“Not for at least a month. We’re still selecting plays at present.”
“With luck, our plans won’t take that long.”
I had always thought of Jews as skilled craftsmen, but I did not count on the Babel of different languages the crew brought to the task. Even those proficient in the Hebrew tongue had differing accents, which meant the wrong tools were sometimes used, instructions untranslated or unheeded altogether, and the poor ventilation meant their taking a number of breaks just to get fresh air; that is, if you can call the wretched reek of the unsanitary streets of Spitalfields to be “fresh.” A job which should have taken no more than two days ran instead to five. Next time, I’m bringing hard-headed and practical Scotsmen in. They know how to get a job done.
When I was finally satisfied, I showed Jones my handiwork.
“Well done, Mr. Challenger! It looks no different.”
“It took some time, but we got there. Take a look inside.”
Jones stepped into the room, and the gate came down with a satisfying crash. Startled, Jones must have jumped half a foot.
“Challenger! That wasn’t funny!”
I thought it quite amusing, and could not suppress a solid horse laugh.
“My apologies, sir, but I had to know how well it worked.”
“You have your answer, dammit! Get me out of here!”
I opened a panel in the wall and winched the gate back up. Jones, looking no worse for my little joke, stepped back out, just as Smith arrived to take a look.
“This is excellent, if I may say so,” he said. “Now I know where to put unruly actors.”
“Not to mention harsh critics,” said I. “Tonight, we set the trap.”
By now, I knew where the creatures were getting in; one of the dressing rooms underneath the stage. The pattern of rat droppings showed where they foraged, and that included the green room. It made sense; often, the actors would sup there before and during performances.
As I feared, the first four nights passed with no luck, but, when I arrived on the fifth morning, I heard a frightful clamor.
“I say! Help! Get me out!”
My stomach sank. Rats are quite intelligent, but I have yet to encounter one with the power of speech. Imagine my surprise when I saw Smith peering through a small gap in the chains.
“Mr. Smith, what the devil are you doing in there?”
“I heard something before going home last night. I saw one!”
“What? Did you get a good look? Where were you?”
“I was coming out of my office when I heard something move in the theatre. Of course I came down to look, and I saw it! About four feet high, a stubby pink tail, and bright devil’s eyes which caught me in their sight. Revolting creature! I don’t mind admitting I screamed. I panicked and ran into the green room without thinking. I never want to see such an apparition again.”
“My God, man! Did the creature see you?”
“It scurried offstage when I screamed. I’m afraid I have bungled your plans, Mr. Challenger.”
“Perhaps not. Let’s see what we can see.”
“I have an idea,” said Smith. “One reason we have problems with rats is our proximity to the sewage system. You know this area, Mr. Jones. They get in everywhere. Perhaps it might be as well to not only bait this trap, but to find some means of tracking them to their lair. These beasts are simply too large to disappear into the walls. They have to have a larger means of ingress.”
“They still have the flexible spines of their smaller kindred,” I reminded him. “They may only need a few inches for their crawling space.”
“It’s still larger than the average hole in the wall. I submit they’ve been using the workmen’s crawling spaces under the street.”
“I still want to capture one,” I reminded him.
“You still have to find them first,” Smith said. “I should have thought of this sooner.”
Smith directed us to the nearest manhole, which was located on the main thoroughfare nearby. Using one of the theatre’s lanterns, it took about half an hour to find the rodents’ main trail.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” I said, “this will save us a considerable amount of time. We’ll return here tonight. I’ll leave plenty of the roasted nuts where the rodents can find them, and we’ll follow them at a safe distance. Be sure to arm yourself, Mr. Jones. We may need protection if they prove to be dangerous.”
“Arm myself? Do you mean a gun, Challenger?”
“Only as a precaution, Jones, only as a precaution.”
Part Two
Dr. Watson’s Journal
January 22, 1887
Sherlock Holmes has just related to me one of the most remarkable stories I have ever heard, and, if it’s true, a grand villain may well have returned to the world.
After breakfast this morning, Holmes handed me a sensational pamphlet. A photograph of an extremely strange creature, a freakish and repellent blending of dog and rat, stared at me with great, toothsome malice.
Underneath the photograph, the title read, “The Moreau Horrors, an Investigation into Madness and Monstrosity.”
“You are the first person to hear what I am about to tell,” Holmes said, pouring us fresh cups of coffee. “What I tell you must never reach the public prints. The world may never be fully prepared for the truth about Dr. Alexandre Moreau.”
I opened my notebook, pen in hand.
“I mean it, Watson. Don’t be too hasty. I must insist you keep this story quiet until I give you permission to publish.”
“I understand, Holmes.”
“Very well, then.”
Holmes lit his first cigarette of the day and began:
The public has mostly forgotten these events in the past ten years, but they are engraved upon my memory forever. The curious chain of events which led to Dr. Moreau’s exile helped set me on my current path. You may recall my having created a reagent which can identify blood when first we met. Had the events I am about to relate not occurred, I might never have performed that work, and, indeed, you would be rooming with a very different man.
