1
Of all the myriad adventures I have endured with my friend, the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, none is more bizarre or terrifying than the affair of the Limehouse rats. Regular readers of this chronicle of Holmes’ many cases will know that I am not given to lurid flights of fancy or morbid embellishments. The truth is what the facts are, though in this particular outing I am still not sure what the truth is, and I daresay my friend isn’t either. As Holmes has stated countless times, when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Well, dear reader, the truth in this particular case is hard to pin down, and frightening in its implications.
This particular case started much like any other. Rather unexpectedly. I arrived at the rooms we shared at 221B Baker Street to find my friend Holmes in a particularly excited state. That in and of itself was not so unusual, as my friend’s intellect could be easily piqued by some odd bit of minutiae you or I wouldn’t give a second glance. But it was the unusual subject matter that had him so agitated this time around.
“Rats, dear Watson.”
“Rats? What the devil are you going on about, Holmes? I daresay you’ve been cooped up in these rooms too long. Let us go out and have a nice meal. Enjoy the night air.”
My friend smiled at me, a mischievous gleam in his grey eyes. “You read my mind, old friend. That is precisely what we are going to do. Have a look at this.”
Holmes reached around to the side table next to his armchair, where a stack of newspapers sat in wrinkled profusion. He grabbed one of them up and foisted it upon me.
Taking the paper, I scanned the front page. The paper was dated the week previous, and there was general news of no great import and no relevancy to Holmes’ excited state. But as my eyes hurried over the newsprint an item beneath the fold caught my attention. It seemed a jeweler had been robbed. A serious yet not uncommon occurrence, sadly. What was strange about it was that there was no sign of forcible entry. No windows had been broken, no locks had been forced. Only one thing was out of place, a loose floorboard that appeared to have been chewed upon by rodents.
I looked from the paper to Holmes. “It’s strange, I’ll give you that. But why does it have you in such a bloody uproar?”
Holmes, still grinning, took the paper from my grasp and replaced it with another. “Now this one,” he said, pointing near the bottom of the society page.
I read the news item. It was the story of a woman named Alice Chalmers, who caught a rat making off with her grandmother’s diamond broach. She screamed, and her housekeeper succeeded in beating the broach from the creature’s grasp with a broom before scaring it away.
Again I glanced at my friend, my eyes searching his for the answer. Obviously, there was some connection between the two, something only the great mind of Sherlock Holmes could connect. Something involving what Holmes had mentioned when I first entered.
“Rats. You think rats robbed a jewelry shop?”
“And tried to steal this woman’s broach. I didn’t make the connection until this article in today’s London Post, but there have been others.” He turned to the pile of newspapers cluttering his end table. “I was able to rescue these from Mrs. Hudson before she tossed them into the fireplace. I found similar stories, all strange but seemingly innocuous on their own, yet when strung together…”
“A pattern emerges,” I finished. “A pattern that only you could see, Holmes. By Jove, one would have to be half mad to see it.”
My friend gave a wry chuckle at that. “Perhaps, old friend. Perhaps. The proof, as always, is in the pudding.”
“But why would rats steal a brooch? Or rob a jewelry store?” I said. “They have no need of gold or fancy baubles. They can’t eat it or use it to line their nests. At least not that I’ve ever heard tell of.”
“Quite right, dear fellow,” said Holmes. “Why indeed? As you said, they have no use for such items. But what if they are doing so at someone’s behest?”
A chill flew up my spine at the implications. “You think someone has trained them to do this? Why, can that even be done?”
“I believe it can,” said Holmes. “I’ve become a bit of a student of rats as of late, and what I have learned leads me to believe they are quite intelligent. Intelligent enough to be trained.”
“Good lord,” I said, dropping the newspaper I’d been holding to flutter to the floor. “Oh my. It’s the perfect crime, isn’t it?”
“Quite so, old chum,” Holmes said with a pat on my right shoulder. “Just send dozens, perhaps even hundreds of rats out into the world, after instructing them in what you want, of course, and see what they bring back. These rats go out all over the city, collecting any items of value they happen upon, unseen and undetected. On the rare occasion, one of them gets caught in the act of thievery, they are killed or scared away, and there is no one to arrest and charge with a crime. The event is chalked up to odd animal behavior that barely gets a few lines in the society column.”
Holmes turned to the coat tree beside the door and took up his greatcoat. “But trinkets and baubles aren’t good enough for our rat king. No, no. He is after bigger fish.”
