We found the meter behind the stage, and some strange-looking finger marks in the dust on the cutoff switch. Whoever did this had extremely slender and very long fingers with sharp nails.
“Hmmm,” grunted Holmes. “I’ve never seen such marks before, and there is no doubt this was done deliberately. These marks do not look like a man’s fingers, yet what else could they be? What purpose could possibly have been served?”
“Perhaps someone wanted to cover up another situation,” I suggested.
“Possibly. If so, then it is also possible that Sister Hastings was the target of kidnappers. If they rushed her out of here in the panic, they would look like rescuers and no one would suspect otherwise until too late. Very good. You have possibilities, Watson.”
The stage, of course, had not been struck, so all the furniture, props, and other accoutrements of the play were still in place. Cursing the dimness, Holmes ignored Hastings and me as he went about his peculiar ritual of tape measurements, subtle muttering, and magnifying glass for the next twenty minutes or so.
A quick movement in the corner of my eye drew my attention to an uncommonly large rat over in the corner, by the stage right entrance. I could not suppress a shudder. To be honest, rats frighten me. I have sickening memories of rat packs dining on corpses left too long on the battlefield, a genuinely revolting sight. Sometimes those memories haunt my nightmares, and my stomach always curdles whenever I encounter one.
This devilish creature, about the size of a cat, seemed to be observing the scene, and I would swear that, if it could, it would have been taking notes. The creature eyed us with a malevolent curiosity and unnatural intelligence, its eyes red, wide and curious. My spine ran cold when it saw me looking at it. Our eyes met, and I could swear the creature seemed to be trying to memorize my face, displaying an unusual, near-human interest in its spiteful expression. Then it looked away and skittered over to the stage right entrance.
I followed it, keeping my distance. Down below the stage it went, and under the door to one of the dressing rooms. I had my hand on the knob to follow when I heard a stern Holmes bark, “Watson! What do you think you’re doing? Don’t disturb those rooms!”
“This may be important!” I snapped back.
Holmes rushed down the stairs, followed by Hastings, and we let Holmes enter the room first.
“We’ll need a lantern, or at least get the gas going again,” said Holmes. “My, it’s stuffy down here. Watson, what did you deem so urgent?”
“A huge and nasty-looking rat, Holmes. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. It seemed to have sentience. It seems to have been studying us. Nasty brute.”
“And what might it have to do with our case?”
“For all I know, nothing, but—”
“While I appreciate your natural curiosity, Doctor, I find it unlikely that our missing evangelist was kidnapped by mammoth rats and dragged into the catacombs of London. Let’s look for something a little more prosaic, shall we?”
Once the light was restored, we were able to examine the room, and we found nothing to indicate that Sister Hastings had ever set foot in it. We did find a five-inch hole in the wainscoting and some droppings, no doubt the rat’s (or is it rats’?) point of entry.
“We should alert Mr. Smith at once,” I said. “There is no more efficient spreader of disease than the average city rat.”
“At least something worthwhile will come from this, then,” said Holmes. “I daresay, Mr. Hastings, that your sister at least made it out of the theatre alive. We must find her trail elsewhere.”
“I must take my leave of you,” Hastings said when we left the premises. “I do have a business requiring my attention. It was good to see you again, Watson. We must find a pub and catch up sometime. Mr. Holmes, you’ll keep me apprised of your progress?”
“Of course,” Holmes replied, shaking Hastings’ hand. “A pleasure.”
From there, we made our way to the tenement where Sister Hastings made her home. As Holmes and I walked the narrow, cobbled streets, I again had the unearthly feeling of being watched. I noticed nothing suspicious about the people around us, the usual polyglot of foreign tradesmen, drunkards, drab housewives, thieves, and unaccompanied children. Yet, in the corner of my eye, the street creatures, the rodents, appeared to be everywhere – peering at us from alleys, from holes in walls, from the windows of empty apartments, their whiskers twitching as if sending signals. They seemed to know who we were, and they gave me every impression of being tracked. I felt uncomfortably like prey in the jungle. A feeling of nausea swept through me.
“Let’s not spend too much time in this place,” I told Holmes. “I truly dislike it here.”
“I’m not having a pleasant time myself, Doctor, but you are the one who put me on this case.”
“Work your miracles, Holmes, just work your miracles.”
Sister Hastings lived in a soot-covered and generally filthy brick building, where at least she had a room to herself. We spent perhaps an hour interviewing her neighbors, who generally agreed she had attended the play that night, and that she hadn’t been seen since. An inspection of her rooms turned up little.
“She writes tracts under the name of C.M. Hastings,” Holmes observed after rifling her desk. “She seems particularly keen on creation and God’s relationship with the natural world. She sees the hand of God in every affair, natural and human. In her current effort, she asks, ‘What Does God Want from Us?’ Also, there’s a list of people she intended to visit this week. A few sick children and a mother raising three siblings on her own. Of course, she belongs to a temperance society, and is due to speak to them tomorrow.”
“Will you attend?”