I digress. Of course you remember Langdale Pike.
“That bounder! He’s a gossip monger. The lowest form of journalist.”
Also a chum from University, which is where this remarkable tale begins. I was not long graduated and, desperately in need of funds, took a position in the University’s chemistry department, where one afternoon, a breathless Pike sent an urgent note asking me to meet him at the local pub on a warm summer evening.
You only know the successful Pike, Watson, not the struggling journalist looking to make a name for himself. Unsuccessful at finding a post on Fleet Street, Pike began to accept single assignments from any editor who would give him one. The night I met him, he seemed almost breathless with fright and anxiety.
“What is it, Pike? You reek of fear.”
“Holmes, I need help, and of everyone I know only you have the knowledge and discretion necessary.”
“Discretion? An odd word, coming from you.”
“I need an independent witness to support what I expect to write, for on my own, no one will believe it.”
“And, in return?”
“All I can offer is the satisfaction of seeing justice done and evil stopped cold. Once I verify what I have been told, of course. If you’re working for me, you’re working for beer. But if the articles I have in mind make the splash I think they will, you would have entrée to some of the greatest laboratories in Europe.”
Pike revealed he had heard disturbing rumors about the most mysterious man on campus, the aforementioned Dr. Alexandre Moreau. At the time, Moreau was a biologist and zoologist of some note, and it was long rumored he sought the sort of breakthroughs which could unravel the very mys
teries of life itself. I knew of him through his blood research: he claimed to be on the path of universal blood transfusion, which, Doctor, you must admit would be a boon to your profession.
“What’s more important is that his assistant has departed without warning. No one has seen hide or hair of the man in days. Dark rumors are circulating, Holmes, very dark rumors indeed.”
My curiosity piqued, I asked Pike what he wanted me to do.
“Dr. Moreau is looking for a new laboratory assistant,” said Pike. “I would like you to apply, and to report back to me every day of the goings-on in the laboratory. You may have to endure some extremely distasteful experiences.”
“It would be an honor to be accepted. Universal transfusion might be worth some unpleasantness.”
“Not if the rumors I have heard prove to be true. Pray keep a precise journal, and meet me here once a week at about this time to share what you have seen. No one has an eye for details or a memory such as yours, Holmes. It should be put to the betterment of mankind rather than mortifying young women and embarrassing your classmates.”
“Noted. Assuming I take the position.”
“Can you afford this meal we’re enjoying?”
“Barely, Pike. Barely.”
“Nothing motivates a search for employment like hunger. Let’s meet here in a week at this time.”
I tell you, Watson, the interview left me both excited and nervous. I could have my name associated with one of the greatest medical discoveries of the nineteenth century. Or there could be some sinister secret, assuming Pike was right. One could not say Pike’s natural gifts lay in the sciences.
Pike’s evasive manner about his suspicions of Moreau concerned me deeply, and I was inclined to dismiss them. He has a tendency to exaggerate for the purpose of sensationalism, and he did not share any specific information about what he had heard, except that Moreau may have been mistreating his lab animals.
Besides, there could be any number of perfectly reasonable explanations for the lab assistant to leave his position suddenly; trouble in the family, an irresistible new opportunity, a culminating romance. Perhaps he found Moreau an unpleasant taskmaster. His departure seemed to me of little importance.
I found my heart beating a bit faster when I met the man himself for the first time. At that point in my life, I had not encountered anyone so imposing on first meeting. Alexandre Moreau commanded the room. A powerfully built man of about fifty, his shock of white hair made him appear somewhat godlike. He had a fine forehead, and thick features, particularly the whitish lips and an aquiline Romanesque nose, which gave him a powerful impression of being resolute, fearless, and, especially, unopposed in any venture he should wish to undertake.
The faint aroma of chemicals marked Moreau as a scientist right away, and his fading tan and tribal signet ring told me, among other things, that he had traveled in jungle climes recently. His perfectly tailored clothing and fitted shoes spoke of family wealth; no one could afford such finery on a professor’s salary. Such a man would not easily make friends, and, indeed, he eyed me with suspicion.
He took my slender hand in a massive paw and gave it a painful squeeze before indicating a chair.
“So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I have made enquiries among your professors, and it is said you have the potential to be the finest scientist of your generation. Why tie yourself to me?”
“I have heard rumors of a potential breakthrough regarding blood transfusions. Some claim you may have discovered the secret of life itself. I further heard that your previous assistant seems to have disappeared.”
“Ah, that,” Moreau said with a shrug. “Some men simply don’t have the stomach for true science. As to the secret of life itself, that, sir, is pure hyperbole, though it is true that some of my research has shown promise. Still, it is odd your name had not reached me before now. I’m told you have an interest in justice, as well?”
“I have taken an interest in some cases in the penny press,” I told him. “They are not without interest to the scientist.”
“Indeed. Would you use what you have learned here for that purpose?”
