I was pondering upon how appropriate it was that the esteemed chronicler had a street named after him so close in proximity to the monument that marked the scene of the subject of some of the best-known entries in his Diaries, the Great Fire. As I was airing these thoughts to Holmes, he suddenly grabbed me by my sleeve and almost wrestled me out of the cab.
‘Really Watson, the Great Fire occurred over two hundred years ago! We must remain focused on the current tragedy.’ Holmes suddenly moved closer to me and added in a hoarse whisper that was barely audible: ‘We must remain alert, for I fear that we have been followed by the cab behind us … no, do not turn … from the very moment that we left the wharf!’
We alighted from the cab and, despite the intensity of Holmes’s warning as he hustled me discreetly towards the portals of the Red Cannon building, I must confess to having been unable to resist a furtive glance behind me. I could not be certain, as a mist-shrouded gloom was slowly engulfing the City, however, I did catch a tantalizingly fleeting glimpse of what appeared to be an extremely tall figure in a long, dark cape and cowl disappearing around the corner into Monument Square. I thought it best not to mention this at the time, out of fear of ridicule from Holmes; however the image was to remain with me until this mystery could be resolved.
At the very mention of Holmes’s name we were shown at once to the offices of the company secretary, a bluff, genial, American gentlemen who went by the name of Declan McCrory. We found him perched, somewhat uncomfortably I would have thought, with one leg draped across a corner of his large oak desk. An enormous cigar remained unlit in the side of his mouth and somehow it showed no signs of falling out when he offered us the broadest of welcoming smiles. Instead of his hand he proffered a brace of Havanas towards us and these we gratefully accepted.
‘I am sure that you will not say no to some coffee.’ McCrory stated this as a matter of fact rather than making it an invitation to join him. Holmes and I nodded our agreement to this and in a second McCrory had bounded from his desk to the door, from where he barked out an order for three cups to someone called Ethel. Declan McCrory was evidently a man who was used to giving orders and, of course, having them acted upon immediately.
It was hardly surprising, once we had fully taken in his appearance, for he stood at six feet two at the least, and his build was the personification of his desk, large, broad and solid. He was attired in an unfashionable dark-brown suit and this was set off by a brightly coloured cravat that had been stuffed into an open-necked shirt. This vision of an American pioneer was topped off by a veritable mop of unruly blond hair that was constantly falling awkwardly into the man’s eyes and was perfectly matched with a brush moustache that appeared to be its extension.
An extremely thin dark-haired woman arrived with a tray of strong black coffee, which she hurriedly deposited on to McCrory’s desk before hustling herself out of the room without a single word being exchanged.
‘Gentlemen, you must forgive my provincial lack of etiquette,’ McCrory apologized whilst waving us towards two extremely low chairs that were strategically positioned on the visitor’s side of the desk. I took to my chair, to enable me to make my notes, whereas Holmes, not normally used to looking up to anyone, declined his and positioned himself by the stone fireplace, which he frequently used as an ashtray for his cigar ash.
I noticed that McCrory’s lack of savoir-faire extended to the elaborate gold band on his cigar not being removed and the fact that he was taking down far more of its smoke than was being exhaled. I found mine a heady smoke indeed, whereas Holmes was relishing every draw. McCrory noticed this and he looked at us with a mixed expression of sympathy for me and admiration for Holmes.
‘The richness of a fresh, moist Havana is not to everyone’s taste,’ McCrory genially observed. He indicated that he would not be offended if I prematurely abandoned mine in favour of a cigarette, which I promptly did.
‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, just how may I be of service?’ McCrory offered as he took to his seat behind the desk.
‘So you know of us, then?’ I asked.
‘Why, sure I do!’ McCrory replied in his mid-western drawl. ‘Ever since you so eloquently reported on the great service that Mr Holmes performed for the ‘Gold King’, Senator Neil Gibson,1 Mr Holmes’s name now resonates throughout the ‘Colonies’.
