Hawsers creaked and groaned. The water slapped hollowly below us. Meanwhile, Lestrade scurried about, flinging glances over the entire deck. Holmes paced in methodical fashion, his keen eyes roving deliberately round him, taking in everything. Watching them, one had the feeling that the London police detective epitomized energy and thoroughness. Holmes, on the other hand, gave an impression almost of leisure. Yet, one could not help but be aware of the incredible force, the terrible power and energy of the mind that churned behind the keen face.
I drew my waterproof more tightly round me, for the wind and rain brought an unbearable chill. No other vessels were visible through the mist. For all appearances we could have been in mid-Atlantic, and there was a profound feeling of melancholy and desolation.
I paced the deck forward to the hatch that Sampson had described. From there, I looked aft to the quarterdeck. In my mind’s eye I tried to picture the same scene in the middle of a tropical night, with scores of Malay tribesmen swarming like insects as they lowered the huge crate to the deck. I remembered the beast, and paused to consider: was it only the weather that caused me to shiver? Was that same monster lurking in its vile den somewhere below these very decks? I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned.
‘Whoa, Watson! Did I startle you?’
I was looking into Holmes’ face, the rainwater cascading off his cap.
‘So you see – Sampson’s powers of description are excellent. I might suggest he’s got a touch of the poet in him. You were, no doubt, reliving in your mind the strange events of several weeks ago. Here are the very channels in which the pair hid themselves,’ said Holmes, leaning over the side. ‘In this tangle of rigging, with its shrouds and halyards, great coils of line and pin rails, they were hidden. But mind, what a view they had of the proceedings! Come down here with me, Watson – there – now, see that gaff on the mizzen? That’s where the derrick was rigged. A block and tackle could then easily be lowered alongside to receive even a very large parcel.’
We were called from our reveries by the tolling of a bell.
‘Halloa! Anyone here?’ cried Lestrade as he snapped the lanyard back and forth. He stood at the mainmast. At his waist, the brass ship’s bell sang out mournfully.
‘I declare, Holmes,’ he continued. ‘This is odd... surely someone must be about. Let’s have a look below.’
‘Let us proceed then, but with caution,’ I warned.
Advancing on to the quarterdeck, we tried the aft companionway but found it bolted from within. Moving forward, we found the main companionway ajar. Sliding back the hatch, Lestrade bounded down, followed by Holmes, who was forced to stoop almost double. I managed to follow without much difficulty, and we found ourselves in some sort of narrow passageway, in almost total darkness. Suddenly Holmes shot back up the hatch. We heard his tread on the deck above. There was a heavy sliding sound, and, as if by miracle, the passageway was flooded with daylight.
‘Well now, Mr Holmes,’ remarked Lestrade as he returned. ‘I had no idea you’d been a sailor.’ He winked in my direction. ‘Next we’ll have you swarming up the ratlines to mind the braces, won’t we, Watson?’
‘I accept your compliments, Lestrade. I think that the inspection of the Matilda Briggs will be a great deal easier with the skylight open. Ha! You see? Look what we have here!’
He directed our attention to a tallow stub stuck on to a bulkhead timber just under the hatchway cover.
‘A candle butt. So? I’ll wager there are three score aboard this ship,’ I ventured.
‘A safe wager, too, Watson. Yet even ordinary objects, when used or placed in a certain way, can be suggestive. From what we see before us, we can perhaps put together a chain of events which will prove interesting.’
After noting carefully the position of the candle stub on the timber, Holmes plucked it delicately from its resting place and turned it round in his hand. Taking out his pocket knife and pocket lens, he shredded off a minute curl of the drippings which he scrutinized under the magnifying glass.
‘I say, Holmes,’ said Lestrade impatiently, ‘are you not exaggerating the significance of that bit of candle? There are surely more important matters to investigate.’
‘I’m not so sure, Lestrade,’ observed my companion. Lestrade waited in exasperated silence, stamping his booted feet against the cold.
