‘There, I don’t like the look of that!’
Holmes pointed towards the stream that ran through the meadow and willow clumps. A heavy mist was rising from the wet bottom-lands of the valley. An ominous pale grey colour, it crept towards the woods on either side.
‘Where was the note found?’ I asked, to change the subject.
‘Tied to this very door-knocker, wrapped in oiled paper. Brundage discovered it less than an hour ago. It was evidently left during the night. Ah! I hear His Lordship coming. Quick, Watson, listen carefully to what I have to say –’
He grabbed me by the shoulders and peered intently into my face.
‘You must know, dear fellow, that you are embarking upon a dangerous errand. Not only dangerous, but possibly fatal, despite all that I can, and will do to help you. Do you understand?’
‘I do. And I accept the risk. What will you be doing in the interim?’
‘I cannot say. First, because to reveal my plans to you might jeopardize everyone’s safety. Secondly, though I have a few notions as to what will transpire, I am not yet fully certain. Will you trust my judgement?’
‘Implicitly. As I always have.’
‘Then Godspeed to you, friend. If all works well, we shall by tonight have freed Alice Allistair and caught the villains who have taken her and murdered others. Shhh! Not a word!’
Lord Allistair strode on to the terrace looking remarkably composed. But whether it was composure or contained vehemence, I couldn’t say.
‘Whatever the outcome, gentlemen,’ he said grimly as we walked to the stables, ‘the conclusion is at hand. Thank God for that at least.’
Wiscomb had our mounts ready. They pawed the gravel as he held the reins. I flung the pouches over the flanks of Lord Allistair’s horse, and mounted my own. Although none of the staff save Brundage and his wife were aware of the ransom demand, Wiscomb could sense the import of the moment.
‘God bless you, sir,’ he said softly as he helped Lord Allistair into his saddle.
‘Thank you, Wiscomb. You are to go to the house now and remain there; Brundage has strict instructions for everyone, Farthway included.’
‘Farthway, sir? Farthway has gone.’
Lord Allistair turned sharply in disbelief.
‘Gone! Gone where?’
‘I don’t know, sir. He’s not in his quarters.’
I glared at Holmes and shook my head slightly. This certainly was not an auspicious beginning. But Holmes met my stern glance with a blank, resigned expression.
‘Well, we shan’t worry over him,’ said His Lordship, and we started off down the drive together. As we headed towards the mist in the valley, I looked back at Holmes, who raised his hand in farewell.
It is at this point that the memories of the horrific occurrences at Henry’s Hollow cause my pen to shake, my brow to grow damp. It is many, many years later that I write these words, and though the recollections of the trial should have faded and dimmed with time, yet they seem in some perverse way to grow more vivid.
We made our way into the drifting mist. As we ascended the opposite side of the valley, it seemed to cling and follow us into the forest. It swirled amongst the tree trunks. It crawled and floated up the slopes; it flowed languidly down into the dells and hollows of the woods.
If the forest seemed gloomy on our previous trip, it was fearsome now. The nearest trees were easily seen – the oaks with their rich brown bark, the beeches with their blue-grey metallic sheen – but after only a few yards, even the most massive of the trunks were faint. Beyond them lay a pale grey curtain that was impenetrable.
As unnerving as the mist was the utter silence of the woods. No jays shrieked and cackled. No songbirds trilled. The only sounds were the thump of hooves and faint patter of rain upon the leaves.
After twenty minutes we paused while Lord Allistair examined the path.
‘It’s much more difficult to find one’s way in the fog,’ said he. ‘In normal daylight I have landmarks enough to guide me – but now it’s a labyrinth. Pray to God we’re on the right path and haven’t missed a turn. What a tragedy to lose my daughter because we cannot find the place!’
‘No need to worry yet, Lord Allistair. See that curious bent tree there? I remember that from the day before yesterday – it came just before you showed me the Keep from a small clearing –’
‘Yes, I do remember it. You’ve a keen eye, Doctor. Henry’s Hollow lies not far ahead.’