‘Ha! Resonates indeed!’ Holmes exclaimed, although neither McCrory nor I could be certain as to whether Holmes’s outburst expressed his amusement at the idea of his name ‘resonating’ or, rather, his appreciation of McCrory’s ironic use of the word ‘Colonies’. ‘I can assure you that it is quite some time since we last referred to the United States as the “Colonies”. Now, excellent as your coffee and cigars undoubtedly are, I am certain that you are aware of the reason behind our being here today.’
‘I surely am, Mr Holmes,’ McCrory gravely responded. ‘I am certain that it is regarding the Matilda Briggs affair.’
Whilst tightly closing his eyes to aid his concentration, Holmes gestured to me that I should continue with our enquiries.
‘What information can you provide us with that might aid us in our investigation?’ I asked as I moistened my pencil.
‘As you may have already gathered from my accent, I hail from the mid-western states of America, Wyoming to be precise, cattle country. Therefore I only became involved in maritime affairs relatively late in life when my pappy bought a large haulage fleet that operated off of the east coast. He named the line after the locomotive that he had helped design, and as his health sadly declined I was dispatched to London to operate the East Indies side of our operation, which I wished to expand, despite his misgivings. Although I am not inclined towards your damp and misty climate, in all other respects it is not a decision that I have ever regretted, and our business has continued to grow and prosper, much to my father’s surprise and relief.
‘I can assure you, gentlemen, that in all of my experience this Matilda Briggs business is the most damnable and extraordinary of which I have heard. The loss of an entire crew in such a mysterious circumstance is an occurrence that might carry my poor pappy off to his grave if it is not resolved promptly and without scandal. So, yeah, I will help you in any way that I can.’ McCrory resoundingly confirmed this by thumping his huge fist down upon the top of his desk.
‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ Holmes responded, slowly opening his eyes. ‘However, the likelihood of this matter being resolved without the generation of scandal is remote in the extreme.’
‘Are there any items in the ship’s manifest that might indicate the cause of such a tragedy?’ I asked.
‘I am certain that you already know that the captain’s log has mysteriously disappeared. However, the manifest is safely held in these offices and a list of the names of the crew are held by the harbour master. I can provide you with both of these; however, I can assure you that every name upon the list is well-known to us and each one had many years of service behind him, before the mast. The ship’s master, Captain James R. Handley, has served the line faithfully for nigh on twenty years, and as he has risen through the ranks his reputation for loyalty and fairness has steadily increased. As for the cargo, well, I am afraid that it was nothing more exotic than Assam tea.’ McCrory’s voice tailed off as he realized that, so far, he had not imparted anything that would help or enlighten us in our quest.
‘Was the recently deceased cabin boy well-known to you?’ Holmes asked, moving away from the fireplace and now replacing his cigar with a cigarette.
‘No, he was taken on at Port Said on the outward journey,’ McCrory replied hesitantly.
‘Do you not find it somewhat suggestive that the only crew member with whom you were not familiar was also the only one found alive on board, albeit for just a short while, when the Matilda Briggs eventually docked?’ Holmes stared intently into McCrory’s bright, green eyes as if he was boring his way through to the truth.
‘Gee no! Hell, he was little more than a boy. Hey
, what are you proposing, anyway? That he did away with the remainder of the crew?’ McCrory asked, appearing to be somewhat aghast at Holmes’s line of questioning.
‘At this stage I am not proposing anything, Mr McCrory. You are certain that tea was the only cargo on board?’
‘Well of course I am.’ McCrory raised his eyebrows, evidently as surprised as I was at Holmes’s curious enquiry. ‘The Matilda Briggs, by virtue of her possessing steam as well as sail, is one of the fastest clippers in our fleet and speed is essential in the carrying of tea.’
‘Really,’ Holmes said quietly. He turned away while dreamily rubbing his sharp chin with the outside of his right hand. ‘You will be able to furnish us with an exact map of the Matilda Briggs’s entire voyage?’
