‘That does not concern you. Suffice it to say that he deserved punishment. The look upon his face today tells me he has indeed suffered – and so my rewards are doubled. But time grows short; I’ll return to my narrative. We decoyed Miss Allistair’s companion, a certain Miss Haskins, on a false errand. With her disposed of temporarily, we then thrust the lady into a palanquin and then, several streets later, into a delivery cart. The cleverness of the plan lay in remaining in the city, rather than attempting cross-country flight. We hid in a ramshackle working-class section of the city, hard by the Fort. Typically, the city and environs swarmed with British troops and Sepoys. Typically again, they looked everywhere but near the Fort! There we remained safe for over a week until the uproar subsided.
‘Here also, Doctor, I may as well make a confession: genius that I am, I had miscalculated the effect of Lady Alice’s abduction upon the military and populace at large. Obviously, it makes no sense to take a hostage in India for ransoming in Britain. It was my original intention to obtain the ransom money in India through an intermediary. In this way, of course, the whole business would have been completed in a matter of days.’
‘You’ve no idea,’ I interjected, ‘the misery you’ve caused! You may kill me, perhaps even Sherlock Holmes as well, but I swear to you – you shall pay for all you’ve done!’
‘That could not be helped. And it’s you, my friend, who shall pay, not I. In a matter of hours, Jones and I shall be on our way to Liverpool, where we’ll catch a ship for Rio de Janeiro, there to spend the remainder of our lives in luxury...’
‘And Wangi?’
‘As for our humpbacked friend, he has served us well. However, he is noticeable, to say the least. Very much so. His presence would hamper our leaving...’
He placed his hand on the pistol butt that projected from his belt.
‘I’m afraid this is poor Wangi’s last day on earth – ah! To warn him is useless – he speaks no English, as you’ve noticed. Now, to return to our adventures...’
I received his plan with incredulity. Obviously the unfortunate wretch, misshapen and heathen though he was, had been of enormous help, yet he was to be killed and cast aside without remorse.
The progression of his insanity had clearly made Baskerville a beast. Where there had been intelligence, there was now only animal cunning. Always a cold man, even the last vestiges of civilized behaviour had now fallen away, leaving a stark, vicious brute who killed as mechanically as a viper.
‘Our miscalculation made one thing clear: we could not hope to ransom the lady in India. Bombay had been sealed as tight as a drum, which was easy, considering it is situated on an island. Troops were everywhere – they swarmed in the streets and on the roads; trains and ships were searched; all bridges were watched; the alarm had been raised.
‘Now, as you may have heard, the abductors were decribed as natives: Jones and I deliberately disguised ourselves as Hindis. With the teaming millions of these fellows overflowing the city and countryside, and not a hair’s difference between them, it’s no wonder the authorities were frustrated. But as a pair of English journeymen who ambled about Bombay, we attracted no notice whatsoever. Lady Alice remained humanely, but safely, confined in our quarters.
‘When we realized that it was necessary to obtain the ransom outside the country, the problem of exit presented itself. As I mentioned, to attempt to smuggle Lady Alice from the port of Bombay was out of the question. However, we observed in the course of our many ramblings through the city that trains to the interior and eastern ports weren’t carefully inspected. It was a simple matter therefore, to obtain tickets for the two of us to Madras, with provision for the carriage of a large ship’s trunk –’
‘Monsters!’ I cried. ‘To imprison her –’
‘Quite so, Doctor. It was distasteful. I can assure you, though, we had no other option. Trapped as we were in Bombay, surrounded by troops and search parties, we had only three choices. The first was to free the girl and flee, in which case she could describe and identify us. This course of action was suicidal. The second option was to flee with the girl to another port city, as we did. The third choice was to kill her. This was most odious; besides which, it made ransoming impossible. So we selected the second alternative. Lady Alice was drugged to a deep sleep and placed in the trunk, carefully altered to allow for ventilation. This was the only instance we were obliged to resort to the use of drugs. As you saw for yourself, she has been well treated these twelve weeks.’
He paused for another smoke. So entranced was I at this casual narration of horrendous deeds that, for the moment at least, I forgot my plight and the strange cries from the cavern.
