by KJ Charles
“It’s a traveller’s tale. Specifically, a tale told by David Willetts, a Java man. A trader, a wanderer and a chronic storyteller. By his account Sumatra is crawling with magic and evil priestly cults and enchantments and beautiful native sorceresses.” Crane gave Esther a nod of acknowledgement. She gave him an incredulous glare. Stephen choked. “And it was from him that I, and Merrick, and pretty much everyone who ever had a drink with him, heard about the giant rats of Sumatra. Rats the size of dogs.”
Stephen stopped swinging his legs. Esther steepled her fingers.
“I don’t know many Java men,” Crane went on. “So I don’t know if this is a Willetts particular or a general legend—”
“I haven’t heard it elsewhere,” Merrick put in.
“No. As far as I know, the giant rats of Sumatra was Willetts’ story. And the reason I bring it up is that Willetts is dead. He was murdered—knife in the ribs—in Poplar last week.” Stephen whistled and exchanged a glance with Esther. “Now, it could be a coincidence that the one man in London who one would ask about giant rats was just murdered—”
“We don’t like coincidences,” Esther said. “Who killed him?”
“Unknown. He was stabbed and left by the river, as I heard.”
“But lots of other people know the story, you said. So he wasn’t killed to keep him quiet.”
“Not to say lots, madam,” Merrick offered. “Mr. Willetts didn’t have a large acquaintance in England and his stories were, um—”
“Not suitable for mixed audiences,” Crane supplied. “Anyone at the Traders, the Far Eastern Mercantile club, would have heard it, anyone who drank with him, but it’s not one he’d have rushed to tell in politer company.”
Stephen frowned. “What is the story?”
“Don’t mind me,” Esther added. “I’m a married woman.”
“It’s fairly long. Alright, let me try and remember the detail.” Crane closed his eyes, calling back the memory of a hot night, warm sand underfoot, the sound of the sea. “Where were we, Merrick?”
“Hainan. Beach.”
“That’s right. We were drinking that stuff that smells of coconuts and tastes like hinge oil.”
“Fermented whatnot. And he was trying to get rid of a load of copra on you, and you threw your shoe at a rat, and he said did we want to hear a story.”
“That’s it.” Crane felt the memories open up. “It started with him in the jungle. He liked the jungle. He’d have hated to die by the Thames, poor swine.”
“And he got lost,” Merrick said. “Usual thing with Mr. Willetts. Canoe down a river and some rapids and two days’ surviving alone in the heat, and all of that—”
“And he came across a village. The huts standing empty, cooking pots boiled dry over dead fires, no animals, no people. Strange marks on the trees and houses. Blood on the ground.”
“So he sleeps there, like an idiot, and in the night there’s men with spears and they blindfold him and take him to a cave.”
“This is where it becomes very much a Willetts tale,” Crane said. “In this cave, which is really an intricate system of caverns decorated with strange and ancient carvings, he meets a remarkably beautiful and barely dressed lady who is the high priestess of some deity. She falls in love with him more or less on sight, as so many beautiful native ladies did, according to him.” He glanced at Esther. “We can probably miss out the next bit. The action picks up again as she explains that she is the…what was it…the vessel of the Red Tide, which serves to destroy anyone fool enough to defy her god. Now, there’s also a priest, a huge native chap in a golden mask. He’s jealous of Willetts’ conquest, naturally.”
“That’s right,” Merrick put in. “And the gold-mask bloke makes a fuss, and there is some stuff about her duty to the god, and then some shenanigans about a serving maid what also falls in love with Mr. Willetts, only this is actually a setup by the gold-mask bloke to annoy the priestess lady, right?”
“Dear God,” Stephen said. “How much of this is there?”
“You’re getting the abridged version,” Crane told him. “Willetts could keep this one going all night, including the interludes with the priestess, and the serving maid, and the priestess and the serving maid.”
Esther’s eyebrows shot up. “Definitely miss out that part.”
