by Otto Penzler
“I see,” mused my companion, and returned through the tunnel of canvas to the grounds. There he requested a lantern, which Rocco promptly brought. He spent the next half hour, lantern in hand, tracing wide half-circles over the “pitch,” or grounds. I seated myself on an enormous coil of rope and smoked three cigarettes during this procedure. Finally I heard the yelp of satisfaction that announced a discovery.
“Like a hound, eh?” I said to my companions. “His cries tell us he’s found the scent.”
Holmes, thirty yards distant, was kneeling upon the earth, eyes and face aglow with excitement.
“You see here, Watson…you see?” he cried tensely, pointing at the ground.
I saw nothing save a rough scrabbling on the earth that seemed to repeat itself at regular intervals. It certainly did not resemble footprints of any sort I had ever seen. Yet the regular repetition of the strange pattern indicated a locomotive motion, albeit a strange one.
“Ah, look here,” said Holmes, pointing to a small round depression in the earth that was likewise repeated with the pattern.
“A cane?”
“Yes, or a crutch. So it is a human—or is it? Certainly it leaves no ordinary footprints. Let us follow them…”
The track led to the outer fence, and there, fastened upon a slat of wood that formed the fence, was a cloth object that Holmes removed from its perch and examined with much interest.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“I’m not yet sure, but it appears to be some kind of garment…”
He held the weird object under the lantern’s beam, mumbling to himself. He then made additional efforts to pick up the strange track on the other side of the fence but, owing to the darkness, was forced to relinquish the chase.
“The track was clear enough in the earth and sawdust of the pitch, but will be extremely difficult to follow in the meadow that surrounds it. It’s a wonder we ever found it at all considering the enormous traffic flowing over the grounds. However, as you saw, I discovered it only by circling far out towards the fence. Whoever, or whatever it was clearly headed straight for the fence, and over it. No, Watson, we’d be wasting our time to search further tonight. Better to return tomorrow in full daylight. For the present, I think we’ve learned all we can from our inspections. Tell me, Larkin, is it true the flyers were alone in the main tent the night of the accident?”
The stunted man hobbled alongside us in the darkness for several minutes before replying.
“Yes, sir, to the best of my knowledge. I think we was all in the side tent, or tending to our own affairs in our caravans. As you know, I was with Panelli and Rocco.”
Holmes spent another half-hour questioning the remaining circus people: had any of them been in the main tent during the ill-fated rehearsal? Was it true that the flaps were fastened shut so no one could enter? Had they seen a strange animal amongst the wagons, or loitering near the big tent? The answer to these questions was no. Therefore we boarded a hansom and within the hour found ourselves once again at our quarters. Saddened over Anna’s death, we sat for some time before the fireplace in silence. Then Holmes retrieved the strange article of clothing he had found on the circus fence. It resembled a huge sleeve, yet one end was sewn up in heavy canvas, which was blackened with dirt and macadam. He drew it over his arm; his hand was then encircled by the canvas end, which he inspected carefully with the aid of his lens and the glare of the student lamp. After twenty minutes of scrutiny, broken only by occasional sighs and grunts, he flung it nonchalantly into my lap.
“What do you make of it?”
“It looks like some kind of slipper,” I replied at last, “since we can see by the condition of the canvas end that it has had repeated, even constant, contact with the ground.”
He nodded his head in agreement as he drew on his pipe, expelling clouds of smoke into the lamp’s glare.
“The strange part is, it is not shaped like something that would fit over a leg and foot,” I continued. “In fact, from its dimensions, I would say it was made more for a fin, or flipper, than for a human limb—”
“If it were made for a normal human foot, even disregarding its intense size and grotesque shape, we could assume that the footprint on the canvas—the dark stain that has been produced by the limb within pushing the cloth onto the ground—would bear a roughly elongated shape comparable to a foot. It would show a series of smudges at one end corresponding to the balls of the feet and perhaps the toes—”
“Yes!” he interrupted. “And a slightly smaller smudge at the other end which would be made by the heel…”
“Of course. But in this case, we see that the stain is an irregular blob. Instead of delineating a foot, even roughly, it delineates nothing.”