After several moments (it seemed like hours) we stopped on the path. Through the mist, I could barely recognize the strange symmetry of the oak ring some yards ahead. We waited for a shout, a whistle. None came. Proceeding still further, going as slowly as possible, we at last arrived at the rim of oaks. Peering down, one could see only the uppermost branches of the trees in the hollow, for they were above the low-lying mist. Beneath us the grey earth fell gently away into the swirling vapour. There came to my ears a faint rustling sound.
‘Stand to!’ a voice called.
Not twenty feet away, a shadowy hooded figure emerged from behind a trunk and approached us.
‘Don’t move,’ the figure cautioned, and strode catlike by us back to the trail over which we had passed and disappeared.
This behaviour only served to heighten my anxiety. But after a few minutes, I divined the reason for it. I turned my head to Lord Allistair and whispered.
‘He’s listening on the path to be sure there are no others.’
He nodded in agreement. How fortunate that we had obeyed the instructions! Once again, I couldn’t help but wonder at the careful planning and painstaking execution of the diabolical plot. There was certainly, at the centre of this evil web, a man of monstrous cunning and deliberation.
The figure returned and strode silently round us. He was dressed in black from head to toe and carried a pistol. The hood covered his entire head, and as can be imagined, increased the chimerical quality of his appearance.
‘Open your coats.’
We obeyed, and the figure seemed satisfied that we were unarmed. He beckoned us to follow him and led us down into the hollow. As we guided our mounts down the slope, the air grew heavy with the thick, dank smell of matted vegetation and wet earth. There was another odour, very faint, that was almost musky. Our guide stepped behind a tree and emerged carrying a lantern, which he held aloft as he walked before us. The mist formed a delicate halo round the lamp, which I assumed was being used as a signal since it was utterly useless to guide us.
We passed the chimney tree which marked the approximate centre of the hollow. We were then proceeding to the far end of it – the portion that Lord Allistair had not shown me.
We proceeded one behind the other along a faint track that wound between the trees. As we made a turn in this path, a breeze coming from the far end of the hollow sprang up and smote us head on.
Our horses stopped in their tracks.
There were a few seconds of silence. Then Lord Allistair’s horse snorted twice, the thick streams of vapour shooting from its nostrils. It whinnied sharply, its head bobbing up and down. My horse stretched its neck forward and brought its nose up. It grunted, stamped its feet, and began to back up. The breeze freshened still more, and Lord Allistair’s horse wheeled and bucked. He fought to stay in the saddle, and deftly brought the animal towards me. It rolled its eyes so that the whites showed.
Alarmed, our guide ran back to us and, clutching at the horse’s bridle, gave the order to dismount. Puzzled, Lord Allistair complied, and I followed. As instructed, we tied the animals together to a small tree and proceeded on foot, Lord Allistair carrying the saddle pouches. I looked back to see them huddled together, flank to flank. They stamped their feet and pawed the earth, and their ears pointed in our direction, turning and twitching.
I need not relate the effect of this incident upon me. Suffice it to say that the previous incidents of this sort of behaviour on the part of the horses and dogs gave me an inkling of what could be waiting for us
at the far end of the hollow. My knees turned weak, and I felt a tingling in my limbs. So as not to alarm my companion, I managed to control the terror that was beginning to well up inside of me.
We came at last to the far end of Henry’s Hollow. I heard the sound of falling water. During my initial visit to the place, I assumed that it was elliptical in shape and similar on all sides. I was in error, however, because although roughly the shape I had imagined, the far side of the hollow was not a sloping, dish-shaped depression but a deep gorge, bounded by a perpendicular cliff of layered limestone.
This precipice rose some thirty feet, and was topped by an oak ridge as was the rest of the rim. Upon reaching this sheer wall, we turned to the left and descended a steep path that led us to a small clearing in the shadow of the cliff. From the rocky wall spurted a miniature cascade, the sound of which had been audible for some distance. The clearing was covered with ferns and moss. I imagined the sun never shone in this place, so tucked away was it in the dankest, gloomiest part of the hollow. At the far end of the clearing I saw a glow from a campfire. In all probability, this place was the source of the smoke I’d detected earlier. The mist in the clearing was as thick as the heaviest London fog. From the splashing sound of water, I surmised that the tiny waterfall fed a pool at the base of the cliff. From this pool the mist seemed to waft up in thick clouds.