“So, anyway, what it boils down to is, the priestess calls the Red Tide on Mr. Willetts and the maid, right? Only the maid’s seen this coming, cos she’s fallen in love with Mr. Willetts for real by now”—Esther sighed heavily—“and she’s given him a thingy what will save him from it.”
“An amulet belonging to the gold-mask priest chap,” Crane amplified.
“And the Red Tide comes, and what it is is this whole load of giant rats.”
“Dozens and hundreds of rats, in a furry, flowing, stinking, snarling tide.” Crane remembered this part vividly. “They flow over the maid and the golden-mask chap and strip them to the bone with tooth and claw. They knock Willetts down too, but he’s unharmed because of the amulet. He really went to town on what it felt like, having these great heavy animals all over him, bare tails lashing him, the smell and the coarse wet belly hair rubbing over his face, and the claws treading and flattening over him. It was very convincing.”
“It was good, yeah,” Merrick agreed. “So eventually the lady finishes up, and the rats move off, and Mr. Willetts ain’t dead but the golden chappy is. And…what happens then?”
“She declares undying love, which he returns, and then he wakes up next to her cold corpse because some other priest has strangled her in her sleep.”
Merrick was shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. What it was, she wanted Mr. Willetts to take the mask and be the new god bloke. And when he says no, she summons the guards, and Mr. Willetts accuses her of blasphemy, and he has it away on his toes while the guards strangle her.”
“How on earth do you get those mixed up?” asked Stephen.
“Oh, the ending changed a few times,” Crane said. “When a chap was telling it in the Traders the other night, she renounced her duties to run away with Willetts, and before she could get on a ship with him the rats came for her, sent by the betrayed god. She always died, though.”
“Funny, now you say that,” said Merrick. “His ladies usually just pined after him, in the stories. They didn’t usually die.”
“Anyway. That’s it, in a very large nutshell.”
“It’s not, perhaps, the most plausible story I’ve ever heard,” said Stephen. “Points of interest, though.”
“By God there are,” said Janossi.
Esther nodded slowly. “How much truth would you say was in this?”
Crane shrugged. “Willetts did travel a lot. And strange things happen more openly in that part of the world. That said, he was an awful liar about some things, especially women. But in general, I’d say he embroidered, rather than making things up of whole cloth.”
“He told the one about the crabman pretty much as it happened,” Merrick offered.
“He what?”
Merrick grinned unsympathetically. “What, you thought he’d keep a story like that quiet? But he was spot on with it, as I recall.”
“That…man can count himself lucky he’s already dead,” said Crane. “And I’ll speak to you later, you turncoat. Anyway. It’s possible that some of the story was accurate, but what and how much is anyone’s guess.”
Esther frowned. “How did she call the Red Tide? How much detail did he go into?”
“That I don’t remember. It would doubtless have been a fair bit, he had an astonishing memory, but I don’t. Merrick?”
Merrick shook his head. “Chanting, was it? Singing?”
“When you say an astonishing memory…” Stephen began.
“Very good indeed. He picked up languages like nobody’s business. Terrific ear.�
��
“Good enough to remember and repeat a chant?”
“Perhaps.”
Esther nodded. “And what happened to the amulet?”
“No idea.”
“How did the rats leave? Where did they go?”
“I don’t recall anything about that.”
“Or where they came from?”
“Sorry. If Willetts put it in the story, I’ve forgotten.”
Janossi made a disgusted noise. “The one man we need to speak to, and he’s dead. And that’s why he’s dead, of course.”
“Likely, certainly,” said Stephen. “Well, now. Giant rats used as a weapon. A method of calling them. A protective amulet. The man who might know the call or own the amulet stabbed to death down in Poplar last week.”
“Rats springing up through the East End and heading into Limehouse,” Esther continued. “Two dead Chinese practitioners.”
“And a houseful of corpses on Ratcliffe Highway,” Janossi finished grimly. “Chance, or someone trying out a new toy?”