‘Sure, I will have it prepared for you along with the manifest,’ McCrory confirmed
‘Then I shall take up no more of your valuable time. Come, Watson!’ Before I was even able to gather my things together and offer our thanks to McCrory for his hospitality and co-operation, Holmes had turned on his heel and was gone. I was forced to wait for a few moments while Ethel bound together the promised papers before I joined Holmes at the waiting cab.
‘You will, no doubt, have noticed that the cab of our pursuers has vanished. They have given up the chase … for now,’ Holmes observed with an edge of menace to his voice. He rattled on the cab roof to indicate that we were now ready to depart. As we pulled away I took a furtive glance to see if I could confirm my earlier fleeting vision of a caped stranger at the corner of Pepys Street. I soon dismissed such thoughts as mere flights of fancy.
My past experiences meant that I knew, only too well, of Holmes’s reluctance to divulge his innermost thoughts at this early stage of a case. Therefore it was somewhat tentatively that I broached the subject on our way back to Baker Street.
‘You evidently saw far more on board the Matilda Briggs than the rest of us,’ I quietly commented.
‘I saw no more nor less than any of you,’ Holmes replied, while a sly, mischievous smile played briefly upon his thin lips. ‘However, I observed and, therefore, learnt absolute volumes by comparison!’ My blank expression prompted Holmes to continue: ‘Oh, Watson, you know my method. Do not bracket yourself with that idiot Lestrade. Deduce!’
I considered my words carefully before offering my response, drawing long and hard from my freshly lit cigarette.
‘Based upon your, unusually, insistent line of questioning at the shipping office, I would say that you observed something on board the ship that indicated to you the presence of a cargo other than tea.’
‘This is excellent, Watson. Pray continue.’
‘Furthermore,’ I continued, whilst growing in confidence, ‘your request for a sight of the ship’s prescribed route would imply that you hope to discover a slight variation from this route and that this might account for the rogue cargo. In all probability the carvings on the deck will help to provide you with a clue as to this variation.’
Holmes clapped his hands gleefully.
‘Well, Watson, it would seem that the power to deduce is a most contagious condition. In the future I must be careful not to reveal all of the mysteries of my method!’
I had hoped that this line of conversation would draw Holmes out still further in divulging his other thoughts on the matter of the Matilda Briggs and her mysterious secrets. However, I was soon disappointed to learn that, for now at least, he was to remain as enigmatic as ever.
I was pleased to note that we were returning to Baker Street in time for some supper. However, as we were crossing the threshold into 221B, Holmes was alerted to a presence upstairs by an extraordinarily large set of muddied footprints that had been set into the door mat. We were further astonished to note the absence of Mrs Hudson’s customary greeting.
Consequently, it was with great stealth and in absolute silence that we ascended the seventeen steps to our rooms. We arrived on the landing without having disturbed the intruder and then crept over to our door. Holmes cautioned me while he strained to hear any sound that might have indicated the intruder’s whereabouts within the room. Then he reversed his cane so that the loaded brass handle was now raised and poised to strike.
We were both only too well aware of a chronic squeak in one of the door hinges, so it was imperative that we open the door with fluidity and speed. I am certain that Holmes was more embarrassed than relieved when he found himself with his cane held menacingly above his head, over nothing more dangerous than our landlady serving tea to an amiable-looking young man, who was perched on the edge of one of our chairs.
It was with a look of startled amusement that Mrs Hudson glanced up towards her illustrious lodger.
‘Oh, Mr Holmes, I hope that you do not mind me serving tea to your most patient and charming young visitor. After all, I am sure that he has brought something of interest to you.’
Holmes laughed aloud as he hurriedly stowed away his cane. ‘Watson, I say again, the power of deduction does, indeed, appear to be most contagious! On this occasion I believe that Mrs Hudson is certainly correct. Anyone who has awaited us for this period of time must have something more than commonplace to present to us.’
‘Mr Holmes,’ Mrs Hudson ventured as she prepared to leave with her empty tray. ‘If you have only just returned how can you possibly confirm the length of the young man’s wait?’