‘Our darkest moment was the loading of the trunk on to the baggage carriage. If they’d opened it, we’d have hanged for sure. But our appearance as well-to-do British citizens, and a handsome sum handed to the baggage clerk, was enough and we were off. The journey to Madras takes just over four and twenty hours. We rocked over the rails, and the countryside shot past us: great oceans of red earth dotted with scrub and thorn trees, bullock carts, buffalo, and camels. And mostly, of course, hordes of brown men wrapped in robes, with wizened faces and bony limbs.
‘Once arrived in that steamy port city, we again found humble lodgings and set the young lady free from her confinement. She had weathered the journey extremely well and recovered almost immediately, except of course, for the long bouts of weeping... The next few days were spent along the waterfront searching for a vessel bound for London. We found none, and were about to set off for Calcutta, when we spotted an Arab dhow making her way towards the quay. She was a coastal trader – one of thousands in the Indian Ocean. They roam about, taking on and discharging crew and cargo as they bounce from port to port along the coastlines of Africa and Asia.
‘She came up to the quay and made fast. Larger than most dhow coasters, her decks were piled high with cargo: hides, copra, spices, hemp, coconuts. Her crew came from every corner of the globe: Arabs, Malays, Negroes, Hindis, Chinese. We knew that these men, if such they could be called, were a desperate lot. For the right price, they would do our bidding and ask no questions.
‘The captain was a fierce Arab named Harun Sarouk. He sat on the sun-drenched deck while his heathen crew tended the huge sail. He puffed on his hookah, cross-legged on a pile of hemp while his humpbacked Malay servant, the same one who’s in the cavern yonder, fanned him with a palm frond. The boat had come from Zanzibar by way of Ceylon. It would depart in two days for Batavia. Sarouk would take us, and our passenger, if we paid him well.
‘We set sail two nights later, and the trade winds took us eastward with great speed. After six days, we stopped at Kutaradja, at the head of the island of Sumatra, for the natives there had a wondrous animal that they’d captured in the jungle...’
He let his voice trail off to a whisper, and reclined with a smirk upon his face. My eyes moved to the fissure in the rock. It was dark and silent.
‘... a most wondrous and horrifying monster: a giant rat!’
Again, I was recalled to horror, and my face became damp with perspiration; my limbs shook.
‘It sounds incredible, does it not?’ he taunted me in a soft voice, ‘yet it is real, and, as you may have seen, quite capable of gnawing a man to death...’
Once again, I made a frantic attempt to break free. All my efforts were futile and only revealed that I had strained my muscles and done great damage to the scar tissue of my old bullet wound. The deep throbbing in my shoulder told me that it would never be the same. However, since I had not long to live, what did it matter? Baskerville watched my struggles idly. He reached for a long stick and, turning on his elbow, poked the dying fire. He turned back to me with a leer.
‘You thought the hound fierce? You were afraid of it? Then I must tell you, Doctor, that compared with the creature you will see emerge from that cavern, the hound was a toy, a play thing!’ He began to quake in his passion, but was interrupted by Wangi, who had emerged
from the burrow and sat squatting at the edge of the clearing.
‘Hssst!’
Baskerville turned towards the savage, who drew his grotesque dagger from the folds of his robe. The warning sound came again from between his thick, gnarled lips, and he leaned forward, pointing upwards.
I heard behind me, and to my left, the faint sound of rustling leaves. A twig snapped, and the measured cadence of footfalls came to my ears. The Malay weaved in a crouch, holding his dagger in an upraised fist. But the greater change came over Baskerville, who visibly shook with anticipation. The strain was showing. Eyes bulging, he snatched the pistol from his belt and drew back the hammer. The footfalls grew nearer. I strained to turn my head, but try as I might, I was unable to look behind me at the approaching figure.
‘Fly, Holmes! Fly!’ I shouted at the top of my lungs. ‘He means to kill us both!’
In a rage, Baskerville pointed his weapon at my breast. I closed my eyes, mumbling a snatch of prayer. But the bullet never came. When I opened my eyes, I saw that he had resumed his former stance: eyes staring madly into the mist in the direction of the footsteps, pistol held in both his trembling hands.
‘Come forward, Sherlock Holmes!’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘Come! Come join your friend...’
