Ten feet away Baskerville, knife raised, made a final lunge. For an instant Holmes dropped his head, staring at the ground. Then, as Baskerville seemed to hover over him like the Angel of Death, his left hand made two tight circles in the air. The chain whirred. Holmes staggered to his feet, swept his hand wide, and the whirling manacle caught Baskerville on the ear with all the force of a mace and chain. He dropped senseless and Holmes, pale as a ghost, hobbled over to where I sat chained to the tree. He tore the gag from my face, clapped his hand to my shoulder.
‘Watson!’ he panted. ‘Can you ever forgive me...’
‘Holmes! Behind you!’
Baskerville was moving. With all the persistence of Hydra, he refused to succumb. He crawled towards the fissure in the rock. Holmes, realizing the danger immediately, rose to his feet in pursuit. But after two steps he fell, and could not rise.
‘... I have not the strength...’ he said weakly.
Baskerville disappeared into the cave. Wangi lay motionless. Holmes stirred his legs slowly, like a child awakening from deep slumber. The mist was rising. Now a great deal of the high rock wall was visible. I could see almost to its summit. The hole in the cliffside glared at me like a monstrous eye socket. All was silent. Perhaps Baskerville had fainted...
Then it began: a series of thumps, then the animal cry. Behind the snuffling growls, I could hear a crazed cackle as Baskerville goaded the beast into a frenzy. The reader may think that by this time I was inured to horror. However the opposite was the case: I was in a state of complete emotional collapse. As the raucous cries bellowed from the cavern, my vision grew dim. All things grew dark and blurry, save for that thing upon which my eyes were riveted: the mouth of the cave.
Holmes slowly raised himself up on his elbows and stared likewise. He tried to bring his knees under him in an attempt to stand, but it was useless; the strength had oozed from him. His fingers clutched the earth and pawed it idly.
‘... I am so... tired, Watson...’
Baskerville cried out twice. But his shouts were soon obscured by a series of sharp squeals. All was silent for a moment. Then the guttural grunting and snuffling was heard again. The sound seemed to change: it grew less sonorous, higher. The beast was drawing near to the entrance of the cave. I heard too the scraping of feet on earth and the crunching of small stones.
In an instant, I was looking at it. It took my breath away, for never have I seen a sight so foul, so horrid, as that face which peered from its burrow. The huge nose twitched, the rat ears turned in small jerks. The small eyes rolled. Holmes groaned in horror and disbelief. It was immense. The head was almost two feet long. It grunted and growled. Sniffing the air, it came to focus upon the prostrate form of my friend. No doubt it smelled his blood. Then, horror of horrors! It squealed in rage, popping its jaws and revealing enormous incisor teeth!
Holmes, the colour drained from his face, stared transfixed at the monster. It lunged forward, yet something held it back. It was then that I noticed the hawser round its neck. It was as thick as a man’s wrist. The animal snapped its head back and tore at the rope. It paused for a moment to glare in our direction, and I saw the cable was half-gnawed through. In a moment, it would be free.
‘Goodbye, Holmes...’ I said with an air of resignation.
The monster lunged again. With a crack, the cable broke. It bounded into the clearing, a gigantic grey-black creature. It paused for a moment, then ran at Holmes, head down, jaws open.
‘Holmes! Holmes! Dear God!’ I remember shrieking. But my senses again grew dim. In the swirling darkness that descended around me, I could yet see the huge monster – maddened no doubt by the smell of blood – grasp Holmes’ shoulder with its huge teeth and shake him. The tiny eyes rolled in frenzy, and the rat let forth a guttural squeal of rage. I also heard, dimly and as if from a great distance, Holmes cry out in pain. The next instant he was hurled over on to his back. He flung his fists desperately at the huge head and gnashing teeth, but they had little effect. He would not last more than half a minute. Overcome with fear and sorrow, I fainted dead away.