‘I am certain of this for I know, only too well, of your meticulous attention to housekeeping. I am sure that you would never have allowed our ashtrays to remain so full during our long absence. Besides, neither Dr Watson nor I smoke that particular brand of Indian cheroots and certainly not in that great a quantity. You really must calm yourself, young man.’ Holmes addressed our guest for the first time.
‘Now, Mrs Hudson,’ he went on, ‘if you could manage one more tray for the good doctor and me I shall endeavour to discover the reason behind our young guest’s visit and patience.’ With a charming smile Holmes gently guided our landlady from the room.
The young man rose somewhat nervously from his chair and shook Holmes wholeheartedly by the hand. ‘Mr Holmes, it is such an honour to meet you, and you, Dr Watson, the excellence of whose chronicles has surely led me to your door.’
‘Ha! So it is to Dr Watson and his dubiously embellished literary achievements that I am to be indebted for your visit here today. Well, I must say!’ Holmes gleefully exclaimed. ‘What little reputation my humble practice might possess would look pretty sorry if all my clients come to me in such a manner. Now please resume your seat, while we await Mrs Hudson.’
With that, Holmes strode over to the mantelpiece, where he collected all the plugs and dottles from his previous day’s smokes. He filled his old clay pipe with these. Clearly somewhat abashed by Holmes’s display of pique, the poor young fellow shifted around uncomfortably in his chair while Holmes smoked in silence for a moment or two.
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson!’ Holmes stole stealthily over to the door which he flung open before our startled landlady had a chance to knock. He then closed it again behind her in an equally abrupt manner. ‘Would you mind, Watson?’ Holmes requested whilst waving towards the tea tray.
As I filled our cups I noticed that Holmes was carefully observing our guest. He was certainly newly arrived from the country, for he sported a green tweed hacking-jacket with matching trousers and a pair of dark-brown brogues. However, it was his headwear that caught my attention, for the hat that sat beside him on the arm of his chair, was an absurdly large, floppy felt thing, fashioned in a striking shade of Lincoln green. Holmes stared at our eccentrically attired young guest with an amused intensity, as though he was deciding whether he was to be taken seriously. When Holmes next spoke, his gaze was still upon him and it was not hard to see why.
The young man bore an uncanny resemblance to a young, although undoubtedly Bohemian, Sherlock Holmes! Although his features were not as sharply defined as those of Holmes, they were just as long and inquisitive. The two stood at exa
ctly the same height, were equally slim, and when the fellow crossed his legs, which he did with remarkable frequency, it was with the same slow, languid movement as that employed by my friend.
‘So you are an archaeologist, very recently returned from the wilds of Cornwall, I perceive!’ Holmes boldly declared.
‘Well, I must say, Mr Holmes, that I do not agree with your appraisal of Dr Watson’s chronicles if that last statement of yours is anything to go by. You are correct on both counts; however I realize that I have kept you both at a disadvantage. I am Daniel Collier, the only son of the renowned explorer and theologian, Sir Michael Collier.’
‘I can assure you, Mr Collier, that my simple observations were merely theatrical examples of the real thoroughness of my method. I should point out that the prints that you left behind on our entrance mat, together with the dry ground in traces on your left knee are unmistakably of the sort of clay found only in our most westerly county. When I then observe red indented calluses set between your right thumb and forefinger, I deduced the constant use of a type of trowel employed by historians in the field. Your attire indicates that you have only recently returned to London, probably today and therefore your mission is of the very greatest moment.
‘I repeat, Mr Collier, that I have merely employed pure, elementary logic. However, a somewhat prominent package that I can see struggling to free itself from the inside of your jacket pocket seems to suggest that you are about to test my supposed powers to a far greater extent than I have so far demonstrated.’ With that Holmes returned to the Persian slipper for some more tobacco.
‘I cannot deny that the content of the package is the reason for my visit here today. However, it contains nothing less than the most recent report of my father’s latest set of adventures and it may well prove to be the last! Although as to whether that truly is the case is a matter upon which I crave your help and advice,’ Collier implored.
Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 4
