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COMPETITION
The big one
Jaspistos
IN COMPETITION NO. 1923 you were invited to supply an opening to the never published Sherlock Holmes case, 'The Giant Rat of Sumatra'.
I was lucky enough to have a Sherlockian staying with me this week, so he was the final arbiter of my short-list. The four prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky is Godfrey Bullard's.
It has finally become possible to lay before a dis- believing public the true facts in this extraordi- nary case. Now that my friend's tireless efforts, assisted by the most distinguished zoologists of three continents, have ended for ever the diabol- ical scheming of Dr Egon Straubensee, the full story may be safely told. One windy night in October 1905, Holmes and I were returning from a recital at the Sullivan Hall. As we thread- ed the dimly lit thoroughfares near Regent's Park, my companion still dilating on the perfor- mance, he stopped suddenly, and laid a restrain- ing hand upon my sleeve. 'Did you hear some- thing, Watson?' he asked, his voice tense with excitement. I listened. From the darkness ahead there came a swift, dry pattering. Some large animal, presumably a runaway cab-horse, was advancing rapidly towards us. About thirty yards off, apparently sensing our presence, it checked its career, and came to a slithering halt beneath a street lamp. Never shall I forget the horror of that moment. A gigantic creature, with crooked forepaws and glistening fungoid skin, was crouched in a menacing attitude, like a tiger ready to pounce. The flickering gaslight illumi- nated its wedge-shaped features, the savage pro- truding fangs, and two malevolent eyes that gleamed with unspeakable ferocity. I had braced myself for the inevitable spring, when the beast abruptly reared, and, with a single sideways bound, vanished noiselessly into the shadows.
For some moments I stood transfixed with amazement. Holmes's grip relaxed, and he gave a low whistle of mingled incredulity and satisfac- tion. 'So!' he muttered. 'The thing has reached London, and sooner than I expected. Mycroft
was right, after all!' (Godfrey Bullard) It is with some foreboding that I have decided to lay before the public a memoir of my friend Sherlock Holmes which may, even at this remove, cause anguish to a great and gracious lady. Indeed, although she has signified to me her complete consent, I am still undecided about the wisdom of recalling the singular and terrible events which culminated in the disgrace and sui- cide of the last scion of one of England's noblest families. The affair began on a raw November evening during the early days of my association with Mr Sherlock Holmes. I had that morning received news of the death of an old friend from my army days and even Mrs Hudson's excellent cooking had been unable to lift my spirits. Holmes was seated before the fire smoking his favourite clay pipe, his hooded eyes inscrutable as they gazed into the crackling flames.
Suddenly there was a step upon the stair and the door burst open. Into the room strode an extraordinary figure: commandingly tall yet hor- ribly emaciated, with the hectic flush of fever upon his cheeks. Without bothering to introduce himself, he tore open his shirt-front to reveal a bosom mottled and stained with hideous scarlet blotches. 'Dr Watson?' he cried. 'I beg you, sir, come with me at once or I am a dead man! Yet before we go I have one question to ask you what do you know of the properties of the bite of the Giant Rat of Sumatra?' (J.C.H. Mounsey) It was in the spring of 189– that the case of the Giant Rat of Sumatra made such demands upon my friend Sherlock Holmes's extraordinary pow- ers that I feared they might be lost through sheer exhaustion of the brain. Holmes long forbade interest in the whole metropolis. Since the pass- ing of the lamented Professor Moriarty the crim- inal fraternity has become sadly unimaginative. Why, there is nothing in the police columns that would tax even our friend Lestrade.' I had barely started to object that Moriarty could hardly be lamented by law-abiding citizens, when we heard a tremendous clatter on the stair, and a man in a blue pea-jacket burst through the door, panting deeply from his exertions. Looking wildly about our chamber, before settling his gaze on my companion, he gasped forth: 'I have come direct from the India docks, Mr Holmes, but I fear that I am already too late!' (Neil Datson) `Holmes!' I cried, coming into our rooms one evening out of the raw chill of a late November fog. 'What the deuce is that?'
My practice had taken me out of the capital for several days, and it was no real surprise, when I returned, to find my friend engaged upon one of his cases. Accustomed as I had become, `Have a care, Watson,' he murmured. 'It's a trap.' (Hilary Wade)
No. 1926: Univocalic
You are invited to write a poem (maximum six lines, but two will suffice), using only one vowel. NB: y is not a vowel. Entries to 'Competition No. 1926' by 28 March.
The closing date for Competition No. 1925 is 21 March, not 14 March, as was wrongly given in last week's issue.
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