Sherlock Holmes-The Army of Doctor Moreau (3 page)

“I can understand your scepticism,” he said. “As you are a man of medical science I would be disappointed should you offer anything else. However, I can prove the veracity of everything, and perhaps it would save time if you were simply to accept my words at face value!”

Which put me in my place.

“It is clear that Moreau felt that the answer to my scientific problem lay in continuing his exploration of vivisection. Perhaps he felt that animal attributes couldn’t be conferred upon humans on a chemical level, they must be grafted on with needle and twine. Either that or he simply couldn’t leave the scalpel alone. I think that’s equally possible.”

“Some people just can’t resist spilling blood,” I agreed. “There is a power in interfering with nature that some broken individuals should not be entitled to wield.”

“Whatever the truth of the matter, science can never move backwards. Once knowledge is acquired it can only grow, not vanish again into ignorance.”

“But, surely, if Moreau died …?”

“I am by no means sure he did. Prendick’s account is unequivocal on the matter. He says the beasts tore their creator apart. He and Montgomery disposed of the body themselves. Montgomery was attacked later and his body—presumed dead at least—was thrown into the sea.”

“‘Presumed
dead’?” Holmes asked.

“I’m being as accurate as possible. We must bear in mind that we
only have one man’s word to go on for any of it.”

“One man who I presume has stood up to rigorous debriefing,” I commented.

“Not that rigorous,” Holmes added. I looked at him and he qualified his statement with a brief smile. “He hasn’t talked to me.”

“Nor is he likely to,” Mycroft said. “Edward Prendick is dead. Bear in mind this all happened eleven years ago. Finding the hustle and bustle of town too much for nerves frayed by his experiences, he repaired to the countryside. He devoted himself to chemistry and reading, living the life of a hermit. Which is why it was a couple of days before his body was found.” Mycroft drained what was left of his coffee and perched the cup and saucer on the arm of his chair. “Evidence points towards his having committed suicide. Certainly that was the decision made by the courts.”

“You doubt it?” Holmes asked.

“Only because I cannot imagine a skilled chemist committing suicide by drinking acid. There are less painful ways to achieve oblivion.”

“It would seem unnecessarily agonising,” I agreed. “Surely a narcotic would be likelier. Were the remains so corrupt that positive identification was impossible?”

“He was not in a fine state, naturally, but the police were satisfied as to his identity. He was recognised by the postmaster, the man who it would seem knew him best as he regularly had to collect parcels of scientific equipment.”

“So,” Holmes said, “we have three people who might possess the knowledge to replicate these experiments in vivisection. All of them are, on the surface at least, dead. The fact that you refuse to accept that means these experiments are continuing—correct?”

“I have my suspicions,” his brother agreed. “You will have been following, no doubt, the news coverage of the Rotherhithe deaths?”

“Several bodies found in or near the river,” Holmes said. “Police reports stated that they were the result of gang violence.”

“Well they would, wouldn’t they?” Mycroft replied. “Nothing keeps the inquisitive nature of a populace down more than mention of gang violence.”

“It certainly bored Holmes at the time,” I admitted. “I tried to interest him in it but he refused to listen.”

“I don’t believe you ever mentioned it.”

This angered me. I was forever reading Holmes news reports in the hope of sparking his curiosity.

“I read out half the paper!” I insisted.

He shrugged. “If my memory serves, and it usually does, there was not one single crime I could have investigated.”

I wasn’t having that, and wracked my brain for that day’s top recommendations: “There were several burglaries; the assassination of Charles DuFries; that greyhound trainer, Barry Forshaw, vanished mid-race; the Highgate poisonings, the robbery on the 12.05 to Leamington and the kidnap of a Parisian furrier,” I said.

He dismissed the lot with the flick of his hand.

“Trifles!” he shouted. “Missing persons and pilferers!”

I looked to Mycroft. “For someone who complains of boredom so easily you have no idea how difficult it is to get him to engage in an actual case. On that particular day he threw the paper in the fire and got on with cataloguing his collection of dog hair.”

