The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Richard L. Boyer

  Not thirty yards ahead was a line of immense oak trees, each with a trunk as wide as a carriage. The distance between the trunks was only slightly greater than their diameters. Their massive lower branches, each as big as most trees, interlaced to form a barrier as stout as the strongest castle walls. It was then I realized that the line of trees was not straight, but circular. We dismounted and, leading our horses, approached the ring of giants.

  Lord Allistair and his horse passed through first. I followed and joined him on the edge of a ridge, and gazed with wonder and amazement at the depression in the forest floor: an oblong-shaped hollow resembling an amphitheatre, some two hundred yards long and perhaps one hundred feet deep at its centre – the whole surrounded at the rim by the palisade of huge trees whose branches all interlocked in frozen majesty.

  ‘So this is Henry’s Hollow...’

  ‘Quite so. You are probably supposing that it takes its name from this earthen hollow. However, there is another story of the name’s origin, and it is linked with the general legend of Henry’s Hollow which, by the way, historians now regard as true.

  ‘This place is named after King Henry IV. It is said he camped here with his troops on the eve of the battle of Shrewsbury in 1403. As anyone can surmise, this spot is an ideal camping place, and, if need be, an effective defence works too. Now obviously these trees were planted long before even Henry’s time, perhaps by druids or other forest folk who made this natural dell into a defensible, sheltered home.’

  ‘It is remarkably well-hidden, too, especially considering its size.’

  ‘Follow me down, Doctor,’ said His Lordship, and we wended our way, horses in tow, down into the centre of the strange place. There were oaks in the hollow as well, and under their protective arms the troops of Henry IV must have slept in preparation for the great battle against the Welsh rebels almost five hundred years ago. In my mind’s eye I could picture them squatting or lying about on rude beds of ferns and leaves, their helms and armour glinting in the firelight as they ate and sang to summon up courage for the ensuing fight.

  We wandered about under the trees and stopped in a small clearing towards the very centre of the dell.

  ‘Supposedly, King Henry constructed a crude forge on this very site by building a fire in the base of a hollow tree. Some still think this weird place took its name from the hollow tree rather than the depression in the earth. According to legend, Henry had the forge constructed to re-temper his sword. With it he vowed to kill Owen Glendower. But as we know, he failed in this, although he slew Harry Percy, called Hotspur, and displayed his body to the people of Shrewsbury as proof of the deed. The rebellion was crushed. Since then, Henry’s Hollow has changed little, if at all. No one lives here permanently, but because of its isolation it has attracted vagrants, felons and ne’er-do-wells of all description for centuries.’

  Upon hearing these words I scanned the rim of the hollow uneasily.

  ‘Perhaps it is best if we return to Strathcombe,’ I suggested, and unslung the shotgun from my shoulders.

  ‘You are quite right, my friend. It’s nearly noon, and I don’t like to leave Lady Allistair for long these days.’

  We led the horses up towards the rim. We were almost to the ring of oaks when Lord Allistair paused.

  ‘I forgot to point out these caves in the sides of the hollow,’ he said. ‘They are all round the place, dug in amongst the roots.’

  To my amazement, I saw numerous holes in the sloping bank of the dell. Drawing closer, one could see they were tunnels dug out between the roots of the large trees. The roots no doubt acted as joists and rafters, holding the soil together and thus preventing collapse. They seemed to wind into the earth for some distance, but as we were both anxious to return to the Lodge, I cut my inspection short.

  We left the hollow and returned to the forest path. In less than half an hour we were at Strathcombe, but two things occurred which I must relate, although I did not mention them to Lord Allistair.

  The first was the unmistakable odour of woodsmoke in Henry’s Hollow. It was faint, and had the dank and musty smell that comes when a fire is doused with water. But it was evident nevertheless. Someone was living in Henry’s Hollow. Somewhere, among the giant trees and dismal hillside caverns, was lurking a fugitive, or an enemy. Was this person, or persons, warned of our approach by the jays and crows?