“The jewelry store,” I said with a gasp. “Why, every jeweler in the city is at risk. But how to catch a thief who never sets foot at the scene of the crime?”
Donning his coat with a flourish, Holmes replied, “Elementary, Watson. We follow the rats.”
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “I was afraid you would say that.”
2
After imploring me to get my pistol, and securing a lantern, Holmes practically dragged me from 221B Baker street and out into the black night, there to scurry along the thoroughfare, not unlike the very rodents Holmes sought. Holmes hailed a hansom, my friend shoving me inside and then barking a destination up to the driver on his box.
“Where are we going, Holmes? A jewelry shop?”
“No, dear fellow,” said the detective as he took the seat opposite me. “There are twelve such establishments in this section of London alone, and no way to predict which one our rats will strike next. But there is another locale our fiend will be unable to resist this night. He will send his rodent army there.”
“How can you be so sure, Holmes?”
“Because the event was highly publicized,” said the detective. “And the creme de la creme of London society will be there, along with their valuables. I assure you, my dear Watson, that wherever our rodent thieves venture this night, they will be here also. And we will catch them in the act!”
I didn’t press any further, but sat back and enjoyed the rush of night air outside our hansom. I must say, my friend was positively giddy, and I feared it was catching, for I too felt a boyish excitement for the first time in many months. Most of our adventures held no small amount of danger, but this felt more like a safari than a manhunt, and I was now as eager as my dear friend Holmes to see it through, with but a modicum of the usual hesitation I felt on our previous outings. I would soon learn that it was wiser to be wary, as this case was about to take the most terrifying turn I had ever experienced while chronicling the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
We arrived within the hour at a building on the Strand. The place was brightly lit, and there were hansom cabs and carriages pulling to a halt before the building to dislodge well-dressed people. Men in beaver tophats assisted women in bright frocks to the ground, their necks and fingers adorned with flickering jewels.
“What is this, Holmes?” I said as we came to a stop.
“A seance, dear Watson,” said Holmes with a wry grin as we climbed from the hansom. Holmes paid the man as I looked around at the pageantry arrayed before us. I wondered what would convince the great Sherlock Holmes to attend a bloody seance, then realized, with all the wealth on full display, that this was as good a place as any for his confounded rats to show themselves.
I was incensed at the knowledge that we had to buy tickets to gain entry, but Holmes merely chuckled and paid our way in. We were ushered into a large room, the gaslights turned down low, and found seats near the back.
After what seemed an interminable wait, a tall, thin elderly man in coat and tails came out onto the small stage at the front of the room. I squinted to see him in the dim light. He looked frail and gaunt, but he addressed the room in a booming voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Madam Rosalind.”
A woman dressed in swaths of black and crimson, her head covered by a dark shawl, entered. The assembly cheered as she took her seat, pretending she did not detect their raucous adulation. She sat at a small round table covered in a wine-colored tablecloth and waited for the applause to die. As she did so, the man left the stage with a nod.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice carrying well through the large space. “I thank you all for coming. You will soon bear witness to things that are beyond this earthly plane. I know you all have questions for the spirits, but they are hesitant to pierce the veil this night. The spirits must be primed. So please give what you can. Your money, your trinkets, your baubles. So that I may effectively commune with the spirits of your dearly departed loved ones.”
“After making us pay to get in,” I whispered, “the gall.” But Holmes put a restraining hand on my arm. “Calm down, dear fellow. Help me watch for the rats.”
Collection plates were passed around, much like in church, and I stared wide-eyed at the treasures piled on them as they floated past, handed from one to another until finally reaching me and Holmes.
The detective took from his coat a pocket watch and placed it on the plate next to a wad of folded bills and a diamond bracelet. “What are you doing?” I gasped, but he fixed me with a wary grin and passed the plate to me. I sent it on to the next person without contributing, and someone collected it at the far end of the aisle.
I boggled at the piles of wealth retreating into the dim recesses of the room. This Madam Rosalind had quite the racket going, and I was about to suggest to Holmes that it was her we should be going after when he poked me in the shoulder and pointed off to our right.
In the wings, partially obscured behind heavy, blood-red drapery, was a table upon which the medium’s spoils had been piled. I could see a collection of jewels gleaming in the furtive glow of a lamp set in the center of the table. The collectors were nowhere in evidence, though I felt they must be nearby. But that wasn’t what had attracted the detective’s attention.