“Dog hair?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“How else can one expect to recognise a breed by only a few strands?” Holmes replied.

Mycroft allowed that thought to hover in the air for a moment before continuing with his story. “If we can return to Rotherhithe? The bodies were in fact the result of animal attacks.”

“Ah,” I replied. “I think I can see where this might fit in.”

“Indeed, the pathology reports make it clear that the wounds are not the result of any one animal they can pin their reputations on.”

“And we discount the logical answer,” Holmes said. “That they were killed by multiple creatures. Why?”

“Because one would tend to think that if there really were a shark in the Thames we would have heard reports of one by now.”

“One of the creatures was a shark?”

“The latest cadaver had had its left leg bitten off by a blacktip shark, a species most commonly found off the coast of Australia.”

“Absurd!” I exclaimed.

“Fascinating,” Holmes announced, turning to look at me. “A few weeks ago you were willing to believe in the existence of demons and the efficacy of magic. Now, when presented with science— albeit of a peculiar and hitherto unheard of variety—you blanch at the thought. It says a great deal about you.”

“In the matter of The Breath of God I simply chose to accept the evidence of my own senses,” I countered.

“A cardinal error,” Holmes replied. “Unless aggressively trained, senses can be easily cheated.”

“So you believe all this madness about monsters abroad in the streets of Rotherhithe?”

“I neither believe nor disbelieve it.” He nodded towards Mycroft. “Much like my brother I am sure. I would not believe a thing until I absolutely knew it to be the case. However, we must accept that the widest reaches of scientific possibility may well turn out to
be proven correct. Science is a fluid thing, Doctor. Like mercury spilled on the laboratory table, it chases away with itself. Often it is quite beyond us to restrain or capture it.”

“I am aware of the nature of science, Holmes,” I replied with irritation. “I have spent a number of years studying it after all.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, offering a placating smile. “And you have considerable talent in your field.”

“In my field.” I smiled, unable to resist dwelling on his caveat. “Indeed.”

“I make no firm conclusions,” Mycroft said. “I simply present everything I know to be relevant, and trust in your skills -” he looked at me “- both of your skills—to help get to the bottom of things. I want you to investigate the deaths, eradicate—or confirm —alternative explanations, and act on them.”

“Act on them?” asked Holmes.

“If Dr Moreau is alive and well and working in the capital, I want him found.”

I laughed. “From everything you’ve said, one would think you were more in need of game hunters than a detective.”

“I have them too,” Mycroft replied. “This is too important a matter to entrust to only two men.”

Holmes scoffed at that and kicked at the leg of his chair with his heel. He was not a man who relished the idea of working as part of a team.

“I know how much you enjoy working with others, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “But you will simply have to accept that this is a wide-reaching matter and I have set all of my best men on it.”

“‘All’?” Holmes positively shouted this. “How many is ‘all’?”

“You need not be in each others’ pockets throughout the
investigation but as well as an expert in hunting and tracking I have instigated a little … Well, let us call it a science club. I have charged the best brains in the country to look to the matter and offer their input. Who knows whether we will need biological assistance, or medical, or simply someone to approach the scientific aspects of the case in a more lateral manner? You’ll meet them later this evening. I’ve told them to expect you.”

“At the clubhouse?” I asked with a smile.

Mycroft chuckled. “Indeed, the most perfect place you could imagine for such a club. They are in residence at The British Museum.”

I had visited The British Museum before of course. Most recently, I had taken Mary there for a dull afternoon when rain had forced us indoors and away from the lake in Regent’s Park. I say “dull” not because I had no interest in its collections, but everything has its time and place and reading about Egyptian excavations will never be a replacement for lolling on the water with the woman you love.

Holmes and I descended from our cab at five minutes to the appointed hour and made our way along Great Russell Street.

“I sometimes wonder,” Holmes said as we turned the corner into Montague Street, “whether this is not the repository of some of the greatest crimes of our time. Thefts far beyond the paltry affairs I concern myself with—national treasures, chunks of history, all whipped away to be stowed, under lock and key, in the name of education and empire.”