  The second thing was even more alarming, and was observed in the twinkling of an eye. Upon our return journey I chanced to look once again at the high walls of the Keep. The rock was bright grey as the sunlight struck it. I remember musing on what a charming place its summit must be – what a pleasant spot for a picnic lunch. The midday sun made the rocky ledge and the cave beneath even more noticeable. I was about to turn my head when I saw it: a pinpoint flash of light coming from the dark mouth of the cave. It lasted no more than half a second. I am sure His Lordship did not notice. I of course knew instantly what it was; my days as an artilleryman had taught me to recognize the flash of field glasses in the sun. Someone was watching us.

  Eight

  NEW HOPE, AND A PUZZLE

  I decided to mention neither the odour of woodsmoke nor the reflection on the Keep to Lord Allistair. He was bearing up well under the tremendous strain, but I had a feeling he was near the breaking point; more bad news could severely tax him.

  As we approached the house, we were struck by the silence and deserted appearance of Strathcombe.

  ‘This is odd. Usually one sees some of the staff at work, especially on so pleasant a day.’

  We drew closer and with each passing second, my apprehension grew. Before we’d even reached the stable yard, we were met by Wiscomb, who came hobbling at top speed from the house waving his arms wildly. He was followed almost immediately by Lady Allistair, who appeared as distraught as the manservant.

  ‘Something’s amiss!’ whispered His Lordship under his breath.

  ‘Peter – Peter!’ cried the Lady as she ran towards us. As she approached, it became obvious that whatever had occurred, it was cause for happiness; her face was joyous.

  We dismounted and Lord Allistair ran to his wife, caught her in his arms, and bent over close to hear what she had to say. After a few seconds, he turned round and shouted.

  ‘Alice is safe! There’s a note inside that proves it so!’

  I followed the jubilant couple inside and watched as Lady Allistair plucked an envelope from the mantelpiece.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ he asked Lady Allistair.

  ‘Meg found it this morning on the terrace balustrade directly after you and Doctor Watson left. It was weighted with a brick.’

  ‘It’s amazing, and shocking – the ease with which they placed it there,’ he added and, his hands trembling with emotion, opened the envelope and extracted what appeared to be a sheet of newsprint.

  ‘It’s the front page of the Manchester Guardian,’ he exclaimed, ‘this morning’s edition. Ah! See here, Doctor Watson, her note is penned directly on the margin, thank God!’

  A brief message, in the same handwriting I had observed in the living room of the Allistairs in London, was penned on the right margin of the newsheet. It was obvious that the newspaper proved that early that morning Alice Allistair was alive and well. As can be imagined, this crude epistle had a marvellous effect on all of us – Lady Allistair in particular, who wept with joy.

  The message read: ‘My dearest Father and Mother, I am safe for now. I am assured of prompt release to you if the total ransom, in amount and form previously indicated, is paid upon request by those who hold me. Instructions will be forthcoming shortly, and must, upon pain of my death, be obeyed to the letter. I am unharmed and well, and joyous at the knowledge that I shall soon be with you both.’

  The note was signed, as before, ‘Your loving daughter, Alice.’

  ‘They have kept their word so far!’ cried Lord Allistair, beaming. ‘Pray we can get through these next few difficult days – then our sufferings will b
e over. Come, let’s have some sherry.’

  Our spirits raised, we gathered in the conservatory, which was really an extension at the back of the central hall, with huge windows on three sides. It was, in contrast to the rest of Strathcombe, bright and cheery. We seated ourselves in front of these windows and awaited Brundage, who soon appeared with a silver tray laden with bottles and glasses. Lady Allistair again picked up the sheet of newsprint with her daughter’s writing on it. Tenderly, almost lovingly considering the blessed news it had brought, she fondled the page of newsprint and read and re-read the message of hope written a few hours earlier. She held the paper as one would hold a book, and inclined her body forward slightly in a posture of deep concentration. The strong rays of early afternoon sun streamed down upon her from the tall windows behind.

  ‘Well, this is indeed encouraging,’ said His Lordship, draining his glass. I could see before me the weight of weeks of worry lifting visibly from the couple.

