The Best American Mystery Stories 1998

John T. Lescroart The Adventure of the Giant Rat of Sumatra from Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine

We were seated over breakfast, my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes deeply engrossed in his morning paper, when I heard him mutter something. “I beg your pardon, Holmes?” I asked.

“Sumatra,” he repeated, all but to himself. “My God, even for Moriarty this is appalling!”

“Holmes,” I exclaimed, “what is it?”

He put down the paper and looked in my direction, but he appeared not to see me. That in itself was so singular that I was immediately on my guard. When Sherlock Holmes looked, he saw — it was one of his dicta. But on that cold December morning in 1888, he stared as if through me out to the drizzly fog that enshrouded London.

I tried again to speak to him, but he waved me off impatiently. “Watson, please, don’t interrupt me. It may already be too late.”

Accustomed as I was to his outbursts, his tone still smarted. I started to remonstrate, but he had already risen and gone to the corner by the coal scuttle in our rooms at 221B Baker Street. There he kept his stack of past editions of London’s newspapers. As I watched in growing concern, he attacked the pile, throwing whole sections out behind him when they didn’t contain that for which he was searching.

Then, with an armload of papers, he half fell into his chair, grabbing his pipe on the way down. For the next quarter hour he sat engulfed in tobacco smoke, muttering or cursing one moment, and the next falling into a quiet and desperate depression. After watching him for a time, I ventured another syllable.

“Holmes?”

He flung some of the papers at me. “Read it for yourself, Watson. It may be the end of us all.”

I picked the papers from the floor and began perusing them. Some were up to two years old, and I must confess I saw nothing in them but yesterday’s news. Nevertheless, I slogged through the sections, pausing from time to time at a familiar name or at the mention of a case in which Holmes and I had been involved. While I read, Holmes evidently finished his work and rang for Mrs. Hudson. When our landlady appeared, he sent her to fetch Billy the page, saying it was a matter of the utmost urgency.

Quickly, he scratched a note on a pad and then, filling another pipe, turned to me as he lit it. “Well, Watson, I must say that as a doctor you are calm enough about it.”

I must have looked at him blankly.

“The plague, Watson! The plague! Can it be you don’t see it?” Before I could respond, he had rushed to the table and snatched several of the papers away from me. “Look here!” he exclaimed. “And here! And here! You see nothing? Nothing?” He was grabbing and pulling the sections every which way. I had never seen him so agitated.

“Holmes! There’s no need to be rude.”

That brought him up short. He visibly summoned that control upon which he prides himself, straightening himself to his full height, taking a deep breath. “My dear man, please forgive me.”

“It’s nothing, Holmes, it’s forgotten. But what is it? Please tell me.”

Looking at the door, he came to some decision. “Well, I guess there is time before Billy comes.” And he sat down, pulling that day’s Times in front of him.

“Here, Watson, on page five — the article on our old friend Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

I had read it, of course. The travels of the famous hunter were always of interest to me, both because they were often fascinating in themselves, but also and not least because of his position as Professor Moriarty’s chief lieutenant. The article was an account of a Boer pirate attack on Moran’s ship as it had been rounding the Horn on its return from Sumatra, loaded with hunting trophies. Moran and his crew had fought off the belligerents, hauled the injured ship back to Johannesburg and delivered it and its dead crew to the British authorities. A particular point of interest was that they had neither docked nor resupplied at port and had allowed no one to board their vessel.

“It seems like a typical Moran adventure,” I said upon rereading it.

“By itself, you may be right, Watson. But what of this?”

He placed before me the oldest of the newspapers and pointed to a piece on the outbreak of bubonic plague that had occurred two years before on Siberut, a tiny island off the west coast of Sumatra.

“And these…”

The other articles related to a Dr. Culverton-Smith, who had announced and then retracted the news that he had developed and hoped shortly to perfect a serum that would prevent and cure bubonic plague.

I had just finished the last of these when there was a sharp rap at our door, followed immediately by the entrance into our quarters of Billy. One of the street urchins who frequented the alleys hereabouts, Billy had more than once proved a useful ally to my friend and me.

