The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Richard L. Boyer

  ‘“Jenard,” says I, after crawling into my bunk, “I think it the best thing if we don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. There’s not much we can do in the middle of the Indian Ocean now, is there? When we reach London, I’ll notify the authorities.” He agreed wholeheartedly, and, thinking the matter ended, we turned in.’

  John Sampson paused again, and the anxiety which Holmes had laid to rest welled up in him once again.

  ‘It’s here that the fantastic part of my tale begins,’ he said nervously. ‘Two nights after our episode, I was enjoying my evening pipe on the foredeck, as is my custom, when Jenard sought me out.

  ‘“Johnny,” he pleaded, “may I have a word with ye?” His eyes shone as if with fever, and despite his deep tan, I could see the pallor in his face. I begged him to tell me all that troubled him.

  ‘“Johnny,” he cried, all a-quiver, “would ye think me daft if I told you that I’ve seen a monster rat?”’

  At these words, Holmes started visibly. In disbelief, we exchanged a quick glance. Holmes grew yet more attentive, leaning forward on the very edge of his chair. John Sampson continued his tale.

  ‘So shocked was I at hearing this exclamation that I asked my shipmate to sit down and repeat it.

  ‘“A rat, Johnny,” he said. “A rat as big as all Creation!”

  ‘Upon hearing these words, I naturally supposed the poor fellow to be ill. I advised him to get out of the sun, and was about to summon assistance, but he was so strong in his manner, Mr Holmes, and such a close friend, that this action seemed a betrayal. Seeing that nobody was within earshot, I asked him to tell me how he came about seeing this creature.

  ‘He explained that he had observed Jones entering the after hold, which is below the officers’ quarters, and reserved solely for their use, with a large bundle of food. Curious, he had followed the mate and seen him enter the stern locker. As the door swung open, he’d caught a glimpse of what he claimed was a monster rat.

  ‘“I saw its face I tell you, peering out from the crate. It was a rat’s face, Johnny, as big as a keg!”

  ‘Sitting there on the foredeck in the lovely evening, I felt that his tale was incredible. The Matilda Briggs had resumed her normal course and the morale of the crew, owing to the generosity of Reverend Ripley, couldn’t have been higher. How strange then, to think of this ungodly monster less than fifty yards from where I lay and smoked my pipe! Yet he insisted that the creature was on board, and in so earnest a fashion that I felt bound to verify his story.

  ‘That night, we concealed ourselves in the aft passageway shortly after midnight. At this time of course, the crew is either on duty topside or secured in the foc’sle, and since it is always dark below decks even with the paraffin lamps, concealing ourselves amongst the cargo was no problem.

  ‘Presently, Jones appeared bearing a large bundle, which we supposed to be food. We watched intently as he unlocked the stout door that led to the hold and entered. He did not close the door after him, but paused to light a lamp. It was then, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, when the lamplight filled the little hold, that I beheld the face of the giant rat.’

  John Sampson’s manner became earnest, persuasive, as if he were eager to convince us of the validity of his amazing tale.

  ‘It was a rat, gentlemen. Of that I am sure. I’ve been at sea long enough to know a rat when I see one. But its size! It had upright, roundish ears, a twitching, rodent snout –’

  ‘You saw the entire animal?’

  ‘No, Mr Holmes, only the head, which peered out through a hole cut in the crate. A brief glimpse of the monster was all we were allowed, for the next instant Jones closed the door, and we made our way back to the foc’sle, full of fear and wonder.’

  ‘Is it not possible,’ I enquired, ‘that this “monster” could have been a puppet contrivance fashioned from animal fur?’

  ‘No, sir, of that I’m sure. It was not a puppet, nor the trick of a magic lantern. It was a live, breathing animal, for we heard it snort, and saw the eyes roll, the teeth gnash in a most horrible fashion! It was the most fearsome and repulsive object I have ever looked upon, for a rat is surely the lowest of God’s creatures... but a rat the size of a calf!