The sounds grew closer, and at last I glimpsed the familiar slender figure through the swirling grey vapour. The silhouette advanced slowly, with incredible composure and deliberation. The sight filled me with remorse. I was aware, as Holmes surely must have been, of the risks involved with his profession. But to see him brought low by such a beast as Baskerville – it was too poignant. The figure halted, and I heard the calm voice ring out.
‘I shall go no further until my friend is released.’
‘Then, Mr Holmes, you shall die where you stand,’ said Baskerville in a quavering voice, ‘and your friend shall die slowly...’
After a pause, Holmes advanced into the clearing.
‘Dammit, man, have you no sense! Turn and fly, I beg you!’ I shouted, my voice hoarse with the effort. ‘There’s no saving me, Holmes, and Miss Alice is delivered safe. Turn and be off!’
‘If you fly,’ warned Baskerville, ‘Alice Allistair shall die a lingering and lonely death. Mark my word! She is by now tightly bound in the bottom of Strathcombe’s lime kiln. She is helpless and silent, I can assure you. If you do not comply, her parents shall never learn of her whereabouts. However, if you accompany us as hostages, we shall leave instructions here to effect her rescue. What say you, Mr Holmes? Do your friends live... or die?’
Before I could again cry out a warning to my companion, I saw from the corner of my eye a pair of dusky hands whirling about. Barely half an instant later, I felt the suffocating sensation of a heavy cloth fastened tightly about my lower face. So intent was I in watching Holmes’ approach, I’d failed to notice Wangi sneaking round behind me. In a flash, I was silenced. Then it occurred to me that Holmes must have arrived unexpectedly early; I was to have been gagged before so as not to warn him of Baskerville’s gruesome revenge.
‘Your friend has no trust in me, Holmes. But you are a fairly intelligent man. I am sure you will do what’s right...’
‘I obviously have no alternative...’ said Holmes in a resigned tone.
I shook my head to and fro till my head ached and my ears rang. I kicked and screamed, but all that issued was a muffled moan. Baskerville had planned his revenge as only a twisted, tortured soul was capable. Seeing my dear friend led to his slaughter was more than I could bear. I fought to hold back sobs of rage and frustration.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Watson,’ he said softly and advanced towards Baskerville, who held the pistol pointed at his heart. Never taking his eyes from Holmes, he stepped backward and caught up another pair of manacles. Wangi crept behind Holmes, dagger in hand.
‘As soon as Jones arrives, we’ll fasten you to that tree yonder. Then, when we’ve prepared our flight, you shall join us. When we’re safe from this vicinity, you shall be released...’
‘I know your history too well, Baskerville,’ Holmes interjected, ‘to doubt for a moment that you desire my death. I am under no illusions as to what you plan for me. But I ask you, in the name of all that’s decent, to free my friend...’
He had come to the hollow then, knowing he was to die, in a valiant sacrifice for me. He had come with the same aplomb, the same steadfast resolution, that he had shown as he walked the narrow ledge of the Riechenbach Falls to meet Moriarty. His words tore at my breast. When all was said and done – in the final hour – there was no truer soul, no more gallant companion, than Sherlock Holmes. Baskerville’s trembling quickened; the manacles he held clanked and rattled from his spasms. He said nothing.
‘And where’s your friend, Jones?’ Holmes enquired slyly. ‘Was he not to return post haste? Has he forgotten you? Has he fled?’
‘He would be foolish to do so!’ blurted Baskerville. ‘The ransom is taken! Our flight is set!’
Yet, for all his braggadocio, a wave of uncertainty crossed his face. His entire body twitched with nervousness. It is said that partners in crime never trust each other. The doubtful flicker on Baskerville’s face showed me the saying’s truth.
‘You are right, Baskerville. I have no desire to see my friends perish at your hand. Keep me, therefore, and free the Doctor...’
The villain approached, shackles in hand.
‘I’ll set your friend free as soon as you allow us to place these on your wrists. I cannot allow both of you to be free at once...’
To my horror, Holmes was taken in by this promise. He advanced towards Baskerville, arms outstretched.
‘Since I’m to die, and your escape is assured, would you consent to satisfying my curiosity?’
‘What is it?’ snapped Baskerville with a twitch.
‘Will you admit to killing Raymond Jenard?’