“Or nothing that is a foot,” he corrected.
“Then what is it?” I enquired, the horror growing in me.
“I don’t know, Watson, except to say that it is perhaps human, or half-human, as the case may be. I can tell by the remnants of sawdust stuck to the tar that this was on the limb—one of the limbs rather, that made the strange track near the tent.”
“…the elephant man…” I mused.
“My thoughts exactly. Is it possible? What sort of man—if such he could be called—would require a boot like this one, eh? He would have to be terribly—”
“Deformed?”
“Yes! Only—I say, wait a minute! I seem to remember a column in the personals of about a month ago…let’s see here…”
He flung himself down upon his knees and began rummaging like a pack rat through the stacks of newspapers that littered our floor.
“Drat, Watson! I see you’ve been housecleaning again—shame on you! How am I to solve these puzzles if you persist in raiding my stores of information, eh? Neatness is a loathsome trait, Watson; never forget it!”
I spent the better part of an hour convincing him that, were it not for my ‘housecleaning,’ our flat would soon become a jackdaw’s nest. As a further balm for his distress, I offered to buy our dinner, and soon we were off to Morley’s Chop House. Throughout the meal he plied me with questions. As a medical man, was I aware of any disease or condition that would result in horrendous deformities? I replied that there were a few, like elephantiasis, that could result in unbelievable swelling of the flesh and lymph glands, and a corresponding ulceration and scaling of the skin.
“By Jove! And the correct name as well! Surely then that is the answer, and yet…”
He fell silent again, and we finished the meal talking of other subjects.
“Tell me, Watson,” he pursued as we left Morley’s, “does elephantiasis, damaging though it is to the flesh and glands, affect the bones?”
When I replied in the negative, Holmes observed that we had best rule out the disease.
“As you yourself stated after examining the strange slipper we found, the limbs are misshapen, not just the tissue on them, correct?”
I nodded. “I must say I’m entirely at a loss, Holmes. If indeed it is a human afflicted with a malady, the malady’s identity escapes me. I don’t see how you expect to find the answer to this puzzle either, unless you plan to continue following the strange track in tomorrow’s daylight…”
“There may be an easier way, Watson. Tomorrow morning shall find me at the Times office. I’m quite sure it was in that paper—in the agony columns—that I saw the notice a month ago. Well, shall we return directly to Baker Street or would you rather stop by Drury Lane on the way?”
—
I had scarcely dressed next morning when Holmes burst into my room full of excitement.
“Your surgeon friend at London Hospital, Watson, his name is Treves is it not?”
“Yes. Sir Frederick Treves. You saw him yesterday in the hospital corridor, if you recollect—”
“Of course I recollect,” he snapped, “but, though the name was faintly familiar to my ear, I failed to assemble all the pieces…”
“Eh? All the pieces?”
&n
bsp; “I take it that until yesterday you had not spoken to Treves in some time? That would seem plausible, since you work at different hospitals. It is unlikely, then, that you have heard about his recent charge.”
“No, I confess I haven’t.”
“A unique charge, to say the least. Come along, there’s a cab waiting at our kerb. No! You must skip your tea, old fellow—one of the penalties for being a slugabed!”
He half-dragged me down the staircase and flung me into the waiting hansom. We dashed off in the direction of London Hospital.
“Now, Watson,” said he, drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently, “don’t you recall that yesterday when you introduced yourself as a friend of Treves the head nurse assumed you were visiting another patient…”
“I think I do remember…she said they had seen enough of the curious…”
“Yes!” he beamed. “And also, you may recollect that Treves himself, whilst speaking to a colleague in the hallway, mentioned that women have been known to faint!…’ ”
“…since time immemorial, I’m afraid!…”
“Dash it, Watson, you really are slow sometimes!”