Twelve
RECOVERY
I was brought around by an enormous crash that resounded through the hollow and seemed to shake the very earth under me. I opened my eyes to see Holmes miraculously still alive, pawing feebly at the monster, which suddenly jerked upright and spun in a tight circle, biting at its own flank. Shortly thereafter, the creature seemed to be mysteriously propelled backwards by an invisible jolt, and the next instant came a second explosion. In the ringing silence that followed, I heard the metallic sound of a breech working. There came, too, the sound of footsteps above me. A shower of pebbles fell into the pool. I looked up and could see through the mist the outline of a figure at the cliff’s edge. Could it be Jones?
There came a dull thump as the animal was spun about and flung down, then a third and final crash. It twitched twice, then lay still. A small hole in its side poured forth great rivulets of blood. I then had an inkling of who the figure on the cliffside was. But when I again looked up, it was gone.
For perhaps a minute, there was no sound except the waterfall. Baskerville was somewhere in the dark recesses of the cave either dead or maimed, for it was apparent by his cries that the rat had attacked him. Wangi was beyond help. My immediate concern was for Holmes.
I cannot describe my relief when I saw him thrash about, heard him curse, and saw him draw himself up into a sitting position.
‘Ah Watson, how utterly foolish of me! I should never have undertaken this plan under –’
He paused to groan and reach for his shoulder.
‘– under these conditions...’
‘What plan? Do you –’
But I was interrupted by a small man scurrying into the clearing with blinding speed. He rushed to Holmes’ side and knelt over him. Dressed in a macintosh and felt hat, I could not recognize him until I heard the familiar, intense voice.
‘Are you all right, man?’
‘I might live, but no thanks to you, Lestrade,’ said Holmes dryly. ‘I’ll keep – unfasten Watson and use the shackles to secure our friend in the cave.’ He inclined his head in the proper direction.
Lestrade extracted a huge ring of keys from his coat pocket and was at my side in no time.
‘Ah, standard Naval issue, these. I have a key right here – have you free in no time, old man...’
I fairly bubbled over with questions. How long had he been nearby? Who was the figure on the cliff? Did Holmes arrange it all beforehand? My questions were unanswered, however, because as soon as I was released Lestrade dashed to the mouth of the cave and disappeared.
Upon being freed, my first duty was to tend to Holmes’ wound. I took off his coat and shirt. Fortunately, Wangi had dealt him a glancing blow; the blade had entered the right shoulder directly from above – parallel to the spine. But it had been deflected outwards by the shoulder blade. Consequently, a good deal of muscle tissue had been severed (which accounted for the heavy bleeding) but no organs were damaged. I made a crude pressure bandage and sling from his shirt. Holmes was able to stand, but just barely.
‘By Jove, look, Holmes!’ I said, pointing up the hillside.
Ian Farthway entered the clearing carrying his rifle. He walked straight to the dead animal and kicked it twice. Satisfied, he joined us, his face full of apology.
‘You needn’t bother to explain, Farthway,’ said Holmes. ‘The heavy mist made things impossible. I shall never forgive myself for placing Watson in this predicament!’
‘You were stationed up there all along?’
‘Yes, Doctor. Unfortunately, the mist made all of you invisible. I was unable to get a clear shot until the beast was almost upon you –’
‘Holmes! What is this thing?’ I enquired as I walked unsteadily towards the animal that lay frozen in death. Holmes, leaning on Farthway, followed slowly. The animal was strange indeed. While its head looked like a rat’s, save for the size, the body resembled a
pig. Were it not for the men it had killed and the horrific start it had given us, one could almost say it had a comical appearance.
Holmes stood between us; we held him up.
‘There’s your giant rat, Watson: Tapirus Indicus. The Sumatran tapir, a nocturnal pachyderm whose nearest living relative is the horse. See here...’
He knelt at the side of the strange beast and pulled up the fleshy snout, revealing huge yellow teeth.
‘In tooth structure, it is almost identical to the horse. Note these incisor teeth, Watson, which you so astutely identified aboard the Matilda Briggs by the wounds they left.’
‘Then it must be vegetarian. Why did it attack humans?’
