“Does the University know what you’re doing in here? They’ll take their money back for—”
“The University has nothing to say about it. I come from a wealthy family, Mr. Holmes. They have interests all over the world. I rent these facilities with my own funds, even though the University will certainly claim some credit once my research is complete.”
“Nevertheless, I shall—”
“I should hope you give me the benefit of the doubt until I am in a better position to explain. As you can see, I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. We shall have tea tomorrow morning. You said I could trust you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Within the bounds of ethics,” I replied.
“Yes. We shall have a chat about that. I beg your indulgence until eight o’clock tomorrow. Now, good night.”
With that, he turned his back to me and continued tormenting the cats with no more care or concern than if he were gutting a freshly caught fish. I caught a glint of light on his scalpel before I left the lab.
As I made my way back through the private lab, I noticed more specially engineered laboratory equipment, of the sort found only in the most advanced biological laboratories, and some equipment well beyond my competence. The blood research we conducted during the day was somehow being transmuted into something else. Something which enabled Moreau to physically assemble living creatures, perhaps with an eye to …
The thought of human experimentation in such a dark and mysterious place as this knotted my stomach, and I badly needed fresh air. I went to a pub and nursed a couple of whiskies trying to determine what I should do, eventually deciding that the man deserved a chance to explain. But I slept poorly that night, Watson, I’ll tell you that.
When I returned to the lab the following morning, the pleasant aroma of freshly brewed tea and French pastry just out of the oven greeted my nostrils, and I followed the scent to Moreau’s office, as neat, tidy, and organized as his laboratory. His desk and furniture all constructed of oak and mahogany, hard and dark woods reflecting the soul of the man himself. He had dressed, not in his usual work attire, but in a black frock coat and tie, as befits a professor about to give a lecture.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the doctor said. “You have honored me by your presence. If I am successful, I shall persuade you to join me on a great adventure, an adventure no other scientist has ever pursued, despite the materials laying before him in clear daylight.”
He handed me a cup of tea as I sat down, getting the amount of milk I prefer exactly right. The fact that Moreau knew this without asking pricked my ears; he had been observing me as closely as I had been observing him. This also meant he might have powers of observation to rival my own. I wondered if he knew about my arrangement with Pike.
We did not discuss the topic at hand straightaway. Moreau sought to put me at my ease before beginning, setting the stage properly to achieve the singular effect he sought for his audience of one. Only when we shared cigars did he at last address my concerns.
“Did I ever tell you the singular factor which won you your position?” he asked. “Your fingers. You have the fingers of a skilled surgeon. I imagine the violin keeps them nimble.”
“How did you know I play the violin?”
Moreau smiled.
“The lingering scent of rosin gives you away. But we aren’t here to discuss music. How familiar are you with surgery?”
“I have a layman’s knowledge.” Remember, Watson, I was not long out of school.
“Then you may not be familiar with skin grafts. Say a man has burned his face. It is possible to slice some fresh skin from, say, the thigh, and place it over the burns. Given time, the skin will grow and become healthy, as if never burned at all, save for some unavoidable scarring.
“It is the same with vivisection. We can graft skin and flesh, we can graft bone. If we can do this, must we stop there? Can we not graft between different animals of the same species? Of different species?”
“That is not possible by any science I understand,” said I.
“Quite correct. Not science you understand. My journey began with the blood research upon which I have employed your talents. Once we have solved the problem of universal transfusion, much more is possible. We are very close, Mr. Holmes. Very close indeed.”
“Then those hideous creatures in your lab—”
“Have accepted and adapted my formula, yes. Which has allowed me to alter them, and their very natures.”
“Can you not use anesthetic for your operations? Why must those animals suffer?”
“I do not wish to pollute their blood with unnatural chemicals, and I wish to learn the nature of pain. Since pain is an inevitable consequence of my work, I see no reason not to add it to my researches. Much benefit to humanity may result. Suppose, just suppose, Mr. Holmes, that we learn enough about pain to change its nature? To make it possible for a man to learn of damage to his body in some way other than making him suffer? Again, we may be on the road to great things.
“What, precisely, is pain? Only a means of alerting the body to an event requiring its urgent attention. Not all flesh feels pain, not even every sensory nerve. A wound to the optic nerve results in a change of vision, but no pain. Plants do not feel pain, nor the lowest animals. Besides, the body bears no memory of pain. And the animal becomes disciplined. Control the animal’s chemistry, and controlling its body will follow.”
I could not let this pass without reply.
“The body retains no memory of the pain itself,” I said, “but does not forget the experience of pain. A man administered morphine for a broken leg will not forget the reason he was given morphine when the drug wears off.”
“Yet that same man may develop a tolerance for a certain level of pain, perhaps even to the point where it may not matter if he feels pain.”
“You are unmoved by the animals’ suffering?”
“In the betterment of the human race, I must suppress my natural sympathies, of course.”
“What happens once you have solved the problem of universal transfusion?”