“I may. But I’ll brace myself at a pub first.”
We heard a knock at the door. A small lad, undernourished, his age about ten, stepped inside.
“Are you looking for Sister Hastings?” he asked.
“We are,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”
“No, but you’re not the first one. There was another man in here yesterday.”
“Really?” said Holmes. “Do you know who?”
The boy shook his head.
“He was short and fat,” he said. “He was bent over her desk, and he wore a grey fur coat.”
“Did you get a look at his face?”
Again, the boy shook his head.
“It was pretty dark,” he said. “I saw a little of his face from the street lamp. He had a long and sharp nose.”
“He didn’t remind you of a huge rat, did he?” I asked.
“That’s it!” the boy cried. “He looked just like a big rat, but he moved like a man. Rats don’t really get that big, do they?”
“How big was this one?” Holmes asked.
“About an inch or two taller than me,” the boy said. “Really heavy. At least nine stone, maybe more.”
“What’s your name, boy?” Holmes asked.
“Isaac Perelberg, sir.”
“Here’s a shilling, Isaac, and my business card. If you see Sister Hastings again, or the strange man, then you should get in touch with me at once.”
“Will there be more shillings for me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Now Holmes returned to his examinations, and looked around the room one more time. His face had paled by the time he finished.
“Holmes, what is it?”
“Not here, Watson. We need a cab immediately.”
As we rode back into our part of the city, Holmes remained mute and would not entertain any of my questions until we found a pub on Northumberland Street. Not until we had two good pints of beer in front of us did my friend finally relax.
“Well, Holmes, why the mystery?”
“What is my maxim, Watson?”
“’When you eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ So what is the truth?”
“I found rat droppings the size of industrial ball bearings on the floor of Sister Hastings’ room. In other words, your theory has taken on a great deal of plausibility.”
“You know more than you’re letting on, aren’t you?”
Holmes sighed.
“I suppose I’d better tell you the whole story, but not until we go back home. The world is not ready for what I am about to share with you.”
From the Journals of George Edward Challenger assistant lecturer, Largs Academy, Edinburgh University
January 1887
Blessing or curse?
I have been dismissed from my position as assistant lecturer at Largs Academy, where I suffered under the tutelage of lesser lights before my escape to University. A severe deficiency of funds forced me back here to lecture on the biological sciences to bored, ignorant adolescents whose minds would rather run to the insubstantial pleasures of sport and sexual fantasy than to the miracles that lay at their fingertips through the wonder and bounty of Nature. They have eyes, but they refuse to see beyond the tips of their endlessly running noses.
I know I have the potential to join the ranks of the great zoological researchers, if only I could find an opportunity. Yet that opportunity consistently eludes my grasp, for no better reason than my inability to flash empty smiles, assuage egos, or tolerate error. How is science to advance if its most prominent practitioners are locked in hidebound conclusion and empty conformity? This cannot be the path to truth, and yet the intolerant fools who populate our scientific circles refuse to either see or listen to anyone who doesn’t ape their preferred forms of behavior. How can one understand the ocean if one can’t rock the boat on occasion?
Though today’s events will leave me penniless unless things change soon, perhaps there is a way to see this as a prospect. For though my funds are low, my time is now abundant: my plans to return to University this autumn are still in place, and there is time to secure a position elsewhere, perhaps closer to London. As I have been ejected from my rooms on campus, perhaps I should take it as a signal from Fate that I head south to the great city and join the teeming millions making their lives at the heart of the Empire.
I shall wire Quintus Jones, my friend, colleague and curator of the University’s science museum in London. He should be able to guide me.
The curse is the blessing!
Jones has directed me to cheap quarters near the university, where my fellow students fester when they are here. Once I settled in, he was kind enough to invite me to dinner, prepared by his charming wife, Marjorie.
On first meeting, they seem an unlikely couple: Jones is tall and slender, yet graceful, while Marjorie is clearly of peasant stock; she is shorter than he by nearly a foot, her body that of a farmer’s wife, but fair of face. Indeed, her hair, her best feature, complements her face with a perfect frame as she stares up at Jones with adoring eyes. He, in turn, smiles down on her with benevolence and love. No wonder they have five children. Thank God none of them happened to be present when I came by.
“They’re playing in the nursery,” Jones said as he shook my hand in greeting.
“Thank you for thinking of it.”
“Had they met you, I’m sure they would be thanking me. What brings you from the wilds of Scotland, Challenger?”
We settled in the parlor and lit cigars. Marjorie poured whiskies for us, splashing a bit of water into her husband’s glass.
“Two semesters,” Jones said. “A record for you. I thought you’d be gone after the first.”
“What can I say, Jones? I simply am not fit to lecture dull-witted boys who no more want my attention than I want to waste it. It’s like pouring water into a bucket with a large hole. I am taking this latest dismissal as an opportunity to alter my circumstances and find a better path.”
“Fortune may be smiling on you in that regard,” said Jones. “I have here a letter from my brother Sixtus, who is a social reformer in the East End. He resides among the foreign Jews of Spitalfields, who have been put to a panic by large animals.”