‘We can say with reasonable certainty,’ Holmes said at last, still turning the stub in his fingers, ‘that the Matilda Briggs has been visited in the last twelve hours by a right-handed man of above average height.’
Lestrade and I stared blankly in amazement.
‘Furthermore,’ Holmes continued in a monotone, ‘he is unfamiliar with the ship, or at least this part of it. He undoubtedly used this very candle in a curious manner, which will I hope clarify his motives for visiting the ship. Also, he came in stealth, and wished his actions kept secret –’
‘Holmes! I never –’ interjected Lestrade.
‘And finally, he was obviously overcome with a tremendous emotional burden – in fact, driven to a frenzy that was unendurable.’
‘Dash it, Holmes, enough of this quackery!’ demanded Lestrade. ‘I challenge you to substantiate this outlandish set of deductions. If they make sense, I’ll pay for your luncheon!’
Holmes’ eyes sparkled. ‘Done, Lestrade! Where shall I begin? Ah, yes, the simplest first. The man’s height, you see, is elementary. The stub was placed on this timber, not either of the two lower ones. Furthermore, observe how this corner of the chandler’s bench sticks out. You see, one must bend over it before reaching up to place the candle – further evidence of the man’s height.’
‘I suppose that’s sensible enough,’ growled Lestrade, ‘but what about the other theories? How do you know the fellow came in stealth?’
Holmes pointed to a black object projecting from the bulkhead less than a yard from where the stub was found.
‘Of course, gentlemen, you know what this is. Quite so: a wrough-tiron candle sconce. Although differing slightly in appearance from the ordinary sconce, the caked tallow drippings in the dish and the small pile of spent Lucifers makes its identity obvious.
‘Now assuming the man was leaving the Briggs with a lighted candle in his hand, what more natural place to deposit the stub than in the sconce? But he did not use the sconce. Why not? Because he did not see the sconce. He’d extinguished the candle, you see, before entering the main passageway, and was forced to find his way out in darkness. Obviously, he did not wish to show even a candle light near the main hatch. Hence, he wished his visit kept secret.’
‘Remarkable, and yet simple,’ I mused.
‘We can also see by the sconce’s misuse that the man wasn’t familiar with the vessel, or at least wasn’t a crewman. If this were the case, he would have no doubt felt for the sconce in the darkness, since he would have been aware of its presence.’
“Then explain how it is that the man is right-handed,’ demanded Lestrade.
‘Very well, sir. Do you both observe how one side of the candle tip is much lower than the other? See how the drippings are clustered too on the opposite side of the depression?’
‘Of course I see it,’ said the detective. ‘It’s obvious that the man held the candle tipped to one side –’
‘Yes. Now notice how the thumb has left a hollow in the tallow drippings. The hollow points diagonally downward. See how my right thumb nearly matches the hollow, yet switching the stub to my left hand –’
‘It runs the opposite way from the thumb mark,’ I added. ‘It doesn’t fit.’
‘Of course not. The man held this stub in his right hand, and at a strange angle too – I am hopeful we will find additional signs of the use he put this candle to.’
‘Holmes,’ said Lestrade, ‘I’ll admit that you’ve indulged in a bit of cleverness here. And I’ll further admit that what you say makes some little sense. But I’m dashed if I can see how a candle butt can tell you that the visitor was here within the last t
welve hours. I’d be right obliged if you would explain this to me. And I’m sure Watson and I would both like to know what determines that the man was on the brink of mental collapse.’
‘Have you ever touched molten wax, Watson?’
‘Now and then, but I avoid it if possible,’ I chuckled.
‘Certainly you do. Molten wax is hot and painful. Yet here’s a man who allowed wet drippings to cover his thumb, and evidently bore this pain without notice. Therefore, something of enormous consequence was occupying his faculties. As for the evidence of elapsed time, I call your attention to this hallmark on the bottom of the stub.’
With this, Holmes then turned the stub upside down to reveal the following hallmark embossed in the wax:
‘It’s the Broad Arrow,’ observed Lestrade, looking at the candle bottom closely.
