Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Paul D. Gilbert

  ‘This person just happens to be the son of the renowned explorer and historian, Sir Michael Collier. He is also an old friend of my family,’ I indignantly responded.

  ‘Bravo, Watson,’ I heard Holmes murmur under his breath. ‘Mr Dodd,’ Holmes continued in a somewhat louder tone, ‘the only person here distracting me from my work is yourself! I have already dispatched two suggestions for the good Inspector’s attention and I hope to have a response to a wire within the next forty-eight hours. Now, I do not intend to take up any more of your valuable time, in the same way that I am certain that you do not wish to waste any more of mine!’

  With that Holmes turned once more to his pipe and indicated with a gesture that our uninvited guests should make their way to the door without delay. Dodd was on the point of making a further remark, but evidently thought better of the idea. With Lestrade in tow and his face reddened with indignation, Alistair Dodd finally took his leave.

  Holmes slapped his hand on the mantel triumphantly and began laughing uproariously.

  ‘Well I never! I fear that if that man’s face had turned any redder it would have been in grave danger of exploding. Now, Mr Collier,’ Holmes calmed himself with a deep breath or two, ‘with a thousand apologies for that unseemly interruption, I would beseech you to continue reading from your father’s extraordinary letter.’

  ‘I shall by all means, Mr Holmes, but I should not wish to divert you from what appears to be a matter of the greatest moment,’ Collier replied.

  ‘My dear fellow, do not be dismayed at Mr Dodd’s discourteous conduct. Singular though the Matilda Briggs affair undoubtedly is, we have already travelled too far with your father to be put off at this stage,’ I said encouragingly.

  Collier smiled appreciatively as he lit another of his cheroots and looked to Holmes for confirmation. Holmes smiled and nodded his assent while the young archaeologist took up those crumpled sheets once more.

  Mercifully, the second leg of our journey was blessed with somewhat less uncomfortable conditions than those that had blighted and almost destroyed the first. We appeared to be skimming rather than cutting through the still shimmering surface of the azure sea, yet even so the constant westerly moved us along at a most favourable rate of knots.

  We then sailed across the Bay of Bengal and approached Calcutta through the broad and spectacular expanse of the Ganges delta. By the time we had completed the triangle of Colombo, Madras and Calcutta I had been aboard for the best part of one hundred days and I bade the captain and crew of the Diomedes a heartfelt farewell as we all disembarked. When I was halfway down the pier I slowly turned around and viewed the brave, battered hulk that had been my home for so long, with a strange nostalgic fondness. As I turned towards shore once more, I was most grateful to find that a friendly and familiar face was there to greet me.

  I am certain that I have previously mentioned to you my guide to the Islamic traditions of India, a devout and most resolute fellow who goes by the name of Mohamed Abdi Mohamed. I could not help but smile as he waved his greeting, for he reminded me of the sun in a human incarnation.

  Mohamed was attired in a long, white, gold-edged robe, which was also draped over his head. However, it was his face that was the most striking aspect of his appearance. His neat, tightly curled beard had noticeably whitened since I had last seen him and it encircled the broad expanse of his warm, welcoming smile. Evidently the letter which I had dispatched from the Cape, had reached him safely and had found him available and willing to guide me once again.

  He saluted me as his brother and immediately took hold of my baggage as he led me to his family home, which proved to be a short walk from the quayside. The dwelling that he led me to was a small though comfortable, white-walled, square, two-storey building, which was festooned in brightly decorated, hand-made rugs and drapes.

  The warmth and hospitality that was shown towards me, a man who was, to all present save for Mohamed, nothing more than a stranger (and an infidel to boot), was overwhelming. Therefore, by the time that I eventually stretched out upon the mat that was made available to me, on the cooling roof-top veranda, I was both full and satisfied.

  I am certain that I would have remained asleep until well into the afternoon had it not been for the penetrating call to prayer that resonated from each of the surrounding minarets, which immediately aroused Mohamed and his family. The enthusiasm with which they went about their preparations to depart for the nearest mosque was truly inspiring and I was left in little doubt of their sincerity and devotion.