Holmes wasted no time on greeting him but handed him the note he’d scribbled earlier. “Ah, Billy, here. Deliver this at once to the address listed, and wait there for a reply.”

Without a word, the boy was off, and I was again left alone with Holmes, pondering the obscure links in this bizarre chain. “What is this about, Holmes? What was that note?”

Now that he had taken some action, he reverted to that languid pose I knew so well. His eyes had become so black they appeared nearly hooded. But this time there was none of the sparkle in them that always appeared after the “view halloo” had been sounded, when the game was afoot. This time it was no game.

“The note was to Dr. Culver ton-Smith, Watson — one of the most evil and brilliant men to ever grace your profession.” He took a long pull at his pipe. “I wondered how long it would be before Professor Moriarty and he made each other’s acquaintance.” Then he sighed with an ineffable sadness. “I only wish I had acted to prevent it. I only hope now I’m not too late.” He sighed again, wearily.

“What did the note say?”

He waved his pipe. “Oh, it was prosaic enough. It said, ‘England will pay you more than Moriarty.’”

“For what?”

“For the serum, of course. The cure for bubonic plague.”

“My God, Holmes, could it be…?”

“I don’t know yet. I won’t know for sure until Billy comes back. Halloa? That would be him now.”

He jumped up and ran to the door, opening it before the panting boy could even knock. Breathlessly, Billy handed a missive to Holmes, who ripped open the engraved envelope. As he read, his shoulders sagged.

Absently, he forced some coins on Billy and rather unceremoniously shooed him out. I thought he was a little too brusque with the boy and told him so.

“Watson, it’s as I suspected. Moriarty, Moran and Culverton-Smith are in it together, and no one must know. There would be panic.”

“What does the reply say?”

Holmes smiled but with no humor. “‘My dear Mr. Holmes,’” he read, “‘Your offer is interesting. Unfortunately, what England can pay me is rather off the point, since within a year, my associates and I will England.’”

“Holmes!” I exclaimed.

“Exactly. Moriarty plans to inoculate himself and his henchmen against the plague, then introduce the disease into England.”

“How would he do that?”

“Probably through an animal that Moran has captured and smuggled onto his ship.”

The pieces were beginning to fit, though my own enlightenment had none of the epiphanic quality of Holmes’s. “But if they merely patented the serum,” I argued, “they would be millionaires many times over.”

Again that frigid grin. “Power, Watson. Power is more seductive than money, and for Moriarty it is everything. His mind envisions an England desolate and depopulated but one where he is absolute ruler, a medieval king. The population not under his power — including you and me, my friend — would die in swollen, boil-infested agony.”

“You shock me!”

“Depend on it, Watson. I know my man.”

“What can we do?”

The grin softened to a smile. “Good old Watson,” he said. “Where there is danger, you have no fear. Where courage is needed, you have no peer. It would be a good epitaph.”

The warmth I felt at the compliment quickly chilled at the vision of my own tomb. “Still,” I said, “what can be done?”

Within moments, I had my answer. I had been reading again, trying to piece together the disparate elements of this diabolical plot, when Holmes tapped my shoulder. I must have been deeply engrossed in my researches not to have noticed Holmes leave the room. But now he was back, dressed and bundled for an excursion.

“Get your coat, Watson. I think we should pay a visit to the Diogenes Club.”

The Diogenes was perhaps the strangest club in a city of strange clubs. Its members were the most private men in the City, and the charter and by-laws of the club colluded to keep them that way, since no one was allowed to speak within the club’s walls, the sole exception being in the Visitor’s Room. But even there, only whispering was permitted.

After a bitterly cold ride in a hansom, we found ourselves before the forbidding double doors of the building. Inside, Holmes passed his card to the doorman and we were ushered into the Visitor’s Room to await the arrival of Holmes’s brother, Mycroft.

Mycroft’s dour face and huge bulk surprised me anew, though I had met him once before during our adventure with the Greek interpreter. That episode had not ended happily, and I found myself praying that his intercession here would produce more positive results. He took me in at a glance, somehow included a welcoming nod and turned to his brother, twelve years younger than himself. According to Holmes, Mycroft was the smartest and most powerful man in England. I reflected that his position, however it was defined, might be one that Moriarty would covet. But there was no more time for reflection.

