The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Richard L. Boyer

  ‘Well, well,’ mused my companion, and it seemed to me almost an attempt at levity. However, his countenance certainly was anything but light. In fact, it was one of those rare moments when Sherlock Holmes appeared lost. He stared keenly at the doorway to the public house for some time, then glanced carefully all round us. As the seconds ticked by, it became more and more apparent to me that he had been taken completely off guard. Knowing the rarity of such an occurrence, I became uneasy. I felt it necessary to break the silence.

  ‘You were expecting the trail to lead elsewhere, were you not?’ I asked.

  ‘I must confess that I certainly was not expecting it to end here,’ he replied, with a flicker of amusement. ‘Surely you sense the irony, the brashness, eh, Watson? Very few criminals would have the gall of this Ripley... very few – wouldn’t you agree?’

  Some fifteen minutes later we were packed into a four-wheeler bound for Baker Street. Our friends Nip and Tuck (for which, to our annoyance, we were obliged to pay half-fare) were strewn between our feet. Holmes, still not fully recovered from the surprise of our last discovery, gazed out the carriage window.

  ‘The cheek, Watson, the absolute cheek!’

  ‘I don’t quite follow you, Holmes.’

  ‘You don’t follow me, but Ripley has,’ he snorted. ‘Don’t you see? He followed the three of us to the Binnacle yesterday. It is obvious from the trail he left. Did you note how the dogs wheeled and paused in the narrow doorway across the street from the pub? No doubt that is where he ducked in to wait until we entered. So our missionary friend is not jouncing over the countryside escaping in a wagon after all, but here in London, dogging us... which raises certain other questions, which you’ve probably asked yourself.’

  ‘I have not been raising questions with myself, other than the most obvious one, which is where did Ripley go after he left the Binnacle?’

  ‘Into a cab, I’m almost certain. As you saw by the behaviour of the dogs, he left no trail away from the pub. Therefore, he observed us leaving the docks, followed us to the Binnacle, then departed by cab after our luncheon was completed. But what is important is why he followed us, not when or how. Are you familiar with Joshua Hathaway’s painting “Stag at Bay”? No? The painting depicts the wounded stag making a stand against a yew hedge. The dogs are closing for the kill, yet half their number lie dead at the stag’s feet. I ask you, Watson, are we the hunters or the hunted? One thing is sure: the stag is not running. Furthermore, there’s the incredible arrogance of Ripley... the eagerness to battle wits with me... certainly that is an unmistakable hallmark –’

  He seemed to drift off into thought, and said nothing more until we were deposited inside our rooms. Mrs Hudson brought up some knuckle bones, and the two giant hounds stretched in front of the fireplace, cracking the bones between their jaws whilst Holmes and I shared a pot of tea.

  ‘Now let us reconsider the events in toto in the light of all we now know. The tale, incredible and implausible as it seems, does have patterns and a chronology that make sense, does it not? It is, quite simply stated, the smuggling of some sort of monster into London aboard a merchant vessel. Most of our observations flow with the current of this strange story – agreed?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Yet, there are three events which stand out as being grotesque – that appear, to continue my analogy, to be going upstream instead of down, do you agree?’

  ‘There have been many strange occurrences in the past two days, but I’m not sure I can identify the errant ones,’ I replied.

  ‘Then let me backtrack a little. The tale of John Sampson, while strange, has a certain logic to it. Likewise, the killing of Captain McGuinness, while horrific, is in one sense understandable.’

  ‘You mean because of the possibility that he wished to betray the pact, or wanted to escape?’

  ‘Exactly. These can be considered downstream events in that they arise out of the basic plot, plan, or whatever, of Ripley and his confederates. But what of the fact that we were followed? Ah, that seems definitely in the upstream category, does it not? Yes, there is a counter-current running, and we must fathom it, or –’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or we could be in a great deal of danger. I said from the outset that it was a dark and vile circle we were confronting. I say it again with even deeper respect. Now then, what of the other two upstream events? Another, I think, is the killing of Jenard. Why was Jenard killed and not any of the other crew – Sampson, for instance? If one of the crew was to be sacrificed for warning’s sake, why pick a man as hale as Jenard, why not a little snip of a fellow like Winkler? And why not perform the deed on some dingy dockside, rather than Baker Street?’