“I beg pardon—”
“At first I thought it coincidence that Anna Tontriva should be confined in the same building that contains the solution to our problem. But upon reflection it makes sense, since London is the closest hospital to the circus grounds…”
“Whatever are you talking about, Holmes?” I said with a yawn, for I was not entirely at my best without my morning cup.
“Never mind, Watson, you’ll see the answer for yourself soon enough. Here we are. I’ll meet you inside directly I pay the cabbie.”
Shortly afterwards Holmes joined me at the head nurse’s station, where he enquired for Treves.
“Mr. Holmes? He is expecting you. Yes, Doctor Treves received your wire. This way please.”
She led us to the rear wing of the hospital, where, set off by two sets of doors from the remainder of the building, was a suite of rooms which looked out onto an enclosed grassy courtyard. Being vaguely familiar with the hospital, I had heard this referred to as Bedstead Square. It was an isolation ward, and usually used to house lunatics temporarily before they were transferred to asylums. The nurse bade us sit down in the first of the rooms, and after several minutes’ wait, Treves entered the room and drew up a chair opposite us. “Hullo again, Watson. Mr. Holmes, I received your urgent wire this morning. Surely your keen powers are much as Watson has proclaimed, for we’ve done our level best to keep Merrick’s confinement here a secret.”
“I’m sure you have, sir. And may I express my sincere admiration to you and Mr. Carr Gomm. Your advertisement in the Times, I take it, was successful.”
“Oh quite. Merrick now has the means to sustain himself in comfort here for the remainder of his life, thanks to the generosity of the British public. He was unaware of his newfound fortune until yesterday, for we didn’t want to disappoint him were it not to materialise. But now he knows he can stay here for good, and is most joyous. Now you, Watson, have not heard of John Merrick?”
“Not until this very minute.”
Treves paused for a moment before continuing.
“Are you familiar with neurofibromatosis?”
“Recklinghausen’s disease?”
“Right you are! It’s known by both names. As you no doubt know, it causes a proliferation of cells around the delicate connective tissue surrounding nerve endings. It usually affects only the nerves and skin.”
I nodded. It was indeed a rare disorder; in my dozen or so years of practice, I’d seen half as many instances of it, if that.
“But in the strange—and tragic—case of John Merrick, the disease has run rampant over his entire body with alarming consequences. Not only that, but it has affected his bones as well, with the most monstrously deforming results…”
“Doctor Treves, is Merrick free to come and go as he pleases?” asked Holmes.
“In what sense do you mean? Certainly in the legal or medical sense he is free to go wherever he pleases at any time. He is not bound here. Yet, considering his frightful appearance, he remains a voluntary recluse in these chambers since even a brief glance at his form has caused people to go into shock.”
“Was Merrick here three nights ago?” pursued Holmes.
“Now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, that night he made one of his rare nocturnal excursions. He goes about after dark, and clothed in the most amazing rig of garments you have ever laid eyes on.”
“Is this part of the wardrobe?” enquired my companion, holding up the strange slipper he had found the previous night.
“Dear me, so it is! Where did you find it? Merrick will be most grateful, I’m sure. But come along, you may see him now, if your nerves and stomach can take it.”
He led us to a closed door and turned the knob. He was about to open it when he hesitated, turned to us, and spoke.
“I know you two gentlemen, considering your many dangerous adventures together, have stronger nerves than most people. Still in all, I must caution even you, Watson, who have seen so many medical oddities and loathsome sights, that you surely have never seen a human so horribly disfigured as the man who lies beyond this door. Likewise, Mr. Holmes, even considering the myriad smashed corpses you have examined closely—the countless maimed and injured on either side of the law—the person you are about to meet is all the more horrid and pathetic because he is alive, trapped inside his own monstrous form.”
He then opened the door and led us in. In the centre of the large room was a bed with a hospital screen round it. We approached this, and Treves drew back the screen partially, revealing a foot that was so hideous that, despite my inner steeling and Treves’s words of warning, I could not suppress a short gasp.