  ‘Of course,’ the boatswain continued, ‘it wasn’t very long before others of the crew had seen it also, and within two days the entire crew was paralysed with fear. No one would venture even into the aft passage, but clung tightly to the foc’sle except when on duty. Every rat on board was searched out and flung overboard, lest they somehow breed with the monster and overrun the ship. Never have I seen a body of grown men so gripped in terror. I cannot describe the relief we all felt when we made port yesterday. To a man, we cleared the ship, and most won’t venture back, even though we’ve not been paid. There has been no talk of the monster on the docks, for fear of being ridiculed, or thought insane.’

  ‘The Captain McGuinness, the Reverend Ripley and the two other passengers, are they on board the Matilda Briggs?’

  The boatswain’s face darkened.

  ‘The main purpose of my visit this morning, Mr Holmes, is that I was informed by Mr Josiah Griggs that you might be of assistance in tracking down the killers of my friend. I have come in hopes that you will accompany me to the Matilda Briggs, for I am convinced that the people you have named are at least in part responsible for his murder.’

  ‘And you have decided not to leave the matter solely in your own hands. Mr Sampson, I see that you have brains as well as stature, for such an approach would be unwise, even dangerous. Now let me ask you a question: did the Matilda Briggs stop at Gravesend?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. Now we had best start for Limehouse. Come, Watson, with Sampson here we should be able to gain access to the ship without delay.’

  We were met on the stairway, however, by Inspector Lestrade and two constables.

  ‘Mr John Sampson,’ said the inspector gravely. ‘In the name of the Queen, I arrest you in connection with the murder of Raymond Jenard. It is my duty to inform you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.’

  Sampson said nothing as the iron bracelets were put on, but the look of astonishment and outrage revealed his emotions.

  ‘Mr Holmes, is there nothing you can do?’

  ‘I’m afraid not at present, Mr Sampson. I advise you to co-operate, and rest assured that both my companion and I shall be working night and day to clear you of this charge and secure your release. Lestrade, after you have delivered your prisoner, I would be obliged if you would secure a warrant and accompany us to the merchant ship Matilda Briggs, moored in Blackwall Reach.’

  ‘There’s a fine bit of English justice,’ I said bitterly, as Holmes and I waited for Lestrade’s return. ‘I must say, Holmes, I am surprised at your callous behaviour towards your client. The man comes to us, pours out his soul with the deepest trust and confidence, and at the end of this tale is hauled away to Clink Street. It’s appalling.’

  ‘I am in total agreement, Watson, were it not for one fact: John Sampson is best off behind bars for the time being. I fear his life is in grave danger, and can think of no safer place for him than in one of Her Majesty’s lockups. It was, in fact, with deep misgivings that Josiah Griggs recommended that he make the journey across town to our flat.’

  ‘Who the devil is Josiah Griggs?’

  ‘Josiah Griggs, my friend, is the elderly, rather uncouth sailor who unwisely tried to fool my fellow lodger. Now then, here’s Lestrade in a four-wheeler; fasten your oilskin, Watson, for the weather, I fear, has grown worse.’

  Three

  THE SHIP OF DEATH

  ‘I’m sure you’re aware, Holmes,’ remarked Lestrade as he settled nervously into the cushions of our carriage, drawing on the doubleclaro Havana cigar that Holmes had given him, ‘that we can’t hold Sampson for ever. He was taken merely in connection with the murder, not charged as having committed it.’

  ‘Have you take
n anyone else into custody? No? Then I pray that this excursion to Limehouse will put us on a new scent. What is your impression of the tale that Watson and I have related to you?’

  The inspector was shaken by a fit of laughter so intense that he all but choked on his cigar.

  ‘I must admit that my curiosity is pricked,’ said he whimsically, ‘but certainly it’s without foundation. An amazing cover story, if you ask me.’

  ‘Nevertheless, one we can easily verify or repudiate; surely we shall track down other members of the crew. Let me ask you, gentlemen, does this tale bring any others to mind?’