  ‘Since it’s this morning’s paper,’ I offered, ‘instead of last evening’s, your daughter and her captors must be hereabouts. I venture they’re not more than ten miles distant. You see my friend Sherlock Holmes has taught me –’

  I was struck by a most curious sight.

  ‘Yes, Doctor, what were you saying?’ asked Lord Allistair.

  ‘I was saying...’

  ‘I say, Doctor, are you all right?’ Her Ladyship asked, putting down the paper.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ I replied. ‘But pray, don’t put the paper down just yet. Please hold it as you were a moment ago.’

  ‘Like this?’ she asked.

  ‘A little lower, please,’ I instructed. ‘Just above the tray –’

  Her Ladyship did as instructed, and brought the paper down to within a few inches of the silver serving tray that sat upon the coffee table.

  ‘Now this is most interesting,’ I pursued. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I would like to remove the sherry bottles for a moment, and leave only the tray...’

  The couple looked at me as if I’d lost my reason, but I proceeded to remove the bottles.

  ‘Now see how the sunlight comes strongly down through these windows at this time of day,’ I said, the excitement growing in me.

  ‘One would expect so in a conservatory,’ said Lord Allistair, not without a touch of irony.

  ‘... and strikes the paper full force, as you see. Now Lord Allistair, look down at the tray.’

  He followed my instructions, and a look of amazement grew upon his face.

  ‘Good God – look at those tiny sparks!’

  Reflecting off the shiny silver were many small pinpoints of light, resembling a miniature constellation. I took the sheet of newspaper from Her Ladyship and held it up to the light. The tan translucence of the newsprint was pierced by a score or so of tiny pinpoints of bright light.

  ‘These tiny holes were made by a pin or a needle,’ I said, ‘and they appear to be arranged somewhat symmetrically. Also, they occur only in this one section of the page and nowhere else.’

  ‘They seem to be arranged in rows,’ continued Lord Allistair who was looking over my shoulder, ‘and are placed sometimes singly and sometimes in pairs. Now that’s a queer thing, Doctor. What do you make of it?’

  ‘I can’t make anything of it,’ I replied, ‘except their arrangement is certainly not random – they must have some meaning. Here – you’ll notice that all these pinpricks are spaced within this single short article entitled “Foreign Investment”. Let us first read through the article.’

  The article, if it could be called such, was a mere ‘filler’ piece used to round out the column. It was a scant two sentences in length, and ran as follows:

  ‘The Home Office today announced a joint production agreement signed with Belgium. It involves the manufacture of internal combustion engines.’

  ‘The article is unimportant surely,’ said Her Ladyship after reading it. ‘It’s simply one of those snippets tacked on to a column for appearance’s sake.’

  ‘Perhaps, but if my long association with Sherlock Holmes has taught me anything, Lady Allistair, it is that things that appear trifling are often not. It is possible that these small pinpricks in the paper were deliberately placed there to convey something.’

  I then briefly related the events, and the apparently nonsensical message surrounding the ‘Gloria Scott’ adventure. Upon hearing of the dire fate proclaimed by that message, Lady Allistair once again fell into a fit of depression and worry over her daughter’s well being. Enraged at myself for having unwittingly shattered the calm that had so recently descended upon her, I tried to allay her fears by assuring her that the tiny holes in the paper were probably without meaning.

  ‘You are not a good liar, Doctor,’ said Lord Allistair. ‘I agree that there is some meaning to these strange marks. However, we know Alice is well. Perhaps they bear further good news, or extra instructions. There’s no reason to assume that they carry bad news.’

  And so saying, he instructed his wife to retire to her room for a short nap while we adjourned to his small study. Soon a pot of coffee was brought in, and we sat smoking before the fire, attempting to decipher the meaning, if any, of the tiny pinholes in the paper.

  ‘We miss your friend terribly at times like these,’ said Lord Allistair. ‘No doubt he is capable of arriving at answers to puzzles like this one?’

  ‘If it is penetrable to the mind of man, it is child’s play to Holmes,’ I replied. ‘But since he is not here, then we must proceed as best we can. Let me shut the door to ensure privacy, then we shall, with the paper on your gaming table, set ourselves to the problem.’

