As Jennings disappeared down a short ladder we seated ourselves and lighted pipes. In apparent disregard of his own suggestion, Holmes plucked a leather-bound volume from the shelf and began to search through it. His close inspection of the volume, which I assumed to be the ship’s log, was interrupted only by an occasional grunt of satisfaction or surprise. After a few moments of this examination, he brought the volume over to us.
‘See here,’ said he, showing us two pages from the log, ‘here’s evidence enough that all is not well aboard the Briggs. Lestrade, I ask you to examine this handwriting – never mind what it says.’
The detective duly scanned the large, well-formed script whilst I looked over his shoulder.
‘Nothing too unusual, Holmes.’
‘Precisely. It is good handwriting. It was written in May, during the Briggs’ outward voyage to the Orient. It is a strong hand, with distinction and some flourish. I would say offhand it indicates a person of strong character and generosity. Now, Watson, I’d like you to examine this specimen.’
‘It’s clear that the mate wrote these passages. The hand is altogether different.’
‘Careful, Watson – don’t jump to conclusions. Do you see any similarities?’
‘Now that you mention it, there is a marked resemblance in the lower case “o”s.’
‘Yes,’ interjected Lestrade, ‘and notice the curious tail on the letter “y” when it completes a word. These could even be the same hand, and yet –’
‘– and yet while the one is strong and steady, the later is weak, unsteady, without character,’ added Holmes. ‘I tell you, Lestrade, one day there will be a complete and legitimate science dealing with handwriting. Few things reveal as much about a person’s character or emotional state as his hand. It is clear that James McGuinness wrote both passages, yet the later passage, penned only a few weeks ago, reveals that the Captain was on the verge of cracking under an intolerable strain. The log itself reveals nothing of Sampson’s strange tale, if indeed there’s truth to it. It is plain we shall have to depend on the Captain himself to – My God!’
Holmes was interrupted by a sound I shall not forget for the rest of my days. It was a scream, or rather a high-pitched, hoarse shriek that rang about the ship like the trumpet of Doomsday.
It lasted for what seemed an eternity, then ceased. We sprang from the cabin, almost tripping over each other in our haste. We had not gone more than a few feet down the passage, when the shriek sounded again – it was pitched still higher, and sounded even more terrifying.
‘Down here!’ shouted Holmes, and dove down the ladderway into the hold.
The hold was shrouded in total blackness. The three of us groped our way forward frantically. After much difficulty, we succeeded only in working our way into a blind alley. Bales and hogsheads formed high walls on three sides of us.
‘We must take our time,’ insisted Holmes. ‘In my haste, I left the lantern behind. It is quite possible, I fear, to become lost in this labyrinth for days. Listen!’
A low, mumbling sound came faintly to my ears. After several seconds I recognized it to be a human voice. The words were not audible, but their tone suggested profound grief and agony.
Slowly, the three of us crept forward, feeling our way in the darkness towards the sonorous, dirge-like chanting. For it was a chant, and as we drew nearer the sound I recognized the words ‘Dear God, Dear God’ being repeated.
After some time, I felt a ladder brush against me. Realizing it was the same one by which we had entered the hold, it became clear to me that we had turned the wrong way upon entering. We were now heading aft, and a short distance ahead could be seen a dimly lighted doorway. I heard a metallic click from Holmes’ direction, and knew he had drawn his revolver. Lestrade and I followed suit.
‘This is no doubt the after hold Sampson mentioned,’ said Holmes in a hoarse whisper. ‘Let us proceed.’
An instant later the ship took a roll, and, as if to announce our arrival, the thick oaken door ahead of us slowly swung open with a terrible groaning of its massive iron hinges. The chamber within was small, perhaps built for the personal possessions of the Captain. It was not more than fifteen feet on a side, and was low-ceilinged. In the split second that I examined the chamber itself, rather than its contents, I was aware of large iron rings set in the wall timbers, these no doubt used to lash cargo securely. There was another door, quite small, at the far wall of the after hold. It was shut and bolted with a heavy timber.