‘Yes, the mark with which government property is identified, from candles to cannon. This is a regulation Navy candle. They may be purchased at most marine supply houses. These candles contain much whale oil, and are highly prized because of their brilliance. I’ve made a rather thorough study of candle tallows, as Watson can vouch for. Now a candle high in spermaceti is brilliant, but too brittle for use. Therefore, the makers of our navy candles have added a good dose of beeswax. The two blend together remarkably well, and produce a candle that is bright, yet long-burning and durable. Because of the addition of beeswax, this tallow does not dry to brittleness for some time. As you may have observed when I peeled at the drippings with my pocket knife, the tallow parted in a fine curl – it did not flake or chip as the body of the candle would have. Observe too the colour of the drippings: they are of a delicate pale opalescence, not the opaque white of thoroughly dried wax. From these characteristics, I deduce with near certainty that this candle was lighted not more than twelve hours ago. For your edification, Lestrade, I would suggest, once again, that the smallest details are often of the gravest importance. And now, while I contemplate my free lunch, let us proceed to the forecastle.’
Leading an eager companion, and a somewhat irritable Lestrade, Holmes led us down the narrow passageway toward the bows of the Matilda Briggs. The odours of tar, hemp, and canvas were much in evidence. The huge oaken timbers creaked and groaned with dismal regularity as the ship rolled slightly in the current of the reach. For some reason, Holmes had departed from his usual detective habits. In the past I had grown used to observing him bent over like a strange old man, searching for footprints or a fallen object. Now, however, he held his head upright and seemed to scan the wooden beams and deckboards above.
Soon the passageway grew dark, and Holmes took Lestrade’s dark lantern to lead the way. Far ahead was a dull bluish glow.
‘The fore-hatchway,’ said Lestrade pointing.
We passed under the hatch, which was bolted with a stout brass rod, and proceeded through a low doorway into a large, triangular room. The room was illuminated almost imperceptibly by a pair of heavy glass ‘bullseyes’ set in the deck. Several hammocks were slung from the ceiling beams, but most of the crew apparently slept in bunks: the walls were ringed with them, fashioned from heavy timber and set one atop the other. What drew our attention immediately, however, was the untidiness of the compartment in general. While the sailors had evidently borne off their personal possessions before fleeing from the ship, the bunk mattresses and other ship’s paraphernalia were strewn about and heaped in corners.
‘Certainly not what I would call “shipshape”, eh, Watson?’
‘I should say not. It looks rather like the shambles of the Lower Form dormitory after the last day of Spring Term. The lads have certainly cleaned out in a rush, as Sampson stated.’
‘There is probably an explanation for it,’ said Lestrade. ‘I’m confident that after we speak with the Captain –’
‘Where is the Captain?’ I asked.
‘If he is aboard, we shall no doubt find him directly,’ said the detective in his most official tone. Despite his crisp manner, though, I had the feeling he wasn’t really quite sure of anything – at least aboard the Briggs.
‘Watson! Lestrade! Do come here! I believe I have found what I have been searching for –’
We turned and observed Holmes lying on his back in one of the upper berths. He held Lestrade’s lantern on his breast, and let the beam illuminate the ceiling timbers of the foc’sle.
The detective and I, placing our feet on the edge of the lower berth, leaned over and, by twisting our necks into an almost impossible position, could observe, in script letters three inches high, the following words done in candle smoke:
‘All is stairs and passageways
where the rat sleeps –
his treasure keeps.’
‘Well, gentlemen,’ enquired Holmes, from the deep recesses of the bunk, ‘what do you make of this latest find?’
‘It’s some sort of poem or riddle,’ I speculated, ‘and appears incomplete.’
‘The man wrote the passage whilst lying in his bunk obviously. I think it’s a warning. Notice that a rat is mentioned too,’ said Lestrade. ‘The question is: why would a man write a warning up on the timbers above his bunk? It’s absurd.’