“Sherlock,” he whispered with affection, “what brings you to these hermit’s haunts?”

In a few words Holmes outlined the situation. Hearing him retell it in his logical and orderly fashion, I was horrified again by the boldness and grandeur of Moriarty’s twisted vision.

Could he actually pull it off? As I watched and listened to Mycroft and his brother formulate their own plan, I had no doubts at all that if Moriarty could be stopped, only one man living could do it, and that man was my friend Sherlock Holmes.

Eight days later, Holmes and I paced the deck of the HMS Birmingham, the twenty-eight-gun flagship of the Atlantic fleet. Earlier in the day we had passed the Canaries and now were beating farther south in African waters. Holmes had estimated that we would meet up with Colonel Moran’s ship somewhere near the latitude of Dakar, off the coast of French West Africa, and that would be another day or two’s hard sail.

The air was balmy, a far cry from the London winter. Some of the sailors had thought to bring a Christmas tree along — had tied it to the forward mast, decked it in red and green trimming and even placed a few wrapped boxes under it for the effect. I couldn’t help but admire the spirit of these men, facing Her Majesty’s sometimes terrible tasks with dignity, honor and even humor. This was an England worth fighting, even dying, for!

Of course, we were not alone. Twenty-six ships of the line were arrayed in a crescent pattern out to the sides and behind us. Mycroft had persuaded an outraged prime minister to assign the convoy to try to blockade the oncoming vessel. It was the largest armada to be assembled since the Fran co-Prussian War, and I hope it will be a long, long time before such a force is needed again.

To get the kind of commitment needed for an expedition of this magnitude, Holmes had had to go to the limits of his imagination and persuasiveness, convincing Scotland Yard that Dr. Culver-ton-Smith must be arrested and questioned. Though none of the serum had been found in his possession — what a boon to mankind that would have been! — his personal notes and laboratories provided enough evidence, and the potential danger was serious enough, that the reluctant PM had finally assigned the fleet. But he had made it clear that if Holmes were wrong, both his career and that of his brother would be finished. Even criminal charges against them would not be out of the question!

But these concerns were the last things on Holmes’s mind as we restlessly paced the deck, checking and rechecking the horizon for any sign of the hostile ship.

“It is too easy,” he said. “Even now, as we stalk the prey, I am filled with misgivings.”

“Whatever for, Holmes? Surely Colonel Moran is no match for Her Majesty’s Navy?”

“Moran, though formidable, is not the opponent I fear. No, Watson, I speak of Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime. His net is worldwide, his contacts rival those of any government. Just when you think you have set your trap is when you must be on your closest guard.”

“But…”

“Mark my words! It has happened before. His brain is like a spider’s web — spirals within spirals. Moriarty lives to spin that web, and he feels the slightest tremor at its periphery. You may rest assured he knows we are on the seas, and that he is somehow…” Holmes paused, taking in a lungful of tobacco smoke and letting it out slowly. “Somehow, he is stalking us.”

“Come now, Holmes — stalking the Royal Navy?”

“You may laugh, Watson, but it is difficult to overestimate Moriarty’s determination.”

One of the crewmen appeared with a couple of cups of tea spiked with a tot of rum, saying that the bridge thought we might appreciate a little refreshment. We thanked him and continued pacing. The tin cups were hot to the touch, so we rested them against a coil of rope.

I looked out again at the calm sea, thinking that the tension of our voyage had affected Holmes’s judgment. His respect for his arch rival seemed exaggerated, bordering on the ludicrous. It occurred to me that, expecting a long ocean voyage with little outside stimulation, he might have brought along some of his cocaine, which he occasionally injects when his overactive mind needs surcease from boredom. The drug could have produced such paranoia. Lost in these thoughts, I absently took the cup of tea into my hand, blew on it and sipped.

“Spit it out, Watson! Spit it out!” Holmes was slapping me on the back, having dashed the cup to the deck. “Poison!” he said. “The tea has been poisoned! Are you all right?”