We made our way into the clearing. After a few steps, I could see the campfire. Stretched out next to it was a pair of shiny boots – the firelight flickered off them. As the wraith-like cloud of mist was borne away, I could see the man who lounged by the firelight. The wide-brimmed hat, drooping moustache, dark complexion and earrings were unmistakable. It was the gypsy who’d followed us the day of our arrival. We drew still closer, and the dark-shrouded figure who had guided us to the dismal lair stepped close to the seated gypsy and whispered into his ear. The gypsy, in turn, whispered back.
‘Bring the money forward,’ said the hooded figure in a low, measured monotone. The two men examined the contents of the pouches for several minutes. Although they did not count all of it, they seemed satisfied that the ransom was complete.
‘My daughter!’ shouted Lord Allistair. I could see the perspiration on his brow – the throbbing arteries of his neck and forehead. He had clearly waited long enough. ‘Where is my daughter?’
The gypsy drew a revolver from his loose coat and pointed it at Lord Allistair’s breast. His companion did the same, and pointed his gun at me. The gypsy made a sign, and his companion commenced speaking.
‘Your daughter is safe. You shall see her for a few minutes when I have her brought forward. Now listen carefully to what I have to say: you have apparently kept your word. You have come as instructed with the required amount of money. That is good. You shall see in a few seconds that we have kept our word: your daughter is safe. Not only is she safe, but she has not been harmed in any way.
‘But there remains for you, Lord Allistair, one final task which you must accomplish before we release your daughter to you. Failure to complete this task will result in her death –’
‘What is it – in the name of Heaven! And why was I not advised of this remaining duty earlier?’
The figure paused and, in an explanatory tone, continued.
‘In order to secure our safe passage from this country, we need additional hostages.’
‘I refuse.’
The gypsy beckoned to his companion, who bent over close to receive more instructions. I thought it odd that the gypsy, obviously the leader of the two, did no talking. The possibility struck me though, that there could be a language problem. In any event, the hooded figure continued as spokesman.
‘If you refuse, we cannot guarantee the safety of your daughter. You must know that we will keep the hostages only long enough to escape. They will be released unharmed shortly thereafter.’
‘How can I be assured of this?’
‘You must trust us to keep our word, as we have done thus far. Look here...’
With this, he cried out in a language I had never heard before – nor since, for that matter. Almost immediately, two dim figures appeared in the mist behind the fire. All we could see of them was their silhouettes, but one appeared to be of medium height, the other short and crooked.
‘Come forward slowly,’ said the hooded figure, and Lord Allistair and I approached the two men and the fire. After a few steps, it was apparent that the pool fed by the waterfall lay directly behind the campfire. The two figures were standing on the opposite bank.
‘Father!’ cried an anguished voice, and at the same instant there strode into the firelight a spectacle that I shall never forget. I remembered the portraits of Alice Allistair; there was one at the Bayswater residence, and another at Strathcombe. She was stunning in her loveliness – yet the sad creature that stood waving in the mist before us bore little if any resemblance to her pictures. Her features drawn as if in incredible pain and anguish, she appeared to have been crying for weeks on end. Her bosom heaved and shook, and she had the captured, frightened expression on her face that I had observed before only on the faces of the inmates of prisons and asylums. One glance at her told me of the torture and confinement she had endured these two months, yet I was certain it was even far worse than I had imagined. Lord Allistair dropped to his knees with a low cry.
‘Oh Father –’ she began, but was cut short by the other figure that leapt forward from the grey fog. It was remarkable for its ugliness. He was a hunchbacked Malay – no doubt the same one Sampson had mentioned. His appearance was hideous: a thick, greasy face, an ugly, twisted gash for a mouth, a nose like a blob of glazier’s putty. The whole face was enclosed in skin the colour of boot leather, and topped by a muslin turban, stained with grease and dirt. The small eyes danced in his gnomelike head. The stunted arms twitched, and the thick lips trembled in excited babbling.
