Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra (4 page)

Of course, his dramatic exit would have carried far greater gravitas and dignity had he experienced less difficulty in negotiating the gangplank down to the small pier. As it was he gingerly edged his way down at a painfully slow pace, guiding each step with his gold-tipped cane. On one occasion he completely lost his footing; he turned round towards us and Lestrade and I realized his worst fears by laughing heartily in his direction. He turned sharply away
and completed the remainder of his hazardous departure unscathed. A smart brougham was patiently awaiting him at the quayside and that was the last we saw of Mr Alistair Dodd.

At that precise moment Holmes emerged through the hatchway. He pointed in the direction of the rapidly departing brougham.

‘That, I take it, is our esteemed client,’ Homes declared.

‘Have a care, Holmes,’ I warned. ‘For all of his absurdities, should Mr Dodd ever decide to withdraw his commission, I am certain that he has enough influence to render any further investigation on our part difficult in the extreme.’

Holmes lit a cigarette and smiled mischievously through its thin, blue plume of smoke.

‘The doctor does have a point, Mr Holmes. Has your examination of the ship yielded any clues that might have escaped my men and me?’ Lestrade asked, almost as if he was hopeful of a negative reply.

For an instant Holmes appeared to be strangely surprised at the question.

‘Well, I suppose there are probably only three of any real note, although to evaluate their significance at this early stage would, of course, be purely speculative,’ Holmes quietly replied.

‘Three!!’ Lestrade squealed, whilst distorting his weaselly features into a mixture of rage and frustration. ‘Well, I find that very difficult to believe. My men and I surveyed the craft most thoroughly,’ the inspector insisted.

‘That is as maybe, but as Watson will certainly attest, I have long insisted that most men have only the ability to see, without making a worthwhile observation. It is the equivalent of reading a great book whilst lacking the power of comprehension. It is a futile waste of time and energy!’ Holmes concluded.

‘Surely Holmes, you can divulge to us the path that these three clues might be leading us upon?’ I suggested hopefully.

‘Now, Lestrade, perhaps you would kindly furnish Watson
with the name and address of the shipping line that owns the
Matilda Briggs.
My day’s work is by no means complete.’ Ignoring my last request, Holmes now glided along the gangplank, down to our waiting cab while Lestrade scribbled a brief note for me as we followed in Holmes’s wake.

Once again I was left to marvel at the inexhaustible energy with which Holmes was imbued whenever a new quest was drawing him onwards. Whatever the nature of the ship’s mysterious clues they must surely have been of great import to galvanize Holmes in such a fashion. By the time that I had reached the cab, Holmes was already into his pipe and he left it to me to pass the address up to our driver. We had agreed to liaise with Lestrade at every opportunity, and a moment later Holmes and I were on our way to the offices of the Red Cannon shipping line, situated in Pepys Street, close to the Monument.

The density of the traffic rendered the relatively short journey to Pepys Street much longer than it might otherwise have been and at times the narrow streets and lanes were almost impassable. Yet, throughout the entirety of that tiresome journey, Holmes would not be drawn from his self-imposed silence. Therefore I was somewhat relieved when the interminable drive drew at last to a close in one of those tiny side streets that lead down from the Monument to the river’s edge. In truth, Pepys Street was little more than a cobbled alley, so it was all the more surprising to find the imposing red-brick headquarters of the Red Cannon shipping line in such a location. I then realized, of course, that the entire neighbourhood was peppered with similar businesses.

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.