Shaking, my mouth already feeling a kind of dry numbness though I had obeyed Holmes’s command instantly, I turned to my friend. “Where is that mate?” I mumbled.

But the deck was filled with uniformed men, all indistinguishable from a distance. My legs seemed to be getting weaker, and it was becoming harder to focus, to recognize any of the men. Even Holmes appeared wavy and indistinct, as though I were looking at him from under water. Then all went dark.

I could feel strong fingers digging into my shoulder, pressing against the Jezail bullet that had lodged there when I had been wounded in Afghanistan. I opened my eyes, and an unfamiliar room swam before me.

There was a hoarse whisper. “Watson?” The fingers gripped harder. “Watson? Can you hear me?”

I tried to bring the towering figure into focus in the darkened room. “Holmes? Where am I?”

“You’re alive. That’s what’s important. You very nearly weren’t.” It began to come back to me — the mate, the tea, my last memories before losing consciousness. What a fool I had been to doubt Holmes! Once again he’d been right. Moriarty’s agents, it appeared, were with us even aboard this ship.

“Where are we now?” I asked. “What day is it?” The questions kept coming. “Why us, Holmes? Why poison us? Does he think we can make a difference, when the entire Navy is out to get him?” Holmes chuckled. “I rather fancy he thinks just that. Flattering, eh?”

Groggily I sat up. “I wish I could take some pleasure in it. Just now I’m too confused.”

“Come, can you get up?”

Holmes took me by the arm and walked me about the small cabin. Outside, it appeared to be closing on dusk. After a few turns from wall to wall, I regained my sea legs and my mind cleared. “What did I take? What was it?”

“One of the cyanamids, I presume. You were extremely lucky, Watson. Even trace amounts can kill. You mustn’t have swallowed any at all.”

The reason for that did not for a moment escape me. Once again Sherlock Holmes had saved my life.

“As to how long you’ve been under, thirty hours is a reasonable estimate. And as you can see, night descends.” He reached into his pockets and pulled forth most of a loaf of bread, some dried meat and an orange. “You must be hungry, and you’ll need all your strength. I packed this food myself as a precaution against just this sort of thing.”

Twenty minutes later we were again on the deck. I had naturally brought my revolver along, and now I gratefully felt its cold weight in my pocket. Shadow figures scattered here and there, swabbing, stowing, making the vessel shipshape for the night. Even armed, I was not without trepidation, knowing that one of these men had tried to kill us only the day before. It could easily happen again.

Captain John Wagner approached. Ginger-haired and bearded, he was a sturdy sailor of the old school — hale, hearty and profane. In spite of my accident, I felt I was safe within his domain. He ran the tightest of ships.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Ah, Dr. Watson,” he blustered, “that such a thing should happen on my ship! I swear to you we’ll find the blackguard, and I’ll personally keelhaul him. My best men are on it.” His voice then softened. “You had us all right worried there, sir. Good to see you back up and about.”

I thanked him for his good wishes and struck up a conversation about our quarry. “Tomorrow looks to be the day, doesn’t it, captain?”

He laughed. “That’s your friend’s estimate, doctor. But it’s a big ocean. Hard to pinpoint a meeting date. Could happen any time.”

“Could we miss him entirely?”

His face hardened. “We won’t miss him. And once we encounter the blighter, we’ll bring him to. I’ll stake my reputation on that.”

“Who’s at the wheel now, captain?” Holmes asked blandly, walking up to us. Throughout our discussion, he had stood at the ship’s rail, peering into the darkness.

“That’d be my first mate, Jeffers.”

“And the lookout?”

Justifiably, I thought, the captain’s eyes narrowed. “What’s all this about, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes turned and pointed out over the bow. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, captain, there’s a ship running dark just off to starboard.”

Wagner and I ran to the railing, squinting to make out a shape where Holmes had indicated. Before I had seen anything, the captain had turned, uttering a foul oath. As he rushed back to the bridge, his voice bellowing “Battle stations!” shook the very timbers of the ship.

We were the wedge of the armada, and within minutes flares had alerted the rest of the fleet that something had been spotted. We had no way to be sure it was Colonel Moran, but the fact that the ship had its running lights covered was more than enough to convince me.