  ‘You said before that those who killed Jenard knew of you.’

  ‘Did I? Why yes, I recall it. Well, we seem almost to come full circle. Who sent Jenard in our direction, and why was he killed? What did he know that no one else does?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘What is the third event?’ I asked.

  ‘The third event is the writing in candle smoke above Jenard’s bunk. It is not only mysterious in its meaning, but by its very presence. What does its author wish to gain by it? Does he wish to throw us off the track, or on to –’

  Here he paused, and soon the hint of a grin formed on his lips. Slowly, he reached upward and back with his left hand. I saw the grimy clay pipe in his hands as he filled it. Having seen this ritual countless times before, I realized he was no longer in our quarters, but perhaps slinking around the East End like a wharf cat. Since further conversation was useless, I spent the remainder of the evening with Tennyson.

  Six

  DEPARTURE

  Except for the release of John Sampson from the Old Bailey, the next few days passed uneventfully. I busied myself with my practice and returned to Baker Street only to sleep, and then at odd hours. I seldom saw Holmes, and when I enquired into the progress of the case, received only a dismal grunt in reply. Assuming from these responses that all was not going well, I avoided him still further. Holmes could be distant and short-tempered when events frustrated him.

  I noticed, however, that he was careful to bolt the door to our flat securely each night, and advised me to exercise caution whenever I left.

  ‘Stick to the main thoroughfare whenever possible,’ said he, ‘and carry your pistol when you’ll be out after dark.’

  I followed the advice, although with reluctance, for it dented my pride. But the recollection of the two mangled corpses was sufficient to keep me on the lookout.

  On the fifth day my duties relented. My final appointment failed to arrive, and I found myself at Baker Street in the early afternoon. I removed my coat and hung it on the tree. Holmes was standing in the bow window watching the leaves drift earthward in slow spirals. It was a bright, crisp autumn day and he seemed to be taking advantage of the clarity to scan the street in both directions. Behind him on the divan was the usual jackdaw’s nest of papers including, from what I could gather from a quick glance, replies from various foreign offices of British Railways.

  ‘Ah Watson! I see your last appointment was cancelled. I take it, then, that you are home for the day?’

  ‘Holmes! How did you –’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said mischievously, ‘only if you promise to accompany me to Bayswater Road, to the residence of Lord and Lady Allistair.’

  ‘Certainly. I shall be glad to.’

  ‘Fine. Then let’s set off. Shall we walk?’

  ‘Now how did you guess that my last appointment had been cancelled?’ I asked as we walked briskly across Portman Square.

  ‘I didn’t guess it. I inferred it. You are regular, almost Teutonic in your habits, Watson, especially your professional habits. I dare say that’s why we get along so well, for I, as you well know, am the opposite. In any event, your professional life is well-regulated and organized to the core –’

  ‘Yes, but my days differ widely. Sometimes I see twenty
patients, sometimes four.’

  ‘Quite so. But always, Watson, always, you carefully write out your forthcoming appointments the night before in your pocket secretary. You sit in your chair with your right foot propped up on the coal scuttle –’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. I like to be organized for the next day.’

  ‘And always, you depart each morning with your secretary in your right breast pocket – your fountain pen placed inside it.’

  ‘How observant of you. Yes, I stick my pen inside to mark the place.’

  ‘You return, however, with your secretary in your left pocket, sans plume.’

  ‘I suppose I do. After my last patient, I make final notes in my secretary, tear out the pages, and file them.’

  ‘But today, in addition to arriving home early, your pocket secretary and pen are in their “pre-work” positions, as I observed when you took off your coat. Ergo: your last appointment was cancelled. Now, see that forest of chimney stacks yonder? That, my dear fellow, is the house of the Allistairs. And two finer people you shall never meet. Come!’