“But surely,” I replied, “archaeology is hardly theft. We have discovered some of the finest historical artefacts in the world,
preserved them, learned from them.”

“They are rare lions,” he said, gazing up at the building, “torn from their natural jungle to rot away in the smoke-filled streets of an alien land.”

He was bordering on the poetic, something that always put me on edge with Holmes! It could be a sign of mania—either excessive exuberance or the most terrible depression. Not that I was completely immune to the atmosphere of the place. After hours, the building had a decidedly eerie quality. Gone was the hubbub of school parties and black-frocked nannies poking their unwilling charges through the doors. The light was dim and the shadows in the colonnaded entrance seemed unnaturally dense. Perhaps my nerves were still raw from our most recent case, but I will admit to being chilled by more than just the January air as we made our way towards the main entrance.

Holmes jogged up the steps to the main doors and rapped on the wood with the head of his cane. He turned and smiled, looking not unlike one of the rare lions he had mentioned earlier.

After a few moments there was the sound of a bolt being drawn and a lock being turned. The door opened a crack and the face of an elderly caretaker appeared in the gap.

“Mr Holmes?” the old man asked.

“Indeed,” Holmes replied, tipping his hat, “and my colleague Dr John Watson.”

“Of course, Sir,” the caretaker replied. “I was told to expect both of you.” He opened the door fully and there was a waft of hair-oil and dust. “You will forgive me, Sirs, if I check your credentials. Matters here are of such a delicate nature that it’s more than my job’s worth to let just anyone in.”

“You may have my card, certainly,” I replied, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. I could quite understand the gentleman’s need for security but I have never responded well to such behaviour.

“With all due respect, Sir,” he smiled, “a man’s card is easily attained. I had something more reliable in mind.” He turned to Holmes. “Tell me, Sir: ‘Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it, knows it not. Whoever knows it, wants it not.’ What am I describing?”

I sighed and tapped impatiently at the steps with my cane. “We have an appointment,” I said. “We were not warned it was with the damned Sphinx.”

Holmes held up his hand. “I don’t mind.” Nor would he—any chance to show off his reasoning. He repeated the man’s riddle, shrugged as if it were child’s play itself. “I presume you are describing counterfeit currency?”

The old man smiled and stepped back. “Indeed, Sir, please be so good as to enter.”

Holmes did so but, as I prepared to follow, the old man interceded again. “Forgive me, Sir,” he said, “but you will likewise have to answer a question.”

“Dear Lord!” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t stand word games and riddles, this is utterly preposterous.”

“I wouldn’t dream of offering you a riddle, Sir,” he replied, “my questions are naturally intended to confirm a person’s identity and are catered very specifically to their skills.” He looked skyward, scratching his light beard as he thought for a moment. “Ignoring the phalanges and the metacarpus—” he leaned forward and smiled “—such are common terms and far too easy even for the layman—name four bones within the human hand.”

“Scaphoid, carpus, trapezium and ulna.”

I made to push past him but he held up his hand. “I think you’ll agree, Sir, that the ulna is located in the arm rather than hand.”

I was growing to hate this man. Though he was quite right. I never had liked exams, they flustered me. “Triquetral!” I shouted.

“Just so, Sir,” he concurred, allowing me past. “You could also have had capitate or lunate of course.”

If this irritating man didn’t get on with it, I would be sorely tempted to show him the bones in my own hand, with some force. Perhaps this showed for, once inside the building, the elderly fellow took pains not to delay us further.

“The other gentlemen,” he explained, “are waiting for you in the Reading Room. I try not to leave them alone together for too long —they are wont to begin fighting.”

“Fighting?” What manner of meeting was this?

“I am of the opinion, Sir, that there is nothing more violent than the scientific community. They are always so set in their ideas, ideas their colleagues rarely share.” Heading towards the main door of the Reading Room he gave a chuckle, releasing it suddenly and percussively, as if it were the product of pent-up wind. “And there are few in the community whose ideas are more divergent than this lot,” he said, opening the door just as a large volume of Homer’s verse came sailing through it.