Holmes stood beside me at the bow rail, his face a study in determination. “Now remember, Watson,” he said. “No one from that ship must be allowed aboard. All its crew will have been inoculated against the plague, but there’s no telling if any of them are infested with the fleas or lice that carry the disease.”

“Are we to kill them all, then?” The men were fiends, but it was not like Holmes to be so cold-blooded.

“No, no, we’ll shepherd them and their cargo of death to Goree, a small island in Dakar’s harbor which used to hold slaves waiting for transport. Captain Wagner knows the drill.”

“And then…?”

“And then Moran and his men can swim for it while we blow their ship out of the water. The salt water will leach away any vermin, and the men are all sailors — they’ll have no trouble finding work…”

He was about to continue when we heard a shot from somewhere behind us. I reached for my revolver and raced toward the sound, Holmes at my heels.

“Here! Up here!”

It was Jeffers, the first mate, staggering to his feet on the bridge, his hands to his bleeding head. At his feet lay a prostrate Captain Wagner.

“The captain…” Jeffers began.

I was there beside him, but there was nothing I could do. Captain Wagner had a bullet hole in the back of his head. The gallant sailor had completed his last command.

“What happened?” I demanded.

The mate appeared to be in shock. “I don’t know. I was hit from behind, and then…”

At that moment, the lookout shouted from above. “Enemy ship preparing to engage!”

We looked over our shoulders and there, its running lights suddenly lit, a ship was bearing down on us on a collision course. Our crew, at battle stations, waited for the orders, but Jeffers seemed incapable of movement, watching horrified as the vessel approached.

“We can’t let them engage.” Holmes spoke calmly to Jeffers, but his voice cut like a knife. “Think of your orders, man.”

On the deck of the enemy ship, we could see the crew manning their battle stations, with small arms and grappling hooks at the ready. These were the same men who had captured the deadly Boer pirates only two weeks before. Jeffers looked about in panic, like a caged rat, and then suddenly screamed to his own waiting crew: “Fire! Fire! Fire all guns!”

“No! Holmes yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the simultaneous roar of fourteen cannons. Moran must have kept a magazine below decks, for no sooner had we recovered from the shock of the first sally than the night turned into day as the enemy ship, less than fifty yards from us now, exploded in a huge fireball.

The force of the explosion knocked us off our feet, and we lay dazed for a moment in a shocking, deathly silence. And then, as though the brutality of what we’d just witnessed were not enough, a ghastly rain of burning timber and flesh began to fall and litter our deck.

The falling debris started several small fires, and Jeffers forced himself up to direct the crew. Holmes and I sat by Wagner’s body and watched the floating remains of Moran’s ship flare, then smoke, as they slowly sank into the ocean.

Holmes’s eyes were glazed over. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands limp between them. Glancing first at me, then at the fallen captain, he sighed aloud. “Wrong,” he muttered half to himself in a tone of pure anguish. “Where could it have gone so wrong?”

There was no chance of sleeping. Eight bells in the third watch came and went, and still the crew kept at its cleanup duties. Jeffers had convened an officers’ tribunal and ordered that every man account for his whereabouts at the time the captain had been murdered. One by one, the men filed wearily into the captain’s stateroom, resentful and edgy. Holmes stood silent at the railing, smoking. His hunched shoulders left no doubt that he carried the burden of the deaths of Moran’s crewmen as though they were his own.

I went to him. “It could not be helped,” I said.

He looked coldly at me.

“Holmes,” I insisted. “It was not your fault.”

He shook his head. “It was not supposed to be that way. No one had to die. And we never got the proof.”

“But surely the fact that they intended to engage…?”

“It doesn’t prove… Halloa,” he exclaimed. “What’s that?”

I looked out at the black ocean. A glint of phosphorous showed above something moving in the dark water. “What could that be?” I asked.

Holmes’s dark eyes glinted in the light from his pipe. A kind of smile began to play at the corners of his mouth, and I recognized that look: He was on a scent, when he thought it had eluded him. Then, at once, the half smile faded, replaced by a grimness I had never before witnessed in him. “The monster,” he said under his breath. “The unspeakable monster.”