“Look, Watson,” he whispered, giving me another excited poke and pointing. “Just there.”
I squinted at the area I thought Holmes was pointing to and saw a shape, an oblong shadow that separated itself from the others, sliding over the table’s contents. It took my mind a few moments to congeal the amorphous blob into the recognizable yet abhorrent form of a rat.
“By Jove, Holmes. You were right.”
“Of course, Watson. But now comes the real challenge. We must see where they go, and follow them back to their master.”
With no small difficulty, we detached from our seats and extricated ourselves from the throng gathered to be bamboozled by the ersatz spiritualist, making our careful way toward the dim alcove where the rodent sniffed at the valuables.
Madam Rosalind was too preoccupied running her grift to notice Holmes and I leaving our seats and moving to the area partially covered by the heavy curtain. The rat, for its part, was occupied as well and had selected a gold ring fitted with a large ruby as its price, grabbing it in its mouth and turning to scurry back from whence it came.
Holmes and I were following its course when a burly fellow–one of the men who had
taken up the collection–came round the corner. “You can’t be back here,” he said with a scowl, perhaps under the impression that my friend and I were after his employer’s ill-gotten gains. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing the crude tattoo of a mermaid on his left forearm.
Holmes pointed at the rodent as it lept from the table and scampered toward a far corner of the room and said, “I think you have a rat problem.”
The burly man looked ready to jump out of his skin at the sight of the rat and shouted for his fellows. As two more collectors converged to corner the rat and dislodge his prize, a few dozen of its friends appeared, pouring from a small hole in the wall like a loathsome torrent of filthy black water and flowing onto the table en masse.
The keepers of the medium’s spoils of war were beside themselves, and I watched as our burly, would-be accuser danced up and down for fear that one of the beasts would touch him. He even seemed loathe to step on them even if it meant halting their rampage.
I must admit that I understood how he felt. It was a revolting feeling, the rats running across my shoes and brushing the legs of my trousers, and the sight of their black bodies and large, thick, nude tails was disgusting in the extreme. The keepers of Madam Rosalind’s collection were powerless to stop the army of rats from making off with it, diamond necklaces, gold bracelets, and emerald rings disappearing into the swelling black mass of the rats.
Only Holmes was unflappable, witnessing the scene with cool detachment. “Come, Watson,” he said. “We must see where they go.”
As soon as they appeared, the rats fled the room and vanished back into the walls, leaving behind only a few baubles and wads of bills. The commotion had interrupted the seance, and a crowd of onlookers had gathered at the curtain, the promise of speaking with their dearly departed loved ones forgotten.
“What is the meaning of this?” said the medium, entering the room in a huff at being interrupted.
The burly man leaned toward her and whispered, and the woman gasped.
“My dear,” said Holmes in a loud voice, “You have been taken by a clever thief. One far more clever than you, as it turns out.”
Madam Rosalind blushed with rage. “How dare you, sir! I am a psychic medium and thaumaturge. I have done tarot readings for the Queen.”
“You are nothing of the sort,” Holmes countered. “Madam Rosalind isn’t even your real name, but an obvious pseudonym.”
This sent a cascade of murmurings running through the crowd, and I had a realization.
“Rosalind is the heroine from Shakespeare’s As You Like It,” I blurted, surprising even myself.
“Quite right, old boy,” said Holmes with a chuckle. “Your real name is Bessie Tanner.”
At this, the spiritualist laughed. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Elementary,” said Holmes, warming up to the subject. He pointed at the burly man who had tried to bar us entry into the treasure-laden alcove. “That is your grandson Bill. I recognized him by his mermaid tattoo, which he received while in prison for petty theft. The two of you are inseparable. The man who introduced you is obviously your brother, Thomas.”
At the mention of his name, the elderly man turned and ran from the room with a speed that belied his advanced age.
The outfoxed medium stood quivering with contempt, and I thought her grandson and her cronies might make mincemeat of us until Holmes addressed the crowd.
“I am sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but there will be no contact with the spirit world this night. Not here, at least. This woman has no ability to contact your deceased loved ones. It was all an elaborate ruse to separate you fine folks from your valuables. One of many she and her family have attempted over the years.”
At this revelation, the murmuring of the crowd increased, and Bessie Tanner’s relatives circled about her as she began arguing with the assemblage. I thought they might turn on us, but Holmes looked about the crowd and shouted, “Inspector Lestrade. These are the fugitives from justice you seek. Arrest them.”