“Animals, you say?”
Jones handed me the letter, and said, “Read the second paragraph, will you?”
I saw that the handwriting was every bit as neat and legible as that of Quintus, a curious family trait. I read the letter aloud:
“’I am sorry to report that my efforts to bring about better housing conditions for the residents of Spitalfields have been derailed of late due to rumors of giant rodents being spotted in the neighborhood. As the stories grow wilder, so does the fear, and I am anxious to do something before it goes out of control. I am told these creatures are the size of a small man, covered in either grey or brown fur, and have glowing red eyes. One of our Christian sisters has gone missing, and the gossip mill has her as a prisoner of these monsters, as if they exist. Personally, Quint, I think a wombat escaped from the zoological park, but nonetheless, the neighborhood discusses nothing else, rendering my efforts to improve their lot useless of late.’”
I handed the letter back.
“What do you expect me to do about this?”
“Capture one, Challenger. Bring one in for study. Perhaps some exotic new species of rodent has made its way to the streets of London from the Orient. Perhaps there has been some unusual mutation or cross-breeding resulting in a new and stronger species of rat. Or it may be pranksters in fur coats. You told me you had means for about a month, is that right?”
“That’s the sad truth of it.”
“I’ll stake your researches,” Jones said, the smoke rising slowly and majestically from his cigar, giving him a slightly regal air. “If the long shot pays off and there is a new species of rodent under the streets, I daresay you will finally be feted in the way you always wanted, and I will share in the spoils for working with you on this most interesting project. Who knows? We may win the Crayston itself.”
I am ashamed to say my eyes lit up too quickly. Jones laughed.
“You’re young and hungry, Challenger. You have plenty of time to establish a career. I am halfway through mine, and I have children and a wife to feed. There are many things I regret not doing because I started a family so soon, and perhaps I’m helping you now to make up for that. Sharing in a prestigious prize can only boost my own prospects. We both benefit if you’re successful.”
A new species: perhaps the last surviving members of rodents long thought extinct, like the giant hutia. Either way, Jones was right. It shouldn’t take a month to find and capture one. Two, ideally, one for observation and one for dissection.
“Jones, you have persuaded me,” said I. “Tomorrow I find your brother, and the giant rat hunt is on. Release the hounds!”
We both laughed, and refreshed our whiskies.
Sixtus Jones proved to be a stout man, several years older than his leaner brother, but every bit as keen. It surprised me to learn that their father had taught biology at Oxford in times past.
“You should have been a scientist, like your brother,” I told him.
Sixtus shook his head.
“I was good at that sort of thing, even enjoyed it after a fashion, but the problems of society are immense, and few are stepping forward to solve them. I went through a period of poverty when I was younger, and it opened my eyes like nothing else could. You don’t want that experience, Mr. Challenger. I have devoted my life to eradicating poverty, to the extent that one can.”
“So you chose housing.”
“Just so, sir, just so. The first step to a decent life is a decent home.”
“Appropriately, we have rats to catch. Here’s what I have in mind.”
I outlined my approach: once Jones supplied me with a list of sightings and thei
r locations, I would then make a map and plant traps: specifically, I would use roasted nuts as lures. The difficult bit would be devising a trap of sufficient size and strength.
“Why nuts?” Jones asked.
“Because they are nutritious and salty,” I said. “Some of my colleagues use them to reward their own lab rats when their performance has been exceptional.”
“Clever.”
“I know.”
Using Jones’s information, I narrowed the creature sightings to a radius of about three city blocks in the neighborhood of Spitalfields. But first, we needed some proper traps.
Between my students and the laboratory, I am more than familiar with rodent behavior. I decided on a spring trap. I would prepare a room with a single entrance, and place the bait on a table just beyond the door. Once my quarry stepped on the trigger (a steel plate under the rug), bars would drop, blocking the exit. In case the beastie proved supple, I interwove chains between the bars, rendering escape impossible for any but the smallest and most flexible of rodents.
Now, the location. After the first few proved less than worthy, I came upon the Hebrew Club theatre, and its manager, one Mr. Smith, a harried man badly in need of a good barber. Jones told me one of the creatures was seen there and may have contributed to the recent and deadly panic.
“We are still recovering from the stampede,” Smith told me, “but you can use our green room, if you like.”
“Green room? Do you grow flowers in there?”
“It’s theatre argot, Mr. Challenger. It’s where actors await their cues to take the stage. Ours isn’t exactly green. We did it up in blue wallpaper to make the actors more comfortable and at home. They’re nervous enough as it is.”
I’ll say this for Smith; he could not have provided a better venue for my plan. The size of an office large enough to hold a desk, chair and file cabinet, it had several wooden chairs, a sofa, and a table with an elaborate cut glass ashtray at its center.
“Capital, Mr. Smith, capital. I’ll send the workmen in as soon as I assemble the materials. When do you anticipate reopening the theatre?”
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 2