“Holmes,” I began, “what—”

“Follow me,” he said, “and keep your gun handy.” He headed toward the bridge.

“Mate Jeffers,” he yelled up from the deck, “there is a boat in the water.”

The first mate, more haggard than ever, was struggling with the onus of command. He glared at Holmes as another interruption in an already impossible night. “What’s that you say, sir?” he yelled down.

“There’s a boat in the water.” Holmes pointed. “There, at forty-five degrees off port.”

The small boat could just barely be seen coming into the circle of light thrown by our ship. “My God,” said Jeffers. He seemed instantly rejuvenated, taking the steps down from the bridge in bounding leaps. “Could it be that someone survived?”

“It would appear so,” my friend answered. I glanced then at Sherlock Holmes, and he had in his eye a look so dangerous that even I, who knew him so well, shuddered. Yet I could not for the life of me see what had so aroused him. Questions formed in my mind, but the fierceness of his countenance forced me to hold my tongue.

Jeffers called for some men and had them begin preparing for the rescue. Out in the night, I could just make out the lifeboat. On board was a single man, standing and waving. His “Ahoy,” small yet haunting, carried across the water. In the boat with him appeared to be a large box of some sort — probably, I thought, some possessions he’d managed to escape with before the ship exploded.

As the boat approached, Jeffers leaned farther over the water to direct the crewmen’s operations. Just at that moment, Holmes lurched forward, grabbed the mate from behind and lifted him up and over the railing. With flailing arms and an anguished cry, Jeffers hit the water with a tremendous splash.

“Holmes!” I cried.

“There’s no time to explain! Quick, Watson, your weapon!”

In a flash I had drawn my revolver and leveled it at the crew members gathered around us. Holmes remained calm. “I apologize for this inconvenience, gentlemen,” he said to them, “and after a moment it won’t be necessary, but for now I think it better that no one try to save Mr. Jeffers.”

The mate rose to the surface, spluttering. “Holmes!” he called. “What’s the meaning of this? It’s mutiny! Watson, I’ll have you both hanged!”

“I think the pleasure will be the other way round!” Holmes countered. “If you don’t drown first.”

“Why should I hang?”

“First for murdering Captain Wagner, then for blowing up Moran’s ship and not least for trying to poison Watson and me.”

“You’re mad. They were going to ram us!”

“No,” Holmes replied. “But for a moment it certainly did look that way, so that your disobedience of orders seemed logical.”

“What are you saying?”

“The convoy was to herd the ship to Goree, not destroy it. And no one — no one at all, even a survivor — was to come aboard.”

Jeffers treaded water awkwardly. Fully dressed as he was, the weight of his clothes would pull him down within minutes. The lifeboat, all but forgotten by us, was drifting steadily away from him.

Jeffers went under briefly and came up gagging. Looking at the lifeboat, he tried a few halfhearted breaststrokes in its direction, but the effort was too great for him. He turned back to us, breathing heavily. “Help me, Watson, and I’ll see that you’re pardoned!”

“If my friend hangs,” I called down, “I will gladly hang beside him.” Then, to Holmes, I said softly, “You’re not going to let him drown, are you?”

“I rather think he’ll be saved.”

But as we watched, Jeffers went under again. I thought the mate was gone, but once again he broke the surface. This time the panic in his voice was not feigned. He looked up at Holmes, then across to the lifeboat and came to his fateful decision. “Moran!” he yelled. “Help me! I’m drowning!”

“You fool, Jeffers! Shut up!”

Sherlock Holmes addressed me, finally allowing himself a smile. “As I suspected, they know each other by name. It is all the proof we need.” He called overboard. “You’d better see to Jeffers, Moran! The game is up.”

“Who is that I’m speaking to?”

Holmes chuckled mirthlessly. “You don’t recognize the voice, colonel? We’ve met occasionally.” He leaned over the railing. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes at your service.”

“Holmes? What is this?”

“You thought I’d be dead by now, eh? Poisoned?”

“What are you talking about?”