  In their absence I was left to my own devices and as I set out to explore the surrounding neighbourhood I was immediately struck by the levels of poverty and squalor to which the majority of the people were being subjected.

  There was little doubt in my mind that the streets I was now walking through were, indeed, the fields wherein the seeds of discontent and revolt against the British Raj were being sown. I decided that much credence should be given to the rumours that were filtering back to Britain; rumours that told of extremists being mobilized under the banner of the Ghadar movement and that dark days, comparable with those of the Indian mutiny were fast approaching once again.

  To make matters worse, one of their leaders, Bal Gangadhar Tilak from Maharashfa, had evoked the Hindu Gods Ganesh and Shivaji and he was using their name to rally revolutionists to his banner. Obviously this had led to the British forces being placed on high alert and the tension was now all encompassing. Furthermore, the object of my quest, being of Hindu origin, now took on an altogether more sensitive nature and my journey and enquiries would have to be far more discreet than I had at first allowed for.

  I decided to return to Mohamed’s home with all speed and immediately unpacked my notes and maps. My intention was to persuade Mohamed to depart with me to Delhi at the earliest practical moment, in the hope that my journey could be concluded before travel restrictions were imposed by the authorities.

  Fortunately Mohamed was more than willing and able to comply with my plans and, on the following morning, I went to the station to make the arrangements for the earliest possible departure. Mohamed ensured that there would be sufficient time for him to visit the mosque for one last time before agreeing to such an early train, and we returned home to break the news to his family.

  As we arrived at the station I was immediately struck by an all-pervading military presence. The threat of revolt was suspended above the heads of every race, creed and caste throughout the land and nowhere was it more in evidence than within that vestibule of heaving human masses. Our platform alone swarmed with hundreds of would-be passengers and we had serious misgivings of even being able to reach our berth, much less the train departing on time!

  Once we had forced our way into a carriage we found that the conditions aboard that veritable sweat-box were intolerable and that the validity of our first class tickets was as nothing. The fourth-class passengers, who would, under normal circumstances, have been condemned to travelling on the train’s roof, were now displaced by a line of protective riflemen on top of each car.

  By the time we had passed through Bengal and reached Parna, to take on water, every person on board was thoroughly exhausted and used this time in taking refreshing walks around the station perimeter. Mohamed and I lost little time in taking this welcome opportunity and observed that the only people not sharing this relief were the rooftop soldiers.

  Then we pressed on through Pudh and the North Western Provinces, where the terrain took on an altogether more striking aspect and our overburdened train suddenly appeared to be quite inadequate and precarious. Every ravine crossing became a most perilous undertaking as the raging torrents growled menacingly beneath us.

  More worrying, however, was the increasingly visible presence, on the surrounding hillsides, of Afghan horsemen, who brandished their swords and let up a constant hollering in a most menacing manner. On one occasion the side of the train was lightly peppered by a sporadic volley of Afghan bullets. How
ever, our rooftop cordon of khaki-clad guardians possessed far greater firepower than our would-be assailants, who soon sought the higher ground. Apart from a stray bullet grazing the forehead of an engineer, this threat never became anything more than that and we were able to reach Delhi unscathed.

  Such was the size and extent of Mohamed’s family that it was no great surprise to find that a first cousin of his lived no more than twenty minutes’ walk away from the station.

  I can assure you, my dear boy, that only sheer exhaustion had brought about any sleep that night, for I knew that I was now only a short walk away from the culmination of my quest, the bewildering, ancient mosque of Quwwatu’l-Islam Masjid. Fortunately it is also often referred to as the ’Friday Mosque’ which will make it far easier for me to refer to!

  The poisonous atmosphere of hatred and mistrust that infused the relationships between Moslem, Hindu and Raj rendered my presence at the mosque a potential cause of unrest. Therefore Mohamed decided that it would be wisest if I were to retain the Jilab that he had loaned me for the train journey, and that we two pose as pilgrims intent at worshipping at the Friday Mosque.

