by Marvin Kaye
“You’ve no doubt visited the aquarium at Regent Park,” said Holmes, abruptly changing the subject.
“Certainly,” I replied, “As a school boy I went quite often. I was fascinated by watching the fish, as are most children.”
“Today we will be visiting, what I surmise, will be a miniature version of that great “fish house”, as it’s called by the public. We’ll be paying a call on Dr. Phillip Paxton.”
“Presumably, this is in connection with the case.”
Holmes laughed. “Surely you don’t think all this salt air has made me balmy, do you, Watson? I believe that Dr. Paxton’s scientific expertise may be able to shed some light on this case.”
Then Holmes fell silent, as the carriage went up an incline. A few minutes later, we came to a stop in front of Phillip Paxton’s manor house. Judging by its fine stone work, it looked to be at least three hundred years old. Holmes instructed the driver to wait for us, even though it might be some time till we returned. The driver nodded, and Holmes and I walked toward the house. As we did, I couldn’t help admiring the breathtaking view of the ocean below. The house’s huge door was answered by a gruff looking butler, who looked more in build as if he belonged in a pugilist’s ring than in a gentleman’s residence. When Holmes mentioned that we were acting in an official capacity on behalf of the local constable, the man’s expression softened, and we were invited into the great hall and seated on chairs that looked as old as the house itself. The servant asked us if we’d like some tea. When we politely declined, he bowed and left.
The great hall had high stone walls, on which were hung medieval tapestries, crossed swords, and a family coat of arms. Ancient ornately carved wooden tables stood against a number of the walls, as did oversized vases, which held dried plants. The only anomaly was, where one might traditionally have expected to see framed oil portraits of ancestors, there were, instead, elaborate paintings of fish. I saw tuna, herring, sole, bluefish and cod. Before I had time to fully contemplate their significance, a man in his sixties, wearing a white surgeon’s coat, walked into the hall.
“I am Dr. Phillip Paxton,” he said, “and you must be Sherlock Holmes. Of course, I have read a number of your cases. And this must be your chronicler, Dr. Watson.”
“We’ve come to discuss a matter with you, with which you may be of some assistance,” said Holmes.
“Indeed,” said Dr. Paxton, “I’d be most pleased to help in any way I can. But first, would you please indulge me? I insist upon showing you my little laboratory.”
We went down a wide corridor. On the walls hung more paintings of fish. Within a moment we were in a vast gallery which contained massive glass aquariums, and, as Holmes had predicted, easily rivaled the ones at Regent Gardens, and those at the Surrey Zoological Gardens as well.
“Here are my friends,” said Dr. Paxton, gesturing at the first aquarium, “these are some of the local species, mackerel, cod, and bluefish.”
We passed one tank after another, each one larger than the last, till we came to a stop in front of an aquarium that was the size of a house. Inside it, grey seals swam about as if they had not a care in the world. A muscle bound man appeared, with a ladder, placed it on the side of the tank, then took a bucket, climbed up, and dumped fish into the water.
Dr. Paxton watched the seals for a moment, then turned to Holmes and myself and said. “I’m researching every aspect of these beautiful creature’s lives. I’m sure, Mr. Holmes, if your reputation is accurate, that you may have heard about my, uh, differences with the institute.”
“Small-minded thinkers, no doubt,” said Holmes.
“Ah,” said Paxton, “I see that you grasp the situation fully. But here I have no one to answer to, no need to please would-be benefactors. Those relics back in London scoffed at any idea that didn’t fit into their narrow views of the world. Science should not have to bow before the feet of bankers in order to march forward.”
“Well put,” said Holmes. “I need not remind you, it was only a short time ago that Mr. Fulton’s steam engine was the subject of similar derision by the same sort of self-appointed experts.”
Dr. Paxton seemed very pleased by Holmes’ss comments, as he took us to one more aquarium. This was double the size of the previous one. In it were dolphins.