“I was shocked when our old friend Lestrade came into view, pulling a blond wig from his stolid head. “Blast it, Holmes. How did you know it was me?”
“I recognized you immediately, dear Inspector. While convincing to strangers, your attire wasn’t adequate enough to fool me.”
Lestrade reddened with embarrassment, then recovered, calling forth his men from the rear of the crowd. “There they are, men. Arrest them. They are wanted all over London for several crimes. But Holmes, what the devil are you and Watson doing here, and what is this I hear about rats making off with everyone’s valuables?”
I hurriedly explained our presence here as Lestrade’s men arrested the would-be spiritualist and her cronies.
“Blimey! Rats, you say?”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Holmes, who was even now pouring over the now mostly empty table. A line of policemen had hastily formed to prevent those present from rushing the table in search of their belongings. “As clever a thief as Bessie Tanner might be, she was outsmarted this night by an even greater one. A thief who employs rats to do his dirty work.”
“I had to explain this too as Holmes searched for clues to where the rats had absconded with everyone’s valuables.
At last, he stood bolt-upright in triumph. “I know where the rats went!”
“What?” I said.
“How do you know that?” said Lestrade.
Holmes was rubbing something between his thumb and index finger and brought it over to show the Inspector and me. He held it up into the light and I could see a chalky white substance on his fingertips.
“What on earth is that?” said Lestrade with a scowl.
“Calcium Oxide,” Holmes declared. “Also known as quicklime.”
“Limehouse,” I said.
Holmes nodded. “Good show, Watson.”
Lestrade laughed. “That tells us what area of the city to search, but it doesn’t reveal a location.”
“Not by itself, no,” said Holmes. “There are places all over that vicinity where our rodent thieves could have picked up quicklime on their paws.” He reached around again and plucked some other bit of detritus left by the rats. He placed this in his open palm and brought it into the light for us to see.
“Looks like a bead of hardened wax,” I said.
“Right again,” said Holmes, “And Limehouse is home to an old candle works if memory serves. And such an abandoned shop would make an excellent hiding place for our thief and his pets.”
“I know that place,” said Lestrade. “Go and chase your rats, Holmes. My men and I will finish up here and meet you there within the next hour.”
Holmes nodded. “Excellent. Come, Watson.”
I argued vociferously with Holmes as we threaded our way through the crowd and out the front entrance, and again as we climbed aboard a waiting hansom, but Holmes ignored my entreaties. He had solved yet another case. Now it was time to let the police do their job. But I could see in his grey eyes that he had to see this through, that the idea of someone using rats to do their thievery had so caught his imagination that he had to meet this master thief for himself.
3
The hour was late when we arrived at the outskirts of Limehouse, and I was surprised when the hansom cab slowed to a halt.
“This isn’t the candle works,” declared Holmes.
“This is as far as I go,” said the driver, sitting nervously on his box. “Limehouse is no place for gents such as yourselves, but that’s none of my business. There’s odd folk about these parts as of late, and people have heard a high, queer chanting comin’ from the candle works this time of night. So I respectfully bid you good night and good luck. May God have mercy on yer souls.”
With that, we exited the hansom and the driver urged his horse forward in great haste. I watched as he drove out of sight, his words still running through my mind. Only Holmes was unperturbed.
“Come, Watson. The candle works aren’t far from here. We can walk.”
As we walked through the quiet, gaslamp-illumined night, I could not stop thinking about the driver’s words, and a profound feeling of dread stole over me.
I am a doctor, a man of science. I had stared death in the face many times, both as part of my medical duties and on my adventures with Sherlock Holmes. I have been in many seedy areas of London and its environs, but I had to admit that Limehouse at night filled me with unease. The moon was high and full in a cloudy sky, the way lit at intervals by flickering gaslight, but the moon threw strange shadows everywhere, giving the scene a malicious cast. Only Holmes seemed immune, or oblivious, to the moonscape’s effects as we walked with purposeful strides, our footsteps the only sound filling the black void surrounding us.
I followed Holmes through the moon-shrouded streets as he threaded through alleys and down wet side streets, following the breadcrumbs left us back at the seance by the fiendish rats. I was filled with excited dread at the thought that in moments we would meet their horrible master.
Holmes was positively giddy, while I searched about for hidden dangers. We threaded our way around bits of refuse and past a vacant lot piled high with the substance that gave Limehouse its name, the quicklime glowing obscenely in the moonlight.
