Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra by Paul D. Gilbert Page A
Authors: Paul D. Gilbert
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May I have a sight of the actual letters before I ask you to read from them?â
âCertainly.â Collier placed them into the clutches of Holmesâs eager, outstretched fingers.
Holmes studied the letters with a brief intensity before returning them to our young client.
âWatson, kindly note the fact that the writing employed in each of the letters sadly reflects the fluctuations in Collierâs state of mind and his circumstances, as his journeys progressed. The first is written in a strong, bold steady hand, probably in the manâs study. The second is written in a similar hand, although its fluctuations indicate the motions of the vessels in which he travelled, and the same stationery and ink are in use. However, the third, truncated, missive is an altogether different affair.
âThe writing is now an erratic scratching. The stationery comprises various types of coarse Indian paper and the ink is weak and watery. The fact that it ends abruptly and in mid sentence is most suggestive and is, therefore, of the most concern. Now, I must charge you to omit not a word nor any nuance as you read from each letter in turn.â
Holmes sat crossed kneed upon his favourite chair. His pipe was nestled in the ashtray closest to him while his tightly closed eyes aided his deepest concentration.
Daniel Collier read aloud with a clear, steady and most expressive voice, as if he was reciting from a piece of prose. âThe first letter is dated the fourteenth of July, 1897.â
âWhy, that is fully thirteen months ago!â I offered and I observed a brief condescending smile playing over Holmesâs thin lips, although his eyes remained tightly shut as he listened to the reading.
My dear boy, I owe you a thousand apologies for having maintained my silence for so long a period of time. I can assure youthat this has not been a deliberate attempt of mine to exclude you from my life and my thoughts. Quite the contrary in fact, for not a day has passed without you and our beloved Charlotte having been uppermost in my dreams and in my prayers. Knowing all too well the caring nature of both you and your sister, I can only imagine the pain and anxiety that I have caused you. I have written, in similar fashion, to sweet Charlotte (although heaven only knows if she will ever receive the letter in the depths of Central Africa) and I pray that she will grant me the same forgiveness that I now crave from you.
You must try to understand that the loss of your beloved mother has cleaved a mighty chasm in my life that will never be filled nor healed. A dark, voluminous cloud now hangs over me that no wind will ever disperse. Therefore I have barricaded myself within the confines of our pretentiously titled pile of âNirvanaâ surrounded by my writings and the treasures that I have collected from around the globe. It is only now that I have come to the realization that the only one of these that ever really mattered is the one that can never be restored to me, my dear, sweet wife.
When I remember all the sacrifices that she made in order to satisfy my obsessions and the hardships that she endured, just to be with me throughout my long and perilous journeys, I finally concluded that my self-imposed exile from the world was the last thing that she would have wanted of me.
After all, one lesson that I should have learned from the many books that I have read of the Eastern sages, is that attachment for any thing or any one, is the worst and potentially most dangerous of all of our human failings. Attachment for an idea leads to longing, then to craving and obsession. Attachment for an object and more especially a person leads to pain upon their being lost to you. This pain leads to anger and resentment, hatred and ultimately to loss of intelligence. This is the sorry state that I have descended to of late.
As a consequence I have decided to, once again, take up the trail that I was first led upon by various
âCertainly.â Collier placed them into the clutches of Holmesâs eager, outstretched fingers.
Holmes studied the letters with a brief intensity before returning them to our young client.
âWatson, kindly note the fact that the writing employed in each of the letters sadly reflects the fluctuations in Collierâs state of mind and his circumstances, as his journeys progressed. The first is written in a strong, bold steady hand, probably in the manâs study. The second is written in a similar hand, although its fluctuations indicate the motions of the vessels in which he travelled, and the same stationery and ink are in use. However, the third, truncated, missive is an altogether different affair.
âThe writing is now an erratic scratching. The stationery comprises various types of coarse Indian paper and the ink is weak and watery. The fact that it ends abruptly and in mid sentence is most suggestive and is, therefore, of the most concern. Now, I must charge you to omit not a word nor any nuance as you read from each letter in turn.â
Holmes sat crossed kneed upon his favourite chair. His pipe was nestled in the ashtray closest to him while his tightly closed eyes aided his deepest concentration.
Daniel Collier read aloud with a clear, steady and most expressive voice, as if he was reciting from a piece of prose. âThe first letter is dated the fourteenth of July, 1897.â
âWhy, that is fully thirteen months ago!â I offered and I observed a brief condescending smile playing over Holmesâs thin lips, although his eyes remained tightly shut as he listened to the reading.
My dear boy, I owe you a thousand apologies for having maintained my silence for so long a period of time. I can assure youthat this has not been a deliberate attempt of mine to exclude you from my life and my thoughts. Quite the contrary in fact, for not a day has passed without you and our beloved Charlotte having been uppermost in my dreams and in my prayers. Knowing all too well the caring nature of both you and your sister, I can only imagine the pain and anxiety that I have caused you. I have written, in similar fashion, to sweet Charlotte (although heaven only knows if she will ever receive the letter in the depths of Central Africa) and I pray that she will grant me the same forgiveness that I now crave from you.
You must try to understand that the loss of your beloved mother has cleaved a mighty chasm in my life that will never be filled nor healed. A dark, voluminous cloud now hangs over me that no wind will ever disperse. Therefore I have barricaded myself within the confines of our pretentiously titled pile of âNirvanaâ surrounded by my writings and the treasures that I have collected from around the globe. It is only now that I have come to the realization that the only one of these that ever really mattered is the one that can never be restored to me, my dear, sweet wife.
When I remember all the sacrifices that she made in order to satisfy my obsessions and the hardships that she endured, just to be with me throughout my long and perilous journeys, I finally concluded that my self-imposed exile from the world was the last thing that she would have wanted of me.
After all, one lesson that I should have learned from the many books that I have read of the Eastern sages, is that attachment for any thing or any one, is the worst and potentially most dangerous of all of our human failings. Attachment for an idea leads to longing, then to craving and obsession. Attachment for an object and more especially a person leads to pain upon their being lost to you. This pain leads to anger and resentment, hatred and ultimately to loss of intelligence. This is the sorry state that I have descended to of late.
As a consequence I have decided to, once again, take up the trail that I was first led upon by various
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