“It’s a traveller’s tale. Specifically, a tale told by David Willetts, a Java man. A trader, a wanderer and a chronic storyteller. By his account Sumatra is crawling with magic and evil priestly cults and enchantments and beautiful native sorceresses.” Crane gave Esther a nod of acknowledgement. She gave him an incredulous glare. Stephen choked. “And it was from him that I, and Merrick, and pretty much everyone who ever had a drink with him, heard about the giant rats of Sumatra. Rats the size of dogs.”
Stephen stopped swinging his legs. Esther steepled her fingers.
“I don’t know many Java men,” Crane went on. “So I don’t know if this is a Willetts particular or a general legend—”
“I haven’t heard it elsewhere,” Merrick put in.
“No. As far as I know, the giant rats of Sumatra was Willetts’ story. And the reason I bring it up is that Willetts is dead. He was murdered—knife in the ribs—in Poplar last week.” Stephen whistled and exchanged a glance with Esther. “Now, it could be a coincidence that the one man in London who one would ask about giant rats was just murdered—”
“We don’t like coincidences,” Esther said. “Who killed him?”
“Unknown. He was stabbed and left by the river, as I heard.”
“But lots of other people know the story, you said. So he wasn’t killed to keep him quiet.”
“Not to say lots, madam,” Merrick offered. “Mr. Willetts didn’t have a large acquaintance in England and his stories were, um—”
“Not suitable for mixed audiences,” Crane supplied. “Anyone at the Traders, the Far Eastern Mercantile club, would have heard it, anyone who drank with him, but it’s not one he’d have rushed to tell in politer company.”
Stephen frowned. “What is the story?”
“Don’t mind me,” Esther added. “I’m a married woman.”
“It’s fairly long. Alright, let me try and remember the detail.” Crane closed his eyes, calling back the memory of a hot night, warm sand underfoot, the sound of the sea. “Where were we, Merrick?”
“Hainan. Beach.”
“That’s right. We were drinking that stuff that smells of coconuts and tastes like hinge oil.”
“Fermented whatnot. And he was trying to get rid of a load of copra on you, and you threw your shoe at a rat, and he said did we want to hear a story.”
“That’s it.” Crane felt the memories open up. “It started with him in the jungle. He liked the jungle. He’d have hated to die by the Thames, poor swine.”
“And he got lost,” Merrick said. “Usual thing with Mr. Willetts. Canoe down a river and some rapids and two days’ surviving alone in the heat, and all of that—”
“And he came across a village. The huts standing empty, cooking pots boiled dry over dead fires, no animals, no people. Strange marks on the trees and houses. Blood on the ground.”
“So he sleeps there, like an idiot, and in the night there’s men with spears and they blindfold him and take him to a cave.”
“This is where it becomes very much a Willetts tale,” Crane said. “In this cave, which is really an intricate system of caverns decorated with strange and ancient carvings, he meets a remarkably beautiful and barely dressed lady who is the high priestess of some deity. She falls in love with him more or less on sight, as so many beautiful native ladies did, according to him.” He glanced at Esther. “We can probably miss out the next bit. The action picks up again as she explains that she is the…what was it…the vessel of the Red Tide, which serves to destroy anyone fool enough to defy her god. Now, there’s also a priest, a huge native chap in a golden mask. He’s jealous of Willetts’ conquest, naturally.”
“That’s right,” Merrick put in. “And the gold-mask bloke makes a fuss, and there is some stuff about her duty to the god, and then some shenanigans about a serving maid what also falls in love with Mr. Willetts, only this is actually a setup by the gold-mask bloke to annoy the priestess lady, right?”
“Dear God,” Stephen said. “How much of this is there?”
“You’re getting the abridged version,” Crane told him. “Willetts could keep this one going all night, including the interludes with the priestess, and the serving maid, and the priestess and the serving maid.”
Esther’s eyebrows shot up. “Definitely miss out that part.”
“So, anyway, what it boils down to is, the priestess calls the Red Tide on Mr. Willetts and the maid, right? Only the maid’s seen this coming, cos she’s fallen in love with Mr. Willetts for real by now”—Esther sighed heavily—“and she’s given him a thingy what will save him from it.”
“An amulet belonging to the gold-mask priest chap,” Crane amplified.
“And the Red Tide comes, and what it is is this whole load of giant rats.”