‘An excellent point, Lestrade. For whom is the warning intended, and what does it mean? Or does it mean anything? I for one think it means a great deal,’ said Holmes as he rolled out of the bunk and lowered his angular body to the floor. ‘As you may have noticed, I have been looking for this writing in candle smoke since I examined the stub in the main passageway. It is curious that we find it over the bunk of a crewman. It would be interesting to know which man occupied this bunk...’
‘It was Jenard’s,’ I observed, pointing to a small metal plaque fixed with a spike to the head timber of the berth.
‘Excellent, Watson! I must confess I quite overlooked it, being so intent on what my search of the ceiling would reveal.’
‘This means Jenard wrote the words,’ I suggested.
‘Certainly,’ agreed Lestrade. ‘He perhaps had a dire feeling with regard to his own life, and left this crude cryptogram here to warn others or implicate the party whom he feared.’
‘Your conclusions are logical with regard to motive, my friends, but if what we deduce from the candle drippings is true, the message was written within the last twelve hours. At that time, poor Jenard was lying stone dead in the city Morgue, a shocked Sampson identifying his remains.’
Lestrade and I pondered this twist in silence.
‘Even assuming the evidence of the candle drippings is inconclusive, it is plain that Jenard, a left-hander, couldn’t have written these words. You remember, Watson, the markings I observed on his shirtcuff?’
I replied in the affirmative, and explained Holmes’ previous deduction to Lestrade, who grew still more confused.
‘We know that whoever held the candle was right-handed. Furthermore, after lying on the bunk for a few seconds and tracing the message with my own hands – even allowing for my long arms, I can see it would be impossible for the words to be written with the left hand. That hand, you see, is on the inside, and the proximity of the deck would render the task impossible for anyone save a contortionist. I think this chamber has told us all it can, at least for the present. There’s nothing to be found in this bunk, nor in the single one yonder, which I assume to be Bos’un Sampson’s. Let us then work our way aft and examine the officers’ quarters.’
We made our way back through the dark passageway towards the vessel’s stern. We passed the main hatch and, after a few steps, saw a faint gleaming which marked the after hatch. Passing under it, we came upon the termination of the main passage, which was marked by a cluster of doors.
‘There are the officers’ quarters,’ remarked Lestrade.
‘Yes, but which compartment belongs to which?’ I asked. Realizing that our knowledge of maritime life was limited, Holmes sent me up to fetch Jennings.
‘These two belong to the mates, or other petty officers,’ said Jennings, pointing to th
e two doors nearest us, one on each side of the passage. ‘The Captain’s cabin, or main cabin, will be that one, in the centre furthest aft.’
‘And if the vessel were to take on passengers?’ asked Holmes.
‘The passengers would be berthed in either of these two cabins, the two mates doubling up in the other one.’
We tried the doors of the two smaller cabins and found them locked. Proceeding to the main door, Lestrade rapped sharply. He rapped and hailed alternately, but there was no answer.
Trying out the latch, we were somewhat startled to find the door swung open without effort. I had seen a Captain’s cabin only once before, on my return voyage to England aboard the troopship Orontes. That fleeting glimpse was during a spell of the enteric fever which had necessitated my leaving Afghanistan, so the recollection was somewhat foggy. However, glancing at the main cabin of the Matilda Briggs seemed to bring those distant memories sharply into focus, for the two cabins were similar. A low ceiling, slightly curved and set with heavy beams, several small windows set in the transom, a trim bunk bed and tidy desk, bookshelves laden with maritime tomes, all these could possibly have been found in any sailing ship of the period. Dull greyish light filtered in through the windows and played upon the brass lamp that swung slowly from a chain over the desk.
The compartment was somewhat gloomy, but appeared to be in order; there was none of the untidiness that we had observed in the foc’sle.
‘It appears that Captain McGuinness is preparing to take leave but has not yet done so,’ observed Holmes, pointing to a fully packed carpet bag near the bed. ‘We had best not touch anything here, Lestrade, until we speak with him.’
‘He is most likely in the hold, gentlemen. It is often the custom of the Captain and his chief steward to examine the cargo directly before unloading so as to determine pilferage or spoilage. If you wish, I’ll go below and hunt him up.’
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 5