The dismal chamber was illuminated dully by a candle. The candle was held aloft by Jennings, who stood in the doorway, frozen in terror. His blank gaze was fixed on what lay in the centre of the small room, sprawled in a heap. We entered the room quickly and calmed Jennings, who had ceased his mumbling. Holmes took the candle and examined more closely the corpse on the floor. The man was dressed to go ashore, and from his cap, which lay a few feet from the body, we guessed him to be Captain James McGuinness.
It was only after Lestrade had led the shaken Jennings topside with orders to summon additional men that Holmes leaned over towards me and asked:
‘What of these wounds, Watson? Surely I have not come across the likes of this before. See here, all about his chest and throat. What sort of weapon do you suppose –’
‘Holmes!’ I shouted, rising. ‘Let us be off this ship at once!’
‘Steady, Watson!’ said Holmes as he gripped my shoulder. ‘Watson, you’re reeling... there, hold on –’
But at that instant a claustic fit came upon me, and I wanted nothing so much as to quit the dungeon-like bowels of the ship and breathe fresh air. Things went dim, and I was half-conscious of fighting my way somehow to the main hatchway, Holmes steadying me all the way. There I sat near the skylight until things came into a sharper focus.
‘There, you’re feeling better, eh Watson?’
I saw Holmes’ eager face peering down into mine, as he steadied me with a firm grip on my shoulder.
‘I lost control of myself, Holmes,’ I remarked bitterly. ‘I am truly sorry to have disappointed you.’
‘Think nothing of it, dear fellow. Perhaps it was the closeness of the chamber itself, as well as the contents. Tell me, were you not conscious of a foul stench?’
‘Yes, certainly – a heavy animal smell. But as to what upset me –’
‘I was going to remark that something upon the corpse set you reeling, and I know you well enough, my friend, to know that you aren’t upset by a trifle.’
‘Holmes,’ I intoned solemnly, ‘you asked me what weapon was responsible for the wounds on the victim...’
‘Yes, that seems a puzzle. No knife could have –’
‘No knife was used. The wounds upon the Captain’s throat are teethmarks.’
‘You are certain?’
‘I am positive. And what makes it all the more shocking and, if you will, mysterious, is the fact that they are no ordinary teeth.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The wounds weren’t inflicted by fangs, as a large dog or cat would possess. Nor are they tusks, such as wild pigs have. They were, I fear, incisors – or, if we can give even the slightest credence to Sampson’s tale, the teethmarks of a giant rat.’
Four
RED SCANLON AT THE BINNACLE
Events moved quickly: Jennings was dispatched to the customs house, and within an hour the Matilda Briggs was swarming with inspectors and detectives.
A thorough search was made of the entire vessel. The cargo holds were examined, but yielded up nothing save the original cargo, which consisted of copra, raw silk, and small amounts of tea and tin. Holmes, Lestrade and I returned to the murder chamber and again examined the corpse. Despite his outward show of official confidence, Lestrade appeared inwardly shaken and confused. Holmes said nothing during our inspection tour of the after hold, but his face was full of the keenest interest and curiosity.
The Captain’s body lay twisted on its side, as if he were trying desperately to es
cape. His lips curled back in a grotesque grin; his face bore a look of unimaginable horror. He had put up some resistance, as indicated by the condition of his hands and the flecks of blood on the sides of the chamber. The beast, whatever it was, that killed him, undoubtedly possessed great strength and incredible ferocity, for the man’s neck was nearly severed. An indication of the animal’s size could be roughly gauged from the crate that stood against the far wall. It was of the dimensions Sampson had described: six feet long by three feet high and wide. At one end, a hole a foot in diameter had been cut. It was through this hole apparently that the monster thrust his head. Holmes examined everything with the patience and thoroughness that were his hallmark. The musky odour that lingered in the small room suggested a beast had been quartered there, and recently. Yet no sign of the animal itself was found. The only interesting discovery we found in the after hold was a transom port, or ‘lumber hole’ as I believe the sailors call it. It was a hatchway cut horizontally through the transom of the ship, and fastened, when not in use, by the small stout door, heavily bolted, that I had observed when first entering the hold. Jennings, who had by this time recovered from his shock, explained to us that this type of hatch facilitates the loading on of long pieces of lumber, even entire logs, that would not fit down the deck hatchways.
