the rest, but noticed that Captain McGuinness looked anything but happy. Indeed, he seemed more worried than ever. This, and the fact that doling out rum is a strange custom for a reverend, should have set me thinking. But I was lost in the moment, as they say. Jones and I rolled the cask forward and what a carrying on there was that night! I’ve never been much for drink on account of my upbringing, Mr Holmes, and was also aware of my duties as boatswain. But Mr Ripley, seeing I wasn’t pitching in with the others, came forward to set me at ease.
‘“Don’t worry, lad,” he says to me, “there’s nothing in this calm inlet can harm your ship. The three of us shall stand the watch tonight, so have your fun.” Of course, I must ask the Captain and he weakly gave in, saying we should all indulge the reverend in his kindness. So I joined in the merrymaking, and a real ripper of a party it was too. Considering the potency of the rum, and the amount of it, it wasn’t long before the crew was senseless in the foc’sle – many of them unable even to find their bunks.’
Here the boatswain paused for another sip.
‘I had turned in ahead of the others. The only one to beat me turning flukes was Jenard, who I saw was fast asleep. By and by – it was very late – I was awakened. I sat up in my bunk. Save for the drunken snoring of the crew, the ship was quiet. But then I heard it: the clanking of the aft windlass. The noise stopped, and I heard a distant thumping upon the deck.
‘“Sampson!” A hoarse whisper cried, “Sampson, are ye about?”
‘It was Jenard. I answered that I was indeed awake, and was curious to know who’d been turning the windlass.
‘“Let’s be topside,” says I, “and see what’s what.”
We made our way in the darkness of the foc’sle through the clots of men, lying where they had fallen in the stupor, and scurried up the forehatch. We’d heard stories of the Indian Ocean pirates you may be sure, but Jenard was a good fellow in a fight, and I’ve never considered myself a pushover. He was in the lead, and he’d no sooner popped his head up and looked aft when he
ducked it down, saying: “Something queer’s up, Johnny, we’d better lay low.”
‘Now I’ve never been a fellow to sneak about ferret-like, and considering my position as bos’n, it was my duty to render assistance if the ship were in any difficulty. So I led Jenard up the forehatch. It was a fair night, but black as pitch owing to a new moon. It was then that we spied a knot of men on the quarterdeck, leaning over the taffrail. A lighted lantern was all that made them visible, and we could scarcely hear their voices. As we reached the main hatches, we could see it was our Captain McGuinness, Reverend Ripley, and his two companions. They were talking excitedly in hushed tones, and were peering sharp out into the darkness.
‘It was obvious they were waiting for a boat of some sort, and it was also clear they wanted none of the crew to know about their rendezvous. But curiosity had got the best of us, so Jenard and I slipped over the gunwale as quiet as cats. Our feet on the main channels, we crouched behind the deadeyes and shrouds. From where we hid, we could look out across the water, and had a clear view of the men on deck as well.
‘By and by, we saw a light twinkling far off on the water and drawing closer every minute. It excited the men a great deal, the evil Wangi especially, who fairly danced and spouted gibberish until he was hushed by a blow across the face from the Reverend Ripley. The light on the water was extinguished, and in its place, a triangular sail appeared. As it drew closer, we could see it was a lateen rig – a native boat, and swarming with the heathen devils!’
Sampson paused for another sip, and I observed that Holmes’ face bore a look of rapt attention as he leaned forward in his chair.
‘The boat, a sleek dhow trader, came up alongside, not forty feet from us, but, owing to the darkness of the night, we were invisible. The crew was a wicked lot, clad in white robes and turbans, their dark faces gleaming in the lantern light, and daggers in their sashes. A dozen of their number swarmed aboard the Briggs, then busied themselves rigging a jury derrick to the mizzen. I again heard the windlass turning and the clinking of the heavy pawls as they fell into place. It was then that Jenard and I noticed a large crate lashed to the deck of the native boat. It was a full yard high and deep, and the length of a man. It was of the stoutest timber and must have been of considerable weight, since the windlass was required to hoist it, by means of the heavy tackle, on to the deck of the Briggs. It was then lowered into the after hold, through the hatch on the quarterdeck. Throughout the entire proceedings, hardly a word was spoken by anyone, and the utmost care was taken to maintain silence. Having watched these strange events, and the manner in which they were executed, I was firmly convinced that our once-honest Captain was engaged in smuggling. It may surprise you, gentlemen, but such activities are not at all uncommon, especially in the far reaches of the world. As the heathen crew was making ready to sail off, Jenard and I returned to the foc’sle.
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 3