“Bottle nosed dolphins,” said Holmes, “magnificent animals. There are those that contend that they possess a certain innate intelligence.”
With this, Dr. Paxton’s eyes lit up. “You surprise me, Mr. Holmes.”
“I have found that many worthy ideas start at the fringes of society, and are initially rejected by the mainstream,” said Holmes, “only to be eventually accepted by the very same naysayers and disbelievers, who then attempt to claim credit for them.”
“I suspect that law enforcement’s gain is science’s loss,” said Paxton, as he led us back through the glass gallery.
“This is the entirety of your sea menagerie?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, excluding those organisms on the slides under my microscope.”
It was an amazing collection, I thought. I couldn’t imagine that there could be another one like it, in private hands, in all of England. We returned to the great hall, again and sat down. Then Holmes produced the photographs he’d shown me on the train.
“Before you view these, Dr. Paxton, I must warn you of their graphic nature.”
“I’m a man of science, sir,” said Paxton, blinking.
“Very well,” said Holmes, “if you’ve read the local newspaper in the last few days, you’ll have heard of the human arm that was found on the beach, not far from here.”
“I’m afraid I’m much too involved in my work to keep up with the news.”
“I’d like you to look at these photographs and give me your professional opinion. Is there any sea creature you know of that could have done this to a man?”
Holmes gave Paxton the photographs. Paxton studied them carefully, then said, “There are no teeth marks that would indicate a shark, rare as such an attack is on humans. Even so, it would not be so smooth a cut, as this.”
“Could a whale have been responsible?”
“I dare say not, once again, in the few documented cases I know of, there would be signs of biting, and the skin and bone would be jagged. Even piranhas, which are native to South America, and are never found in these cold waters, would leave traces of their tiny razor-like teeth. I see no evidence of anything of the sort here. I know of no fish or ocean mammal capable of inflicting such damage in precisely this way.”
Paxton returned the photographs to Holmes, who stood up promptly, and said, “Thank you, Dr. Paxton, you’ve been of invaluable assistance. Come, Watson, our driver awaits.”
We returned to the village and stopped in front of the Inn, whereupon Holmes told me to go up to our room and wait for him, as he had “some errands to attend to.” I stepped out of the carriage, and it pulled away quickly. As I walked through the simply furnished lobby, and up the stairs, I wondered what my friend was going to do. Once in our room, I passed the time by reading a book I found on a shelf about tin mining in Cornwall. Though I found the style somewhat dry, to say the least, the subject was surprisingly engaging. It was past dusk, when Sherlock Holmes returned, and in a very excited state.
“Come Watson,” he said, “and bring your revolver. We are rapidly approaching the dénouement of our case.”
“But how — ?”
“There’s no time to explain, every moment we delay may cost lives.”
We rushed out of the inn, into the same trap that had taken us to the manor in the morning. It was now night, and a full moon hung above us.
“We’re off to the manor,” whispered Holmes, presumably, so the driver would not hear him.
“At this hour?” I replied.
What was Holmes getting us into? I thought. By his tone, I suspected we would hardly be attending a formal dinner party. Though the reason for our nocturnal visit eluded me, my confidence i
n Holmes’s ability to prevail was unwavering.
When we were halfway to the manor, Holmes instructed the driver to take another route, to the left, bringing us back inland. I was completely perplexed, as we were now heading away from the manor. The road turned again and we entered a thick grove of trees. Luckily, the moon provided us with some light, or we’d have surely been lost. Suddenly, Holmes commanded the driver to come to an abrupt halt. Then Holmes struck a match, lit a lantern, and instructed me to step out of the carriage. When I had done so, he exited as well, and dismissed the driver. The carriage sped off, leaving Holmes and me alone in a dense forest.
“Follow me,” whispered Holmes, holding the lantern.