I started seeing shadows everywhere, even where there were none. They dislodged from broken lime carts and alley mouths to coalesce and reform into rodent-like silhouettes. I imagined moonbeams playing off of jagged needle teeth. My imagination soared in that moon-haunted metropolis, taking my mind to fearful vistas of the most lurid malignancy.
When I regained full control of my senses, Holmes and I were closing in on a formidable-looking building. A faded wooden sign above the arched doorway declared it the candle works.
“Here we are, Watson,” said Holmes. “The lair of the rats.”
“And their master,” I added, patting the coat pocket where my pistol sat heavy and reassuring.
We walked up the lime-dusted steps and tried the door, which to my shock was unbarred. Lighting the lantern, Holmes entered, and I followed my friend inside.
Holmes swept the interior with the lantern, revealing the space to be unoccupied. It looked as one would expect an abandoned candle factory to appear. Furniture lay broken and overturned, and there were piles of paperwork and other debris amid great globs of dried candle wax that had spilled long ago to the dirty wooden floor. The most remarkable thing about the place was the obvious and obscene presence of the rats. Piles of their droppings littered every surface, and there was a terrible smell as of hundreds of minute, wet bodies pressed close together. I put a handkerchief to my nose and mouth, not wanting to inhale some disease from their droppings.
“Rats have definitely been here,” I said. “But I see none at present. Let us go outside and wait for Lestrade.”
“No, Watson. Our search has just begun. Look, in the far corner. A stairwell.”
Sighing, I moved shoulder-to-shoulder with Holmes toward a dusty and rickety-looking staircase leading down into darkness. Oh, to have known then what I know now. I would have run from that ghastly place Holmes be damned! But I remained by my friend’s side as we descended down into the strangest abode I have yet explored with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The smell of the rats intensified, and I thought I heard one of the horrible animals squeak from a dark, dusty corner or behind the walls. There were dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of candles arrayed around the room, many of them burning.
“The place appears unoccupied,” said Holmes. “But there are signs of recent habitation. The burning candles, for instance. And there, on the floor, a crude bedroll.”
I followed his gaze to the floor, where a heap of ratty blankets lay disheveled. Next to them was an array of empty cans that had once contained food.
“Someone lives down here? Among the rats?”
“So it would appear,” said Holmes.
“But where did they all go?”
I stood in fearful fascination while Holmes explored the room. Reaching down amid the filthy blankets, Holmes brought something up and held it in the light of his lantern. “Recognize this, Watson.”
I nodded. “Your pocket watch from the seance.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. He turned it around, and I could plainly see the initials SH hastily engraved into the case. “I made it easily identifiable should I be able to retrieve it. Our fiend obviously decided it was worthless and discarded it. After all, the bloody thing doesn’t work, and would only fetch a couple of shillings at a pawnbroke’s shop.”
“But where are the rest of the valuables?” I asked.
“That is the question,” said Holmes, “and I think we will find the answer behind that shelf.”
He gestured with the lantern toward an old wooden shelf piled with half-melted candlesticks and broken molds sitting beneath an arched alcove.
“But there’s nothing there.”
Holmes handed me the lantern and went to the shelf. “Oh, but there is, were you to simply look. See those curved marks on the floor? The sign of something heavy being moved along a curved path multiple times. And there is a draft coming from behind the shelf.”
Holmes grabbed one end of the shelf and slid it with a loud screech across the floor until we could see behind it. A black portal yawned open, through which I could now feel a cold draft issuing from within.
“There’s another structure beneath this place. The lair of a rat-king if ever there was one. Come, Watson!”
With renewed enthusiasm, Holmes snatched the lantern from my grasp and descended into the dim recesses behind the shelf before I could utter a word of protest. Rather than be left alone in the rat-smelling dark, I followed him down a set of narrow stone steps that twisted around to the left, until I realized we were descending an ancient spiral staircase. It went down an incredible distance, and when we, at last, reached the bottom I was panting and sweating despite the damp chill in the air.
Even Holmes appeared the worse for wear, but his boyish curiosity roused in him an inner strength those who did not know him as I did would proclaim preternatural. He swept the room into which we had descended with the lantern, revealing the most terrifying space I had ever explored with the great detective.