But these observations were secondary. The object that held our attention was clutched in the wretch’s right fist, and directed at the throat of the lovely girl. It was a dagger, and one glance at its blade, glinting in the firelight, was enough. Recalling the ghastly wounds inflicted upon Raymond Jenard, I was convinced that but a few strokes of this weapon were capable of rending flesh in the most gruesome manner. The blade was a foot long, and wound its way to and fro from hilt to tip in a zig-zag fashion, like the path of a crawling snake. I heard a gasp from Lord Allistair, and turned to see him leap forward towards his captive daughter.
‘Halt! No further!’ shouted the gypsy, bringing his revolver up and cocking the hammer as he did so.
Lord Allistair paused, then drew back. The gypsy glanced at me for an instant, then turned away. But it was too late, he had cried out, and in perfect English. Furthermore, the voice was faintly familiar. I had heard it before – somewhere.
‘Are you all right, Alice?’
‘Yes, Father. Oh, thank Heaven you’ve come! I –’ but the poor girl, choked with sobs, was unable to continue.
Heartened by the appearance of his daughter, Lord Allistair considered for a moment, then spoke.
‘Who are the hostages?’
The hooded figure pointed in my direction.
‘This man, and the man who arrived yesterday,’ said he.
‘I cannot do this. These men are my guests. As a gentleman I cannot –’
‘For God’s sake man, do it!’ I shouted. ‘They want the two of us only to make certain a general alarm isn’t raised until they’re safely away. Is this not so?’
Both men nodded.
Lord Allistair looked at his weeping daughter, then at me.
‘You must understand, Doctor, how torn I am –’
‘Nonsense! Go! Fetch him at once! You must hurry – we’ve come this far – there’s no stopping now. They have kept their word; therefore I don’t fear for myself. Now there’s the end of it: you must be off!’
He turned towards the kidnappers.
‘How shall Alice be returned to me?’
‘One of us will follow you back to the house with her,’ said the hooded figure in a carefully rehearsed speech, ‘we shall be far behind you, and hidden. When we see that the second hostage is well upon his way here, we shall release your daughter in the vicinity of the house. She will find her way home from there.’
‘Very well,’ said Lord Allistair after some reflection.
‘But mind,’ continued the masked man, ‘any divergence from the pre-arranged plan will spell her death.’
‘This is most repugnant to me,’ said Lord Allistair. ‘But I see I have little choice in the matter.’
‘I shall guide you to your horse. But first, I must fasten your companion to the tree with these.’
While the gypsy held his pistol on Lord Allistair, the other approached, carrying a pair of heavy iron shackles of the type used on prison ships. Realizing total co-operation was the only sensible course, I complied readily as he bade me sit on the ground, my back against a small beech tree. He then drew my arms behind me round the tree and shackled my wrists together. Being bound in this fashion made me most uncomfortable in many ways. However, sensing that my predicament was most painful to Lord Allistair, I avoided his glance and pretended to make light of the matter as he left the clearing, led by the hooded guide.
Just before they disappeared into the grey vapour, he turned and looked at his daughter.
‘Never fear, dearest,’ he said hoarsely, ‘all will be well.’
And then, with a glance at me, added, ‘I am terribly sorry, Doctor... you must –’
‘Nonsense,’ I quipped, as jovially as possible, ‘the sooner you complete your errand, the sooner we’re together again. Now off you go!’
They departed, and a short while later the guide returned. After an exchange of nods with the gypsy, he led Alice Allistair from the clearing. I noticed as they passed me that she was sobbing softly, and that her hands were bound behind her. She whirled in an instant, her eyes fixed upon me with a look of guilt, and dread. She cried out:
‘Oh, Doctor Watson! I tried–’
But she could not finish; a hand was clapped over her face, and she was half-led, half-dragged, from the clearing. Enraged, I swore an oath, straining at my bonds. But it was useless. Confined as I was, I could not even rise to my feet. Ominous thoughts raced through my brain. Then the coded message was sent by Alice Allistair, and it was meant for me! I remembered Holmes’ casual dismissal of the message, and cursed him under my breath. How could he have been so careless, so foolish? But I was interrupted from these thoughts by a peal of laughter. Turning my head, I saw that an enormous change had overcome the gypsy.
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 17