  As we approached this remarkable edifice, early on the following morning, my first instinct was to begin my examination of the mysterious motifs and inscriptions, with which it was so copiously adorned, without a moment’s delay. However, that would not have been the behaviour of a devout pilgrim and so, for now, I suppressed my scholarly enthusiasm by following Mohamed’s lead.

  He had lent me a prayer mat for this purpose and, once we had spread these out before us, I emulated each and every one of Mohamed’s sounds and movements. I ensured, all the while, that my long and unruly flaxen hair and beard remained fully covered, for a sight of these would surely have discredited my guise. Once the morning prayers had been concluded we rolled up the mats once more and Mohamed passed me a gourd of cool refreshing water, for the sun had become most piercing.

  Then Mohamed took up a position on the ridge of a small nearby hill, from where he could best warn me of the first signs of unrest or disturbance. He then left me to my own devices and I attempted to pursue my examinations in as pious a manner as I could manage. I assure you, dear boy, that this was no easy task!

  For me to say that the Friday Mosque was an astounding piece of architecture would be to serve its creators no true justice. Thankfully, only Mohamed was aware of my childlike gaping as I gazed up at each new wonder. However, it was only when I began to examine the mosque’s pillars that I could confirm that every piece of stone and masonry had been pillaged from the twenty-seven Hindu temples of Qila Rai Pithora, as the pre-Islamic, Hindu motifs attested.

  This fact had been recorded by the builder of the mosque, Qutub-ud-Din Aibak, in his beautifully fashioned Islamic inscriptions. However the present religious tensions and my sense of political discretion precluded me from voicing this discovery, even, or perhaps especially, to Mohamed. The mystery of the place, however was the famed iron pillar, set in the centre of the courtyard.

  That the mosque was, undoubtedly, constructed in the twelfth century and that the ‘iron’ pillar itself was identified by its Sanskrit inscription as having been constructed in the fourth century AD are facts that I have already recorded in the early part of my letter. The mystery does not end there, though, for I can now confirm that no other relic of the fourth century exists anywhere else on this extensive site and the pillar’s place of origin is unknown!

  I approached this elegantly tapered creation with understandable reverence. It stood at well over twenty feet in height, with a further three feet embedded below its wrought-iron knobbly foundations. Although this section is showing minimal signs of deterioration it is, nonetheless, a sobering thought to consider that those ancient Indian metallurgists were producing an indestructible, pure malleable iron, at a time in history when their modern day rulers were living in mud huts and painting their bodies in blue!

  My examination of the inscriptions around its circumference confirmed its builder as being Chandragupta II, and also showed that an empty hole at the pillar’s fine peak, told of a missing artefact, the discovery of which could, potentially, have far-reaching political significance. I decided, there and then, that it was my duty to trace this artefact’s whereabouts and to prevent it from falling into dangerous hands.

  Regretfully, I soon realized that the longer I continued with my examination the more likely it was that I would soon attract some unwanted attention. However, when I looked up at the hilltop, from where Mohamed was supposed to have been keeping watch, to my horror there was no sign of my friend! At once I abandoned the pillar and looked about me in every direction to see if my guide and sentinel was anywhere to be found. Under the circumstances, I walked as calmly and unobtrusively as I could, until I had reached the summit of Mohamed’s hill.

  I was on the point of despair when a familiar, full, booming laugh echoed from behind me. Mohamed was evidently amused by the look of anxiety on my face, as nothing more sinister had happened to him than the call to prayer. He waved his prayer mat above his head by way of explanation, and advised me to return with him to his cousin’s house without delay. This was advice that

  I followed without any hesitation, for I decided that I was becoming a dangerous companion for Mohamed to be seen with. The following morning Mohamed returned to Calcutta and we bade each other what would, in all probability, be our final farewell. Once I was assured that he had safely made his train, I set about putting my own plans into action. The return journey to Calcutta was now too long and risky for me to undertake and an examination of my maps showed that the significantly shorter land journey to the Bay of Cambay could prove to be a far safer option.