‘Tell me, Jennings,’ enquired Holmes, ‘does the Briggs generally haul lumber?’
‘I believe not, sir,’ was the reply. ‘To my knowledge, she has not hauled lumber under her present owner.’
‘Then this hatchway should not have been used for several years at least. It appears to have fallen into disuse, doesn’t it, Watson? Notice the heavy rust on the hinges, and the marks of discoloration on the wooden beams where they have touched the metal. Yet, I would call your attention, gentlemen, to three curious things.’
Holmes swung the door open.
‘First, note the ease with which the door swings. This is most odd for a heavy door not often used. Secondly, note the hinge joints: see how the rust, heavy as it is, is broken and chipped along each groove. Finally, through my lens, observe if you can the minute burring of the iron latch where it strikes the plate – and the shiny metal it leaves. Now gentlemen – one of these signs by itself could be accidental. Two could perhaps be coincidence. But the three of them together force us to conclude that this hatchway was indeed opened, and opened recently.’
Engrossed, the three of us peered out the small doorway, which was large enough for a man to crawl through. The water seemed surprisingly close, certainly not more than six feet below us. We left the grim cubicle behind and returned down the boarding stair to the launch. Shivering by this time, we huddled on the cushions while Jennings got us underway.
‘The question is, why was the portway opened?’ said Lestrade, as he smoked in the bow.
‘Obviously,’ I replied, ‘to enable someone, or something, to leave the ship unobtrusively.’
‘There are many questions that need answering,’ remarked Holmes as he lit a cigarette. ‘Who was the night-time visitor with the candle? Did he murder Captain McGuinness? If so, how? To all appearances, the man was worried to death by a large beast. A giant rat? It is hardly believable, yet Sampson swears he saw such a creature. Certainly the after hold smelled of an animal. And there is no denying the teethmarks on the corpse. Ah, here we are at the quay. Mind the painter, Lestrade.
‘Now, Lestrade, I’ll allow you to live up to your reputation as a man of your word. I know of a lively little inn not far from here much frequented by sailors. It serves excellent beer, good boiled beef, and much dockside gossip. You needn’t scowl, my friend; the prices are reasonable. Let us be off.’
We left the iron gates of the customs house behind, and began a twenty-minute expedition through the labyrinth of winding streets and dingy lanes of Limehouse. The object of our quest was the Binnacle public house, an ancient, heavy-timbered establishment named after the enormous brass nautical instrument that stands near the doorway. It is located in Robin Hood Lane, and under its swinging, dripping sign we entered, descended four stone steps, and found ourselves in a low, narrow room that seemed to extend for ever in a series of hallways and turns. We were shown to a table by a stout woman who had three mugs of the dark beer in front of us almost before we were seated. The ale was a refreshing bracer after our morning, and the beef and onions were a fine accompaniment.
‘But of all the unanswered questions,’ pursued Holmes, ‘the most unexplainable seems to be the message above Jenard’s bunk. It was plainly put there by our night visitor to the Briggs. We know the visitor was not of the crew, and the time of the visit was after Jenard’s death. Yet, the visitor wishes us to believe it was Jenard who wrote the message. Why does he wish this, and what does he want us to take from the message?’
‘All is stairs and passageways where the rat sleeps –’ I chanted.
‘... his treasure keeps...’ continued Lestrade.
‘What’s the treasure?’ I asked. ‘Do you suppose that Captain McGuinness was engaged in smuggling?’
‘It is certainly possible,’ said Holmes. ‘The message, though, seems puzzling in another regard. It mentions stairs where the rat sleeps... I cannot recall any stairs.’
‘True – there were none, only passageways,’ I remarked. ‘Furthermore, we can see by the author’s use of the word is, rather than are, that he is illiterate.’
Holmes’ thin lips curled into a hint of a smile at this observation.
‘Yes, Watson, that is cerainly the most logical explanation,’ he said, with a curious gleam in his eye.