The foot didn’t in the least resemble a human one, as Holmes and I had surmised from inspecting the slipper that had covered it. It was a flat slab of lumpy flesh. The skin was of a warty texture, resembling a head of cauliflower.
“You can see, gentlemen, the extent of poor Merrick’s plight. When he was first confined here, the attending nurse, who was not forewarned of his appearance, fainted dead away at the sight of him.”
With this, Treves then slowly slid the screen back to reveal the pitiable wretch who lay stretched upon the bed. His skin throughout was of the same lumpy, fibrous appearance as we had observed on his foot. But in addition, the limbs themselves were grotesquely twisted and gnarled.
The back was bowed as a hunchback’s, and from his chest, neck and back there hung great masses of lumpy flesh. The head was most gruesome of all, for it was nearly twice normal size, and had protruding from it—where the face should have been—a number of bony masses, loaflike in shape and covered with the same loathsome, fungeous-looking skin. The projection near the mouth was huge, and stuck out like a pink stump, turning the upper lip inside out, leaving the mouth a cavernous fissure. This singular deformity gave the appearance of a rudimentary trunk. It, coupled with the cauliflower-like skin, was obviously responsible for the epithet of “elephant man.”
“Dear God…” I murmured, against my will, and found myself involuntarily looking away. But the next moment, I observed Sherlock Holmes, and felt ashamed at myself. For my companion, although obviously revolted by this disgusting specimen of humanity, bore not the look of loathing upon his face, but pity. Obviously, whatever personal reaction he had to viewing Merrick was eclipsed by his pity for the poor wretch. Once again I was struck by the compassion and sympathy that so clearly marked his character, and which lay so close under the surface of his cold exterior.
Treves asked us to shake hands with Merrick who, he assured us, despite his strange appearance, enjoyed meeting people from the outside world, particularly when they showed no fright at meeting him. Holmes, typically composed, strode forward and extended his hand in greeting. To my amazement, I saw that one part, at least, of Merrick’s body was completely free from the scourge that ha
d transfigured him. It was his left arm, which he eagerly thrust in my companion’s direction.
It was not only normal; it was beautiful. Finely shaped and covered with skin of a delicate, glowing texture, it was a limb any woman might have envied. The other arm, by contrast, resembled the rest of Merrick’s body. In fact, there was no distinguishing between the palm and the back of the hand. The thumb looked like a stunted radish, whilst the fingers resembled twisted carrots.
Holmes grasped the normal arm and shook Merrick heartily by the hand. The wretch babbled something unintelligible, but it was obvious from general tone of the reply, and the excited twitching of his prostrate form, that he was delighted to meet my companion. I followed suit, and found that, once having become accustomed to the hideous appearance of the man, being in his company was not at all unbearable.
“As you can no doubt surmise,” said Treves in an offhand way, “Merrick’s facial deformities render normal speech impossible. You can see that his speech has a slurred quality, and seems to issue from a deep cavern rather than from a mouth. I, therefore, will translate his responses to you, Mr. Holmes, as I have grown accustomed to his utterances and can discern their meaning.”
So for the next hour Holmes plied the man with questions. The man answered willingly enough, with a boyish enthusiasm and desire to please (he was, in fact, a very young man, though telling it from looking at him was, of course, impossible).
“Now, John, I want you to remember all you can about the last several days,” began Holmes. “First of all, where did you go Monday night, and why did you go there?”
The wretch babbled and snorted an unintelligible reply which Treves quickly translated.
“He went to the circus grounds to seek a job. Ah, Mr. Holmes, that would make some sense. You see, up until recently John was forced to make his ‘living,’ if such it could be called, by exhibiting himself as an oddity at local fairgrounds and circuses, right, John?”
The man nodded his huge head slowly in sadness.
“But now, thanks to the public’s concern and generosity, he need no longer worry about being gaped and jeered at. Obviously, he went to the circus unaware of his endowment, and reluctantly, yet he reasoned it was that or starve. Well you needn’t worry any longer, my friend…”