I couldn’t help asking myself the obvious questions. Where were we? Why were we here? And what in blazes were we doing? We walked for a few minutes. In the subdued light, I stumbled in some ruts in the hard dirt. Soon after, we reached a boulder that resembled an apple. Then Holmes reached into his coat, removed a rolled up paper, and held the lantern up to it. After a cursory glance, he pocketed the paper, walked a few paces, and turned around. “Here, Watson, follow me, and stay very close behind.”
At this I could take no more. Patience is a virtue, only up to a point. “Now, Holmes, I think it’s about time —”
“You’re quite right, Watson. When this manor was built, over four hundred years ago, there was much concern over the then, very real possibility of sieges, and the masons who built it were instructed by their lord and master, to provide an escape tunnel into this forest.”
“Ingenious, but how did you know about its existence?”
“There’ll be plenty of opportunity to go into that later, but right now time is of the essence.”
He held up the lantern, which revealed a set of stone steps that were all but covered by thick foliage. “Keep your revolver handy, Watson,” he said, as we descended the stairs and came to a rusty iron door. It was padlocked. Holmes pulled out a set of keys, selected one, slid it into the lock, and it snapped open. Then the door followed suit with a soft creaking sound.
Holmes held up the lantern and I saw a tunnel directly ahead of us. I removed the gun from my pocket and held it tightly, as we stepped into the cavern. It was dark and smelled of mold. The lantern lit the way, as we trod through the seemingly endless tunnel. It’s been said that man’s most primal fear is darkness, and at that moment I had no doubt of it. Eventually, the passageway became narrower, and then, at last, we came to an opening. Here Holmes turned to me and whispered,
“Do not speak, Watson. Now we must wait.”
Holmes doused the lantern and through the entrance in front of us, we saw a vast cave unfold that was illuminated by an eerie, flickering light. There was a narrow ridge immediately outside the opening where we stood. We walked a few paces, stole a quick glance over the edge and there, some twenty-five feet below, was an immense grotto, filled with water. We returned to the tunnel and then, all at once I heard voices. They were muffled at first, but I recognized Dr. Paxton’s above the others. “That’s it,” he said, “come on now, let’s not keep her waiting.”
“Yes sir,” said another voice. This one had a tinge of North Country in his inflection.
“Careful, with that,” said Paxton, “let’s not spill any.”
“It’s heavy, sir,” said another voice, this one distinctly cockney.
“No back talk,” said Paxton, sternly.
Then Holmes and I saw the three men emerge from another tunnel, and stand on the ledge, not more than a few feet away from us. We pulled back to avoid being seen. Besides Paxton, I recognized the other man as his servant,( though he was now wearing a workman’s shirt and a pair of soiled trousers), and along with them was the man we’d seen on the ladder, feeding the fish. What followed next will haunt me till the end of my life. One of the men pulled up a bucket of fish and emptied its contents over the ledge into the water below. The other man took a second bucket and did the same. For a moment there was silence, and then I heard splashing in the water. Then something rose out of the water the likes of which I’ve never seen before. It was a massive tentacle, of the sort one might see on an octopus, except that this was at least fifty feet high, and had the circumference of a large Roman column. It was covered with suction cups of various sizes.
A second tentacle of equal size appeared along its side, thrashed around in the water for a few minutes, and then they both vanished into the depths from which they had come. Before I could catch my breath from beholding such a sight, Paxton turned to his men and said, “Bring me the main course.” At this, one of his henchmen disappeared from view, and then returned immediately, with a portly man, whose arms were bound behind him with rope, and gagged across the mouth with a handkerchief. Holmes took out his revolver, then gestured to me that we were going to step forward and reveal ourselves. We moved quickly into the open, with our revolvers aimed at the trio. “Good evening, Dr. Paxton,” said Holmes.
Paxton and his men turned abruptly, as did their prisoner.
“You’re trespassing, Mr. Holmes,” said Paxton.
“A small transgression compared to what you are engaged in,” replied Holmes.
“What do you know?” asked Paxton.
“I’m afraid I know everything, Paxton. Dr. Watson and I just now witnessed your little pet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Paxton.