It was something out of a penny dreadful, part chapel and part charnel house. The rat smell was even more present here, a cloying, damp smell that hung about the place like a pall. But even that paled before the room itself, which appeared to be some mock church, though what was worshipped here I don’t dare fathom. At the far end was an immense altar built into the ancient yet sturdy stone wall, with a statue upon it that was grotesque in the extreme. It was taller than Holmes, and almost twice as wide. Its head was immense and appeared to be composed of a mass of tentacles or feelers, with two large and bulbous eyestalks protruding from the top of the triangular-shaped head. Two enormous frills rose up behind it, looking like great, leather wings. It had too many arms spread out in every conceivable direction and appeared to sit on a narrow throne with two long, spindly legs. It had the wrong number of fingers and toes and appeared cobbled together from separate sources. It was frightening in the extreme and made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Holmes did not appear overly perturbed and instead engaged his cool, academic curiosity. “Fascinating,” he said, his voice echoing uncomfortably in the space. “There are tales in the criminal underworld of structures like this called Black Churches. Places of refuge for those brave enough, and places of great danger for those who are not so brave. I’d wager this place dates back to the 1700s, perhaps even earlier. A secret abode where witches could practice their black rites beyond the watchful eye of the authorities. Perhaps we have found such a place.”
“I wish we could un-find it,” I said, looking around. On the walls were painted elaborate though faded frescos depicting the most nightmarish subject matter. Men and women driven before faceless, winged horrors and running from gelatinous lumps filled with many eyes. It was enough to chill the blood, and I told Holmes so, to which he replied, “Nonsense, Watson. Merely the lurid fantasies of a more superstitious age. No harm can come to you from a painting.”
He was right, of course. But a feeling of creeping horror and dread stole over me just the same, and I wanted very much to run from that black chapel, back up the stairs to the candle works and out the door, continuing to run until Limehouse itself was far behind me. But I dared not budge. It was my duty to my friend to remain by his side, no matter what became of the both of us. In this I was steadfast, and my feeling of panic dissipated.
“Look here, Watson,” said Holmes, drawing my attention away from the blasphemous tableau on the walls. There at the foot of the altar was a wooden box, the lid held partially open by whatever was inside. Holmes kicked it open with the toe of his shoe, revealing a stash of familiar valuables.
“The belongings that were stolen from the seance!” I said.
“Yes,” said Holmes. “Some of them at least. An offering to this gruesome fellow. Strange. It is said that the Black Church has a price for those who shelter within it. Our rat-king left this creature a share of his takings. Obviously, he is a believer in this place’s power.”
Holmes reached down and grabbed the box. “We can return these to their rightful owners.”
“What of the rat king?”
Holmes shrugged. “He will return to this place eventually. Lestrade can place some men here on lookout and catch him when he comes home. In the meantime, we can–”
“Fools!” came a chilling voice from the dark beyond the lantern. I noticed for the first time that the room was bigger than I had at first surmised. It opened into a large chamber, giving me the eerie feeling that we were indeed in an ancient, underground church where black rites had once been performed.
“Fools!” the voice said again. “You’ve doomed us all!”
I fumbled in my pocket for my pistol as Holmes held the lantern aloft. “Who goes there?” he called.
As the lantern’s light fell on him I knew we had at last encountered the master of the rats. He wore a long, dirty black coat and a great slouch hat over his long, greasy hair. Rats perched atop his shoulders eating bits of moldy cheese, while others raced up and down his arms and legs or squirmed around beneath his feet. They squealed and squeaked and gnashed their teeth, voiding their tiny bowels and bladders on the man’s shoes. Behind him was a jagged tooth of blackness marking what must have been another entryway into the horrible chapel, through which he must have returned to find us waiting.
His blue eyes were watery and bloodshot and boggled from their sockets. His cheeks were ruddy, and beneath the wet-sick smell of the rats, I detected the odor of sour alcohol. He pointed an accusing finger at Holmes, who still held the box tightly to his chest with his free hand.
“Put it back!” shouted the rat king. “Put it back!”
I pointed my pistol at him. “Stay where you are. The police will be here soon.”
The master of the rats turned his gaze upon me as if noticing me for the first time. “Put that back,” he said again. “For your own sakes.”
I glanced at Holmes, who looked down at the wooden box overflowing with the items the rats had stolen. “He means the box,” he said. “The poor devil has gone mad.”
“The police will be here soon,” I repeated. “Stay where you are.” As a physician, I swore an oath to do no harm, and I did not want to shoot the man, but I was determined to do so if I must. The resolve of an old military man such as myself cannot be swayed. But the man just stood there, his entire body swirling with rats. It was as if they were protecting him. I imagined, were I to shoot him, would the bullet lodge in that great mass of rats swelling and surging along his person? It was astonishing and morbid to think about.