“We had better discuss it after you’ve saved your accomplice.” And, indeed, Moran had set to with his oars. Before long, the exhausted mate had been pulled into the lifeboat.

“Now in the name of decency, Holmes, let us aboard!” Moran cried.

“You have a great deal of gall using that word, colonel. What is that box behind you, sir?”

Moran uncovered a huge cage in which skulked something large and black, looking from our deck like a small bear. “It is nothing more than a giant Sumatran tree rat, Holmes. I was taking it to the London Zoo. It was the only thing I could save from the ship.”

“Before you blew it up?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you sacrificed your entire crew so that we would naturally pluck you and your giant rat of Sumatra from the lifeboat.

You thought by now that Watson, Captain Wagner and I would all be dead and that no one would think to question your rescue.”

“No!”

“That rat is infested with bubonic plague, and you yourself are host to its deadly carrier fleas. Both you and Jeffers are inoculated, but once you or the rat comes aboard this ship, the England we all love is gone.”

At the word plague, a general murmuring arose from the men behind us. Holmes turned and addressed them. “You heard me correctly. All your officers, including Jeffers, had been briefed — no one from Moran’s ship was to board a British ship of the line. Would any of you let Moran and Jeffers aboard?”

“What should we do, sir?” one of the men asked.

“Run to the stateroom and ask the ranking officer to take control here. Be off now!” Holmes turned back to the lifeboat. “Drop the cage overboard, Moran. Now!”

We could hear the vicious growls and squeals of the caged beast. It stalked back and forth, beady eyes fixed on the lights of our ship. Moran hesitated a moment, then reached behind him.

“Holmes, have pity…” he began.

“Fire a shot into the boat, Watson.”

I did so.

Holmes continued: “Colonel, you’re going to have a hard time staying afloat with a hull full of bullet holes.”

“Please…”

“Another, Watson, if you would.”

After the second shot, Moran quickly lifted the cage and dropped it into the black water. It sank like a stone, leaving no trace.

One of the officers came running up. “What’s going on here, Mr. Holmes? Where’s Mr. Jeffers?”

In a few dozen words the situation had been explained.

“What should we do with these two men?”

Holmes smiled. “I should think that that lifeboat, if towed at a goodly distance behind us, would make for an interesting journey back to England. Both men should be deloused by the time we arrive.”

Back in our digs in Baker Street, Holmes put his feet up before the fire. We’d been back for nearly three weeks, and the trials of Moran and Jeffers were coming up, yet there were still elements unclear to me. “When did you know, exactly?” I asked.

Holmes exhaled a heady Cavendish smoke. “I believe I have mentioned before, Watson, that when all other possibilities have been exhausted, whatever remains, however implausible, must be the truth. As soon as I saw the lifeboat in the water, a conjecture occurred to me. No lifeboat could have survived that explosion. Therefore, it had been lowered before the explosion. It follows, then, that the explosion was planned. When Jeffers did not hesitate to try to bring the survivor aboard, I surmised that he was in on the plot. Of course, I had to risk mutiny to prove it, but Jeffers’s involvement was the only thing that fit all the facts.”

“But he was bleeding when we came upon him and Captain Wagner.”

“Nothing is more convincing and easier to self-inflict than a superficial head wound.”

“And our — ahem — my poisoning?”

“The crewman said that the tea was from the bridge. We both assumed he meant from the captain. But a man of Captain Wagner’s personality would imprint it on his men, and if he had personally sent the drinks, the crewman would have said, “Captain Wagner sends his compliments,’ or some such thing.”

“Now that you explain it, it seems so clear.”

“Don’t punish yourself, my friend. Neither of us saw it at the time. It was not until I saw Moran in the lifeboat that I was forced to reconsider the smallest events in the chain.”

The fire burned low. “And what, finally, of Professor Moriarty?” I asked.

Holmes sighed. “Not Moran, nor Jeffers, nor Culverton-Smith will implicate him. For the present we’ve foiled him, but I fear Moriarty and I must await another confrontation.”

“And what then?” I asked, looking into my friend’s troubled face. Sherlock Holmes gazed glassy-eyed into the fire. “And then, Watson,” he said, “then one of us must surely die.”