“Well, there is no need for a single blowhard to ruin an otherwise pleasant repast,” Holmes said. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m famished.”
“Holmes, you don’t know what Challenger plans to do.”
“But I know what I plan to do. Once we’re finished here, I’ll head over to Whitehall. There are those in high places who will want to be informed. And I’ll need a favor. We have a busy couple of nights ahead of us, Watson. Mr. Jones, I’ll also be wanting your help.”
“What of Sister Hastings?”
“We’ll find her, Watson, don’t worry. But now the situation has changed, and monsters have been unleashed upon the world. Indeed, finding Sister Hastings is now paramount, for I may have to leave on a long journey soon.”
“Holmes, Sister Hastings could be anywhere by now. How can you hope—”
“I can because I believe I know where she is, or at least where she is likely to be. Will you be joining me tonight, Watson?”
“I don’t think so, Holmes. These past few days have just done me in.”
“Very well, then. I’ll go fetch Toby and see you later. Mr. Jones? Your leg may be stiffer than Watson’s is on occasion, but I daresay your knowledge of the Spitalfields area would prove invaluable. Would you be willing to provide assistance?”
“I can’t,” Jones said. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Then consult with me.” Holmes produced a street map. “I need to know what you can tell me about these streets, here, here and here.”
By the time lunch arrived, I was ravenous, but Holmes barely touched his meal, so keen was he to rescue Sister Hastings and, I assume, begin the hunt for Doctor Alexandre Moreau.
January 28, 1887
Sherlock Holmes is a deep, deep well indeed, and this morning he decided to give me a fuller understanding of the events which have placed us on our current course.
“There is more to the story of Doctor Moreau,” Holmes said to me once we had supped. “I had another encounter with him a couple of years after the first.”
“What?”
“Our recent adventure has disturbed me greatly,” he said. “Moreau may possibly be experimenting on human beings, as I had long feared he would. Bad enough to torment animals, but what he would do to people would be the most barbaric, brutal form of torture. No scientific endeavor can justify that. Indeed, he must be experimenting on people. How else could he have produced such creatures? What can the House of Pain hold these days?”
“What is the House of Pain?”
“You haven’t read Pike’s pamphlet, I perceive. That is the name he bestowed on Moreau’s laboratory when he published ‘The Horrors.’ Dr. Moreau has apparently appropriated it. Pike always had a gift for the sensational, and it serves him well to this day.”
“I can’t see why you maintain a friendship with that man. He is the lowest—”
“He is also a relentless investigator when he puts his mind to it. Perhaps I should tell him of the latest developments.”
“You have even less of an idea where Moreau might be than you do of Sister Hastings.”
“Yes, we’ll resolve the latter case tomorrow, unless my surmises are very much mistaken.” He paused to light a cigarette, and said, “Have I ever told you the story of the Matilda Briggs?”
“Can’t say that you have.”
“Of course, that was before your time here in Baker Street. She was a ship which went missing about seven years ago. I had just started my practice in Montague Street. Had it not been for that case …”
A dark cloud of fear crossed Holmes’ face, and I could see a horrid memory surface for a brief instant.
“Holmes?”
“Never mind, old fellow. To this day, I cannot reflect on those events without feeling heartache and horror. Again, these events must await publication in the far future, if ever.”
“I understand, Holmes. But what could Dr. Moreau possibly have to do with the Matilda Briggs?”
In due course, Watson, in due course. Two years went by with no word of Moreau, and so he drifted from my mind as I set about solving a more pressing problem: finding clients for my nascent detective agency. The Matilda Briggs, one might say, did at least as much to determine the course of my life as any other case.
I had only recently set up shop at my rooms in Montague Street. While I wished to establish myself in a unique profession, I had no idea how to go about making my name known, relying mostly on friends recommending me to their own friends. Funds were scarce, to say the least, and more than once I pondered packing it in and returning to the study of chemistry.
But I had a relative in the Admiralty, and it was he who brought my name to the attention of Morrison, Morrison, and Dodd, who specialize in analyzing and improving machinery. When I arrived at their offices, Mr. Herman Dodd greeted me. He was the very image of the modern businessman: bald and heavy set, dressed in the latest tweeds, and nursing a chronic case of unease, to judge from the nervous manner with which he continually groomed the large thicket of beard that all but hid his face.
“I am told if anyone can solve this mystery, you are the man,” Dodd said on shaking my hand.
“You flatter me,” I replied, “but I do have abilities you may find useful. Pray tell me what it is you wish me to do.”
“A merchant ship has gone missing.”
According to Dodd, the Matilda Briggs was en route to Liverpool, having loaded cargo in China and Thailand. She made her last port of call in Port Klang in Malaysia, where she took on a small shipment of Oriental spices. The ship disappeared not long after, gone without a trace.
“We are operating under the assumption that the ship has sunk,” Dodd told me. “A Chinaman, Huan Zhao, has developed what we have been told is a more efficient steam turbine than any in use today. We have been contracted by several manufacturing firms in England to test them. Naturally, we were quite dismayed when the ship disappeared.”