  Holmes’ description was apt: the Allistair house at 13 Bayswater Road was indeed a forest of chimney stacks, and a sea of gables and cornices as well. The handsome red brick exterior was set off splendidly by an immaculate lawn and well-trimmed shrubbery. There was enough ivy about the house to provide a venerable feeling without seeming cluttered. I was impressed with its size as well as its beauty. The kidnappers were evidently well aware of the Allistair fortune.

  ‘So you have remained in communication with the Allistairs. Have there been any developments?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, and just about the time I expected, too. I must tell you at the outset, Watson: this won’t be a pleasant call. In one sense, tremendous weight has been lifted from the Allistairs. In another sense, there is surely more pain to follow. I visited briefly with them this morning, and promised I’d return this evening with you. You can be of great assistance to all of us. Read this.’

  He handed me a wire which read:

  COME IMMEDIATELY – TERMS HAVE BEEN OFFERED.

  ‘This is the first communication from the abductors to Lord and Lady Allistair?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose one could take it as a cause for celebration, but I must tell you privately, Watson, I fear for the girl. But let us go up, and for God’s sake, be of good cheer.’

  We were shown through the front door by the butler, who, from his tense manner and sombre expression, evidently shared his master’s distress.

  Lord and Lady Allistair were seated on either side of a gigantic fireplace of carved stone. The high Georgian windows poured sunshine into the room, in which was displayed Her Ladyship’s exceptional collection of rare china and porcelain. The sunlight on these objects lent a gleaming, cheerful atmosphere to the setting, but one glance at the couple was sufficient to convey the sense of anxiety that had overcome them.

  Lord Allistair’s appearance reflected his reputation. Tall, slender, around sixty years of age, he stood to receive us immaculately groomed and dressed despite the obvious emotional upheaval he was experiencing. His keen features were handsomely set off by a trim grey moustache and close-cropped hair. Her Ladyship remained seated, and one could only have admiration for her composure and cordiality at so trying an occasion. Only a few moments in their presence convinced me of their noble character and strong spirit.

  A brief recollection of Lord Allistair’s stunning career in government which, as the reader no doubt knows, was marked by compassion for the unfortunate, unrelenting pursuit of the corrupt, and zeal for progressive reform in all areas, only served to amplify my initial impressions of the man. The endowments, charities, and public works of his wife also came vividly to mind. As I took in the surroundings of the mansion, the thought struck me more than once that here indeed was a family of wealth and position that deserved every bit of it.

  I was introduced as a trusted confidant, and was welcomed with a genuine warmth. Holmes and I seated ourselves on a luxurious sofa, which in turn was placed on an immense Persian carpet. The sunlight brought out the brilliant cobalt blue and deep burgundy red of its design and I couldn’t help thinking that all in all, the room’s size and appointments made our meagre Baker Street lodgings seem drab indeed.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ began Lord Allistair as he leaned tensely forward over the coffee table, ‘as you know, this is the first communication we have received regarding our daughter’s whereabouts or...’ he faltered slightly, ‘her well being.’

  He handed Holmes a sheet of ordinary paper. On it were two messages. The first, as is common with messages in which anonymity is essential, was constructed by the pasting of words and letters upon the sheet. The other message, however, was written in delicate long-hand in ink.

  ‘Lady Allistair and I are certain that the bottom message was written by our daughter. It is her hand, sure enough, although it shows obvious strain and nervousness. Since the letter was postmarked yesterday morning, we know that she is alive, at least,’ said Lord Allistair.

  ‘While we certainly share your optimism, sir,’ remarked Holmes, ‘we must not preclude the possibility, however unpleasant, that the handwriting was done some time ago, and merely posted yesterday.’

  This possibility smote the couple like a hammer blow, bringing an onslaught of sobbing from Lady Allistair. Annoyed at Holmes’ callous approach, I did my best to comfort them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but it is a possibility that we must face, however remote. Here, Watson, what do you make of it?’