  The short piece looked like this with the pinprick marks filled in with pen dots:

  LONDON – The Home Office today announced a joint production agreement signed with Belgium. It involves thë manufacture of internal combustion ëngines.

  We stared at the words and markings for some time, each advancing his own hypotheses.

  ‘The most obvious explanation is of course that the pinpricks point out the letters in the article either directly above or below them,’ advanced Lord Allistair.

  ‘Yes, I think we can both agree on that. But why are some marks above the letters and others below? Also, why are some pricks paired while others are alone?’

  ‘Let’s first spell out the letters that are indicated regardless of the position or number of marks,’ he suggested.

  We spelled out AJOTPRIASWHNSEATREBE.

  ‘There’s no meaning whatsoever in this hodgepodge – except that the word seat is spelled,’ said I. ‘I take it we can dismiss this message.’

  ‘I have it!’ he cried, jumping up from the table. ‘The various pinprick positions and numbers indicate different words. See here: let us take the single dot on top first. Tracing the letters where this dot appears, we will have the first word, or a word at least, of the code.’

  Following this scheme we arrived at the word ATRA.

  ‘Is that a word you know of, Doctor – perhaps in Latin?’

  ‘No. However, let’s go on to the next set of markings which would logically be the single dot underneath the letters.’

  Following thus, we arrived at the word WARE.

  ‘Still no sense to it. And the next word?’

  ‘P-I-S-S-E-T-B-E-,’ I spelled aloud, and wrote PISSETBE next to the other words.

  ‘I suppose it’s useless,’ said Lord Allistair. ‘There must be another key to the puzzle. Or else, like as not, there’s nothing to it.’

  ‘Let us try the last group: the double dots underneath...’

  To our utter amazement, the dots spelled JOHN.

  ‘That’s more than coincidence surely, Doctor. Now the question is – if this is indeed a word, why then aren’t the others?’

  We tried re-arranging the letters of the other ‘words’ in the event that they appeared out of order, but still could make no sense of them.

  ‘All we know is the message is from John, or to Jo
hn. But who is John?’ I asked.

  ‘No one in this household... unless –’

  ‘Unless what?

  ‘Unless its you: John Watson.’

  ‘But that’s absurd!’ I cried. ‘Nobody in these parts has ever heard of me. Besides, what have I to do with the return of your daughter?’

  ‘Nothing directly. But perhaps those who hold Alice aren’t aware of this. Perhaps they see you as a threat to their plans.’

  Upon thinking about this for a moment, I decided to reveal to Lord Allistair what I had seen earlier in the day.

  ‘Someone was up on the Keep watching us you say?’ he asked incredulously. ‘But if that is the case they, whoever they may be, were aware of your presence even earlier, because the letter was awaiting us upon our return.’

  ‘Quite so! I confess I’d forgotten it. Dash it! I wish Holmes were here.’

  ‘But since he is not, we must continue with our search for the wisest course of action.’

  ‘Lord Allistair, if I am in any way endangering the return of your daughter, I must leave at once –’

  ‘Nonsense. If I were convinced of that, I would of course insist that you depart. It is extremely unlikely that this is the case. Furthermore, Mr Holmes’ instructions were, as we can both recall, quite strict: you are to remain at my side until his arrival. So be it. In the interim, we shall continue our quest for this message within a message. The more I brood upon the matter, the more convinced I am that these tiny pinprickings are the work of my daughter.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘First of all, because they are meant to be discovered upon close inspection but not noticed casually. As a matter of fact we were very fortunate to have noticed them at all – thanks only to your keen eyes and our silver serving tray. No, it was definitely done secretly and perhaps hurriedly – a message within a message. Who else could wish secretly to convey a second message but my daughter? Secondly, there is the mode in which the message has been executed: a needle or pin as you have suggested. Does a man carry these about? Not usually. Furthermore, note how precisely the pinpricks are placed: not one out of line and no tears in the paper. All the more difficult when we consider the fragile texture of newspaper, the small type, and the speed and secrecy with which the message was transcribed. Do you, a surgeon, think yourself capable of this?’