  Holmes sat with a twinkle in his eye, but the rest of his features bore a grave expression.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ exclaimed Lestrade at last. ‘Five years ago, in eighty-nine.’

  ‘You mean the Baskerville business?’ I interjected.

  ‘The very same, Watson. Now if ever a tale had foundation, that one had, and yet to the casual listener it was merely diabolical nonsense.’

  ‘But the animal you shot to death on the Grimpen Moor that night was still a hound,’ said Lestrade. ‘A huge beast, but a genuine one. The mere thought of a rat any bigger than a house cat is incredible. Yet this man Sampson claims to have seem a rat as large as a calf. Impossible!’

  ‘And yet the islands that comprise the Javanese archipelago contain some very interesting fauna,’ my companion continued. ‘As a matter of fact, according to Charles Darwin, insular animal populations, being cut off from the rest of their species, tend towards freakishness – especially insofar as size is concerned. The giant land tortoises of the Galapagos figure prominently in The Voyage of the Beagle. And Kodiak Island, in the Aleutian Sea, is the home of the largest bear on earth. On the diminutive side, we have our miniature ponies of the Shetland Isles...’

  Lestrade knit his brow.

  ‘I’m an amateur student of zoology, but I am aware that the islands of Java contain two unique species: one is a rare rhinoceros the size of a spaniel dog, the other is a gigantic lizard, named Komodo after the island it inhabits. Is it not possible, gentlemen, that the interior of one of these primeval specks of land plays host to a race of monster rodents?’

  The mention of the Devon tragedies of four years ago, and the speculation around Sampson’s weird tale set my nerves on edge. Glancing out the carriage window, I could see coaches dashing through puddles and driving over the shiny paving stones. Working men in raincoats scurried about their business, slick with water and raw with chill. Though the hour was before noon, it was dark. It was hard to see, yet I could tell by the gradual decline of the neighbourhoods that we were on East Commercial Road, and approaching the Isle of Dogs for the second time in four and twenty hours. I lighted a cigarette and, for diversion, asked Holmes to explain the contradiction that he had found in the two Morning Post articles.

  ‘You see, gentlemen,’ he explained, ‘it is natural for most people to assume that the fire began in McNulty’s warehouse for two reasons. First, fires often begin in warehouses in the early evening: a departing stevedore is careless with his pipe. He leaves a spark behind which goes unnoticed in the empty building. Secondly, this type of building, being large and airy, burns more fiercely, hence people assume the fire started on the premises.

  ‘But in this case, the fact that seven people perished in the blaze is remarkable as well as tragic. I discovered this morning that all the seven dwelt in the residence at 22 Preston Road, the same residence as Jenard’s. Considering the hour of the fire’s inception, it is incredible to think that the blaze erupted in the neighbouring warehouse. The inhabitants were obviously awake and alert at such an hour, most probably at their evening meal. Had the fire begun in an adjacent building, they would have been sufficiently forewarned to escape to the street.

  ‘If, on the other hand, the blaze began in their own building on a lower floor, escape would be much more difficult. And yet, it would probably have been possible. What then, made escape impossible for these unfortunate victims? It was, in all probability, a combination of two things: a fire in the same building on a lower floor, and secondly, a fire that spread upward and outward with incredible speed and energy –’

  ‘You are inferring then that the blaze was unnatural?’ enquired Lestrade, leaning eagerly forward.

  ‘I’ve no doubt of it. The blaze started in Jenard’s quarters, and some substance, probably paraffin, was used to ensure a thorough job.’

  ‘Have you any idea what it was the arsonist wished to destroy?’ I asked.

  ‘If we had the answer to that question, we would be on the verge of a solution to the murder of Raymond Jenard, and perhaps the key to the puzzle of the Matilda Briggs’ fantastic voyage. It is clear that this band of cutthroats gives not a farthing for human life, and they are a desperate lot indeed to sacrifice innocent victims who had obviously played no part in their foul scheme. Watson, I have never been more determined to reach the solution of any problem that has ever been laid before me. I vow to bring them to justice, not only to avenge Raymond Jenard, but for the sake of the seven innocents who by circumstance were swept away, including one in particular – Abbie Welling, aged six.’