“It remains important, and we will continue, but my journey has taken me down a different path. I now know it is possible to transplant tissue from one part of an animal to another, and even to a completely different animal. In time, I’ll be able to change its most intimate structure. Universal transfusion will only make my work proceed more quickly, if I am successful. The Moreau family, of course, will control the patents. I am no philanthropist.
“Look to your history, Mr. Holmes. Medieval practitioners, for example, created creatures we now enjoy as freaks in a sideshow. Victor Hugo gives an account of some of them in L’Homme qui Rit. In my researches so far, it seems as if I have this particular branch of science all to myself.”
“Yet what you are doing is monstrous. Universal transfusion would be a huge benefit to mankind. Why not stop there? That alone would make your name immortal.”
“Because there is so much more knowledge to be gained. Imagine what I could accomplish if I am successful. Cripples able to walk again, the feeble rendered intelligent, the deformed made whole. Universal transfusion is but the beginning. Much of what we already know comes as the result of unintended consequences, actions by criminals and tyrants, animal breeders, and by sheer accident. Using modern science, we need not blunder about in the dark. We can take a measured and paced path to what, ultimately, could be human perfection. A master race, if you will.”
“What you’re saying sounds quite—”
“Mad? Some might think so. Yet, my historical researches have found indications that I am not the first, but only the first to try to do these things properly. Take the Inquisition. The Inquisitors’ intent was to use torment to obtain information, but there must have been some scientific curiosity. They must have learned something, and I have found that they did.”<
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Moreau said these shocking things as if they were the most normal of scientific practices, as if those poor animals’ pain and suffering meant nothing at all. I was a more sensitive soul then, Watson, and Moreau’s calm demeanor made everything he said seem somehow worse. All that mattered to him was the journey. He would never reach his ultimate destination, of this I was certain.
“I see I have somewhat overwhelmed you,” Moreau said, his face kindly, like that of a reassuring uncle. “Fear not. As we continue our journey, you will learn. Why not take the rest of the day to ponder what I have told you? Perhaps a trip to the zoo would prove beneficial.”
Never was the bright light of day more welcome to me than at the moment I left Moreau, my mind awhirl. This incident, Watson, the moment I knew Moreau had to be stopped, showed me the true face of evil. I have been resolute in combating it ever since.
Simply going to Pike would not be enough. I had observed Moreau closely enough to know he would lock me out of the building and post a guard if necessary should he decide I wasn’t to be trusted. Reporting him to the University would have been pointless, given his wealth and power. No, Watson, I would have to build a case against Moreau. This would be the first time I would put my peculiar abilities to better use than scientific experimentation and impressing my friends.
Thus, I did nothing for the next two weeks, slowly gaining Moreau’s deeper trust. He finally allowed me to assist him in the private laboratory, where I saw his gruesome methods at first hand. I had to summon every ounce of will to keep my face impassive as he tortured those animals, forced myself to deafen my ears as they screeched and cried in their agony, and keep my growing horror and disgust to myself as I saw them transmuted into ungodly creatures Nature never intended to exist.
Yet, despite my revulsion, I have to say he would have made the most remarkable of surgeons had he so chosen. Heartless Moreau may have been, but for him to be able to perform those delicate operations on animals screaming and thrashing with excruciation, literally fighting for their lives, was nothing short of the miraculous.
Moreau wanted to teach me his techniques, but I simply could not bring myself to do it. I dropped the scalpel after my first incision (and the resulting howl of torment from the poor animal), and refused to take it up again, dismiss me though he might. Instead, he just smiled, shrugged, and had me do the chemical work instead.
As a biochemist, Moreau had no peer. To this day, I cannot understand how he was able to stop a body’s natural rejection of unnatural grafts and transplants. He had devised his own centrifuge, an elegant device which separated chemicals into their basic components, from which Moreau was able to recombine them in such a manner as to be compatible with his intentions. From there, he came up with the chemicals he needed for his elaborate vivisections. Again, I could not control my admiration for such a work of genius.
If only he had chosen an ethical and humane path, Watson. Had he devoted his genius to the service of mankind, the name of Alexandre Moreau might likely have been revered to the end of time. Instead, if somewhere there is a hall of villainy, Moreau may have an entire wing dedicated to his legacy.
As Pike requested, I kept a detailed journal of everything we did, and sometimes to this day I curse myself for not acting sooner, but I do not believe I could. Few men are as diabolical, cautious, or better prepared than Dr. Moreau. Indeed, I wanted to give the experience more time, and would have done, except for one animal, one Moreau kept only to himself.
“Please don’t take this amiss, Mr. Holmes. While you are coming along quite nicely and appear to have understood what I have told you, there are some experiments for which you simply are not ready. One such is behind that door.”
A door with a solid Chubb lock in place, which led me to some experiments of my own in my rooms. I purchased several Chubbs, and spent my evenings disassembling them, determining how the mechanism worked, and also devising a way to pick the lock without leaving the telltale scratches which give every thief away.
At last, I went to Pike.