At that instant our thoughts were interrupted by a great din of shouts and oaths emerging from the parlour bar of the inn. Leaving our table, we wound our way back to the front room of the Binnacle. There, in the low-ceilinged drinking room was a great commotion: a dozen or so sailors were clustered around one of their number who, soaked with rain, had apparently just entered the establishment. It was some time before the group settled down enough for their conversation to become intelligible. We caught a few phrases with the words ‘murder’, and ‘Matilda Briggs’, from across the crowded room. We drew closer to the group.
‘... just before noon, so I heered it,’ said the sailor who had just entered. He was very large, with a bushy red beard and bald head. He had shed his overcoat, and stood at the bar, pausing in his narrative to drain the pint in a single gulp and slam the mug down upon the bar as a signal for another. The bartender, although complying with the request, was apparently too slow for him.
‘Step to it, Alf, mind you hurry! Red Scanlon is thirsty and, from what I seen this mornin’, will have me six or seven more before I leave...’
He received his porter, turned away from the bartender without thought of paying and, aware of his captive audience, demanded tobacco and the best fireside bench before continuing. The knot of men leaned close in eagerness, and bore the look of fear and wonder on their faces, as Red Scanlon, obviously a master storyteller, went on:
‘Well, the first I laid eyes on was old Jennings, slinking around the quay he was, and lookin’ pale as death. So I says “What’s up?” But he don’t answer, don’t acknowledge, and I sees three glum lookin’ gentlemen followin’ close behind – coppers most likely. Well, I knows now it’s something bad, and most likely to do with the Briggs you see, because of...’
At this point, the storyteller paused.
‘Because of what?’ several in the group demanded.
Scanlon eyed the questioners uneasily; his eyes lost their boldness and appeared to shift slightly. Two men in the group remained silent, as if they were aware of what Scanlon was referring to.
‘Well now, Scotty, you wasn’t berthed on the Briggs, now was you? Then o’ course, you don’t know... but Winkler, and Thomas here, they know –’
The two men indicated shook their heads ever so slightly, as if to convey their wish to avoid the reference altogether.
‘Are you by chance referring to the giant rat
of Sumatra?’ a clear voice enquired.
The huge sailor lowered his mug and peered uncertainly beyond the group towards the doorway where we stood. Through the dim light of the room, his eyes fixed upon Holmes, leaning nonchalantly against the doorway, for it was he who had asked the question. Scanlon rose and advanced with a catlike silence that was amazing for a man of his stature, and menacing.
‘See here, whoever you may be...’ he began in a low voice, then hesitated as he inspected the three of us. ‘Why, by Jove, it’s the three glum gentlemen!’
‘I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,’ began our companion, but he was cut short.
‘Now see here, gentlemen,’ said Scanlon quickly, ‘if it’s about that business, me and my mates here want no part of it. We don’t know nothin’, do we, Thomas? Winkler? No, sir, you see? Now if it’s the same to you, good gentlemen, we’ll be poppin’ off –’
‘In the name of the Queen I must ask you to remain,’ commanded Lestrade, ‘and your two shipmates as well.’
Now the entire group of seamen was staring sullenly at us, and I noticed, not without uneasiness, that one of them had seized the fireplace poker and was holding it firmly across his knees. The lively festivity of the Binnacle had given way to an ominous silence. As I felt the poisonous stares all round me, I realized how far indeed we were from Regent’s Park, in distance vertical as well as linear. Lestrade, however, always the policeman, seemed unaware of our true situation, and surged ahead in his most officious manner.
‘I would recommend you don’t resist,’ he said, shaking his finger at Scanlon. ‘Your Boatswain Sampson had the good sense to co-operate. Now if you will –’
The men brightened noticeably at the mention of Sampson’s name. It was evident, and not surprising, that they held warm affection for him.
‘Then you’ve met Johnny?’
‘Yes. Met and arrested him,’ continued the detective, blithely unaware that the group had risen and was forming a crude circle around us. ‘And I hereby warn you that if you fail to co-operate, you’ll all soon be joining him behind bars. Now if –’
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 6