  A sigh escaped Lestrade’s lips at hearing this poignant detail. I again recalled, as I have on innumerable occasions throughout the years, the torn face of the girl’s mother as she clutched the tiny bundle in her arms. The revelation that the fire was deliberate sent hot rage coursing though me. I swore an oath of revenge, and knew I spoke for my friends as well, for their faces were full of fury. Truly, there were three grim men who disembarked from their four-wheeler at the banks of Blackwall Reach. Lestrade tugged at my sleeve as we walked towards the water. Looking back, the three of us could see a long plume of grey smoke and steam rising slowly up the river bank – the remnants of the previous night’s disaster.

  As our investigation with Lestrade was official, there was no delay in obtaining the assistance of Jennings, a customs house inspector who secured a launch for us. We descended the narrow stone stairway that led from the quay, with its gargantuan iron rings and bitts, down to the water’s edge. Here we boarded the steam launch of the customs house. It was an open, wooden vessel with a small steam engine aft. It was fired by soft coal evidently, for thick oily smoke rose out of the chimney pipe. It was stationary and silent until we were all seated, then Jennings turned a small valve at the base of the boiler, and the engine took life. A flip of the flywheel and the steady chuffing and clanging commenced. We cast off, and churned our way into the inscrutable mist beyond. The visibility had not improved; Jennings minded the tiller with great care, and kept our speed down to a crawl. Before long, large masses loomed out at us, and we found ourselves passing under the bows and transoms of sailing ships. Through the mist and rain, their upper spars were barely visible, which added to their ghost-like quality as they swung suddenly at their mooring cables.

  Above the clatter of the single-cylinder Jensen engine could be heard the shouts and curses of the sailors as they worked or gambled the time away. More than once from beyond the wooden bulkheads I caught the strains of a concertina. As we passed almost directly under the transom of a large barque I read in gilded letters: Rangoon, and recalled that she had arrived just a day before the Briggs, bound from Hong Kong.

  Jennings again turned the brass valve and the engine’s clatter ceased. A low groan of escaping steam and the chuckle of water were the only sounds to be heard. I cannot describe the melancholy I felt at this time. It was as if the engine’s chuffing served to drown out the oppressiveness of the rain and fog, and now in utter silence we drifted forth into the grey mist.

  ‘Keep a sharp eye out if you please,’ requested Jennings. ‘The Matilda Briggs lies dead ahead.’

  As if upon command, a dark, melancholy shape ghosted into view ahead of our bows. As we drifted closer, the shape became the dark, low hull of a packet trader. Perhaps it was her black hull, or the strange tale of violence that surrounded her, but she bore an aura of dread
and foreboding.

  Thrice we hailed her, but only the hollow echoes of our own voices responded.

  ‘Jennings, has she her dockside clearance yet?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Not to my knowledge, sir. There’s been no preparation for transfer at all, sir. The Captain must apply himself, or send his mate if he’s indisposed.’

  ‘And you have seen no one of his ship?’ enquired Lestrade.

  ‘No, sir. There has been no sign of life on or about her after the crew went ashore yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘The Captain and officers, do they remain aboard until the clearance is obtained?’

  ‘Usually that is the case. I would be much surprised if she were deserted.’

  ‘We had best board her and see for ourselves. Over yonder, Jennings, the boarding stair.’

  The three of us clambered up the frail boarding stairway whilst Jennings minded the painter.

  Seldom have I experienced a more ominous feeling than when I swung over the gunwale and planted my feet on the deck of the Matilda Briggs. She was a typical threemasted cargo vessel, around two hundred feet in length. What gave me pause was the dead silence, the desolation, of the ship – deserted and swaying at her cable like a waif.