“If what you say is true,” he said as we shared beer and sandwiches, “then the University has embraced a madman the equal of Victor Frankenstein. We’ll need more than your word, Holmes. We’ll need to get a camera in there.”
“Moreau would never allow it.”
“Moreau need not know about it.”
The Friday next, I casually unlatched a window facing a small wood in the rear of the laboratory, where Moreau and I would refresh ourselves on those occasions when an experiment became a bit too malodorous. The location afforded a small modicum of privacy and stealth. Our plan: slip into the laboratory on a Sunday evening, when not a soul would see us, take as many pictures as we could, and slip out. After that, I could tender my resignation to Dr. Moreau and begin to clear my conscience.
The bright half-moon in the summer sky seemed to smile down on us as we lugged the heavy photographic apparatus through the window and into the laboratory.
“Couldn’t you get something smaller?” I asked as we set up a large studio portrait camera in front of a row of cages. We had to set the bulky contraption on a tripod, and of course there was the flash apparatus. We tried our best not to disturb the animals, because if they moved their images would blur. We did not light the room in order to preserve the photographic plates, which Pike immediately secreted in a leather pouch he had brought. We took about ten photographs, as I recall.
“What’s in there?” asked Pike, indicating the door concealing the one experiment I had been denied.
“I’d like to know myself,” I said, as I set to work on the lock.
To this day, I don’t know quite what to call the thing which sprang at us from behind the door, but it had grey fur, sharp white teeth, blazing red eyes, and curved razors for claws, the latter of which sank right into my thigh, causing me to howl and awaken the other animals, which spread the din. Their natural instinct would be to flee, which they couldn’t do.
“Pike!” I cried. “Run!”
I need not have warned him: the man’s speed put the great racehorse Eclipse to shame. At least he had the good sense to take care with the photographic plates, but that left me alone with a vicious creature the size of a St. Bernard and with the speed of a jungle cat. The thing’s claws scored my leg again as, near panic, I finally gripped a wooden desk chair and thrust it at the beast, a round silhouette with red eyes and thin, sharp teeth which glistened in the moonlight.
My blood ran warm and dark as feeling deserted my right leg. Movement, essential to my survival, became more and more difficult, and I do not know how I managed to stay on my feet. The creature had managed to rob me of a young man’s natural agility, and it now had a trail of fresh blood. My only hope of survival lay in getting out of there.
In my fear, I had gotten myself far from the window from which I had entered the laboratory, and the creature had me in a corner. As it prepared to spring, I brought the chair down hard on its head, eliciting a horrid screech of pain, and making it angrier than ever. During our struggle, I managed to trap its head in the chair’s legs, and, as it thrashed about trying to rid itself of its impediment, I managed to make it over to the window and crawl out, the night air as cool and inviting as a Swiss lake on a hot summer’s day.
The most welcome sight of Pike, in the company of a bobby, greeted me as I lay panting on the ground.
“How did this happen, sir?” the policeman asked.
“Some sort of creature is loose in the lab,” I said. “It’s large and dangerous. You’ll need to kill it before it gets out.”
There followed a sight none of us would soon forget. Following my bloody trail, the creature had found our window and squeezed through it. There could be no doubt about the thing’s origins: only from the scalpel of Dr. Alexandre Moreau could such a thing have come to be. Moreau seemed to have combined a rat and a wo
lf, a hideous thing which sat on its haunches as it sniffed the night air for the presence of danger, and setting its beady red eyes right at us, as if deciding. But deciding what? Whether to attack? Or how?
“In the Mother’s holy name,” the bobby whispered.
“There is nothing holy about that creature,” Pike said.
The creature glared at us one more time, dropped to its clawed feet and took off toward the woods.
“We need to get this man to a hospital,” the bobby said, lifting me by the armpits.
I could not argue.
The creature’s attacks had rendered my right leg all but useless, and I was forced to follow the sequel from my hospital bed. Reports of a mysterious creature making random attacks on people and animals filled the popular press, and Pike’s account, featured in a pamphlet titled, “The Moreau Horrors,” caused a great sensation. Our photographs circulated widely, and mobs showed up at the University to demand Moreau’s head.
“No one came to you, Holmes?”
Pike has enough integrity to protect his sources, so the general public had no idea of my involvement. Even though Moreau managed to elude capture, there was no doubt in his mind about my betrayal. Betrayal, Watson. Nothing less than that. In his cunning, Moreau knew I would pick that lock.
When I was well enough to get about using a cane, the hospital let me go, and I returned to the rooming house, where I hoped to continue my convalescence and perhaps find other employment. The building appeared to be deserted once I arrived. Even the landlady seemed to have abandoned the place.
“Mrs. Powell?” I called. “Where is everyone?”
I received no answer. Looking about, I saw signs of a sudden exit: a table still set, my fellow lodgers’ personal items abandoned in the parlor, uncollected post on the foyer floor. Using my cane as a probe as well as support, I gingerly explored the ground floor, finding signs of fear and even panic, but no violence.
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 4