‘We cannot be sure. In nature it is a shy beast. It feeds at night along jungle river banks, avoiding people altogether. But in the hands of a warped personality like Baskerville, Heaven knows what it could become...’
‘He seems to have a talent for training diabolical creatures. This animal then killed out of rage, not for food. But why did Baskerville bring it with him? What was the purpose served?’
‘I shall tell all at length, Watson. It’s the very least I owe you, having endangered your life and sanity. However, I am still slightly fuzzy...’
He grew suddenly heavy in our arms, and we set him gently on the ground. A cry for assistance came from the cavern, and Farthway hurried off to help.
‘Once again my apologies, dear fellow. When I warned you of the possible danger involved, I had no idea...’
‘I understand. Now let me fetch some water.’
‘I had of course arranged for double coverage for you,’ he continued between sips. ‘Farthway above you and Lestrade in the hollow. As luck would have it, neither could help. Whilst Farthway was foiled by the mist, Lestrade probably had trouble with Jones –’
‘You didn’t interfere!’
‘Oh yes we did. But here’s Lestrade himself to tell us. Well, Lestrade, you have our friend in tow?’
The two men carried Baskerville into the clearing and laid him down. He was in a light coma. He moaned and shook as a child does in a nightmare. That word seemed an apt description of what his life had become. His wounds, which I examined, were minor, but the head injuries Holmes had given him could have severe consequences. But considering the condition of the man’s brain, I doubted they could have anything but beneficial effects. I looked down and shook my head slowly.
‘He’ll never stand trial.’
‘Why so?’ asked Farthway. ‘We all heard his confession. Mr Holmes asked him the questions deliberately –’
‘Much as we’d like to see him hang, no physician or judge of any competence would rule him fit for trial or sentencing. The man’s in the final stages of insanity. No doubt he’s been suffering for years, but the strain and anticipation of this episode sent him over the edge.’
‘My opinion, while non-professional, concurs with yours,’ said Holmes. ‘He’s bound for Bedlam, not Dartmoor...’
Baskerville began to stir and moan. Lestrade, always the professional, slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.
‘I shall send for a wagon in town,’ he said, ‘but first we must track down Sampson –’
‘No need, there he is yonder. And look at the cargo strung on his back!’
The boatswain, with his rolling sailor’s gait, strode easily down the hollow with Jones flung across his shoulder like a sea bag. Reaching us, he dumped the man unceremoniously upon the ground like a load of rubbish. The man didn’t move. He’d been beaten severely round the head, and a glance at John Sampson’s flayed knuckles revealed the source of his injuries. Sampson did not speak, but continued to glower at the two unconscious villians who lay sprawled on the earth, only a few feet from the grotesque monster.
Remembering the Malay, I bent over him, and was immediately conscious of a human stench that was more noxious than the animal one. As I suspected, he was dead.
‘What has happened to Alice Allistair?’
‘All is well, Watson. Lestrade and Sampson intercepted Jones and the young lady directly they left the hollow. There was a bit of a chase, which explains Lestrade’s absence from our predicament. The girl is now safely in Strathcombe, engaged in a joyful reunion with her parents.’
And so our sad and ragged procession wound its way out of the dreary place, leaving behind the two bodies: one of a misshapen brown man whom fate had cast far from his homeland, to die in a dank pit at the hands of the white men he served; the other, a strange and timid creature of the jungle streams who, in the hands of a madman filled with hate, had become a ferocious killer.
The trek through the forest tired us more than we anticipated, and it was a relief indeed to see Brundage waiting at the meadow’s edge with a carriage and team. Baskerville’s limp form was deposited on the floor, to be followed by Jones. Holmes, who had taxed himself far more than he realized, fainted with the attempt to climb aboard. We laid him on the front seat whilst I, supported by Lestrade, rode in the back. While I had lost no blood, I must admit that I was badly shaken, and the ride to Strathcombe is hazy in my memory.