“Why try to salvage them?” I asked. “Surely they can’t withstand exposure to salt water for a prolonged period of time.”
“They were hardly just dropped into an empty crate, Mr. Holmes. The turbines are well insulated, you may be sure. The problem is that there are not many extant as of yet, and Mr. Zhao’s company won’t replace them unless we pay a fee far higher than the salvage value. Can you find that ship, Mr. Holmes?”
Badly in need of funds as I was, I nodded my head and wondered how in the world I would go about this particular task.
Dodd handed me a file.
“Do you have a free office in which I might peruse these documents? I shall have questions for you.”
“Certainly. Would you like some tea while you read?”
“Thank you.”
I carefully reviewed the information, of which there was precious little I found useful. Besides the turbines, the ship also had a consignment of assorted dry goods, and a shipment of Oriental foodstuffs and condiments, destined for the palates of exacting gourmets. Of greater interest is what I did not find: any mention of debris floating on the ocean surface, no sailor’s body recovered, or any indication the ship had sunk at all.
“It is a far greater likelihood that someone has stolen the ship,” I told Dodd. “Why do you believe she was sunk?”
“Buccaneers are a thing of the past, are they not?”
“Not at all, Mr. Dodd, not at all. Shanghai Kelly, late of San Francisco, routinely kidnapped men to serve on ships, not unlike our own press gangs of years past. He was stopped about ten years ago, as was Bully Hayes, the notorious Pacific pirate. Mr. Zhao’s competitors may be in possession of your turbines.”
“We had not considered that.”
“Shall I continue? This could prove to be an expensive undertaking, no matter what you decide.”
“I shall consult
with the Morrison brothers. We’ll let you know.”
I had no word from the firm for days, and assumed my role in the case was over, until I received a wire: “Your assistance is required. Please come to MM&D’s offices immediately.” Ten words precisely, you’ll note. These men took every shilling seriously.
On my arrival, I was asked if I would be willing to go to Sumatra to conduct an investigation.
“We’ve had word that one of the sailors from the Matilda Briggs was found in the jungle,” Dodd told me. “I’m told he was raving mad and had been mauled by a wild beast, probably a tiger. He died on the way to hospital. This may mean the turbines are somewhere in Sumatra. Can you find them, Mr. Holmes?”
“Certainly,” I said.
We negotiated my fee and expenses for about an hour before settling on a considerably lower sum than I wanted, but still more than enough to keep me in my rooms for several months. I sailed for Sumatra on the following morning.
Not being well versed in the nautical sciences, I secured the assistance of Lieutenant William Gleascott, courtesy of my relative at the Admiralty. Recently promoted a grade above midshipman, Gleascott proved to be an eager, ambitious young man, about my age and clearly an attraction for the fairer sex. He had the looks and physique of a blond Greek god, and his uniform fit him like a finely tailored set of gloves.
“I fail to see how I can be of assistance to you,” he said. “To be honest, I’d rather be with my mates and of some use to Her Majesty’s Navy.”
“What you mean is you hope to earn distinction in battle,” I said. “You spent years trying to escape virtual servitude on the family farm in Surrey, and found escape in the Navy. You injured your left hand about a week ago while wrestling a clumsy and awkward piece of cargo, and it still hasn’t fully healed. That’s one reason you’re here.”
“We only just shook hands,” Gleascott said. “How could you know all that?”
“Your speech places you squarely in the southeast part of the county, close to West Sussex,” I said. “While most Navy men are fit, you are unusually so, the consequences of hard work in the fields and barns of your home. It also shows in your gait and posture; you are not fully accustomed to walking on a ship in turbulent waters. If the farming life had agreed with you, you would have stayed on the farm. A naval career takes you as far from the place as it is possible to go. Your hand injury is obvious from the way you keep it concealed in your pocket and a slight wince of pain betrayed you when we shook hands.”
“How did you know I was loading something into the cargo hold?”
“The rope burns healing on your wrist.”
“Remarkable.”
“Elementary. I should like you to educate me on the nature of tides, currents, and the art of charting courses. By the time we get to Sumatra, I want to know as much about those waters it is possible to know.”
By the time we docked at the port in Sibolga, in the province of North Sumatra, I had learned so much from Gleascott I might have been a sailor myself. Sibolga is Sumatra’s gateway to the Indian Ocean: European, Asian and Oriental traders have used it for centuries. It is also situated at the edge of a thick jungle and sees pouring rain almost every day. Lodging proved to be somewhat primitive by our city standards. We stayed at a moderately filthy hostel used by sailors passing through the port. Gone were Gleascott’s uniform and my London tweeds, replaced by light cotton clothing and heavy boots to ward off some of the more exotic and dangerous local fauna.
We met with two representatives of the Briggs’ owners, the Kent and Palmer Shipping Co. One of them, Mr. Rajiv Khan, hailed from somewhere in India, and his colleague, Mr. Smith Ashton Wallace, had traveled from Hong Kong to meet with us.
“That sailor you found in the jungle, what can you tell me about him and the circumstances of his discovery?”