“Put it back, damn your eyes!” he shouted across the shadowy expanse between us. He turned his head back and to the left as if he heard something. “It’s too late. It’s too late! He’s coming!”
The rat king spun around, and his hundreds of charges squeaked and squealed as of one body and flowed away from him in a panic, surging in a black wave toward Holmes and me. I staggered back, my body slammed into one of the obscene frescoes by the rush of the rats. Even Holmes was taken aback, almost knocked off his feet by the thrust of hundreds of rat bodies. But they did not seek to attack us, only get away from that blasphemous din of dark rites as fast as their little legs could carry them. They flowed in a black mass up the crumbling stone steps and were gone from sight. As the last of them went, Holmes lost his grip on the treasure box and the lantern, and it shattered on the rough-hewn stone floor.
We were shrouded in total darkness, the only sound that of the receding rats. I wondered what had driven them away when I heard a new sound, that of the rat’s master screaming.
“No. It wasn’t me. It was them! It was them!”
The rat king made a gagging, choking sound, as if someone or something was throttling the life from him.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out a hint of sudden movement, and I thought I could see the master of the rats being lifted off his feet by some huge amorphous shape. A shape with a frightening hint of familiarity. I glanced in the direction of the altar and sought the contours of that misshapen head, those blasphemous wings. But the bizarre throne was empty. I looked in the rat king’s direction and knew in a horrible instant that what was transpiring was something that could not possibly be. The shape that had the rats’ master in its grasp had the outline of those hideous wings, and a mass of facial tentacles writhed like worms in the darkness.
I thought that I would go insane, but a warm hand grabbed me. I almost shrieked, but a reassuring voice said, “Come, Watson. We must get out of here.”
Still gripping my pistol tightly, I shoved it into my pocket and beat Holmes to the stairs. I was ready to take my leave of that pit of horrors, and I was glad my friend was at last of the same mind about it. We ran from there, ran back through the old abandoned candle works and out into the street, almost colliding with Inspector Lestrade.
4
Lestrade and his men went inside and down into the Black Church. They found the rat king, his body lying in a mangled heap. He had been strangled, and every major bone in his body snapped cleanly in two.
The policemen found a few baubles lying broken and scattered about, but the wooden box Holmes and I had described, as well as the treasures it contained, was gone. Gone too was the idol on the altar, which is the most confounding and frightening feature of this case for me.
By the time we returned to our rooms at 221B Baker Street, it was almost dawn. Holmes did not speak our entire trip home, his excitement at catching a master thief employing an entirely new method of thievery having been overturned by this greater, and perhaps unsolvable, mystery. To his credit, he handled things with his usual intellectual detachment, but I can tell the entire affair unnerved him almost as much as it had me, for he went to his room immediately and, probably after taking a dose of morphine, plucked away noncommittally at his violin until morning.
As for myself, I wrote of this case in my journal and smoked and stared out the window at the coming dawn until I could almost believe it had all been a strange dream. What had happened down in that charnel pit of ancient horrors? Without comparing notes with Holmes I could not be sure. I hoped that my mind had been playing tricks on me and that the keen intellect of my friend could see through whatever layer of nightmare my own mind had covered over like a wool blanket. Yet I was afraid to ask him, and he never brought it up again.
The police never learned the rat king’s identity, and there were no more strange reports about rodents making off with someone’s pearl necklace or antique gold watch fob. Within a few days, Holmes was back to his old self, and another case had captured his imagination.
But on the adventure of the Limehouse rats, I must say that it has never entirely let me go. Occasionally I still dream of rats gnawing in the dark, of large bat-winged shapes reaching for me, asking for payment for safe passage through a cold labyrinth in which I have found myself hopelessly lost. I recall Holmes’s story about the Black Churches located all over the city, where dark rites were once performed, and some vestige of that ancient evil still remains, demanding recompense for all who plumb the depths of its domain. I think of these things and shutter and wonder when or if the final payment for our own trespasses will come due.
The Adventure of the Limehouse Rats
If you liked this story, there are three things you can do about it.
First, you can tell someone. Share a link to the story with your friends.
Second, you can throw a few bucks my way via PayPal.
Finally, you can follow me on Patreon or Ream. If you subscribe, you’ll get early access to my work before anyone else, free books, cool merch, and more.