“There’s a thought,” said Esther. “Here’s Saint coming.”
There was a banging at the front door a few seconds later. Merrick let the girl in, and Esther gave her a rapid summary of events. As they spoke, Crane edged over to Stephen and propped himself on the desk.
“Interesting day?”
“As you see. Thank you for this. I thought you’d help but I didn’t expect quite such a contribution.”
“I am forever at your service,” said Crane lightly, and felt Stephen’s eyes flick to him.
“Well, I’m in your debt,” he returned equally lightly. “Please do collect.”
“I shall.” Crane allowed just a hint of promise into his voice. “So you think Willetts’ tale was more than a lot of tommyrot?”
“His murder lends it credibility. Of course it might just be coincidence, but you know how I feel about that.”
“You spurn it as you would a rabid dog.”
Stephen grinned up at him, then looked over at the others. “Alright, everyone, plan of action. We need to find out how the shamans died and if it’s linked to the rats; we need to find out more about Willetts’ death; most crucially, we need to look for evidence of whether the rats are appearing at random or being called. Are there many Sumatrans in London, Lord Crane?”
“Not that I know of. The odd lascar, perhaps, not a big migrant settlement.”
“Is Sumatra the same as China?” asked Saint.
“No,” said Merrick and Crane, simultaneously and emphatically. Merrick added, “Couple thousand miles off. Different people. Different language.”
“Does either of you speak Sumatran?” Esther put in.
“Malay. No, but Merrick’s not bad with pidgin. Then again, anyone surviving over here will speak English, there’s not a lot of Malay spoken this side of the globe.”
Stephen nodded. “Saint, did you find the addresses? Good. Mr. Merrick, can I borrow you to look into what happened to the shamans?”
“Be a pleasure, sir.”
“Thank you. Saint, take Mr. Merrick to the flagpole houses and back him up. Subtly, please. Do not get into trouble.”
“That goes for you too,” Crane told Merrick.
“Esther?”
“I’m going to Ratcliffe Highway for a sniff around. If this is a deliberate summoning, that might have been a practice run, in which case I’ll bet the summoner was near. Joss, with me, unless you need him, Steph?”
“No, I think I’ll look into Mr. Willetts’ death,” Stephen said. “The sooner we find out if this was a deliberate summoning, the better. Lord Crane, if you’re not busy—”
“I can take you to the Traders,” Crane offered. “There are a few Java men there, they’ll know as much as anyone in England about Willetts. And a few scholarly types who might know something about Sumatran legends and so on.”
“Perfect.” Esther clapped her hands. “Lord Crane, thank you very much. I needn’t tell you to keep this quiet, need I? Alright, Saint, gentlemen, meet tomorrow, surgery, ten, unless anything goes catastrophically wrong before then. Everyone moving please.”
“See you tomorrow,” Stephen agreed.
“Let me lock up here, Mr. Day, and I’ll take you to the Traders.” Crane moved to close the shutters as the others left.
When the outside door shut behind the last of them, he slid the bolt through and felt Stephen’s arms go round his waist.
“Hello.” He twisted round and slipped his hands under Stephen’s shabby jacket.
“Hello to you.” Stephen leaned forward, resting his head against Crane’s chest. “And thank you. You’re rather marvellous.”
“Says the man with magic hands.” Crane brushed his own slender, ordinary fingers through Stephen’s curls. “When did you leave this morning?”
“About four. I’d have stayed if I could, but these blasted rats.”
“What happened on Ratcliffe Highway?”
Stephen’s arms tightened slightly. “They attacked a boarding house three days ago. A lot of rats. Twenty or more, according to the survivors.”
“Survivors. Who died?”
“Anyone who couldn’t get out. A lace-maker, her infant, her two-year-old, a sailor with a wooden leg, a consumptive. The rats somehow got through the cellar door and went up through the house like a, well, a tide. Everyone who could run did so. By the time they went back in, the rats had gone, and there were five chewed bodies.”
“Jesus. Why wasn’t that in the broadsheets?”