As he was borne through the great hall, Holmes awoke momentarily to witness the fruits of his endeavour: the heartwarming spectacle of Lord and Lady Allistair, in a state of complete relief and rapture, embracing their daughter on the sofa. Holmes’ lip trembled, and for the only time I can ever recall, I observed his eyes fill, and a tear across his cheek.
We were half-carried upstairs, and spent the better part of a fortnight recovering. With the help of Meg’s rich stock broth, mutton chops, and stews, washed down with quarts of Ludlow ale, we recovered quickly. After slightly more than a week upon our backs, we were once again ready to venture out of doors.
Thirteen
THE POOL
I awoke. The willow boughs sighed above me. The stream chuckled over rocks and along the moss-covered banks. A titmouse pranced amongst the roots of the trees, pausing now and then to whistle. Hearing a sonorous clamour borne from afar by the wind, I turned my head to see a long skein of geese winging its way over the horizon.
‘Drat!’ cried a voice.
I rolled over on the grass and back into the sunshine. The sun had shifted while I slept. The warmth felt delicious on my back.
‘Oh blast!’ came the voice again, and I heard a great splashing commotion.
‘Watson, my casting arm appears to be ruined. That heathen devil Wangi! I must say the world is none the poorer for his departure...’
‘Exercise is the best thing, Holmes. That and staying in the sun. My, it’s uncommonly warm for October!’
I raised myself up on my elbows and watched my companion working his fly rod in the midst of the pool. Painful as the operation was, he displayed extraordinary skill. The line swung to and fro in long loops. It rolled and swung about in great circles, with a delicate hissing sound. In a final stroke, he laid the line down upon the swirling water, and the tiny coloured float drifted gaily past a boulder. Instantly, there came a great flurry of splashing water, and I caught a glimpse of the brilliant iridescence of the trout as it struck at the fly.
‘Ha! There’s number three, and a big fellow! It’s a pity Lord Allistair doesn’t make more use of his trout pool – but perhaps more fortunate for me.’
While he played the fish, I reached over the bank and drew the bottle of Barsac from its resting place in the shallows. Its sweet, heady aroma was overpowering as I drew the cork and filled the glasses.
Holmes scooped his prize up in the landing net and struggled ashore. After cleaning the fish with a skill and precision that would have done credit to any surgeon, he filled the body cavity with damp moss and placed it on a cool rock next to the others he had caught.
I drew out my watch. It was one fifteen, and the garden party was to begin at two.
‘Now, Holmes, you promised. We’ve just enough time for you to keep it.’
‘Very well, dear fellow,’ he sighed as he seated himself on the bank and took a
sip, ‘I shall tell you all.’
‘It seems incredible to me that you knew not only the identity of the kidnapper, but his plan as well. It’s as if you read his very thoughts...’
‘I dare say I did, almost. But there’s no sorcery involved, simply keen observation and careful deduction. But where to begin? Well, the beginning will do, eh? Now Watson, it’s always been my practice, in examining any crime, to separate the singular features from the ordinary ones. For it is the unique, the grotesque elements of a case that lead to its solution. No doubt I’ve mentioned many times before that the most difficult cases are those that lack these distinguishing features.
‘Now let us consider the case of the giant rat of Sumatra in this light. As you may recall, my curiosity was pricked at the outset by the strange disposal, or shall we say “non-disposal” of Jenard’s body. This flaunting of the murder deed was incomprehensible to me, at least early on. But this I knew and so stated to you: those who killed Jenard knew of me; the fact that he was put to death a street from our lodgings was certainly more than coincidental. So we have the throwing down of the body, which was really a flinging down of the gauntlet by Baskerville: an invitation to do battle. You know enough of the man’s character and personality to see how this brazen act would be not unnatural for him.’
I nodded my head in agreement.
‘Secondly, the fact that whoever killed Jenard knew of me meant that I was involved somehow, directly or indirectly, with the deed.
‘With Sampson’s tale, my curiosity was sharpened still further, as no doubt yours was also. Considering the date of Alice Allistair’s disappearance, and that part of the globe in which the Matilda Briggs was sailing, could not there be some connection? It was a remote possibility, but still a possibility.
The Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 20