“His name was Miles Jackson, able seaman,” Wallace said. “He was discovered toward the southern end of the island, making his way blindly through the jungle and subsisting mostly on fruit. Starvation and dehydration had taken a toll on his sanity. He kept raving about some place called the House of Pain. He said he’d been taken prisoner, and babbled without end about something he called the giant rat of Sumatra.”
That caught my attention.
“Did he describe this beast?”
“Just a huge and apparently dangerous rodent, but it terrified him. He had to be subdued before we could tend to him.”
“How did he die?”
“Gangrene. He clearly showed signs of an animal attack, and his leg became infected. Something had shredded the flesh almost to the bone, and we saw the marks left by very sharp teeth. By the time he came to us, it was too late. He wasn’t healthy enough to endure surgery, though we did drain his wounds. But his strength failed him in the end. We collected his personal effects for return to his family after burial at sea.”
“May I examine the body?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Mr. Holmes.”
I hope I successfully concealed my irritation at this news.
“Do you have his personal effects?” I asked.
“I’ll have them fetched.”
There wasn’t much: a watch, a pocket knife, a constable’s whistle, and some coins. The watch yielded a great deal of personal information and had been in his family for more than a century. Of more importance to our mission, however, were the grains of sand that had apparently gotten into the mechanism and stopped the watch. I examined it with my glass.
“This sand isn’t local,” I said. “There are more volcanic elements than found nearby.”
“You can tell that?” Khan said.
I shrugged. “I observe, I deduce. You have an active volcano on this island, correct?”
“Mount Kerenci.”
“Please find me a topographical map of this island.”
Gleascott and I spent the next hour poring over the entire island coast, taking what little we knew of Jackson’s whereabouts and finding where tropical undergrowth was thinnest and most easily traversed. In his poor condition, Jackson could not have gone very far, no more than a few miles, depending on when he made his escape.
“Mr. Holmes,” Gleascott said, “see this cove here?”
“You’re thinking it’s large enough to hide a 2,000 ton cargo ship?”
“Indeed, sir, I do. Take a look. It’s surrounded by jungle, the entrance is narrow, but not too narrow, and grounding the ship in the shallows would be child’s play for an experienced captain. It’s not more than thirty miles or so from where Jackson was found near the coast.”
“Then let us hope your surmise is correct. Gentlemen, could you find us some transportation?”
We chartered a steamboat from a Sibolga fishing company, and loaded provisions for several days. Crewed by a captain and mate, with Rajiv Khan representing the company, we set sail for Gleascott’s cove.
“I don’t like the way that first mate is looking at me,” Gleascott told me. “I think he may be a friend of the queen, if you take my meaning.”
“There’s not a lot we can do about that,” I said. “I didn’t want to remark on it, but you must have had to defend yourself on more than a few occasions during your naval service.”
“What? How can you tell?”
“Your demeanor, Lieutenant. It takes you a while to trust your surroundings. Combine that with your looks, and it doesn’t take much imagination to fill in the rest. If it matters, I can assure you that your virtue is entirely safe from me.”
“If he makes advances?”
“Throw him over the side and take his place.”
“You will not!” barked Khan, who had overheard my remark. “They are the most honest crew on Sumatra, and have served Kent and Palmer very well in the past.”
Dropping his voice, Khan added
, “They are most devoted to each other. Have no fear, Mr. Gleascott.”
As we sailed, I studied the lush green landscape, with its many jungle wonders, yet hiding so much danger: great cats, like tigers and leopards, the rhinoceros with his sharp horn. Majesty, as well, when I spotted a herd of elephants making their way through a clearing. Indeed, I felt an overwhelming temptation to drop our mission and spend a year in that magnificent outdoor laboratory. It did have its drawbacks, especially the insects determined to feed upon our blood and sweat with every opportunity. Thank God Moreau wasn’t an entomologist!
On the afternoon of the third day, we decided to put in for a few hours just to feel some land under our legs. Gleascott and I jumped into the water, both to cool ourselves off and scrub the accumulated sweat from our bodies, but that pleasant interlude ended when Khan gave a joyful shout.
“There she is! Intact!” he cried.
So she was. Gleascott had turned out to be wrong, but somehow we managed to blunder into the correct cove. The Matilda Briggs, anchored to a sand bar not far from shore, floated peacefully in the cove’s still, blue waters.
“The damn map was wrong,” Gleascott told me. “Everyone on the island should know about this.”
“It’s almost 172,000 square miles in area,” I said. “I imagine there are still a few surprises left for explorers.”
Our initial inspection of the ship took perhaps two hours, as Khan and the first mate went into the cargo hold to take inventory, while Gleascott and I inspected the rest of the ship.
Whatever had happened, happened suddenly. The galley had been abandoned in mid-meal, and the sailors’ belongings had been left behind. There had been some fighting, but it was obvious to the dullest of observers that whoever had surprised the sailors had won the skirmish.
Gleascott joined me from the bridge.
“The log’s no help,” he said. “The last entry registers the weather conditions at around noon. Calm winds, smooth sea, and whales sighted off the port bow.”
“So they were attacked in the early afternoon,” I said. “But by what, exactly?”
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 7