‘Of course!’ said he with a wave of the hand. ‘He had to die! He discovered that Alice Allistair was aboard...’
‘And McGuinness, and Compson?’
‘Yes, yes!’ he screamed. ‘Now...’
Baskerville raised the manacles to Holmes’ outstretched hands. With mounting dread, I watched as he placed the first iron band round Holmes’ delicate wrist and snapped it shut. The metallic click had a chilling finality. Keeping his pistol out of reach, yet pointed at Holmes’ breast, he took the free end of the shackles and led Holmes towards a smallish tree, similar to mine and not ten feet away. Thrash as I might, Holmes paid not the slightest attention to me and allowed himself to be led, timid as a sheep, in the direction of the tree. The deformed Malay crouched behind him with drawn dagger. Clearly his situation was hopeless. Soon he would be joining me, awaiting the emergence of the giant rat from its lair. The irony struck me like a hammer blow: here was a man of brilliance, dedicated to helping those in desperation and destroying evil wherever he found it. This very man was to die an ignoble and hideous death: gnawed and worried to death by a giant rodent! Hopefully, the beast would be so fearsome that we would faint dead away at the sight of it, and so be spared the worst of the agony.
But apparently the strain was too much even for Holmes. Suddenly he clasped his free hand to his chest, made a mild coughing sound, and doubled over. Stunned, Baskerville drew back and gazed in amazement at the slender, bent frame as it wheezed and choked.
The Malay showed confusion in his coarse features, and Baskerville drew close to Holmes and stretched out a hand to steady him.
It happened in an instant. I never cease to be amazed at the sudden bursts of speed and strength my friend is capable of. One moment he was bent double, and apparently on the verge of fainting. The next instant, he had dropped to a low crouch, grabbed the gun in Baskerville’s hand, and was beginning the high, wide arc with his right fist. He straightened his body as he swung, and the blow had the force of every muscle in his body. My eyes could not follow it. The blow caught Baskerville on the tip of his jaw.
Holmes’ advantage w
as only momentary, however, in a flash the Malay sprang like a panther from behind. I saw the wicked blade descend and heard my friend’s sharp cry. The blade was raised again, and I closed my eyes, for I knew the second wound would be fatal. But before Wangi could drive the dagger home, there came a muffled explosion and puff of blue smoke. The wretch grabbed his middle and fell in a writhing heap upon the ground. The two men rolled over and over, locked in a death grip. The revolver, still smoking, was held in Baskerville’s hand. Holmes’ long, thin fingers were clasped round his wrist. They struggled fiercely; their breathing grew loud and rapid. As they rolled about, I could see the dark stain on the back of Holmes’ coat growing larger as each second passed. Not a heavily built man, it wouldn’t be long before his strength left him. Yet still he struggled, and seemed to get the best of Baskerville. There was a sudden flurry of motion, and I saw the glint of the pistol as it flew from Baskerville’s hand, aided no doubt by Holmes’ iron grip. A small splash told me it had landed in the pool.
At last the men parted, both on the verge of unconsciousness. Baskerville was reeling from the tremendous blow Holmes had dealt him. Holmes, having lost much blood, grew paler by the second. But clearly the villain had the edge, for as time passed, his condition abated, while Holmes’ worsened.
Baskerville looked round for help, but it would not come from his gnomelike servant. The Malay, tangled in his white robe, flopped and writhed grotesquely on the earth like a giant flounder out of water. Still clutching at his stomach, he worked his mouth in silent gasps. There was no sound from his lips, only trickles of blood that ran down his chin. I couldn’t help but pity the poor wretch. He was dying a macabre, brutish death, one that seemed oddly befitting a man of his cruel and bestial nature.
As a last resort, Baskerville staggered to the side of his fallen accomplice and seized the dagger. Twenty feet away, Holmes stared back. It was the first, and last, time I observed a look of fear on his face. Too weak to run, he had no escape. He glared at the serpentine blade of this kris, the instrument that had gravely wounded him, and was now to kill him. Baskerville lurched forward. Even in his exhausted state, the prospect of final revenge caused his shoulders to shake with laughter. Holmes dropped to his knees. He reached round to grab at his wound. His eyelids flickered.
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 19