  It was now my intention to discover the whereabouts of the very same Sadhu who had set me upon my quest to the ‘iron’ pillar in the first place. He had last been heard of living in a cave just outside a small village near Madras, which was certainly reachable by sea from Cambay. Therefore, the way ahead for me was clear.

  As it happened I was able to find the Sadhu, Kiran Mistry, with considerably less difficulty than I had at first expected. His name and reputation had spread wide from his hilltop cave, and the streets of Madras were positively ringing with his name. Finding him and gaining access to his presence proved to be two entirely different propositions, however, and I was forced to wait a full forty-eight hours before he was able to beckon me to his side.

  That he was a devotee of Shiva was identified by his entire body being caked in a dry crust of grey ash. He sat in the middle of a small circle of his disciples. His frail body was weighed down by countless rosary-bead strands that rattled resonantly with his every movement. Mistry and his disciples were passing round a large cigar, which, I subsequently discovered, was rolled from charas, more commonly known by its Arabic name of hashish, a plant from Nepal that apparently aided the Sadhu’s spiritual and mental clarity when it was smoked. I must confess that the effect that it had on me was quite the opposite and my entire experience was overwhelming.

  Once we were alone I was able to speak to him, at some length, of my life since our last meeting and for the first time I found that I could discuss the loss of your dear mother without feeling pain. He smiled fondly upon me when I told him of this and before long we were discussing the reason behind my being in Madras. To my astonishment the Sadhu knew precisely of the artefact I was seeking, although he would not have approved of the political significance that I had attached to it.

  Mistry spoke of an elegantly curved ceremonial blade, known as a beladau, which, to his knowledge, was the only object in existence to have been crafted from the same ‘iron’ as had been the pillar of Delhi. Mistry, of course, spoke of its spiritual value and significance whereas its political significance seemed to be of the utmost importance.

  However, my worst fears were soon realized when the Sadhu revealed that the beladau had last been seen in the hands of the aforementioned revolutionary leader, Bal Gangadhar Tilat a
s he invoked Shiva at a recent rally. Apparently, after the rally had been broken up and dispersed by a line of British infantrymen, a splinter group of the Ghadar movement had fled with the beladau to the Dutch stronghold of Aceh, in northern Sumatra, where they could then regroup following the arrest of Tilat.

  The dangerous significance of this situation was not lost upon me. After all, should it have been proved that the beladau was as ancient as it was thought to be, then it would further weaken the British dominance over the people of the Indian colonies who had fashioned this object in the age of antiquity. It fell to me, I reasoned, the only person in possession of all the facts, to reclaim the beladau before the Ghadar, or even the Dutch, could realize the beladau’s destructive potential.

  I thanked Mistry for his guidance and for his blessings and immediately chartered a small fishing boat to take me back to Calcutta. For three days and nights I waited in vain for news of available transport to Sumatra. The war between the Dutch and the Sultanate of Aceh, over the control of one the most important and affluent ports in the whole of the Far East, had flared up again. This conflict had been raging sporadically for nigh on thirty years and on this occasion the fighting had been most fierce and had resulted in a significant loss of life.

  Understandably enough, there was not a captain in the whole port at Calcutta willing to undertake so perilous a journey, no matter how potentially profitable the cargo might be. Therefore I would have to approach Sumatra by way of a far more tortuous route. I learned of a supply vessel that was scheduled to take post and medicine to the troops manning the British penal colony at Port Blair, on the Andaman Islands. From there—

  ‘Holmes!’ I blurted out suddenly. ‘The Andaman Islands! Surely that was the homeland of that ghastly and deadly little creature, Tonga.’ Captivated as I undoubtedly had been by every one of Collier’s words, I now found it impossible to contain myself at the mere mention of the land that had spawned the tale of the ‘Sign of Four’.1