“I don’t see how I could. I have no desire to be a policeman, Dr. Moreau. The mysteries of biochemistry are far more enchanting to me.”
“I have many applicants to consider, Mr. Holmes. Do a small demonstration for me, and we’ll see if you have what it takes to advance.”
He led me to a small laboratory, and had me do some basic work: identifying micro-organisms, creating common chemical reactions, and the like. He also had me perform a somewhat advanced biochemical experiment; luckily, one with which I was already familiar.
“You do your work in a clean and efficient manner,” said he. “It speaks well of you. I will let you know.”
To my surprise, Watson, he did accept me. My eyes filled with wonder on the very first day. Doctor Moreau had lab equipment unlike any I had ever encountered before, and, I learned later, most of it had been specifically engineered according to his specifications. He had centrifuges, equipment for electrolysis, spectrometry, and much, much more. I confess to instant admiration and an eagerness to get started. I had little to tell Pike that first week.
“I’ve been feeding lab animals and preparing chemicals,” I said. “Dr. Moreau has yet to tell me what any of them are, though I recognize some basic components of the bloodstream. He uses a great deal of saline. I suspect the Doctor is not a trusting man.”
“Have you seen him performing any experiments on dogs?”
“I have heard some howling from the private lab where no one but Moreau sets foot.”
“That’s where you must go, Holmes. Whatever Dr. Moreau’s secret is, it has to be in there.”
“He keeps the door locked and the key to himself.”
“You won’t let that deter you, I hope.”
I nearly left Pike right at the table.
“I said I’d report to you, but I’m no burglar!” I snapped. “If there is ever anything to report, I promise you I shall report it. I’ll not do more!”
I see you smiling, Watson. I was less a man of the world then.
My second private interview with Moreau occurred the Monday following.
“I have been most impressed with you, young Sherlock Holmes. Though I have given you the most menial of tasks, you have not only performed them with the skill and assurance of a master, you have also not raised a single word of complaint. I believe I may trust you, but you must promise to keep what you learn here to yourself. I have no wish to announce anything to the world until I am absolutely sure. If I am correct, you will share in the accolades, perhaps even the Crayston Prize for Zoological Research. Can I trust you?”
“Insofar as the experiments fall within ethical boundaries and produce tangible results, then I am your man.”
Moreau smiled and said, “We may have to press some ethical boundaries a bit, but if we are successful, the results will be worth it.”
I did not know, Watson, what was to transpire. At that point, I decided to tell Pike his suspicions were groundless and to find another assignment. That would change. Besides, I needed the job.
Though Moreau said he had decided to trust me, it soon became clear he had not made up his mind about me yet. We ran a standard laboratory operation, focusing on blood research. We conducted experiments on the usual animals: rats, squirrels, stray pets, anything we could scour from the streets of London. Week after week went by with nothing unusual, though I daresay the average Londoner might have felt queasy watching us work.
But I did not spend all my time with Moreau, and I knew he was hiding something from me. Sometimes he would leave the outer laboratory to me for hours on end as he labored in his private lab. Often, he would take my research in with him. This, I’m sad to say now, flattered me.
Afte
r a month, I told Pike I had no reason to suspect Dr. Moreau of anything more than a few imperfect laboratory practices and the eccentricities not uncommon to men of genius. But not long after that, I had occasion to return to the lab after work, having left my boarding house key in my smock. As I was about to leave, a blood-curdling screech cut through the air, the cry of a wounded and dangerous animal, and it came from the private lab. When I heard Moreau’s voice, I ran to help. But he’d locked the door, Watson.
“Doctor Moreau!” I cried, pounding on the door. “Are you all right?”
No answer, just another hideous animal shriek. I thrust my shoulder against the door until the wood cracked and gave way, almost spilling me onto the floor.
The sight which greeted my eye would have moved the most hardened heart. Row after row of cages with strange creatures which suggested the chimeras of Greek myth – rats with the nimble agility of squirrels, strange cat-dog hybrids, animals which seemed to have been created not through husbandry, but through assembly. Many seemed to have merged into new and unique creatures over the passage of time. The wretched beasts were covered with stitches; heads did not match bodies, and all glared at me with equal expressions of fear, anger, and hatred.
Another scream shook me back to reality and the situation at hand. I rushed to the source of that hideous sound, to find Moreau doing something vile to a pair of fully conscious cats. They hissed and cried, their agony reaching to the heavens as, immobile, they could do nothing but endure the torture inflicted on them by the man I suddenly realized had to be cruel, if not in the neighborhood of madness.
Moreau’s head snapped around and caught me in a cold, disdainful glare.
“I thought you had left for the day,” he said.
“What are you doing to those poor, innocent creatures?” I demanded.
“I am testing their tolerance for pain. I can hardly do that if they are anaesthetized.”
“What are those creatures in the cages?”
Moreau smiled with the cold calculation of a cobra.
“Perhaps the greatest of scientific discoveries,” he said. “Surely the betterment of mankind is worth the pitiful howling of a few unwanted animals?”
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 3