“And now,” said Holmes, “I must ask you to unhand that man and step aside.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Holmes, “said Paxton, holding on to the bound man, “if you or Dr. Watson, advance even one step, I shall push this man over the precipice to his reward.”
“Then we are at a stalemate,” replied Holmes.
“Not quite,” said Paxton, “if you do not drop your weapons, I will make good on my threat regardless.”
“And if we obey, you will send this man to his doom nonetheless.”
“It’s a sad day, when a man of science like myself is not trusted.”
“If you throw this man to your creature, I will subsequently shoot you, and then you shall join him.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Holmes,” said Paxton, “your reputation is that of a man of intellect, not violence.”
“And yours is of a genius gone wrong.”
“Your barb stings me,” said Paxton, “it sounds like something I’d expect from those narrow pinheads at the Zoological Gardens, or the Marine Biology Society.”
“To be fair, Paxton, “said Holmes, “I actually admire your theories.”
“Your insincere flattery is pathetic. You don’t even know my work.”
“I refer to your monograph on the mating calls of blue whales, your monograph on interspecies communication of sea mammals, your monograph on instinctual memory in dolphins, your monograph detailing —”
“I am most impressed, Mr. Holmes, I see I have misjudged you.”
“It’s not your theories I quarrel with, doctor, it’s your methods.”
“Sadly, they are necessary to further my work.”
“The animal …” said Holmes.
“The animal, as you call her,” said Paxton, “is my affair, and one I choose not to discuss with outsiders.”
“Then allow me,” said Holmes, “this creature, whom Watson and I just witnessed, is a giant squid. It was long thought to be a legend, one that dates back to antiquity, and was, for millennia, routinely dismissed as being the disturbed visions of intoxicated sailors. All that changed seven years ago, in 1888. when the carcass of just such a giant squid, washed up on a beach in New Zealand. Needless to say, it was quite celebrated news, not only in the scientific world, but internationally. However, a live one has never even been photographed, let alone been captured. It is nothing less than a discovery of monumental and historic proportions.”
“You are correct,” said Paxton.
“You’ve had him for only two months,” said Holmes.
“How on earth did you know that?” asked Paxton.
“The local fishermen,” replied Holmes, “where you only recently increased your demand for their services. The amounts of fish you’ve been purchasing is not commensurate with the seals, dolphins, and others in your sea menagerie.”
“Yes,” said Paxton, “by my estimation, she eats at least five hundred pounds of fish a day.”
“Perhaps you should amend that statement. As of late, the creature has been dining on a more varied diet of beef, by way of the livestock you’ve been clandestinely abducting from the local farmers. And then there’s the matter of the occasional human being, as well, such as Mr. Harris, and now this man, a recluse from the nearby hills, no doubt.”
“You claim to know my work,” said Paxton, “yet you fail to understand what a true pioneer and visionary must endure. What I have done will alter the course of modern marine biology. But before I reveal her to the world, she must be studied, tested —”
“And fed human sacrifices.” said Holmes.
“What is the loss of a few peasants in the name of science? Future generations will revere my name as the man who brought the feared leviathan of the bible to humanity. Now then, Holmes, I suggest that you and your friend relinquish your firearms.”
Before Holmes could respond, a voice behind us said, “I have a gun trained at your backs. Do not turn around. Obey the doctor.”
Holmes let the revolver fall from his hand, as I did the same with mine.
“Gentlemen,” said Paxton, “may I introduce my man, Gregory. When running an operation of this size and complexity, I cannot stress the importance of having enough good help. Now then, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, will there be any further questions?”
“I have one,” I said, “How did you, in fact, capture this creature?”
“Sarah, for that is her name,” said Paxton, with an expression on his face I’ve seen on men extolling the virtues of their wives or mistresses, “came to me entirely by chance. This grotto has an opening that leads to the ocean.”
“Originally used to escape from invading Norsemen, then later used by smugglers,” said Holmes.