  He handed me the note. The first message was short, clear and ominous: ‘£100,000 to be delivered in small bank notes from Strathcombe for return of your daughter. Harm shall befall her if you summon help or fail. Further instructions await you there.’

  ‘Strathcombe is the country seat of Lord and Lady Allistair,’ Holmes informed me. ‘Evidently, the criminals feel safer in their plan by operating outside the city. The estate is in Shropshire, to the south and west of Shrewsbury, hard by the Welsh border. It is surrounded by nothing save craggy hills and great expanses of the Clun Forest. It is these rugged and desolate surroundings, perhaps, more than anything else, that have led the kidnappers to choose the place.’

  ‘Strathcombe was originally built as a hunting lodge, and is still used for that purpose,’ continued Lord Allistair. ‘It is remarkable for containing the only wild boar in the British Isles. In the seventies, a few choice specimens were imported from the Black Forest by Prince Albert. Since then they’ve bred and flourished, although still confined to the single wooded valley in which Strathcombe lies. But we don’t frequent the place much, since we prefer the city. It is, as Mr Holmes has stated, quite isolated, the nearest village being almost five miles distant.’

  I nodded and read the second message which was written by the young lady. It was simple and heartrending: ‘Dearest Mother and Father, for the love of God, help me! I am unharmed physically, but can maintan my sanity scarcely another fortnight. Please do as you are instructed if you wish to see me again. Your loving daughter, Alice.’

  ‘The monsters!’

  ‘Quite so. Knowing how you would react to this horror, Watson, and also knowing your sense of duty and your courage, I have brought you with me this afternoon in the hope, nay in the expectation, that you would render assistance.’

  ‘Of course I shall, Holmes, and I appreciate your trust and confidence. Lord Allistair, rest assured that I will wholeheartedly give any service that I can, small as it may be.’

  ‘We thank you, sir,’ said Lady Allistair. ‘Mr Holmes has spoken most highly of you, and we can see he is a good judge of character.’

  Flushing slightly, I waved off these compliments as best I could and awaited further instructions from my companion.

  ‘Your practice appears to be flourishing of late, Watson – is it possible for you to leave London for a few days?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Splendid. Then you can be of gr
eat service to this distinguished couple by accompanying them to Strathcombe tomorrow morning. Your presence will be beneficial in two ways. First, you will, by your engaging personality and indomitable spirit, be a source of companionship and comfort. Secondly, and more important, you will serve as a chronicler of events to me and as personal bodyguard to His Lordship and Ladyship as well.’

  ‘Then you will not go?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not. As you know, there is another business afoot in London that requires my immediate energies; hence the need for your services. However, I shall be joining you all as soon as possible, perhaps in a few days, and certainly no later than a week. Is this agreeable to all? Excellent. Now, Watson, we shall return home where I will go over in detail with you your duties as intelligence gatherer and protector.’

  We rose from the sofa and made our way back to the hall. Holmes paused, however, at the antique French secretary which stood near the doorway. He glanced keenly at a pair of framed portraits that stood upon it. Each was mounted in an oval cardboard. One was the face of a beautiful young lady; the other showed a young man standing in full military dress.

  ‘This is your daughter, I presume,’ said Holmes.

  The couple replied in the affirmative in voices scarcely audible.

  ‘And this young man is your son? Yes, I see he is. As is so often the case with sons, he looks like his mother...’

  ‘Yes, that’s young Peter,’ said Her Ladyship smiling. ‘This is his third year at Sandhurst –’

  ‘Ah, a military man, eh? So he’s decided not to enter politics. I seem to remember reading about your son in the newspapers last year... didn’t he go to Eton?’

  ‘Harrow actually.’

  ‘Of course, I remember now, and a preparatory school, in the North?’

  ‘That’s correct, the Malton School in Yorkshire – you’ve a good memory, Mr Holmes.’