Stephen shrugged one shoulder. “There’s, shall we say, a policy against causing alarm with stories of this sort. People would rather not hear it. The survivors are being treated for fever, or a bad batch of gin, or something like that, and the deaths ascribed to a mad dog, I think.”
“The witnesses are being told they didn’t see it?” said Crane, incredulously.
“Told it didn’t happen as they thought. It might be a relief for some of them to believe that. I don’t know. I don’t know if the poor swine who came back home to find his wife and children dead might take some comfort from the idea they weren’t ripped to shreds by giant rats.” Stephen swallowed. “I saw his face, Lucien. The policeman telling him his family was dead, and that he couldn’t see the bodies. He’d got a new job just that day. He was coming home to tell his wife. He had some sweetmeats in a basket, for the children.”
“God.”
“We thought it was an accident. Some freak occurrence. Escaped pets or experiments or what have you. That was bad enough. If they were summoned, if this was deliberate rather than chance…”
“Mrs. Gold said a practice run,” Crane said. “Practice at what?”
“Trying out the control over the rats, I imagine. Bring them out, call them back. Watch them kill.”
“Ratcliffe Highway is a fairly busy place for magical experiments.”
“Mmm,” said Stephen. “I was wondering if that was a joke. Ratcliffe.”
“If it was, I trust you’ll be making the joker laugh on the other side of his face.”
“Only if Esther doesn’t get to him first. She has no sense of humour.” Stephen held on to Crane for a moment longer, then let out a long breath. “Before we go to this club of yours, do we need to discuss Rackham?”
“Let me handle that.”
Stephen stilled. He moved back a couple of steps so he could look up at Crane. “I’m not a child, Lucien. Rackham is as much my problem as yours. And I don’t need your protection.”
“No,” said Crane. “You need to eliminate a plague of giant killer rats, and find out if some murderous bastard called it up. So you concentrate on that, and I’ll take Rackham off your plate while you do it.”
Stephen stared up a minute longer, then his shoulders dropped slightly. “I see what you’re saying,
but—”
Crane sighed. “It is actually possible to accept help without marking yourself as a weakling, you know.”
Stephen flushed. “I’m perfectly capable of accepting help. I asked you to come today, didn’t I? And look what happened.”
“What?” said Crane, injured.
“We discovered we may have two dead shamans and a rat-controlling maniac at large. Whereas if you hadn’t been there, I might have given up and gone home early.” Stephen moved into Crane’s arms again. “I’m sorry, Lucien. And I’m sorry about last night, too, I wasn’t very fair to you. I’m a bag of nerves at the moment. Do I need to dress up like a shop dummy for this club, then?”
“Not by normal human standards,” Crane replied. “Which is to say, yes, my sweet, you do. Why don’t you come back to the flat to get some decent clothes, and I’ll see if I can do something for your nerves while I’m at it?”
“Mmm. Tempting. Though…”
Stephen hopped backwards to sit on the desk and Crane moved between his legs to kiss him, felt him lean back invitingly, and grinned against his mouth. “Dear me, Mr. Day. You really do love to get fucked on desks, don’t you? Put you on a desk, and you’re begging for it. What is so particularly exciting about desks?”
“They’re not exciting, they’re boring.” Stephen quivered as Crane’s mouth moved to his sensitive earlobes. “You write on them and then you go home, and nothing horrible happens, nobody dies. Lovely dull surfaces. All the better to do interesting things on.” He slid his electric hands down Crane’s back, over his hips.
“There’s a perfectly good desk in the flat,” Crane said. “A lot stronger than this, and decidedly safer.”
“But, in the Strand,” Stephen argued, “whereas this desk is right here, and you could have me on it right now.”
“You’re feeling more yourself, I see.”
Stephen locked his arms round Crane’s neck, wrapped his legs round the other’s hips, and lifted himself clear off the desk to press his body against Crane’s. The taller man staggered at his weight and braced himself with his hands, laughing.
